FULL CIRCLE: Vulcan

Part 3 of 3

He turned quickly to look into Jim's smiling eyes. The man was incredible. Knowing him perhaps better than he did anyone in the universe, Spock was aware that his friend was still slightly embarrassed by the events of the last few days. But no one else would have known it.

"Move, mister." Still grinning, Jim made a rapid motion with his hand. "Or get out of the way. I'm hungry."

Class act. Spock stepped back and bowed slightly, hands still clasped behind his back.

"Suit yourself." Jim shrugged and preceded him into the room, joining Amanda and Jill in their discussion of the necessity of a good breakfast. Waffles were mentioned, and there seemed to be a great deal of laughter going on for no apparent reason. T'Ara watched them, but did not join in. Sitting down next to her at the table, her father thought, She does not know how. Do I? It was a question he had often asked himself. Once, on Talos IV, he had smiled at a singing plant whose voice reminded him of T'Sal, one of the few friends of his childhood. But even that seemed longer ago than it was.

"Good morning, T'Ara," he said quietly, knowing that as a well-bred Vulcan child she must not only respond but look him in the eye when she did.

He could barely control his surprise when she did not hesitate. "Good morning, Father." Solemn, unsmiling, but apparently not inwardly divided. And he thought about the day ahead, and how little time there was to spend with her.

He would make time, then. If one wanted something badly enough....

It was a revelation to Jim Kirk how much Vulcans could manage to get done before the sun was really up. No wonder they all went to bed early. The day started almost before the night was over.

Spock had already spent nearly an hour with Jill, on an excursion whose nature was far from clear to her father.

"Sort of a cross between hang gliding and skydiving?" Kirk asked as their desert boots mushed dryly along in the soft sand. He was already sweating a little, but not uncomfortable. The sun's rays still glinted across the sand rather than beating down on it, and a soft breeze touched their faces. One thing was sure: this beat playing solitaire hands down.

"You and Sarah perceive it as analogous to hang gliding, but it is not. The arms are not bound, and maneuvering is achieved through the use of psychic energy."

"You think what you want to do, and you do it," Kirk translated.

Spock glanced at him briefly, faintly quizzical as always. "In a manner of speaking."

"And these...packs on our backs do the job? I don't think mine weighs a pound." No answer. "Are there anti-gravs in here or what?"

"Indeed. But I need not remind you that anti-gravs do not provide maneuverability."

Kirk grinned wryly. "You needn't, but you just did." Silence. "Come on, Spock. You weren't this grim at breakfast. Why does Sarah want me to try this? Why did you take Jill out first this morning?"

"Do you wish me to answer both questions at once?" Spock inquired mildly.

"Of course. What else?" Faint smile. "All right. You say Sarah and I perceive it as hang gliding, but it isn't. How does Jill perceive it?"

"As a game," Spock answered gravely.

"It's a sport, isn't it?" But knowing his daughter, he was beginning to feel uneasy.

"The inappropriate practice of a sport can be dangerous."

"Inappropriate?"

"I took Jill out first this morning in order to determine whether her attitude has changed since I last accompanied her on a windflight three years ago. It has not."

"Explain."

Still walking, Spock turned a deceptively bland countenance toward his captain. "No," he said smugly. And when Kirk burst out laughing, he simply raised both eyebrows as though he hadn't the faintest idea what was so funny.

"What the devil are we doing out here if you won't even tell me what it's all about?"

"It will not be necessary for me to explain, Jim." Again, Spock's tone was grave. "After you have experienced windflight, I believe you will understand why Sarah wishes you to participate in the decision as to whether Jill will be permitted to pursue this activity unsupervised."

They seemed to be at the edge of an overhang, but given the flatness of the ground they had traveled so far, it did not seem likely that there could be much of a drop.

At a touch, the contraptions on their backs had literally sprouted wings several meters across. They did not seem to be hinged to the packs in any way, and apparently did not move while the wearer was in flight. Nor were they rigid. As Kirk experimentally flexed his knees, the wings bounced almost imperceptibly, so lightweight that they were almost nonexistent. They were also almost transparent.

"Wouldn't take much to put a hole in one of these."

"They are impenetrable," Spock assured him. "You cannot fall unless the pack is dislodged." He gestured toward the edge of the overhang, but Kirk shook his head.

