Concerning
Events Not Recorded
in the First Officer's Log
By J.S. Cavalcante
Title: Concerning Events Not Recorded in the First Officer's
Log Concerning Events Not Recorded in the First Officer's Log It was late afternoon on the worldship Yonada, and Spock sensed that all was not well with Leonard McCoy. That assessment had nothing to do with the terminal illness with which McCoy had recently been diagnosed. Xenopolycythemia, a rare, so-far incurable blood disorder, had already rendered McCoy weak and pale and less resilient than usual. An electrical shock—a clumsy but painful threat by Yonada’s controlling computer, known as the Oracle—had further weakened the doctor, but these events were not what raised Spock’s suspicions. Rather, it was the way that McCoy would not look Spock in the eye even when speaking directly to him. McCoy always met Spock’s gaze levelly, if not challengingly, always ready for a contest of words and wills. Always ready to take up the gauntlet and score one more coup for emotionalism over logic. But McCoy, returning with Natira to the rest chamber where Spock and Kirk were being detained after a second electrical punishment, would not meet Spock’s eyes now. Spock knew that did not have much to do with McCoy’s attempt at artificial cheerfulness in the face of his terminal diagnosis. But it did have everything to do with Natira. The High Priestess of Yonada had presumably spent the entire afternoon with McCoy, and she seemed almost feverishly excited when she looked at him. In love with McCoy? So it would seem. Spock was hardly one to give an accurate definition of what humans called "love," but by any human definition he would accept, it could not be "love." Natira had met McCoy only hours ago; they were complete strangers. She was a beautiful stranger to be sure, but mere beauty would hardly be sufficient enticement to draw McCoy away from his chosen life on the Enterprise, no matter how truncated that life might be. So it was illogical for Spock to feel absolutely certain that staying on Yonada was exactly what McCoy intended. I have asked him, Natira had told the Oracle, but he has not yet given me his answer. But Spock knew McCoy had already decided. And he knew it must not be. Natira had crossed to Kirk to inform him that, thanks to McCoy’s intercession, the death sentence prescribed under Yonadan law would not be carried out. Spock drew the doctor aside. "Do not do this, McCoy," he whispered, putting all the urgency a Vulcan could decently muster into his voice. "Why, whatever do you mean, Mr. Spock?" McCoy drawled in a mockery of innocent surprise. His face was hard, closed. But his voice was pitched for Vulcan hearing alone. "You are planning to stay here," Spock said simply. "You must not." "I’ll do what I choose to do," McCoy answered, his eyes still averted. "Don’t say anything. Let me tell Jim in my own way." "Will you throw away the life you have built . . . to stay with this woman you do not know?" "Doesn’t seem logical to you, does it, Spock?" McCoy finally lifted his gaze to Spock’s, but the usual glint in those ice-blue eyes, the one that said he was spoiling for a fight, was dulled. Fear lanced through Spock at that moment. McCoy had given up. "You are not a le-matya," Spock said, "or a wolf, to slink away to die in a cave so that you will not burden the pack." "Is that what you think I’m doing, Spock?" McCoy snorted. "I realize you don’t know what it’s like to want someone, to want love, but don’t begrudge it to us illogical humans." "How little you understand me, Doctor." He shook his head. "This is not the time for us to be at odds. You are needed on the Enterprise. Jim needs you there. As do I and the rest of the crew. Yonada is doomed. If we cannot find a way to correct the course, Starfleet may have to destroy it before it threatens Daran Five." McCoy grunted. "Jim will pull the usual rabbit out of the hat at the last moment. I suggest you go back to the ship and help him do that. You don’t need me." "Please, Doctor." "You’re begging me?" McCoy uttered a short, cynical laugh. "Why don’t you just knock me down and drag me back there?" "I? Hit you, Leonard?" Spock allowed his sorrow to show in his eyes. The cause was more than sufficient. "Never." He did not report the conversation to Kirk. He was to regret his silence shortly afterward, as he stood with Kirk at the beam-down point and watched McCoy stare his captain down. McCoy refused to beam aboard, ignoring Kirk’s pleas as he had Spock’s. There was a brittle, unyielding look in the doctor’s blue eyes. And there was pain in the slant of Kirk’s shoulders, regret in his handsome, so-human face as he realized he would have to leave McCoy on Yonada. As Spock materialized next to Kirk on the Enterprise transporter platform, Kirk turned on him. "You knew, Spock. I could see it in your eyes." His voice was thick with the pain of betrayal. "You knew, and you didn’t say a word." Spock could offer no defense. *** Several hours later, the worldship Yonada was back on course: its navigation system rectified, the clogged propulsion chamber cleared. In the computer chamber deep in the heart of the underground temple, Spock set the controls to automatic and followed Kirk around the console, back toward the outer part of the Oracle Room. He stopped short when he saw the telltale honeycomb attached to the inside wall behind the Oracle stone. "Captain—intelligence files." Spock engaged his tricorder. "Their banks contain the total knowledge of the Fabrini. Ready for the people to consult when they arrive at their destination. And they seem to have amassed a great deal of medical knowledge." Kirk jerked his head up. "How long will it take you to download the information, Spock?" Spock could see the strain in Kirk’s face, the extra lines between the brows that had been there ever since Kirk had learned McCoy was slowly dying of xenopolycythemia. Obviously the captain’s thoughts had followed the same path as Spock’s: The Fabrini were human. They had an extensive medical database, and their civilization had been advanced enough 10,000 years ago to build the Yonadan asteroid-ship. New medical knowledge was what was needed in McCoy’s case. Perhaps the database held some clues. It was what the captain would call a "long shot," but Spock had seen James Kirk succeed at longer ones. It was as if Kirk could bring about the desired outcome by the sheer strength of his formidable will. And McCoy had need. Spock would do anything within his power to make Kirk’s will succeed. "Several hours," Spock replied. "Less if Natira agrees to let us beam in a computer team." "Do it," Kirk urged. "Talk her into it any way you can. No doubt she’ll be back here soon to find out what you’re doing. I’m going to get Bones back to the ship. He’s looking awfully pale." "Very well, sir." Spock contacted the Enterprise to request additional data solids for his tricorder and began the work. It was fairly slow going even though he had modified the software in all the Enterprise tricorders to compensate for the differences of alien databases. He was so immersed in the work that he did not immediately notice when someone else entered the computer room behind the Oracle. "Spock." He looked up to see Natira, still dressed in her elegant priestess’s gown, a shiny green affair that seemed precariously attached. "Where are McCoy and Kirk?" she asked in her typical abrupt manner. Spock lifted an eyebrow. Natira and McCoy had parted earlier, but perhaps she had not realized he would beam back to the ship without delay. Her expression appeared uncertain, as though she were rethinking an earlier decision. "They have gone back to the Enterprise for the moment. McCoy required medical attention, and the ship requires the captain’s attention." More precisely, Kirk required some time to explain to Admiral Westervliet why the Enterprise was still at Yonada after receiving a direct order to leave, but such details were none of Natira’s concern. "Is McCoy all right?" "He believes his fatigue was the result of two punishments by the Oracle in one day." She nodded. "His sickness no doubt contributes. You must treat what is troubling him. This thing in the blood." Her blue-green eyes were large, sincere. "At the moment, we cannot treat it. It is a very rare disorder that is, as far as we know, fatal. He told you this?" "Of course. When I asked him