II: Enterprise

Part 2 of 2

That evening, after making love, they put on T-shirts and made peanut butter sandwiches on Simon's quilt, spread over their knees. The bread wasn't real, but the peanut butter was--one of the few foods available to the crew that didn't come from the replicator.

"So what did you think J.T. was?" she asked with her mouth full. "My lover?"

"J.T.?" He grinned, delighted.

"You're fudging."

"Uh-uh. I didn't think he was your lover. I thought he was...the most important person in your life, though."

"Who should be?"

"You," he said, and when she paused with a bit of sandwich half way to her mouth, he smiled slyly. "Fooled you, didn't I."

But she barely heard the last sentence, even though it was true. "Me?"

"Yes, Jill. You." Still smiling, he watched her reaction with obvious interest. "New thought?"

"Well...yes. I guess so." She popped the rest of the sandwich into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "Why do I feel like there's a hidden agenda here?"

"No idea."

"Simon, why does everybody think there's something bothering me?"

"Maybe because there is?"

"Tell me what you sense."

"Deep sadness, buried deep."

"That's what my little brother said. 'Why are you sad?'"

"Smart kid. You want any more of this?" He gestured toward the peanut butter jar, and when she shook her head distractedly, he screwed the lid back on. "How 'bout a poem for dessert?"

"You're not going to push this, counselor?"

"Nope. These things don't want to be pushed." He took a folded piece of paper from the bedside table. "Take your mind off your troubles."

She read the poem leaning back against him, and when she had finished, she hid her face in his shoulder and listened to his heart beat. Finally she whispered, "Do you really see me like this?"

His answer was without words, and she did not sleep on Monica's beach that night, or for several nights thereafter.

Jill's relationship with Simon Greenwood turned out to be the single greatest barrier to her rapport with Spock, as he attempted to teach her the mental disciplines necessary for maintaining her individuality while en rapport with the flock mind of Monica's race.

She had suspected that something of the sort would happen, and she was aware that Spock had also anticipated problems in this area. A similar situation had occurred when she and Noah became lovers. Then she had been able to psych herself out, telling herself that having a great time in bed was no reason to wash out of Starfleet when she was only a year away from graduation. Had the relationship with Simon been only a distracting factor, she would have been able to deal with that as well. But trying to maintain her mental privacy when she was in telepathic rapport with Spock of Vulcan was quite another problem.

Sitting across the narrow table from him in his quarters, she sighed as he withdrew his hand from her temple, almost frowning. They had been at this the better part of two days. She could see the shape of their destination, but it was like a great gray silhouette with no details evident.

"I can't let you in," she said honestly, and his frown deepened.

"Do you believe that I wish to come 'in' to that extent?"

"Of course not. But how else are we going to pull this off?"

"There is no one pulling, and nothing must come off except your resistance." He sounded as irritated as she had ever heard him sound. "The self that you must learn to retain, Jill, is not made of memories or even current experiences. It is simply you, the kernel of the gestalt, as it were."

"Those are just words." She ran her hand across her forehead and then rubbed her eyes. They felt tired, as though she had been reading for hours without absorbing anything. "I don't know what they mean."

"Because you will not permit me to teach you."

"What is that that you want me to permit?"

"What I want is of no consequence." She understood immediately where this was leading, and nodded wearily. "You must make the decision to cooperate with me."

"My true memories are part of me, and so are my...'current experiences.' How can I maintain my mental privacy without maintaining barriers?"

"You cannot," he answered simply. "You must trust me to maintain them for you during the teaching period."

"Is that all?"

"Indeed."

"Well," she said, smiling now. "Why didn't you say so? Piece o' cake." Up with one eyebrow. "Spock, you've been tiptoeing around my mind as though you might knock something over. If you want me to trust you, don't be such a pussycat about it." Both eyebrows flew. "Have at it. You're the expert. I'm just along for the ride."

"That is not quite correct."

"I know. But flip is what humans get when they're scared. You must know that by now. I'm going to have to hand her off. I can't let go of her mentally until I know she's safe. And I can't find out why they're killing those children unless I'm in contact with their minds. Mind. That's scary."

