Title: Gardening
at Night
Author: T’Lea
Rating: G; “U” for
potentially ungrammatical scenes
Codes: Sa
Summary: Sarek is
at a crossroads in his life and receives advice from a late-night visitor.
Acknowledgements: Thanks to Saidicam for pulling this story
out of me like an impacted wisdom tooth.
To Selek for being the beta reader---muchas gracias, eh?
Prologue
Nevasa climbed above the
horizon, its rays creeping along the landscape, casting away the last of the
darkness. The figure waited a moment longer,
watching the garden reluctantly let go of the remaining vestiges of the
night. Letting go. As he must also do. The time had come.
He silently regarded the
now-empty jar sitting beside him on the stone bench, its contents already blown
away on the desert winds. Ashes to ashes… dust to dust. Slipping through his fingers until all that
had been left of her physical body drifted on the morning breeze, as airy and
delicate as her breath in his ear.
Everything she was, all
that she knew… was lost. The enormity
of it pressed down on him until he thought he might actually suffocate. He forced air into his lungs, then out
again. In, and out. When his breathing no longer required his
conscious effort, he stood and picked up the grey stone receptacle that
had kept his vigil with him throughout the night. Somehow, it seemed heavier than he remembered. His steps were slow as he walked toward the
house. He clutched the jar loosely in
the crook of his arm, feeling just as grey and empty inside.
The
Present
T’Khut hung
in the night sky, silently watching over its sister planet T’Khasi like an
ancient sentinel. Sarek stared intently
at the giant orb as if he expected to find his answer written on its crimson
surface. Finding no solace in T’Khut’s
impassive countenance, Sarek sighed. He
would have to make a decision soon.
Restless, he folded his hands at his midsection and walked the whltri
path to attempt to clear his mind. His
customary mental techniques had not been effective for several weeks, and he
hoped that the repetitive motion of his body and the pattern in the sand would
help him achieve balance. The mandala
had been sculpted in the style of those found at Terran monasteries. Sarek remembered laying out the foundations
as if it were yesterday, the sunlight glinting off of the highlights in his
wife’s hair as she raked the sand into aesthetically pleasing contours.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sarek closed the door and set his attaché case on the carved wooden table in the
foyer. The house was disappointingly
quiet. Perhaps Amanda and Spock had
gone to the market or were engaging in the activity she referred to as
“visiting.” Sarek shook his head at his
own illogical disappointment at coming home to an empty house. He had not called her to tell her he would
be arriving at midday. He had simply… quite impulsively…
packed his remaining work into his attaché case and left the office for the
day. He suppressed a sigh, deciding
that he would spend the afternoon in meditation. As he walked through to the bedroom to change into his meditation
robe, his keen ears heard the faint tinkle of laughter coming from
outside. The garden. He should have realized that he would find
her there, despite the fierce heat of the midday sun. Sarek went through his wife’s sitting room and out onto the stone
patio, walking in the direction of her laughter.
As he rounded the corner of a low stone wall, his wife and infant son
came into view. Amanda was down on her
hands and knees raking brightly colored sand into an elliptical pattern. Spock was crawling in the sand, mimicking
his mother’s movements to forge his own unique design. The corner of Sarek’s mouth moved upward in
a private smile as he stood and watched them with an illogical twinge of pride.
“Good, Spock. That’s looking
pretty good. Much better than when you
were throwing it in my hair,” Amanda told their son conversationally.
Spock’s expression grew more pensive as he sat back for a moment
regarding his own handiwork. One tiny
slanted eyebrow rose fractionally as he gazed at the pattern he had made. A small hand deliberately smoothed a section
of the sand, then he carefully surveyed his work again. Apparently satisfied, he tugged at Amanda’s
skirt.
Amanda looked at Spock’s pattern critically. “A very logical design, Spock,” Amanda praised him. Just then she saw the hem of Sarek’s robe
out of the corner of her eye. Looking
up at him, she smiled broadly.