to marry me. I told him that happiness for one year would be better than never knowing it." "Logical," Spock said, returning his gaze to the tricorder screen. Another data solid full. He loaded more into the chamber and slipped the filled ones into the storage area in the tricorder case. "What are you doing to the Oracle?" Natira blurted. "I am recording information," Spock answered calmly "Your ancestors knew much about medicine and many other things. We will help to preserve their knowledge by recording it for the benefit of the whole galaxy." "You are planning to simply take our knowledge?" Her eyes flashed with the same indignant look she had worn when the Oracle had meted out electrical punishment for Spock’s and Kirk’s trespassing. "I am merely making a copy," Spock explained. "Your information files will remain unchanged." "But you will take this copy—our heritage from the Creators—without even asking the Yonadan people? "Captain Kirk gave the order. He did not ask?" It was a disingenuous question. He knew Kirk had not asked. But if she was about to put up a fight, or force him to actually steal it, Spock might as well buy time to download as much information as possible. He didn’t give a thought to whether absconding with the data constituted right action. McCoy’s life hung in the balance. Stealing, however, would be an imperfect solution. It would require several hours to complete an orderly download, and in order to accomplish that as an act of thievery, Spock would need the cooperation of the Enterprise. If he could have stolen it by himself, then the equation would have been different. But involving the Enterprise, ordering other Starfleet officers to commit a criminal act—that he must not do. "No, he didn’t ask. If this file is, as you say, the complete knowledge of our ancestors, then it is the most valuable thing we have." "The third most valuable," Spock said pointedly. "After your lives, which Captain Kirk and I have just saved, and your freedom, which we have given you by removing the Oracle’s punishment device." Natira shrugged her delicate white shoulders. "We are even. I forgave your death sentence at McCoy’s request. He told me of your people’s law of noninterference. I have decided to make no complaint to your Federation or your Starfleet." She held up a hand. "Life for life. Freedom for freedom." "We are even," Spock conceded. "And now you wish to steal the legacy of our Creators, before we are even given a chance to learn the information ourselves. I have no doubt you can do it, if it is what you truly desire. But where is your honor?" His last data solid was full. He would need to obtain more before continuing. Spock turned off the tricorder and snapped the cover shut. "I did not think of it as stealing. Please forgive my oversight. I would require several hours here to complete my task alone, perhaps only two or three if I am permitted to bring a team from the Enterprise." "Why should I permit this?" Spock folded his hands behind his back. "Priestess, what would you have me do? I am certain we can work out an equitable trade. We have substances of value aboard the Enterprise, technological expertise that we can share." As Spock had already learned by a cursory examination of the Fabrini databanks, the Yonadans possessed technology that was in some respects more advanced than that of the Federation, especially in the areas of medicine and ecology. The Prime Directive would therefore not limit knowledge exchange with Yonada. She was disturbed about something. That much was clear from the tension in the creamy white shoulders, even more obvious from the way her elaborate eyelashes suddenly shielded her startlingly sea-blue gaze. Both McCoy and Kirk had been intensely attracted to this woman upon first sight, and Spock could see why. "One cannot set a price on priceless knowledge," Natira said. "Therefore I do not ask one. Instead . . . there is a personal favor I would ask you in return. Spock . . ." "Yes?" "My people do not hide their feelings, as I see you are accustomed to doing. We believe that if one has something to say, one speaks." "Logical." He waited. She brought her hands together, steepling the fingers "I have been the High Priestess of the people of Yonada since my sixteenth birthday. I am thirty-seven now. I had expected to have a husband today, but I do not. McCoy must remain in his world; he must bring my people’s medical wisdom to whomever can use it." "He will," Spock promised. "But I . . . I am still a virgin. Priestess, untouchable, except—someday—by the one I would choose as husband. It will take time for us to change our laws to allow more freedom for individual thought and expression. We have been controlled for as long as we can remember. Not allowed even to think or to feel things that the Oracle did not approve of. "I have been free of it only a few hours, but already I feel a great desire to experience life, to kick off my shoes and dance in the streets, to do whatever I please in the moment. As I did when I was a child, before the Instrument of Obedience was inserted. And there are things that I have never experienced that I want to experience." She lowered her head for a moment, and her thick mane of brown hair caught the light from overhead. When she looked back up at Spock, her jaw was set, the expression oddly like Kirk’s when he had his mind made up. The thought of Kirk sent warm shivers into Spock’s belly. He forced himself to concentrate on the woman. "You will be here only a short time, and tomorrow I will again be the untouchable leader of my people. There will be little time for frivolity, at least for me." She sighed. "Just once, I want to know what it is like to have a man." Spock raised both eyebrows at once. "Do you mean—" "I want you to make love to me." She was indeed direct. Spock cleared his throat. "What about McCoy?" She shook her head sadly. "To choose McCoy for this would break his heart, and I cannot do that to him. And he is too weak right now anyway." "But surely then, one of your own people . . . " "No! I would have to marry him. We have many strict laws regarding how we must live, and the laws surrounding the high priestess are the strictest of all. I would be put to death if I even tried to engage another Yonadan in a casual affair." "The Oracle cannot punish you now." She touched the tiny scar at her temple where the Instrument of Obedience had been. "True, but my people could pick up the paving stones from the road and throw them at me—that is a traditional method of execution also. And even if they would not, I will require all my credibility with them in order to help them through the transitions that are coming. I dare not be seen breaking the laws so obviously. It will be years before the people accept their new freedom. We will have to go slowly, painfully slowly. I could be gray with age by the time things are different. So soon after McCoy . . . I am not prepared to simply choose a Yonadan husband. This is the perfect opportunity. You are not bound by our laws. I want it to be now—and I want it to be you." "I do not see the logic of jeopardizing such important matters for the sake of a whim," Spock said. She pursed her full lips. "It is not a whim. I have longed to experience this. Twenty-one years I have been sexually mature, and I have never had a mate. The priestess is alone, apart, until she marries. I do not know when that will be, if it will be. I cannot just throw away the priesthood, now, at this time of transition for my people. But at this moment, you are here—an outsider who is not restricted in these matters as a Yonadan would be. And I see we are of different species; you could not possibly make me pregnant, could you?" "Not without medical intervention," Spock answered. "Sex is possible then, between those of your species and mine?" He cleared his throat. "It is. We are quite similar in that respect. In fact, my mother is human." She smiled the assured smile of a salesperson about to close a deal. "You wish to copy the entire contents of our information files. Is it not a fair trade?" It was Spock’s turn to sigh. "What you are asking . . . would be difficult," Spock said at last. "You do not find me attractive?" He swallowed. "That is not it. In fact, I find you very beautiful. But among McCoy’s people—and my people—there is a code, written and unwritten. A man does not