"I don't need to see how far I can't fall." Spock raised an eyebrow but said nothing. "So what do I do--just take off?"

"Indeed."

And so he took off--and found himself looking straight down at approximately five kilometers of nothing between him and the valley floor.

"Ho-ly shit!" The words flew out of him before he thought them, but the wind caught them and blew them away--before Spock heard them, he fondly hoped. His stomach seemed to take off a second time, but it was back in an instant. The sensation was very like null-g, and initially terrifying because of the extreme height. But he immediately perceived the difference: no directional disorientation. The breeze caressed him; on Earth, no wind this strong could feel so gentle. And he could do anything he wanted to simply by thinking about it.

Exhilarated beyond imagining, he thought about going over backwards in a slow spin, and went over backwards--

"Concentrate!" Spock dove beneath him and popped up on the other side, his face a totally unSpockian mixture of horror and delight. "Control your spin!" The wind caught his next words and blew them away. "...Out of your mind?" Could he be laughing?

"Down is down!" Kirk rolled out of the spin and found himself prone on the wind. Like going down a kids' slide face-first at about sixty kilometers an hour. "Race you to the corner!" he shouted, and took off again. Spock, who was apparently still laughing, nevertheless deftly positioned himself and followed him.

He had never ceased to marvel that in all the universe, there seemed to be no world where the ground appeared checkerboarded from above as it did when you took a light craft aloft over the central plains of his homeland. He had tried to describe it to Jill once: everything perfectly squared off like a piece of yellow and green giftwrap tied with white ribbons stretching from horizon to horizon. She had wanted to see it, and he had promised to take her someday. But he never had. There was no one left in Iowa whom he loved. Now, flying high over this alien world with its red crags and purple shadows, he realized for the first time that almost everyone he loved was here.

He and Spock were unable to speak to each other now because of the wind in their faces. But he realized that they were flying rather close together, Spock slightly to his right and slightly behind, and that he would never have permitted anyone else to fly so near. The wings might be impenetrable, but they were also flexible enough to become entangled. Yet he had not given a thought to that possibility until now, and suspected that Spock had dismissed any apprehension he might have felt. It was a matter of knowledge as well as trust; each was so familiar with the other's every move that the danger was virtually nonexistent.

When they had been walking earlier, away from the near range dominated by the gaunt Seleya, the L-langon range had seemed to be some distance away. Now they were almost upon it. Looking down, Kirk could see a natural formation between two of the foothills that looked like a gnarled keyhole. He had not yet gone into a real dive, but the movement of the air currents suggested persuasively that it might be quite an experience. No sooner had the thought entered his mind than he made a minute adjustment of the angle of his glide.

"Jim!"

Reflexively, without conscious thought, he readjusted and continued on course, glancing over his shoulder to see Spock shaking his head No. The wind was too loud for him to explain, but Kirk did not require an explanation. Personal trust aside, one of the first lessons drilled into all Starfleet cadets was that you take expert advice now and ask why later--never the other way around. 
 
 
 

"Sorry I yelled there at first."

Seated a short distance away in the shared shadow of an incredibly complex tree, Spock looked up momentarily from the wing set he was examining. There was no smile on his face, and yet he was smiling.

"I didn't hear anything," he said quietly, and went on with his examination.

Remembering his fleeting glimpses of Spock's spontaneous laughter, Kirk stifled a grin, thinking I won't tell if you don't? "Well, are you going to tell me why you wouldn't let me dive? Or do I guess?"

"You may guess if you wish."

"Downdrafts." Spock nodded. "Extraterrestrial downdrafts." Another nod. "Fatal downdrafts?"

"Perhaps. Caution suggests that the question is better left unanswered." Now, a frown. "Jill, however, remains intensely curious about this and other similar phenomena we have encountered. It is sometimes difficult to anticipate her recklessness in time to avert it. She seems particularly drawn to the formation that intrigued you. She has commented several times that 'It would be fun to go through the knothole,' and I have been compelled several times to dissuade her."

Kirk felt a sick lurch in his gut--not primarily because of the danger averted, but because of something much more far-reaching in its implications. "Does she obey?"