"You do not know your own strength," he said quietly. Such a simple statement, and yet it warmed every part of her soul. "Let us begin again, then."

They began again. When he came across Simon in her mind, she did not shield, and soon learned that she didn't have to. He was not interested in anything she and Simon might be doing in bed. He was interested in the job at hand. The circle around the kernel of her self grew smaller and smaller, and her defenses of it grew stronger as she ceased trying to shield everything at once and concentrated on shielding only her essence.

That proved to be more difficult than either of them had anticipated. The chief problem now was that she trusted him too much. This was Spock. There was nothing to fear from Spock. How could she imagine-- Then he unleashed a powerful simulation of the Dac flock mind, and she understood only too well what it was she had to fear. Monica to the thousandth power, welded together like a thirsty sponge. Shaking and sweating, she broke the contact.

"Oh my god." She covered her face with her hands, and there was silence between them. Finally she said shakily, "Do you really believe I can ever deal with that ?" He was frowning again. "And that was only a taste, right?"

"Indeed."

"Do I work up an immunity or what?"

"Not precisely." Still the frown. "There is something of yourself that you are still shielding from me, and from yourself. It is not a conscious activity, and therefore cannot be consciously dealt with."

"You too?" He looked a question. "My brother, my sister, my mother, my father, my lover. 'What's the matter with you? What's bothering you? Why are you sad?'" She took a deep breath. "There's something wrong, Spock. It--it feels like--like something that I don't want to happen. I don't know what it is. Do you?" He shook his head. "Can you find out? You know something about Vulcan healing techniques. Can you get in here and cure me?" She heard a faint echo of panic in her own voice.

"What is it that you wish to be cured of, Jill?" he asked gently.

"I told you. I don't know. I have everything I've ever wanted, and I still feel like something's wrong. It isn't the Dacs. This was starting before I ever saw Monica. Please? You have my permission to do whatever is necessary."

"So that you are not required to do it yourself," he finished softly. It was not a question.

"I guess." Silence. "All right. All right." She rose, paced, gazed into the fire pot, paced again. Spock sat perfectly still, watching yet undemanding. Simply there. Always there when she really needed him. "You've known me longer than anyone else except Mother. Don't you have a clue?"

After a long moment, he said, "Perhaps."

"But you won't tell me about it."

"No."

"Why?"

"That would serve no purpose. If my supposition is correct, you must come to understand this yourself. My hypothesizing would only confuse you."

"Great. Except we don't have a whole lot of time, do we."

"You do not require a whole lot of time," he said. "The answer will come to you soon."

"Why?"

"Because you are almost ready to hear it," he said.

"You could do it, you know." Jill stood with her hands on her hips, looking up at Monica, who stared back at her, upside down. "If you can glide and tread air, you can fly. There's nothing physically wrong with you." Upside down stare. "I'll show you."

Windflight had been her only experience that could be comparable to Dac flight. In her mind, she flew the wind over Vulcan, with Monica beside her. She knew that the Dac was with her mentally, experiencing the intense exhilaration of free flight far from the ground. The wind beneath their wings, they circled together, went through the knothole between two mountains that was too dangerous to attempt in reality but heart-lifting in fantasy. With Jill's feet on the deck and Monica's on her roost, they played in the Vulcan dawn as the sun set in the false world of the cargo bay.

Same sunset every night. Always the same. Almost as bad as being on a ConClass with no sun at all.

Small, Monica's mind was saying. Too small. And Jill realized that the invisible grid lines that she could see in her mind were in Monica's mind as well.

"It's because I know they're there," she said finally. "The walls. You know they're there because I know they're there." It was comforting in a way to realize that there was indeed nothing wrong with Monica that couldn't be remedied once she got home to her own world.

But why only one world? She had not flown on Vulcan either.

Puzzling, Jill found herself on the way to the bridge. Spock was on duty, she knew, but no doubt not very busy. If she could talk to him, maybe he could figure out why Monica would fly only on her own world.

The lift doors swished closed behind her, but the bridge crew was engaged in some kind of drill, and no one paid her any attention. She might as well have been the captain's yeoman, bringing a report pad for him to sign. J.T. was in the center seat with his back to her, speaking to Sulu at the helm. In his element. Strange. It was dark in here, she realized for the first time. Didn't it ever bother him that it was dark in here?