take another’s woman." "I am no one’s woman," Natira sighed. "McCoy chose to return with you, and I accept that choice. I have released him from his vows." She turned away slightly. "He broke them at the very first opportunity. I could never have kept him here with me." "No, you couldn’t." "You are married?" she asked. "No." She regarded him for a long moment. "Then there is another whom you want." He did not answer. If there was another, Spock did not have the courage to reveal it to him, much less to a virtual stranger. But she seemed to see the truth in his eyes anyway. He lowered them. Natira touched his shoulder. "So you know what it is like to love, and yet be alone." "I know what it is like." "Then let us be alone, together, for a little while. This shall be the price of the Fabrini knowledge." She meant it. The hard, glittering look was back in her eyes, the same look she had given Spock and Kirk as she ordered her guards to take them prisoner, and later, when she watched as the Oracle administered a painful electric shock. Natira was a study in contrast. She was naïve in some ways: until this afternoon she had blindly trusted the wisdom of her deceased ancestors, and that of a sophisticated computer, with her life and her people’s future. She had calmly accepted the computer’s thought control. She had also decided in a matter of hours to marry McCoy, a man she did not know. And yet she was the ruler of a world, nay, of all who remained of the great Fabrini civilization, which had been cut short in its prime. All of Fabrina in one package, as Kirk would say. What must it be like, Spock wondered, to rule a world and yet be forbidden the simplest of pleasures, the embrace of a lover? Natira stood silently, allowing Spock to weigh her proposal. The equation was a simple one, Spock realized. The accumulated knowledge of the Fabrini in return for a simple act that Spock would probably even find pleasurable. The only alternative was to steal the data, and that would not be possible without a blatant act of espionage. Spock sighed, remembering the recent act of espionage aboard the Romulan vessel and his misgivings at the time. "Is this what we are becoming, Captain?" he had asked Kirk during their private briefing before they deliberately violated the Neutral Zone. "Are we no better than our counterparts of the Mirror Empire, who take what they want from the weaker peoples?" "Orders, Spock," Kirk had said. "I understand your position on this, but we can’t let the Romulans change the balance of power at this time. It’s a matter of survival." Spock felt a cold shiver at the back of his neck. Was it possible that Starfleet would allow an act of espionage here? If so, the service was continuing a dangerous trend. Spock did not wish to take part in that. There was not a third option. Spock would not return to the Enterprise without the data, so he must choose to be either spy or prostitute. He folded his arms over his chest. He had certainly played both roles for Starfleet in the past; no doubt he would do so again. And in this case, there was medical knowledge in the Fabrini database that could possibly hold the key to a cure for McCoy. And then there was the inestimable value of the balance of the information. To return to the Federation with the combined knowledge of an ancient, lost star system—what price would Spock pay for that? He considered which action he would rather live with. Would lying with the priestess be a betrayal of friendship? Natira had said it was not, but how would McCoy see it? Would McCoy, if he found out, ever forgive Spock? Would McCoy rather die? No, Spock concluded. McCoy has always valued life above all. If Spock acceded to Natira’s request, he would not be forced to abuse the trust of the Yonadans by stealing from them; instead, he would simply perform a favor for the priestess at her request. He could choose a criminal act or an act of kindness that might or might not offend his shipmate and friend. And she wished it. Spock allowed his gaze to search her fair, round face, with its sincere wide-set eyes and gentle smile. She was so lovely. She carried herself like a princess, which was in effect what she was; it was no wonder McCoy had been instantly drawn to her. Her blue-green eyes glistened with unshed tears. The priestess is alone, apart, she had said. Spock knew what it was like to be alone and apart. He wondered how different his life would have been if at age sixteen he had not entered the boisterous, so-human Starfleet Academy, had not found companionship and acceptance among the other misfits who were more comfortable in space than on a world. Would he now be like Natira, a thirty-seven-year-old virgin longing for the first accepting touch of a lover? He almost smiled at the exquisite irony. He was thirty-seven, measured in Earth years, and he was not a virgin. But he, too, knew the pain of desiring someone he could not have. He thought of how Kirk had looked at Natira this morning, thought of the signs of male interest, of arousal, that he had easily read in Kirk’s body. The close-fitting Starfleet uniforms did not hide much from the discerning eye. There was ironic satisfaction in the thought that although he could not have Kirk, he would have this woman whom Kirk had desired. He would do his best to please her. It was decided. McCoy must never know, Spock vowed silently. "I find your proposal logical," he said finally. "If you are certain I am the one you want." One last offer to let her back down, although he knew she wasn’t going to. She smiled, and a faint blush crept over her cheek. "I find you most handsome and intriguing. I felt that way about all of you; didn’t you know? My first choice"—she sighed—"was not to be, but that does not mean I did not also experience attraction for you. I do." "I am honored," he said. "I, too, am honored. I can see this was a difficult decision for you. I think you underestimate McCoy if you believe he would react badly, but I promise you, he will never learn of this from me." "Very well," he told her. "Do you wish to have me now?" "Now is the only time there is," she said; her voice, already pleasing, had softened. She lifted her hand to him. He shielded his thoughts and took the small hand in his. "Where?" His own voice was suddenly rough. She smiled. "Come." She led him back out into the Oracle Room, but instead of taking him through the main doors into the outer hallway of the temple, she went to one of the interior panels near the Oracle stone and pressed three of the carved letters in sequence. The panel slid aside, revealing a chamber beyond. They entered the chamber, small but daintily appointed, and the door slid quietly closed behind them. There was no carving on the walls, as there had been in the Oracle room proper; instead the plain stone walls were draped with sheer lavender panels. It suited the priestess, Spock decided. "My sanctuary," Natira explained. "Even the acolytes will not trouble us here." Spock looked around. There was a small desk or dressing table near the door, an easy chair in one corner, a large armoire next to the chair, and a closed door on the wall to Spock’s right. There were no windows; Natira’s chamber was underground, as were most of the temple rooms. Along the far wall was a bed larger than an Enterprise bunk, but smaller than a standard double bed. It would do. She still had hold of his hand. He turned it in her grasp so that his hand encompassed hers. He lifted it to his lips. "What is your pleasure, Priestess?" "First, that you call me Natira. We do not often use titles here, and certainly not between intimates." "Very well, Natira. You said you have never done this. I do not wish to proceed too rapidly for you." "I trust you," she said. "You have shown nothing but complete decency here, and McCoy told me you are a man of honor and restraint." Spock lifted an eyebrow at that. "Oh, he said much more," Natira said with a little laugh. "He feels great friendship and respect for you." Spock let go her hand. His cheeks felt unaccountably hot. "Natira . . . I gave my word, and I will go through with this if you wish . . . but perhaps you would like to reconsider?" "It bothers you that I speak of McCoy?" She shook her head. "Don’t you see—I would not want to do this with anyone who wasn’t McCoy’s dear friend." Spock regarded her for a moment. He took her hand again