They both knew that his question had nothing to do with conventional authority or chain of command. The Starfleet cadet who was unable to reflexively obey expert advice was a sure washout. The tendency to question in such a situation seemed to be inborn and could not be trained out, and the slightest hesitation, even the single word "Sir?", could mean the lives of an entire landing party.

"Instantly." Spock's tone was gently reassuring. "Even as you did." Then he hesitated. "It is my belief that she would not be reckless if she were alone. It is because I am with her that she contemplates these...adventures."

"She depends on you to keep her out of trouble." Kirk smiled a little. "Even as I did."

Spock nodded.

"If she were yours, would you let her go out alone?"

"Yes," Spock answered without hesitation.

"Why didn't you just say that?"

"This cannot be my decision, Jim. It must be yours and Sarah's."

"Have you told Sarah what you think about this?"

"She knows."

"I see." Kirk was silent for a moment. "Would you back me if I agreed with you and she didn't?"

"No."

"Vice-versa?"

"No." Spock cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Just testing the water. I haven't forgotten." Leaning back against the tree trunk, he sighed a little wistfully. "What is it--five, six years since you declined the role of intermediary? Seems like last month. And V'ger seems like yesterday."

Spock regarded him silently for a moment. Then he asked quietly, "Have you been reassigned to Starfleet Command?"

After another moment of silence, Kirk asked softly, "How do you do that?"

"In the normal course of events, a one-year assignment terminates one year after it begins."

"Totally logical."

"Indeed." Spock continued to gaze at him soberly, the windwing forgotten in his lap. But as Kirk remembered Jill's suggestion regarding Spock's future assignment, he watched Spock's expression change: bewilderment, then incredulity. "Why are you smiling?"

"My friend--" Kirk rose and stretched, still grinning broadly. "I'm about to make you an offer you can't refuse." He gestured toward the windwing. "Put that thing away and let's get moving. On the double. It's getting hot out here."

Nobody talked at lunch, as usual. But afterwards, Kirk and Sarah remained at the table together.

"He's playing it human on this one," Kirk informed her. She had the impression that he already knew that she was aware of Spock's opinion, but that he felt it was important that she knew his reaction to it. "He has a hunch she'll be okay." Grateful for his openness with her, she tried unsuccessfully to suppress a faint frown. "Vulcan hunch?" Kirk amended, grinning a little uncertainly.

"Do you do that to him all the time?" she asked quietly. Her tone held more wistful regret than challenge, but she was not surprised when he bristled a little.

"Do what to him all the time?"

"Oh, I don't mean you personally. You, your crew, the people he spends all his time with." With her finger, she circled the area in front of her on the table and then divided it in half. "This is a Vulcan response"--she indicated one of the halves--"and this is a human one, and never the twain shall meet?"

He sat back thoughtfully, gazing down at the table. Then he slowly raised his eyes, and they both smiled a little.

"Not all the time."

"Thanks, friend," she said wryly. "I really needed to hear that." Before he could answer, she leaned forward intently and took his hands in hers. "Jim--dear friend, it's Spock that we're about to trust Jill's life to. Not this half or that half."

When he smiled, she was at first disconcerted by his obvious delight at her words. Then she realized that the purpose of their conversation had already been achieved.

Jill flew alone at sunset, and her father spent the time with T'Ara, whose parents had left the house together at midafternoon and not returned. Although he was not afraid for Jill, he was uneasy in her absence and grateful for company. This time T'Ara was not interested in playing cards; she wanted to be told stories and was relatively open about it. And so he told her stories--of black cats and bad poetry, of tigers and Gorns, of monsters who craved salt and monsters mended with cement, of Abraham Lincoln and Surak of Vulcan. He was, he decided, not bad as a storyteller, judging by audience reaction. His audience was fascinated.

When her grandfather returned, she excused herself, accepting Kirk's gift of self. He could not remember the proper answer, but Sarek, without raising an eyebrow, suggested that "You're welcome" was an appropriate response.

He was alone when Jill burst in on him, still flying high.

"I feel like Pegasus!" She flung her arms around his neck, and he swung her around as she clung to him.

"The myth or the constellation?" he asked, knowing what she would answer because he had had the experience himself.

"Both!" sp> But later that evening, she was not as exuberant.

Spock was already in uniform as they stood together in the courtyard after dinner, and she felt guilty about asking if she could talk to him alone when she knew he wanted to spend these last few hours with her mother. But this wouldn't take long, and it was important. She now understood something about windflying and a few other things she had not understood before, and she wanted to share that insight with him since it was he who had made it possible for her to have it.