On the viewscreen, star streams revolved in warped patterns as Sulu made an intricate maneuver. She thought of Earthrise, as she and Saavik had seen it from Luna only a few days before--her own home world, hanging in space like a jewel. And it came to her that Monica could not fly on Vulcan because no world was home except home.

And she thought clearly, calmly, with no surprise at all: I don't want to be here. This isn't where I belong. I need to go home to fly too.

There was no way to deny it. She wanted to deny it. She wanted to give herself an argument, to shout herself down. But you can't shout down someone who isn't shouting.

I need to go home to fly too.

She looked at her father in the center seat, unaware. She remembered the day on the bridge when he had instructed fourteen-year-old Cadet Halsted on how to be a good helmsman, and they had laughed together, enjoying one another and the wonderful fantasy they had shared for so long.

Good night, Jill Kirk.

That's not my name.

Not any more, anyway.

The tears came smarting and aching to her eyes, and she realized for the first time that someone was watching her.

Spock, half turned from the science station.

She met his steady gaze through the tears for a moment or two, and then turned and re-entered the lift.

Sitting on Monica's beach, she looked out across the false water at the false night for a long time. The day watch had ended. It was time for supper. Simon would be waiting.

Simon might be waiting a long time. Longer than he knew.

"I asked him if he would have come looking for me if I weren't in Starfleet," she told Monica. "He said he didn't know."

Monica let go and glided down to stand behind her. Then she moved forward until Jill could lean back against her breast.

"Thanks, little one," she said finally. "But I have to go figure out who I should disappoint first."

Spock had been meditating when she rang his door buzzer. As she approached him , he looked up and met her gaze, raising his eyebrows slightly. If he had been in a trance, it was a very light one. His dark eyes were alert, concerned, and a little apprehensive.

"You were right," she told him. "I was ready." He looked back at her and said nothing. "I've been playing a game. It's called Daddy's Girl. I can't play it once I know it's a game. That's what was making me so sad."

He sighed then, frowning a little, his folded fingers straightening and folding again. He was, she noted, no more surprised at her news than she had been. "I was once intimately familiar with a variation of that game," he said, and rose to face her, his hands behind his back.

"Will you tell me about it?"

"I was an extension of Sarek's ego," he said without preamble. "Both of us know that now." His gazed held hers, as piercing and intent as she had ever seen it. "Nothing like that has happened to you, Jill."

"Then why do I feel as though it has?"

"I do not know. But perhaps...perhaps your father could help you discover the reason."

"Or Doctor McCoy," she said hopefully. Spock said nothing. "Oh, Spock, J.T.'ll be so disappointed."

"You are not here to fulfill his expectations. You are here to fulfill your own."

"But how can I tell him?" It was almost a wail.

He unclasped his hands and laid them gently on her shoulders.

"Soon," he said.

At supper, Simon was unusually talkative even for him. He had, he said, had what he called a good session with the captain. It was clear to her that he trusted her not to repeat what he told her and did not even find it necessary to ask her not to repeat it. Moved, she nevertheless did not feel teary about it. He was real. There were no subterfuges and no games between them, and that honesty was as important to him as it was to her. It would be all right, she told herself. He would understand why she had to leave Starfleet, and it would be all right between them once he got over the shock.

"He doesn't want me here and he doesn't like me very much, but we both know that, so we don't have to mess around. That's a good feeling." He smiled with pure enjoyment, and she thought Nobody's ever loved anybody like I'm going to love you. "Did I tell you I met him once when I was just a kid?"

"You did?" Jill forgot about her preoccupation, fork half way to her mouth. "When? Where?"

As they finished their meal, he told her of the young Starfleet captain who had comforted him when he was unable to trance in the Emergency Room of the Vulcan Science Academy all those years ago. "About twenty-one years, I should think," he said, giving her a thoughtful look. "He and your mother had never met before."

"How do you know?"

"They didn't know one another, just started talking because they were both there at the same time."

"You remember all this?"