and opened his shields just enough to feel her sincerity. He shrugged. He had encountered attitudes more alien than this in his travels. "Very well, then. He cared for you and wanted you to be happy. He has also left you. And your request was sincere. It is logical." "Thank you," she breathed. Her cheeks were flushed a most attractive shade of pink. Spock allowed himself to notice, allowed himself to begin to feel a physical response to her beauty. His breath quickened in his chest. She smiled up at him, her lips parted slightly, the dewy freshness of her skin appealing. He took her chin gently between his hands and lowered his lips to hers. Laid a whisper-soft kiss there, so light it was just a question. For answer, she slid her hands up his arms and grasped him by both biceps at once. He drew her into his arms and kissed her again. Her lips parted beneath his, and he allowed the kiss to deepen. She reminded him of the wildflowers in his mother’s Earth garden; sweet and faintly fragrant. He moved his fingers gently into her hair, careful of the elaborate coiffure. Her fingers followed his to undo it, unwind it, and let the tresses fall to their full length, grazing the backs of her thighs. He ran his fingers through it and bent to kiss her again. She moaned softly into his mouth. He loosened his psychic shielding a little more, just enough to feel her pleasure wash over him. No one had ever kissed her before McCoy, he realized. And the promise of more had so quickly been taken from her. She hungered intensely for sensation, for intimate touch. Spock knew what it was to hunger so. Knew how it felt to choose a sexual partner who was not the person ultimately desired. Knew that if one lost oneself in sensation, one could attain a shadow of the longed-for satisfaction. Knew that there were times, when one withdrew into the mind far enough, that at the moment of climax, one could feel the beloved’s mind and believe, for that split second, that it was he in one’s arms. He had melded with Kirk on enough occasions that a spark of Kirk’s essence now resided within his katra. He could not ordinarily touch this spark, but at moments of emotional release, as during orgasm, if Spock thought of Jim he would feel the whisper of Jim’s presence. And it was almost like having the real thing. But Natira was not a trained telepath. Perhaps it could not be so, for her. She had not touched her beloved’s mind so many times that it was nearly as familiar as her own mind. He restrained his flicker of sadness so that it would not bleed over to her. He would give her physical passion instead, then. He would hold her close; he would remove her garment with exquisite tenderness. He would let her explore him if she wished, or let her avoid doing so if she was shy. He would pleasure her in any manner she would enjoy. He would fuck her, as Kirk had wanted to do. The thought enflamed him. He had seen the hunger in Kirk’s eyes this morning, and the slight disappointment, tinged with humor, as Kirk teased McCoy about the young lady’s obvious preference for the doctor. Kirk had grown hard for this woman, Spock had noticed, when they all first set eyes upon her. Though exercised with anger over the attack and worried about McCoy, Kirk had still wanted this female. Kirk’s cock had been erect, his nipples tight points under his clinging uniform shirt, his breathing shallow and quick. The thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip, the flush in his cheeks, the slight dilation of his pupils had all betrayed him utterly. He was so sexual, so intensely sensual. He could get hard for a woman in the middle of a fight for his life. He could want their imperious priestess-captor with the blazing eyes even as she took them prisoner. Kirk always wanted the woman in charge. He often attained her. He did not notice that the silent Vulcan at his side closed into himself a little more every time Kirk chose someone else. But Kirk would not have Natira. Spock would have her, and Kirk, like McCoy, would never know. Natira moaned softly under his lips again. He realized he had been pressing her a little too hard. He broke the kiss to allow her to catch her breath. It was at that moment that his communicator, forgotten on his belt, beeped loudly. He raised an astonished eyebrow. Of course they would be wondering what was keeping him. He was astonished that he had forgotten. He straightened up and backed away from Natira as he flipped the communicator open. "Spock here." "Spock." It was Kirk, of course. "Any difficulty with the data transfer? You’re overdue for check-in." "Forgive me, Captain. I was . . . preoccupied." Kirk’s soft chuckle answered him. "Well, I can understand how suddenly having access to the accumulated knowledge of a lost star system could do that to you. I won’t put you on report—this time." "Acknowledged, Captain," Spock said, trying to sound normal. "I will need another tricorder and a supply of data solids to continue." "We’ll transport them directly to the beam-down coordinates. Any chance of getting a team down there to assist?" "I am . . . in negotiation now for that very privilege, Captain. I will advise as soon as possible." Natira, hiding a laugh behind her hand, moved away toward her dressing table. "Fine, Spock. Do your best. Your father’s the best negotiator in the galaxy; I imagine you’ve inherited some of that skill." "Thank you, Captain, I shall try." Spock knew his voice sounded odd; his Vulcan controls did not seem to be assisting him in keeping his tone neutral. Kirk had not signed off. After a pause, he said: "Is anything wrong, Spock? I’m waiting for Westervliet on secured channel, but I can beam in if necessary." "Not necessary, Jim," Spock said. "I believe I can handle this without assistance." "Okay. Kirk out." The sound of absolute trust. When Spock’s communicator was closed, Natira dropped her hand from her mouth and laughed aloud. "I can handle this alone, Captain," she mocked softly. "Good, Spock, I am glad to hear you do not need help." He assumed an innocent look. "Have I given any evidence so far of needing assistance?" he asked. "Ah, no," she said, laughing again. "But this can hardly be standard negotiating procedure, can it?" He quirked a brow. "You would be surprised." He sighed and crossed to her. "I apologize for the interruption. I should have contacted the ship first." "Forgiven," she said. "Now suppose we continue negotiations? Here—this should help." She held something out to him that looked like a small hank of dried grass. He took it and sniffed the scent. It was not the same herb that the elder had offered them "for strength" earlier in the day. "What is it for?" Spock asked. "Smell the scent again," Natira said. He took a deeper whiff. It was redolent of sage, of lavender, and another note he could not place. "It is pleasant. Does it have another purpose?" She smiled ruefully. "Apparently it does not work for you. For us it relaxes, releases inhibitions." "Like alcohol?" "Ah, no; it is much milder and does not impair the judgment or the reflexes. It is nonaddictive and nontoxic as well." "I prefer to retain my ‘inhibitions,’ as you term them; however, many humans enjoy such substances. You might find a sizeable market for this herb. Perhaps Yonada should consider applying to join the Federation." "After we reach our new home." "Yes." She sniffed the herb she held. A slow smile spread over her face. "That is better." "Is it?" He did not see any obvious change in her. "I am not so nervous now. Come." She drew him to the bed. "Let us sit down." He watched her. She was eager, her face lightly flushed, her eyes smiling. She stroked his cheek, much more forward than she had been. He matched the gesture, running the tips of two fingers lightly over her forehead and temples. He did not have any wish to meld with her, but in a Vulcan, the instinct was always there. It was odd, in such a situation, to refrain from melding and force oneself to touch only physically. But the light touch was enough to tell him what she wanted. He eased her onto her back on the bed, lay next to her, and fingered the ties of her garment. There were three, on the right side. Her right arm was bare save for a gold cuff. He stroked her arm gently, and she shivered. He moved his hand back to the ties. "Which first?" he wondered aloud. Teasing her. "This one, I think." He undid the middle