"I almost went thought the knothole."

His expression did not change. But I-Chaya, who had been snuffling around one of the flower beds nearby, raised his head and gave a soft moan.

"Why didn't you?" Spock asked quietly.

"Well, that's what I wanted to tell you about, really. It was funny, but--you weren't there to stop me, so I had to stop myself." It occurred to her now, for the first time, that she had not wanted to tell him something as much as she had wanted to ask him something. "Was that why you let me go flying alone--so I could find that out?"

She must have seen him smile like that before, she told herself. On Tara, maybe, back before she could really remember. But if she had ever seen him do that before, it was so long ago that it made her want to laugh and cry at the same time.

"Fascinating," was his only answer.

Slowly she went to him and put her arms around him, turning her head so that her cheek rested against his chest. "I'm sorry I almost let you down."

He laid his arms gently around her shoulders and rested his chin lightly on the top of her head. "Humanchild," he said softly in Vulcan, "must you also apologize for something you almost did?"

"I don't want to disappoint you."

"You do not frequently disappoint me." He still spoke in Vulcan, and it almost seemed as though he were quoting someone. Sarek, maybe.

Spock's time with his daughter had come in the early afternoon, when the humans in the household were unable to venture outside. Together, they visited Jill's growing collection of stray animals. They were not pets, for no Vulcan animals belonged to anyone but themselves. Nor were they actual strays in the sense that an Earthhuman would define a stray. Their home was the planet, but they had chosen to remain in the vicinity of the house, apparently in order to be near Jill.

"There are six now," T'Ara informed him as they rounded the corner of the house and looked up the hill. No animals were visible on the sun-baked angle, but both he and T'Ara knew that there was a varnth in the vicinity. It was a non-telepath, but they could smell it, even as they knew it could smell them. It smelled like oiled sunlight. "Who was the first."

Spock nodded. "I remember Who."

"Then came the two mandilla, and shortly they became parents," T'Ara went on. The hot wind blew her hair sideways, and she absently smoothed it behind her ears. "The varnth came next. Jill believes he will bring a mate soon."

"Believes?"

"He told her he would do so."

Spock frowned slightly. "Varnth do not communicate." They were speaking Vulcan, and the verb was a Vulcan word meaning "communicate with humanoids."

"He told her he would bring a mate," T'Ara insisted calmly.

"Does he also communicate with you?"

"No."

As they began to walk slowly up the hill, the varnth appeared, sliding out from between the roots of a spreading plant and then coiling himself smoothly around one of them. He was completely transparent except for his black eyes, and they stood for a moment watching his heart beat in his tail.

"Perhaps they will not stay until she returns," Spock suggested.

"Who will stay. The others come and go even now."

As though on cue, Who swooped down, perching on the tree with the varnth coiled around its roots. Who looked down and the varnth looked up. "Who," said Who, and the varnth hissed softly, his tongue shooting out half his length. There was no natural affinity between their species, but the exchange seemed friendly enough.

"And the sixth one?" Spock asked.

"It is a chedo whom Jill calls 'Chedo' as though that were its given name."

"Yes." Spock smiled a little. "Has she told you why?"

They sat down in the sand, legs crossed, the sun beating down on them. Humans would have fainted within five minutes; to them, it was a mild spring day. T'Ara got the story of the planet where her parents and Jill had lived before she was born, and her father got to watch her drink it in. Which of them enjoyed it more was questionable.

"Was the insectoid creature the first with whom she communicated?" T'Ara asked finally.

"Perhaps not. But she was the first to our knowledge." Spock frowned slightly once again. "Do you understand how Jill is able to communicate with the varnth?"

"She is kylh," T'Ara answered without blinking.

Spock controlled, and after a moment he said quietly, "Humans do not have that capability."

"Jill has."

Through Sarah? And for the first time in years, Spock thought consciously of the fact that his wife was not all human. Kylh--those who, like Spock himself, could communicate coherently with animals below the intelligence level of the sehlat--included only 39.47 percent of the Vulcan population. Even Sarek was not kylh. But little was known of Zarabeth's race, and Sarah's abilities, as he well knew, were a unique combination of telepathy and empathy.