"It was an interesting conversation." He was grinning now. "He made a pass. Nice pass. Polite, but she knew what he was after. I was in pretty bad shape, but I couldn't help appreciating how she handled it." The grin spread. "She thanked him for the dinner invitation but said she couldn't make it, and he said, 'You're busy?' And she smiled and said, 'No, Captain, I'm not.'"

"What did he say?" Jill whispered, fascinated.

"Nothing. I was restless and hurting, and that distracted them. I often wondered how it turned out, though. And now I know."

"Simon, what did you sense about them?"

"They liked each other."

She nodded slowly, feeling a great sense of validation. "I accept your gift of self," she said softly, in Vulcan.

"But you must know that already."

"Yes. But it's nice hearing it from somebody who was there."

After dinner, they walked together, hand in hand, in the ship's hydroponic gardens, and she told him all she could remember of her time on Tara with Spock and her mother. "I know now that they must have been in love, but Spock had a big problem with that. I don't think they really worked it out for a long time. But T'Ara--my sister--was born about six months after we were rescued."

"Pon farr?"

"Mmmmm. Judging by the time intervals since."

They had come to a wide porthole, giving them an expansive view of warped space streaming out behind the ship. He put his arms around her shoulders from behind, and she leaned against him, contented. Everything was going to be fine. "I'm due in a year and half," he said, cheek against her hair.

"So?"

She felt him smile a little, and they were silent for a while. Then he pointed through the port. "See how fast the time goes when you're happy?"

She laughed joyfully, completely relaxed for the first time in months, and he turned her to face him.

"You going to tell me what's changed?" he asked.

"Is it that obvious?"

"You're worried about something. It's heavy, and it wasn't there before. But...it's not the same. You're not the same. Tell me about it?"

And so she told him, and heard a silent wailing begin that she had never heard before.

She kept talking, telling herself that it was her imagination. But when the tears came to his eyes, she knew that it wasn't.

"Don't," she whispered. "I'm not telling you goodbye. I couldn't do that. But--"

"Why are you surprised, Jill?"

"You never--I never sensed that it would be this bad for you." Because he didn't know, she thought. Because we both took it for granted that neither of us would ever change. That we would both always be the same two fantasy lovers who met five years ago in Mother's office.

"I was foolish enough to believe," he said almost gently, "that you wanted to be here with me."

And the fantasy ended, and reality slipped out before she could stop the words. "Like Kathleen wasn't."

"What do you think I've waited five years for? To be left alone out here again?" And still the silent wailing.

Feeling as though she were losing everything, herself included, she took him by the arms and turned him until his back was to the port. "Come with me, then," she said quietly, knowing that it was the one thing he could not do for her. "Turn your back on the stars and come live with me and be my love."

"Oh, Jill, that's not fair!"

"No," she said. "It isn't. But that's what you're asking me to do."

The tears spilled over, and she noted absently that he did not try to hide them or even wipe them away. She took his face between her hands and kissed the tears as they fell, and then said softly, "I can't stand much more of this, can you?" He shook his head, "We'll tear each other apart if I go back with you tonight." He nodded, drawing a deep, shaking breath. "Goodnight, love." She kissed him long and slowly, putting every bit of her love and longing into it, and then left him alone with the stars.

It was going to be a long night.

She lay for a time in her sleeping bag on Monica's beach, unable to sleep and, strangely enough, untempted to cry. I've never had to pay, she thought. Saavik was right that time at prepdiv; I've never really had it tough. I've never had to pay for anything. But it was done. There was no going back. There was only one place to go now, and that was on to the end, wherever the end might be.

Toward the end of the ship's night, still wearing the sweat suit she had worn to bed, she went back to her own quarters and keyed J.T.'s private code into the intercom. He had always insisted that she have it whenever she was on board the Enterprise, even when she was a kid and was just there visiting.

"Kirk here." He didn't sound sleepy.

"J.T., did I wake you up?"

"What's wrong?" The captain couldn't afford to wake up sleepy, she supposed.

"I need to talk to you. Can I come see you now?"