tie and smoothed the fabric back, revealing her ribs. Brushed his fingertips gently over the skin, which was smooth as rose petals. She moved against him. "Not enough?" he murmured. "I see you are impatient. This one, then, I think." He opened the top tie, revealing her right breast, firm and white, pink tipped. He splayed his fingers gently over it, then drew his hand back so that only his fingertips touched her. Moved them once, twice over her nipple until it hardened and stood erect. He glanced at her. She was watching him with complete absorption, eyes wide, but her face relaxed. Her hand, on the pillow behind her head, still clutched the fragrant herbs; her long fall of hair tumbled over the pillow and the side of the bed to the floor. Jim would love this, Spock thought. He would lose himself in the experience. He would return to the ship with a spring in his step. Spock lowered his lips toward her breast but stopped so that only his breath touched her. He could see the skin responding with what humans called gooseflesh. "May I kiss you?" he breathed onto one delicate curve. "Yes, oh yes! Do not ask—do it!" He kissed her breast, sucked the nipple, raked his teeth gently over the proud tip and the areola . . . and thought of the softness of the inside of Kirk’s lower lip. He had touched it, once, quite by accident, while rescuing Kirk from an alien attack on a landing party gone awry. Kirk had taken a blow-dart through the cheek—thankfully, the alien poison was harmless to humans—and despite the urgency of the situation, Spock had noted the exquisite softness his fingers encountered; he had never forgotten, would never forget. Below him, Natira writhed. He slid his free hand under the green fabric of her bodice and laid it back, exposing the other breast. He stroked it and moved over to kiss it as he had done the first. Natira strained against the bed, moaning. Wanting more. Spock found the third fastening, the one that secured her gown about her hips. He undid it without looking at it, and the gown loosened. "Yes." Natira struggled up to help him pull the gown off. Underneath, she wore only a short slip. "This, too?" Her smile gave assent. He found the slip’s tie fastening, undid it, and laid it open. Ran slow hands over her shapely hips and firm thighs. "You are most beautiful, Natira." She reached her hands to his face, her fingers going at once to trace the contours of his ears. "And you—you are handsome and also fascinatingly different. May I see you also?" "Certainly." He sat back, unsealed his tunic, and pulled it and his black thermal undershirt off in a single motion. Cool air touched him, raising the flesh on chest and arms. Natira made a sound of appreciation. Her hands went to his chest to stroke through the hair and over the angles of rib and collarbone. She touched one of his nipples. "Not quite brown is it?" She looked more closely. "Ah, greenish," she said, curious. "But your lips are not green." "In a Vulcan there is some pink pigmentation in the lips and palms and soles of the feet," Spock said. "But my blood is green." "Ahh—so your . . ." She glanced at the waistband of his trousers, which was still sealed. "Green, yes." He restrained a smile. Her small hand moved down his belly to his waist, a request. He toed his boots off, undid his trousers and pushed them down and off. She put her fingers to the waistband of his briefs. She was virginal perhaps, but certainly not shy. "There is no tie. What is this substance?’ "We call it elastic." It was still called by that name in Standard even though modern "elastic" was much improved over the original version. "You do not have this material on Yonada?" She shook her head. "It is unknown. We have only the materials the Creators gave to us." No inventions? No, of course not. There had been no free thought aboard Yonada in ten thousand years. Until now. Until the moment that the high priestess had decided, as Kirk would have put it, that she desperately wanted to get laid. Yonada was a closed system in every way. That was all to change when the ship arrived at its destination, but if the people were to survive the shock, then many, many of them would need to overthrow the tyranny of thought control and dare to "dance barefoot in the streets" with Natira. As the leader, she had to be first. She had not chosen literal dancing; she had chosen sex, but that choice had meaning. In choosing to break her bond of chastity, she was—in psychological terms at least—defying a death sentence. It occurred to Spock that this simple cultural exchange had far more significance than he had first considered. And in that moment, all his reservations left him—McCoy and Kirk and what they would think were not an issue when held up to the possibility that Yonada would be freed from the stifling prison of a computer’s idea of a perfect society. "I look forward to examining the Fabrini data," he said to her. "But for now, you wished to know the touch of a man." "I do." Her hand stroked the front of his briefs, cupping his genitals through the cloth, and his cock quickly became hard. She plucked at the waistband. "How does it untie?" He showed her how the fabric stretched as he slowly drew the briefs down and off. Her eyes went wide. "My goodness." She touched him. "I did not realize you would become so large. And soft as the terilian flower, yet hard and green as the Oracle stone." "Not quite that green, nor that hard," he said, his voice tinged with humor. "What feels good?" she asked. He put his hand over hers and wrapped them both around his cock, showed her how to stroke him. She caught the pleasing rhythm quickly, and he felt desire flood him as it always did—the simple physical longing for touch, the inner torture of longing for Jim. To distract himself, he focused on the matter at hand. He lay down close to her and freed a hand to explore her body while she stroked him. He touched the responsive breasts again, to her sighs of delight, and skimmed over the soft invisible hairs on her belly, which made her shiver, and finally found his way to her sex. Gently, gently he touched just the downy triangle of hair; then, when she squirmed and opened her thighs to give him access, he trailed his fingertips over her labia. She was wet already. He made his fingers wet and drew two of them over her clitoris. She cried out in surprise. Spock, too, felt surprise, though he did not show it. Was Natira startled that it should feel so good, or that he knew how to please her there? Had the Oracle controlled thought and action so closely that she did not even know what gave pleasure? It was unconscionable—what had her ancestors been thinking? Was it only the priestess, the living servant of the Oracle, who was controlled to this extent, or had an entire people been barricaded from their own sexuality until it should be time to produce offspring? Jim was right, Spock thought; I have argued with him about this, but he has always been right. Computers and ancient instructions from deceased ancestors must not be allowed to run the lives of sentient beings. He would make it as good for her as he could. Keeping his fingers on her, he leaned over to suck first one nipple and then the other; then he trailed his lips down between her breasts and over her belly, down to meet his fingers. At the first touch of his tongue on her clitoris, she released his cock and half sat up. "By the Creators!" she said under her breath, but she did not stop him. "Ah, ah!" Then he moved his fingers down to enter her. One finger slipped in easily; adding a second was more difficult, but he managed it without causing her discomfort. He sucked gently at the small hooded organ, and laved it and the softness around it with his tongue, back and forth, gently, never breaking contact. She squirmed beneath him and lay back, arching her neck, her mouth opened in a soundless O. On the pillow above her head, her hand opened, releasing the herbs she’d been holding to fall unheeded into her hair. He lifted his head and caught her eye as he moved his fingers inside her. "I will attempt to ease the way. I do not wish to cause you pain." "Is pain normal?" She spoke between quickened breaths. "Only the first time—or so I understand. In a virgin there is extra tissue at the entrance to the vagina that may stretch or tear uncomfortably. I am surprised you do not know this." He moved his