Jill's first intense telepathic experience had been with the insect on Tara. She had been less than four years old at the time. Sensitized?

And human or not, Jim had known that the vampire cloud was going "home" to reproduce on Tycho IV.

"And you?" he asked aloud.

"I achieve minimal communication with Chedo and Who. The varnth is silent to me."

Fascinating.

T'Ara gazed at him uncertainly, not quite sure whether he approved of what she had said. He realized then that he had almost forgotten her during his inward analysis of the information she had given him.

"I, too, am unable to communicate with the varnth," he told her.

But she was not reassured. In fact, the knowledge that he and she had something in common did not seem to please her greatly.

"That information is irrelevant," she said coldly.

"Irrelevance does not excuse discourtesy, T'Ara."

Although he had spoken gently, her eyes flashed green fire. "I am trying. That is sufficient for Mother. Why is it not sufficient for you?"

After a moment, he said softly, "I ask your patience. I have much to learn of you, as you have of me. But...may I tell you another very short story?" She inclined her head stiffly. "When I first arrived on Earth, I shared a sleeping room at Starfleet Academy with a young human male. It was not a pleasant experience for either of us. We were often in conflict. During one of our...discussions, I informed him that I had not intended to offend him. His answer, delivered with some heat, was, 'I don't care if you didn't mean to. Did you mean not to?'"

"That is a specious distinction."

"I think not. However, I thought so at the time, and for many years thereafter--even as you do now." He rose and extended his hand. "Come. Your mother wishes me to accompany her to the Science Academy Hospital before T'Loreth leaves for the day, and the hour grows late."

For a moment he was sure that she would take his outstretched hand. He knew that she wanted to. But it was too soon. She rose, all in one motion as he had, and they walked back to the house in silence.

Sarah and Spock had spent the latter part of the afternoon together at the Academy hospital, the ostensible purpose being that this would give Spock a chance to meet T'Loreth. But they both knew that there was much more to it than that. She had been aboard the Enterprise, and could visualize the way he spent his days there. But although he had been inside the hospital, had even been born there, the individuals and surroundings that were as familiar to her as the ship and its crew were to him were known to him only through his contacts with her mind. At first he had been hesitant, as she had expected him to be: "Will Zoe be there?" But Zoe worked evenings. And so they had gone together to the hospital to fill the eyes of his mind with her everydays.

Now they sat together on the wall at the foot of the garden. He was in uniform again, but since he had told her of his acceptance of Jim's unrefusable offer, the fact that he was leaving again so soon did not loom large as it always had before.

He had asked her to play for him, knowing that his mother had been teaching her for years, but never having heard her play. Now she began the Rodrigo fantasy that she had begun to learn while he was gone the first time, four long years exploring the galactic rim. "It means 'Fantasy for a Gentleman'," she explained unnecessarily, knowing that he was familiar with virtually every piece of Terran music still extant. "The first movement is a Villano. That's the gentleman's father." One eyebrow up. No program notes he had ever read had contained that information. "Listen. The theme is developed monomathematically." Stately theme, regular tempo. "The obligato answers. It sparkles, but they go well together, don't you think?" She kept her expression neutral even though the corners of his mouth were turning up. "You're supposed to say 'Indeed.'" He said nothing, but continued to smile.

She finished the Villano, and began the second movement. "Rodrigo made a fugue out of the Sanz Ricercare. First the two melodic lines sort of walk around each other, taking each other's measure." He was nodding now, fascinated. She played on, and he watched and listened silently. "By this point," she said finally, "they're a lot more relaxed with each other, wouldn't you say?" Again he nodded, and she began the Espanoleta, the simple, lyrical melody with a trace of sadness that she had played by ear for Amanda and Jill so many years ago.

Tonight, it did not sound sad. The initial statement of the first theme was a little solemn, but the restatement was in a higher register, speaking of hope. The second theme soared; her fingers had never run the arpeggios this easily before. When she finished the first section, his eyes shone faintly with tears.

"There's a cavalry charge in the middle of it," she said lightly, stroking the strings. "But I don't do bugles."

"The theme is reprised after the cavalry change," he reminded her softly.