They sat across the desk from one another, she in her sweats and he in a disreputable terry cloth bathrobe that she did not know he still owned. He had had it years ago, when she took overnights at the apartment in San Francisco while he was Chief of Starfleet Operations. Then he had been the one who wasn't following his star, and she had been so sure of hers. So sure.

"I'm going to resign from Starfleet as soon as this mission is over."

She had not known what to expect. After Simon's tears, anything could happen. But she had not expected the anger. His face flushed red, and the words spat out of him like phaser fire.

"This is Simon's doing!"

"No! He wants me to stay in!"

It was a cry of agony, and she knew that he heard it as that. Slowly the flush left his cheeks, and slowly he sat back in his chair, staring. She tried not to see the movement as a withdrawal, but that was what it felt like, and she wondered how much more of this she could take.

She heard herself babbling, but she couldn't stop. It became clear to her that he was in shock, and that the reality of what she was saying had not really penetrated yet. She should slow down, she knew. Maybe even stop talking and let him ask questions. But she went on babbling about fml and Barb and Noah and Sam and her feeling of belonging--

"On a farm?" It was somewhere between a whisper and a croak.

"Yes! I mean no. I mean--it's not really a farm. The weather is so static that it screws up the animals, I mean the holos, and if I can just--if I could just get back there and finish--that's why I want to--that's why I have to--oh, J.T., I have to be there. This isn't me here. I'm just--I'm just--they're my people and that's my place. I can't--I can't explain...." As she finally ran down and stopped, she noticed for the first time that her hands were trembling, and that she was holding them out as though she were pleading. She clasped them together on the desk.

There was a long silence during which she made herself keep looking at him. Finally he said in a conversational tone, "Who was it who asked Spock to sponsor you for prepdiv?"

She was so taken aback that she forgot to concentrate on keeping her hands from trembling. "I did." What in the--?

"Who was it who asked him to sponsor you for the Academy?" Still the same conversational tone.

"I did."

Tears. Just a faint haze, but there were tears in his eyes. I can't stand this--

"And who was it," he asked very softly, "who made up her mind when David died that you were going to be everything to me that he wasn't?"

She felt a rush of heat, like a flaming blush, like running a temp, and covered her face with her hands. But his voice wouldn't leave her alone.

"Who was it?"

She shook her head, mute, face still hidden.

"Who was it, Jill?"

"I did," she whispered, and knew it was true.

After a moment he asked in his best nonchalant tone, "Why do you want to complete the mission before you resign?"

"I have to take Monica home."

"Uh-uh."

She dropped her hands, feeling utterly exhausted, and saw that his eyes were clear again. "You never give up, do you. I have to complete the mission because if I don't, I'll never know if I could have."

His sigh came from somewhere deep within, and he smiled. At first she could not believe that he was smiling, and then her whole body went tense.

"What would you have done if I'd said I was doing it for you?"

"You tell me."

She stared at him, realization dawning. "You'd have relieved me."

"Very good, Mister Halsted."

"But why?"

"I've seen too many sons and daughters go into Starfleet because a parent wants them there. Eventually, someone in a landing party gets killed. If you're lucky, it's only one person--the one that's doing it for dear old dad." Bitterness, quickly veiled. Whatever he really felt, he was covering it so well that only the edges showed. "Now, tell me about Simon. What's the problem there?" When she was silent, he went on, "Or don't you want to talk about it?"

"Sure I do. But we haven't finished this conversation."

"I don't know how to finish it, Jill." He ran his hand through his hair, closing his eyes for a moment. "Give me a rain check until I get it sorted out?" Another brief smile. Who could fight that? Feeling unsatisfied and somehow disappointed, she nodded. But he saw the truth, just as he always did eventually. "What is it you want? Absolution? A pat on the head? You've done nothing to be forgiven for, and you're too old for a pat on the head." He massaged the bridge of his nose as though he had a headache.

She sighed. "All right. Simon wants me to stay in because his wife didn't. He wants us to be together."

He stopped rubbing his nose and glared at her. "You're not going to understudy for her too, are you?"

"No, J.T., I'm not. I wasn't even tempted this time."

"Good." Then he gazed at her thoughtfully. "His wife? Is it that serious?"

"I told you, remember? He's the one."