fingers apart slightly, then a little more, stretching her gently. "I grew up without a mother." She spoke between short, harsh breaths. "I was designated High Priestess from the cradle. No one speaks to the Priestess as to any other; she is different. Apart." "Not even a doctor, a healer, would speak to you of these things?" She shook her head, sadly. Then she looked at Spock urgently. "You see why I need you so." "I do." He drew his fingers out of her but kept his hand between her legs, his thumb on her clitoris, his fingers cupping her below. His other hand gentled her breast. Her eyes fluttered closed. "I have done what I can," Spock said. "You are ready?" "Yes!" Defiantly. "And you?" "I am." He took her hand and wrapped it around his cock again, and at the touch he hardened even more. "Guide me," he said. "I will stop instantly if anything frightens you or makes you uncomfortable." She put her other hand on him as well. "Do it!" she commanded, opening her thighs. He positioned himself at the entrance to her vagina. The head of his cock slipped inside easily, up to the second ridge. She was tight; he would have to apply gentle pressure. He balanced his weight on his hands, one to each side of her, and tilted his hips to the right and then the left as he pushed. He looked to her. Natira had clenched her teeth, but was resolutely silent, and her face was still flushed, her nipples hard pink points. He rebalanced his weight on one hand, freeing the other to stroke her sex again, gently but insistently. After a moment, he felt her relax, and his cock started to slide into her. The way was still tight, but he pushed, and below him, Natira moaned "yes" again, defiantly, as though the silent Oracle could still hear her, could still punish. She pressed up against Spock, her knees bent, her thighs cool and slightly damp against his hips. She pushed again, and he pushed, and something gave, and Spock was suddenly sheathed, tight inside her to the root, and Natira gasped loudly at the same moment, a cry of pain and triumph. He remained utterly still, allowing her to catch her breath. "You are all right?" She smiled gamely. "There was pain, but it dissipates, and there is also joy." She pulled him down to her, wrapping her legs around his waist. "More." "Very well." He was hard as neutronium. He slid out of her and then back in, quickly, all the way, pressing close. She was so tight, silken, responsive. As he’d imagined in his forbidden dreams that Jim would be. Spock would press into him so, as he was doing to Natira, only at a slightly different angle of course, and there would be such beautiful tightness, Jim encompassing him, and Jim would look up at him with shining eyes, wanting it, wanting Spock, wanting to share everything . . .. It would never happen. Kirk preferred partners like Natira, female and pliable, and safely committed to life on a planet so that Kirk could leave them behind without a backward glance. Spock was comrade, friend, but not lover. Spock he depended upon, Spock he would risk his career and even his life for, but Spock he would not make love to. But as Spock began to thrust into Natira, finding his rhythm, feeling her responding to it, staying with him, meeting his thrusts easily, he could not train his thoughts away from Jim. And when he held Natira close and brushed her bangs off her damp forehead to kiss it, he thought of doing that to Jim, and when he slipped his hands under her buttocks to angle his thrusts better, trapping her sensitized clitoris between his pubic bone and the root of his cock, so that she moaned and struggled beneath him, he thought of Jim moaning and struggling beneath him, wanting more of Spock . . .. And when she sighed and clutched him tightly and then began to spasm around him in shuddering waves of pleasure, he thought of Jim in the throes of orgasm and what that must be like . . .. He wondered whether Jim’s upper lip would be salty with sweat that Spock could kiss away, and whether Jim’s lush muscles, his perfect biceps and triceps and deltoids, would stand out with the strain as he clutched Spock to him, desperate to meld their flesh . . And when Spock held his own orgasm at bay and continued to thrust into her, and she said "oh, oh," in little puffs of breath and spasmed again, and then again, he thought of doing that with Jim and trying to discover whether a human male could hang that long on the peak . . . And when he leaned back over her and smoothed the sheen of perspiration from her brow, and kissed her china-white neck and cheeks, and put his hands into her herb-fragrant hair near the temples, he thought of doing that to Jim, and how, with the barest adjustments at the meld meridians on face and temple, he would slip into Jim’s mind and they would truly be one . . . And at that moment, lying in the lavender-draped boudoir of the priestess, but thinking of Jim, he felt himself go over the edge, and his buttocks and thighs and chest went tight and he came, his whole being concentrated to a point of pleasure that hung still for an eternal moment and then spread out over him in concentric circles. At the moment his seed left him, he was holding tight the illusion that he was holding Jim, and for a microsecond, he felt the clean, sure touch of Jim’s dynamic mind in his. Spock knew there were dimensions where time did not exist. He did not have a coherent theory about these moments of orgasm, because they were too fleeting; one could not stop time and bring them into a lab and test them. He would never be able to analyze them. So he was forced to accept them subjectively, on the same terms that he would accept the evidence of any of his bodily or psychic senses. If a Vulcan pondered the idea too closely, he risked madness, so Spock wisely chose to let the human part of himself deal with this phenomenon. And to the Vulcan part of himself, he merely said Kaiidth—what is, is, and so be it. It was reality; it did happen. Spock had become very good at courting the experience. It was ironic, he thought as he allowed his breathing to return to normal, and as he went through the motions of stroking Natira’s left arm and breast and easing his weight off her, seeing to her comfort. Ironic that most of his shipmates believed he did not even participate in sex—Vulcan ears heard far more than the crew suspected— and Kirk and McCoy now seemed to believe that he would only want sex during the pon farr, and none of them knew what Spock really wanted. And none of them could possibly know how he had taught himself to feel the shadow of what he wanted during orgasm with another. Or that even a shadow of the most desired was satisfying beyond description. If they had known that, then they would realize Spock would seek out the experience at every opportunity. But they would never know it, and if they found out about this encounter with Natira, they would be told only Spock’s quite logical reasons for doing it. Natira had raised her hand to his face; she smoothed his brow. "Something troubles you? You seem distant." "Forgive me," he said softly, and he gave her a hint of a smile. "I was recovering. You are most delightful." "And you," she said. She touched the tip of his ear, trailed her fingers over his cheek, down to his neck, over his arm to his hand. She laced her fingers with his. "I could wish for you to stay here, on Yonada. I am glad I did it, but after that—" She let out a deep breath. "I fear I will want more." He traced her soft mouth with a fingertip. "You will find a husband," he predicted. "Perhaps after the debarkation on your new world. And then you will forget me." "Never." But her tone was light. "But you will go back to your starship and your galaxy and you will forget me." "Not likely," he said. "I remember everything." "You do?" She splayed a hand on his chest. "How sad for you." "Why so?" "Because you do not have the one whom you want." "I cannot make love to him," Spock admitted. "But I have everything else. If I must accept wanting what I cannot have in order to serve at his side, to be his friend, to stand between him and danger—I consider it an equitable exchange." "Your captain," she guessed. "I believe it is not McCoy." "Correct. The captain does not know." She sighed. "I understand, of course." Certainly. She had made just such a compromise in releasing McCoy and choosing Spock for her first lover instead. He saw