"Yes." She smiled, but her fingers strayed into another melody, and he cocked his head slightly. "Ah, my love," she teased him gently, "you mean there's one melody in the universe that you don't recognize?" He shook his head slowly. "Your mother says all that's known about it is that it's twentieth-century. Its origins were lost after the war. It's called 'Catavina.'"

They both listened for a few moments, and then she asked, "Why are you so disturbed about T'Ara?"

She went on playing softly as he repeated the conversation, the emotional content of which she had already gleaned through their link. "What did she mean--'I'm trying. That is sufficient for Mother'?" She repeated her conversation with T'Ara of a few evenings before, the guitar sighing accompaniment. He nodded, sighing too. "I was too quick to censure her, then."

"Depends on what you mean by 'censure.' Sounds to me like she had it coming. Again." When he simply shook his head, she reminded him gently: "You and Jim will be at the Academy in three months. That's three months before we leave Earth. You and she will be able to get to know one another then."

"Has it occurred to you that we may know one another too well even now?"

"No. I know you both think that's a problem, but I think you're both wrong. You and she just need time together. Just like you and I do."

She had expected some kind of withdrawal, but he simply looked at her and silently asked the question he had asked of her as she slept that morning: How can we bear the next Time?

She laid the melody to rest with a few quiet, final chords, and put the guitar aside.

"Together," she answered aloud. Smiling wistfully, she took his hand and laid hers against it, palm to palm. "Oh, we might cry a little," she went on softly as their fingers interlaced and closed. "Or we might laugh a little." She hesitated only a moment (You think too much about making mistakes) before continuing even more softly: "As long as we maintain our dignity." Her voice trembled slightly on the last word, but she managed not to giggle.

His gaze still on their hands, he pressed his lips together and slightly inward. But try as he would, he could not keep the corners of his eyes from crinkling before he turned slightly and leaned his forehead against hers. They remained so for a few moments, and then he rose and drew her to her feet and into his arms. They held one another gently, swaying slightly from side to side, as he whispered, "My Sarah, I believe you have just achieved your most cherished ambition."

"Shhh. If you keep talking, you'll change the subject and try to recoup." Silence. But not in his mind. "Spock--"

"How do you define 'arrogance'?" Sly.

"Shhh!" Now laughing helplessly, she hugged him tight and listened to him smiling--and looked up to see Jim hesitating somewhere near T'Sal. "Oh, God, that man is here again." Three months. Just three months....

She felt Spock's arm move outward and downward, and she realized with perverse delight that he had blithely waved away his captain--who promptly shrugged, sat down on the garden steps, and made a great show of examining the stars.

On her first day back at the hospital, Sarah did not go to T'Loreth's office at the end of the day. She remained in her own, waiting for the visitor she knew she would have.

Half an hour before the evening shift began, Zoe knocked, entered, and stood leaning against the door. "So, talk."

"Aren't you going to sit down?" It had been a long, tiring day, and Sarah rose gratefully from behind her desk and moved to one of the two easy chairs that faced a low table.

"Maybe I better?" Almost reluctantly, Zoe straightened and took the other chair. She looked pale and nervous in spite of her usual jaunty shell.

"You didn't keep your promise," Sarah chided her gently.

"Surely you jest."

"Did you talk to Sedek about this?"

"I talked. He froze." Zoe leaned forward. "Sarah, I love him like crazy, but I can't hack that."

"You'll get a little help from a friend."

"Look, he's a sweetheart since I got him to loosen up." And Sarah thought, She's been with him for almost a year. Every day and every night. And tried to imagine that life. "But there is no way--"

"I don't mean physically. You'll feel everything he feels, just as strongly as he feels it. That's one of the reasons for the link."

After a moment, Zoe said quietly, "I'm not sure I want to."

"You won't have any choice, Zoe. That's the other reason for the link. To keep him alive. Unless you Challenge. Is that what you want?"

"Oh, for God's sake, no!" Zoe rose and paced a few nervous paces, stopped, and turned slowly. "You sure it always works?"

"One hundred percent guaranteed."

Zoe grinned faintly. "Not ninety nine point something something?" Sarah shook her head. "Well--" She was looking at Sarah closely for the first time. "Except you don't look so good."

"It's been a long day." Sarah rose, wondered what was buzzing, saw the floor come up toward her, and found herself on the couch, with Zoe taking her pulse.

"What was that buzzing?" she asked, and realized that her mouth was terribly dry.