"And you're going to walk away--"

"No. But he might." Her voice broke, and she steadied it, hugging herself. "This probably sounds crazy, but I'm cold and I'm hungry and it's almost 0500. Could we have breakfast together?"

"I usually have breakfast in the officer's mess. Will you join me?" He waited, watching her face. Then, sadly: "It doesn't make much difference what people think now, does it. In a little while it won't make any difference at all."

She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat and blinking fast. He rose, and vanished into his sleeping area. She heard the shower go, and sat listening to it, staring at the souvenirs on the wall, dry-eyed, her mind empty. When he returned, dressed and ready for the day, she said, "I'm not in uniform."

"You're not on duty either." He took her arm, squeezed it, and moved toward the door. When it swished open, he gave her a small bow and a slightly larger smile. "After you, my dear."

It was only later, after she had sobbed into her sleeping bag until she was all cried out, that she lay listening to the echo of those words in her mind--After you, my dear--and realized that he had never spoken to her in just that way before.

As though she were his daughter, but no longer his child.

She lay a bit longer, weighing implications. Then she got up and went back to her quarters to dress for work.

She and Spock always worked in complete uniform, turtle-necked and buttoned up as though they were going to a ceremonial function. At first she had wished that she could work in sweats, which would have been much more comfortable. But as they became more and more immersed in the lessons to be learned, she realized that the uniform acted as an enhancer for the mood that Spock wanted to create. This was Starfleet business, not to be confused with family matters, and certainly not with recreation. Her mind watched with interest, with fondness, and with awe as he deftly guided her, never letting her forget that he was someone she knew, someone she trusted implicitly, and yet keeping the interaction on track and businesslike. How did he do it, she wondered. Not in any way that could be explained in words. But he was at once Spock, the first officer of the Enterprise, and Spock her beloved teacher and friend, and yet neither of them ever slipped over into the other.

She had slept little the night before, but was enough her mother's daughter that one night without sleep did not bother her unduly. The session went well; she was alert and responsive, and they worked in complete accord for several hours, hardly changing position at the desk. Yet she knew that something was bothering him, and when they finally broke for lunch, she stretched her cramped muscles, allowed herself a yawn, and addressed the matter at hand.

"You're coming on stronger and stronger, and I'm holding my own. So what is it that's bothering you?" "Not strong enough," he said, frowning.

"Well, do it, then. I can take it." No answer. "Spock, what is it? You said I didn't know my own strength, and you were right."

"You also do not know your own weakness. Nor did I." Frowning again. "Jill, what you are experiencing now is not even half of what you will experience when you encounter the flock mind."

After a moment, she whispered, "Not even half?"

"Indeed. You cannot do this alone. Someone will have to anchor your mind, as I am doing. As...your trust in me is doing, even as I increase the pressure in the meld.

"But I have to do it alone!"

"This is not the kas-wahn."

"I don't think of it as--"

"Indeed you do." There was a silence. "No one could do this alone. No human. No Vulcan. Do you understand?"

Finally, she said, "If you say so." Turning aside, she gazed at the fire-pot, chin on her hand, which was on the back of the chair. "I didn't even know I was thinking of it that way. But you're right. It's even more important now that I'm going to resign. Oh, Spock, I wanted to show everybody!" She struck the desk with her free hand. Another silence. "So grow up, Jill. Right?" Silence. "Right." With a sigh, she turned back to face him. "Who do you have in mind?"

"The individual must be kylh, and telepathic."

"Listening to the flock and to me at the same time." He nodded. "I wish you could do it."

"Given Monica's antipathy to me, that is not possible." Again, a shadow of pain.

"Couldn't you ask the library computer?"

"The library computer cannot tell me whom you would be able to trust. Only you can tell me that." "Well...there were several in my class at the Academy. T'Kama isn't kylh, but there were some other Vulcans. They may not be on assignment yet. Let me think about it." Everything seemed to be unraveling at once. "I'll let you know tomorrow."