the bittersweet emotion echoed in her lovely eyes, and was moved. "I am sorry," he started to say, but caught himself. In one sense, he and Natira were of a kind: she had never before mated physically, and Spock had never been mated psychically, and both had accepted only a taste of what they truly wanted. He suddenly desired to dispel the sadness from her blue-green eyes. Humans were easy to distract; most did not have the capacity to compartment the mind as Vulcans did. He folded her hand into his and drew it down his body to his cock, which was already hard again at his command. "Oh!" she said, and then, "Oh, by the Oracle, you are not sated." She stroked him, this time letting her fingers explore his cock, gentling the delicate skin behind each ridge and reaching down to cup his balls. "I was well satisfied," he corrected, "but in fulfilling an agreement I endeavor to give full measure. Do you wish to join again?" "Yes!" she practically squealed. He moved his hands to her breasts, then her shoulders, then the sides of her face, well away from the meld points, and he kissed her, fully, deeply, until they both needed air. "How do you wish it?’ he asked as he caught his breath. She put her hands behind his neck and hugged him. "Show me something new," she said. "Something wonderful." The light in her eyes, clear now, plainly revealed the young girl she had never been allowed to be, the one who wanted to dance in the streets. As another who had never danced in the streets, Spock understood. Most likely, neither he nor Natira ever would, but in private there were substitutions one could make. "Very well." He rolled off the bed and picked her up, lifting her easily. Her long hair tumbled down to brush the floor. He looped it around his arm and carried her to the wall near the armoire, setting her gently on her feet. He kissed her again and caressed her breasts, throat, belly, and hips, lightly and quickly, not lingering in any area too long. She shivered in anticipation as he touched the soft brown hair between her legs. He slipped a finger inside her, finding her slick and ready. There was no sign of any discomfort. Her eyes fluttered closed. He took her shoulders and turned her to face the wall, showing her how to brace her hands against it, and tucking her impossibly long hair over one of her shoulders, baring her back. He ran his hands over the perfection of her shoulder blades and slender waist and rubbed his cock against her smooth white buttocks. He was very, very hard, his cock quite dark and greenish, the head flared, wanting touch. He spread her thighs with one hand and guided his cock into the center of her wetness with the other. The way was tight but unimpeded now; he slid in to his full length with one stroke. She moaned aloud, her fingers tightening against the wall. He put his lips to the back of her neck, bracing himself further with that small point of contact. The action freed his hands to tangle in her hair and spread the brown tresses between his fingers. He caressed her through it, touching one pointed nipple, the curve of her belly, the jut of a hipbone. He slid his middle finger down her belly to the center of her, unerringly finding the place that would please her most. He stroked her there with his hands and her own hair and she moaned again—"ah! ah!" and rocked her hips against him. To be wanted was in itself a satisfying feeling, he realized as he began to fuck her with slow unerring strokes. It was good to share the moment in a purely physical way, to share the tightening tension in their bodies. It was good to enjoy with another being the coolness of a wall, the warmth of thighs, the silkiness of a curtain of lavender-scented hair. Natira sighed appreciatively as she pressed the right side of her face to the wall, revealing the left side, slack with pleasure, to Spock. Perhaps, he thought as he took her, even a Vulcan’s many-chambered mind could for a moment cease to calculate and simply be, immersed in the soft, encouraging moans of a woman and the heat of his own physical desire. As he thrust, he sought that oblivion, searching this time for simple, unencumbered pleasure. Perhaps he would understand what joy Jim found in it. He fucked her slowly and then faster, and faster still as she gasped and pressed her buttocks back against him. Her back arched, her breathing labored, her knuckles whitened. He moved his hands up so that her breasts filled them, and he braced his forearms against the wall, a Vulcan who had inherited his people’s strong passion in full measure seeking sexual oblivion with a stranger. Not thinking of Jim, not thinking of anything. She went quiet and completely still as she came and the beautiful tightness squeezed around him. He tensed, his balls tight. Pleasure spiked through him; he felt his seed pulse from him. He grabbed at the wall with his hands as though that could stop him from falling forward into the well of stars before his sight. It couldn’t. He fell, and floated, and beyond the stars there was something warm and solid, and for an instant, again he encountered the unmistakable touch of Jim’s consciousness. Eventually, he remembered how to breathe, and he realized he had not fallen into a star but was still standing, still coupled with Natira against the wall, his head on her shoulder, his heart beating a fast tattoo against her ribs. The sweat springing from her skin slicked his chest and legs. There would be no oblivion, no forgetting. He would never stop thinking of Jim at a time of physical release. Because for a Vulcan, the physical and the mental were inextricably bound, and Jim was the one in his mind. It was that simple. He kissed the back of Natira’s neck. She had given him pleasure; she had assisted him in gaining knowledge. To know why he could not stop thinking of Jim, even at times of great distraction, was possibly worth more to Spock than everything the Fabrini had ever known. Because for a Vulcan it was right, it was proper, to be with the one who was in your mind. There was satisfaction in knowing, even though Jim did not. There was joy in knowing that if it could be, it would be right. "It is his loss," Natira said simply, after they eased themselves away from the wall and sank onto the bed to rest. "You are marvelous." "And on the subject of fair and equitable exchanges," she continued, "you have earned your copy of the Fabrini information. Your team will number how many?" "Three officers in all, including me." "Very well. You may call them to come as soon as you like." "Thank you." She put her arms around him. "I wish that you could stay much longer," she said. "But I know you do not wish it." He chucked her chin gently. "You underestimate yourself, Natira. It has been most pleasant. And your terms . . . more than fair. As are you." She laughed softly. "Pretty words. Who would suspect that behind that stern façade you hide the soul of a poet? But I take your meanings. We are even." An equitable trade indeed. The data banks of the Fabrini—ancient thought—in exchange for the insemination of new thought. The Yonadans would now take their place as creators, as inventors, as determiners of their own fate. How ironic that it was this dalliance—and not Kirk’s orations or any destruction of computer equipment—that would truly spark freedom for Yonada. Natira was as yet the only Yonadan free of the punishment device; though the Oracle was silent while the computer room was open, it would immediately go back online when the stone was replaced. She could easily have chosen her familiar bondage again. But no—she had dared to step outside the circle that had been drawn for her, and what Spock had shown her had convinced her never to go back. Natira had asked whether Spock could make her pregnant. He wondered if she realized that she now was, pregnant not with a child, but with the bone-deep knowledge that she and her people could choose their own lives. She seemed to follow his thoughts. "Spock, I thank you. You have given me much that is not immediately apparent, and I shall pass this new knowledge along to my people. They will learn to think—and to want—for themselves." He allowed his features to relax into a genuine smile. "So they will. I am . . . gratified." She touched his face. "I have not seen that expression on your face before," she said. "It becomes you." "My people value emotional restraint," he told her. "But the occasional smile, with an intimate, is not seen as a serious transgression.’ "It sounds similar to the control of the Oracle." "No. The difference is that it is our choice." "Is it?" she wondered aloud. "If you have known nothing else all your life, how would you know?" He could find no response. Instead he got up, and she showed him a little lavatory behind the far door where he could wash and restore his pristine Starfleet image. When they were both dressed, they ventured out into the Oracle Room, and beyond it to the databanks with the waiting treasures of the Fabrini. He lifted his communicator. She stopped him with a hand on his arm. "I have stepped beyond my bounds today," she said. "The feeling of freedom is the most beautiful thing I have ever experienced. Beyond even the pleasure you gave me. I urge you, Spock—take the risk of stepping outside your own boundaries someday." He took her hand from his shoulder, but held it gently, then bent to brush his lips lightly over her knuckles. "I shall consider it, Lady." "Farewell, friend," she said. And she was gone with a whisper of fabric over stone. Spock sighed and called the Enterprise.