"Long day is right." Zoe laid her arm down and looked at her steadily. "Did you ever faint before?"

"I've never fainted in my life."

"Wrong. Is your GS on beta?"

"Yes, but--"

"Did you eat lunch?"

After a moment, Sarah repeated vaguely, "Lunch?"

"Where you eat something. As in keeping yourself alive, right? Halsted, you doctors are a royal pain."

"I wasn't hungry."

"Are you going home right now, or do I tell T'Loreth how you passed out cold?"

"Relax. I'm going home right now." Sarah sat up slowly, but she felt only a little light-headed. I wasn't hungry. Odd. Always before, she had been ravenous for the whole nine months.

"Next thing you're going to tell me is that you forgot it was lunch time."

"Now why would I want to tell you that?" Or anyone else. Especially not T'Loreth. She might.... And then I wouldn't be on Earth when.... Smiling easily now, she patted Zoe's arm. "I'm fine. I promise I'll be good. I'm glad you were here." Not T'Loreth. And not Amanda.

"Why are you home so early?" Amanda asked.

"First day back at work," Sarah answered lightly, not looking up from the travel cases she had spread on the bed. "I'm a little tired." Since she was home, it seemed a good time to begin to decide what she and T'Ara would take with them to Earth. But now that the cases were open and waiting, the decisions eluded her. It was not Amanda's habit to come even as far as the bedroom door without an invitation. Something was up. Sarah sat down, trying not to notice how good it felt to sit down, and patted the bed next to her. "Join me?"

"Any particular reason?" Amanda moved slowly, almost reluctantly into the room.

"That's what I was going to ask you."

Amanda sat down, her gaze still meeting Sarah's. "You're really going to take her away, aren't you."

"Yes. She needs to be with me now."

"Is that what Spock thinks?"

"He has some reservations. But...marriage is based on compromise, isn't it?"

"A compromise means nobody's satisfied," Amanda answered quietly. "You won this one."

"That is not what happened!" Realizing that Amanda was violating her own ethics by expressing her opinion, Sarah tried to mitigate her reaction, knowing that this must be serious. "Amanda, I admire you for playing the obedient Vulcan wife. I always have. But Spock is half human. He doesn't expect me to behave that way or feel threatened because I don't."

"If I didn't know better," Amanda said softly, "I'd say you're a fool." Her tone was no more insulting than T'Loreth's had been when she had said That is a stupid question. But Amanda's voice was not expressionless, and there were tears in her voice if not in her eyes. "Do you think I 'play the obedient Vulcan wife' because I enjoy it? It's necessary."

"But why?"

"Are you aware of the function of race memory during pon farr?"

Sarah was less disconcerted by the question than by the fact that Amanda had asked it. They had never discussed the subject before. "He's terrified that he's going to die alone. Like that."

"He?"

"They. It's like a million-year echo." It was not something that she liked to talk about. It was the only thing about Spock that was totally alien to her.

"Do you think that echo goes away when the fever leaves him?"

"I'm not aware of it otherwise."

"Sarah, I've been married to a Vulcan since before you were born, and I'm telling you it does not go away. Ever. It's part of what keeps the race extant."

"But he's just been through it! He's safe for years!"

"My dear, that is human linear thinking. It has about as much to do with this as logic has. We're talking about the evolution of a non-human psyche based on a non-human biological imperative. 'Playing the obedient Vulcan wife' is symbolic reassurance. I thought you understood that. I was so sure you understood it. Until now."

Sarah shook her head slowly. "It's not there except during the Time. If it were, I'd know it. No Vulcan could conceal that."

"No Vulcan could."

"I don't understand."

"Humans conceal their deepest fears from themselves. If he did that, you wouldn't know about it either."

"But this isn't a human...." Blocking something. Something he couldn't face.

But before she could grasp the memory, it was gone.

"He wants me to take her with me," she said quietly. "He was shielding something when we talked about it. Something to do with Sarek. But he wasn't...." Blocking it. Again a memory flickered somewhere. Like an almost-forgotten dream. Not a pleasant dream. But again it slipped away before she could grasp it. "He was...thoughtful. Calm. Not upset. He just didn't want me to know about it. I think they must have talked that morning. About T'Ara."