She was asleep by 0800, rolled up in her sleeping bag with Monica hanging above her, as though on guard. Some time later, she woke, sensing that Monica was disturbed. Still lying on her stomach, she raised herself on her elbows and gazed down the beach at Simon, who was making his way slowly toward her, his eyes on Monica. Scared shitless, but still coming. She rested her chin on her hands and waited, willing herself calm. Up to him now. Can't control everything. What will be, will be. But her heart was beating fast by the time he finally eased himself down to a sitting position, his back against the bulkhead that looked like a cliff. In the false night of the cargo bay, his red-mahogany coverall looked dull gray, his skin looked sickly green, and his eyes were black with fear.

"Are we talking?" he asked, his gaze still on Monica.

"Are we?"

Again he forced himself to look away from the Dac. "Did you mean it?"

"Yes."

"I mean...your analogy."

"I knew what you meant."

"There are other places," he said carefully, "for you to do what you want to do. Starfleet, for instance. Alien contact is our business. You could be invaluable."

"I don't want to be in Starfleet, Simon. I want to be at fml. That's where I belong. Deep sadness, buried deep. You sensed it. Is it there now?"

"You know it isn't."

"Am I sad now?"

He smiled a little, wistfully. "If you want to be with me that badly, then why--"

"If you want to be with me that badly, then why."

"You know."

"And so do you." Silence. "Even if I stayed in, I'm not permanently assigned to the Enterprise. I couldn't stay on J.T.'s ship after this mission. He wouldn't let me even if I wanted to. Would you ask for reassignment just to be where I am?"

After a moment, he said slowly, reluctantly, "I might."

"You know you wouldn't. And even if this weren't my father's ship...." She closed her eyes, her chin still pillowed on her hands. "Crystal ball. I have seen the future, and it is now. Simon's new career takes off like a rocket. He moves around, ship's counselor here, ship's counselor there, teaching at the Academy? And guess who follows him faithfully here and there. Like a puppy. Like a groupie? Jill, that's who." She opened her eyes and found him staring at her and at the vision she was spinning, his sensitive mouth set in a thin line. "You've made all my dreams come true, fulfilled every fantasy." Barely above a whisper: "What do I owe you for that? My life?"

His eyes narrowed slightly, and she saw before her the ultimate anomaly: a sullen Vulcan. "There are some who would say so."

"You?"

After a long moment, he said, "I don't know."

"Or," she said not quite steadily, "we could be touching and touched, parted but never parted--"

"That is a fantasy. Vulcan psyches might work that way, but human psyches don't."

"Who says?"

"Jill, it never works. I've been out here for a long time, and I can tell you it never works."

"Oh, Simon, that's bull. Mother and Spock have been doing it for sixteen years."

For a moment, he simply stared. Then he said softly, "The new kid in the club."

"What?"

"I see this thing the way your father saw Reliant," he said slowly, wonderingly. "A familiar symbol. Not to be questioned."

"Did you tell him that?"

"Yeah." But his mind was elsewhere.

"Simon!" She sat up, half laughing, half horrified, and Monica spread her wings as though preparing to let go and glide down to check out the uproar. "It's okay, little one," Jill soothed, her eyes still on Simon. But at the movement, he had looked upwards, and his eyes went black again.

"You could do me one favor," he said, trying to keep his voice light. "Get that animal out of your life."

"I'm working on it." If only it could be you, she thought. If only you could hear all of her.

"Keep working." He eased himself to a standing position, his back still to the bulkhead, and began to inch his way sideways toward the door. "I'd like it if we could have dinner tomorrow."

"I'd like that too," she said. When he was gone, still without turning his back on Monica, she lay down again and went over the conversation word by word. But even her mother's daughter could not go two nights in a row without sleep, and the next thing she knew, it was morning.

"I can't think of anybody," she told Spock the next day. "I mean, I can think of two or three people, but...they're just people to me. I could trust them with my life, but not with my sanity."

"They will not be sufficient, then."

"I know. And we only have a few more days. Even with an LRS, it would take a day to bring somebody out here from HQ. And then I'd have to learn to trust a stranger. We don't have time for that." Wistfully: "T'Ara could handle it with me."

"T'Ara is not in Starfleet."

Totally logical. But there was just the faintest hint of relief there too. The most emotionally visible person on this ship, Simon had said.... Then her smile became a grin, and kept on spreading.

"Saavik is," she said.