Much later, after Spock had sorted through the medical information and found a very promising treatment for McCoy, which so far was working beautifully, and after he had secured all the rest of the Fabrini data in the Enterprise’s library computer, he found himself standing before the captain in Kirk’s quarters for what Kirk had promised would be a short debriefing. Kirk, seated at his desk, toyed with a data solid, flipping it end on end. He had waved Spock to a chair, but Spock had preferred to remain standing, and now Spock was reconsidering the logic of that choice. Kirk was clearly agitated over something. "Did she drive a hard bargain?" Kirk asked finally. If not for his control, Spock might have faltered. The standard Vulcan language was too precise to allow for the phenomenon known as the double-entendre. Unfortunately, he and Kirk were not speaking Vulcan at the moment. He cleared his throat. "Indeed." Kirk snorted. "I knew she had something up that single sleeve of hers. What do we owe them? Dilithium? Technology? Latinum?" "Nothing," Spock said. "She—they have been paid in full." "You’re serious." "As always." Kirk lost control of the data solid and it flew out of his grasp, missed the desk, and clattered onto the deck at Spock’s feet. Spock picked it up and handed it to Kirk, who took it almost hesitantly, as though he were deciding whether or not to touch Spock’s hand in so doing. He did not touch. "You are good. Sarek would be proud," Kirk said after a moment. Spock rather doubted that, but he did not share his misgiving. Kirk gave him a conspiratorial, crooked grin. "Come on, how did you do it? Or do I have to wait for your log entry?" The captain, Spock observed, either was being most kind in not making it an order, or was attempting some other gambit that Spock could not fathom. Then a new thought occurred to him, something Kirk had once said. "Not chess, Mr. Spock. Poker." Yes, poker . . . not a logical game at all, from a Vulcan standpoint. But it was Kirk’s game—at least, in military strategy—and he made it work. In poker the greatest weapon was the bluff. That and random chance. Kirk knew how to use both to his advantage. Spock suspected he was already outmatched. He drew a deep breath and folded himself into Kirk’s guest chair. "I pointed out to Natira that the Fabrini data files were not, as she claimed, Yonada’s most valuable asset, but only third on the list, after their lives and their freedom, both of which we had just secured." "And they’re not going to press charges for the interference?" "Correct." "Good thing. Westervliet wanted my ass in a—" Kirk stopped, his brow furrowing. "Spock, she really didn’t demand anything else? Why all the negotiating?" Spock swallowed. In his mind he heard Natira’s soft voice: I urge you, Spock— take the risk of stepping outside your own boundaries someday. Part of him didn’t want Kirk to know; another part urged him to blurt everything. He did not know why. But clearly his indecision had come across to Kirk as dissembling, and that smote him. He did not desire to withhold truth from Kirk. He held the hazel eyes with his. "Only a small favor which I was able to render while I was there," he said. "Entirely insignificant. Not a suitable log entry." A Starfleet "small favor." Kirk would understand. He occasionally was called upon to do "small favors" for beautiful priestesses and leaders—services of such insignificance that only the vaguest of hints made it into the Captain’s Log. Starfleet understood those hints. Captains sometimes had to use any method of persuasion at their disposal, and Kirk had at his disposal more ability than most. He was a skilled orator, to be sure, but sometimes actions persuaded better than words. "A small favor. No log entry." Kirk’s expression was calculating. And shocked. Spock could follow the pattern of Kirk’s thoughts in his so-expressive face. No—not that kind of small favor. Not Spock. Spock didn’t do that kind of small favor without a direct order from Kirk, and the last time, with that Romulan commander, had so disturbed him that afterward he’d gone off for hours of meditation. And nothing much had even happened with her, or so Spock had said . . . Spock could either make up some false story to divert Kirk’s thoughts, or he could chance trusting his friend with the truth. Spock chose the truth. "You see why I will not be recording details of such an insignificant service in the log," Spock said quietly. Kirk’s jaw nearly dropped. "Spock—Natira? How could you?" Kirk’s face colored. He put a hand to his brow. "Uh, I’m sorry, Spock. I know there would have to be an eminently logical reason. I, I just . . ." "Indeed there would," Spock said. "But since the Chief Medical Officer has access to my log—to all the logs aboard—you comprehend why there will be no mention whatsoever of this incident in mine." "That’s a violation of Regulation—" "Seven B, Sections four and five. I will of course accept whatever disciplinary action you wish to take." "You can’t tell me why, Spock?" Spock hesitated. "Perhaps someday, Jim," he said finally. "But for now, a gentleman does not—" "Does not kiss and tell." Spock nodded, once. Kirk sighed. "No disciplinary action," he said finally. "How would I ever justify it? As you said, McCoy can look into every log on the ship." "She claims we underestimate him," Spock said. "But I do not wish to test that theory." Kirk waved a hand. "All right. Having to look McCoy in the eye every day is going to be punishment enough. Spock—?" "Yes, Jim?" "When you’re ready . . . someday . . . I’d like to hear your reasons. I know they have to be good ones." Spock nodded, and allowed his eyes to smile at his loyal friend. "And Spock?" "Yes?" "Whatever happened . . . I hope it was good for you." Spock did not trust himself to speak. But he lifted his eyebrow and it stayed lifted all the way back to his own cabin. *** Two years later, on a mission in the Aldebaran system, Chief Medical Officer McCoy was injured in a landslide. First Officer Spock, after risking himself to locate McCoy in the mud and debris, performed a Vulcan mind meld with the doctor in order to help sustain his autonomic nervous system and keep him conscious while they waited for a trauma team. Spock received a commendation for his actions; McCoy required surgery and a week’s recovery in Sickbay. When McCoy finally got out of his bed, Spock was present, even offering an arm to steady the doctor on his feet. Kirk, coming into Sickbay at that moment, saw McCoy snap an order at Dr. M’Benga, who’d been hovering nearby, and M’Benga left the room. McCoy looked Spock in the eye. Spock lowered his head. And McCoy drew his fist back and aimed a right cross at Spock that would have felled a horse. Spock, whose Vulcan reflexes had once enabled him to dodge a bolt shot from a Tarkanian crossbow, took the hit clean on the jaw and staggered back against the nearest diagnostic bed, lost his balance, and fell to the floor. Kirk was halfway across the room before he put two and two together and came up four. But he didn’t say a word. He just shot McCoy a disbelieving look and helped Spock to his feet. No mention of the incident was made in the Captain’s Log. --end-- |