Amanda pressed her lips together, one of the very few mannerisms her son had picked up from her. Hurting and smiling at the same time? But when Sarah tilted her head quizzically, Amanda shook hers. Off limits. Must have been quite a conversation.

"Do you believe I'd ever do anything that would make Spock think I wouldn't be here for him when he needs me?" She laid her hand on Amanda's as she spoke, and was deeply relieved when Amanda's fingers clasped hers.

"Not intentionally. Of course not." Amanda sighed. "You're so sure when you're sure of something."

"Your son would have it that I have my answers when everybody else would still be asking questions."

"Very perceptive of him," Amanda said wryly. "I couldn't have put it better myself." She withdrew her hand and patted Sarah's. "I want to show you something." For the first time, Sarah realized that she had brought a small envelope with her. "I haven't looked at these for years. They were taken while Spock and I were visiting on Earth when he was just about T'Ara's age." Flatfaxes. Except for the girls' school ID's, Sarah had not seen a flatfax since she left Earth herself. She leaned forward, eager to see what Amanda held. But Amanda seemed to freeze when she looked at the top picture. "Oh, Sarah," she said softly. "It's been so long. Even I didn't realize...." And she held out the picture.

Except for his dark eyes and the cut of his hair, the grave child who looked back at T'Ara's mother might have been T'Ara herself.

She examined the pictures in silence, one by one. "Where did your parents live?" she asked finally.

"Near Boston. When they were on Earth. My father was in the Federation diplomatic service. Mother went with him most of the time." Sarah nodded. No Starfleet then. "Spock wasn't very happy there."

"I can see that." It will be different for her. I'll make it different. "May I keep this one?" Amanda nodded, and Sarah, looking down at the picture of a child light-years lost, closed her eyes briefly.

"Stop that."

Her eyes flew open. Amanda had not touched her mind, and yet--

"Yes, it's a mistake," Amanda said steadily. "But she'll survive it just like he did. And you'll survive it just like I did."

"I can't leave her here, Amanda. She might forget me."

"You know better than that."

"In my head."

"Yes," Amanda said softly. "I remember. And I remember something else. You think you're homesick now, but you won't know what homesickness is until you get there."

"I think I knew that. But it'll be worse for me." Smiling now, Sarah touched Amanda's hand lightly. "You didn't have you to miss. But I will."

"You must learn to trust your father, and yourself--with him."

She had controlled well when her grandfather had first spoken of her father just a moment ago, standing just below her on the garden steps so that his eyes were almost level with hers. He had been pleased with her, as he usually was, and she had been pleased with herself, which was a less frequent occurrence of late. He had been offworld for many days this last time, and she had spent more time than usual with her mother and grandmother while he was gone. With Sarek and with Jill, one always knew what to expect, which was a most stable situation. The next level of stability included Mother and Grandmother, where one sometimes knew what to expect and sometimes not. Difficult, but still stable. Or perhaps--could the English word "familiar" be more appropriate? Familiar. Interesting concept.

After that came Jill's father, which was a curious phenomenon since she hardly knew Jill's father. Or so it seemed until he smiled at her.

On the last level was her own father, who was not familiar at all. And yet, in some way that she could not explain even to herself, he was the most familiar of all. Most illogical. And most disturbing.

"His mind is like yours, and yet it is not." she said aloud, having concluded that the logical way to explain her dilemma to her grandfather was by analogy with the two minds she knew best. "It is like Jill's, and yet it is not." Then she saw where the analogies were leading her, and looked up almost pleadingly. Her grandfather gazed back at her, smiling gently in his eyes and in his mind but nowhere else.

Father could do that too....

"It is like mine," she whispered, and said no more. Anyone else in the universe would have expected her to add And yet it is not. But Sarek knew better.

"His control is much less tenuous than you fear it might be." Her grandfather was not whispering, and yet somehow his voice was no louder than hers had been. "He can help you in ways that I cannot."

She thought of the story about the young human male who had asked Did you mean not to? with some heat. The question continued to return to her mind, almost like Who swooping down and gliding in through Jill's window. Did you mean not to? had apparently decided that her mind was home.

"His ways are human ways," she said tightly.

"He is a Vulcan, T'Ara." So gentle. So familiar. So safe. And soon, so far away. "It is my hope that it will not take you as long to discover that as it took me."