“Sarek. What a nice
surprise! Spock, look who’s here,”
Amanda said, pointing at her husband.
Spock’s gaze followed her finger, and his
eyes widened. "Sa-sa!" Spock exclaimed, crawling excitedly toward his father.
Sarek smiled fondly, not bothering to correct
Spock's pronunciation of sa'mehk. It was the first word that his son had learned to speak, and
Sarek had been illogically pleased that all of Amanda's coaxing had not
resulted in Spock saying the Vulcan word for "mother" first.
He bent down and scooped his son up in his arms. Spock's left hand
went around Sarek's neck, and he gestured toward the sand with his right.
"Ormazhee," Spock
said clearly, pointing at the sand... at for'ma'zhi.
Sarek made a mental note to add the term to the database of Spock's
vocabulary. His son's linguistic skills were growing at a rapid rate.
“Spock has something else he wants to show you, too… don’t you, Spock?”
Amanda coaxed.
Sarek lifted an eyebrow. Spock
arched an eyebrow in response as if he had no idea what his mother might be
talking about.
“What is it that you wish to show me?” Sarek asked.
Spock looked at the ground then back at his father, uncertain as to how
to proceed.
“You’ll have to put him down first,” Amanda said.
“Indeed?” Sarek’s curiosity was
piqued. He carefully placed Spock on the
garden walkway in a sitting position.
“Go ahead, Spock. Show your father.”
Spock’s expression became one of intense concentration. Spock grabbed Sarek’s robe and pulled
himself to a standing position. He held
firmly onto Sarek’s legs.
“Back up just a bit, Sarek,” Amanda told her
husband.
Sarek’s eyebrows climbed into his bangs, but he stepped backward a few
paces, taking Spock’s fists from his robe and letting his son hold onto his
fingers to keep his balance.
“Back up some more,” Amanda directed.
Sarek moved backwards another few steps, until he was at the limit of
Spock’s reach.
“Now let go,” Amanda told him.
“Are you quite sure, my wife?” Sarek did not want Spock to fall face
down on
the stone walkway.
“Yep.
I’m sure.”
“Very well,” Sarek said uncertainly.
He gently pulled his fingers away from Spock, but kept his arms out to
catch him. Spock looked at his father’s
hands and hesitantly took a step toward them.
Then another. And another. Sarek kept moving backward with each of his
son’s advancing steps, amazement etched on his aquiline features. Spock gained momentum, and finally lost his
balance, tumbling into his father's waiting arms.
Sarek lifted him up again, not bothering to hide the hint of a smile on
his face. “You can walk, my son,” he
said with wonder in his voice.
Spock’s eyebrow flicked upward as if his father were making an obviously
illogical statement. Sarek’s
calculations had indicated that Spock would not walk for another one point
three seven five months. He and his
assistant, Soran, would have to adjust the equation
they were using to chart Spock’s developmental progress.
“He sure can,” Amanda commented as she joined her husband and son on the
walkway. “I’m not going to be able to let him out of my sight for a minute
now," Amanda
said proudly, wiping her hands on her skirt, and then brushing a strand of hair
out of her eyes. She extended her
paired fingers to Sarek, their affection flowing freely through their bond.
//Your son is growing up, Sarek.//
//Indeed. Our son
is progressing ahead of schedule, // Sarek
returned mentally, his pride pulsating across their bond.
“Did you eat mid-meal?” Amanda asked her
husband, taking her fingers from his.
“No, I did not,” Sarek told her, shifting
Spock in his arms.
“C’mon, then. Spock and I are
practically starving after all this work… but let me clean up first. For some strange reason, I’ve got a lot of
sand in my hair… and Spock, you look like a little Sandworm… a tcha'be'she,” Amanda teased.
Spock looked at her quizzically then at his
father.
“I will assist Spock while you get the sand out of your hair,” Sarek
told his wife as he lifted Spock higher, setting him on his shoulders. Spock tangled his fingers in Sarek’s wavy
hair, hanging on as the three of them made their way to the house.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sarek smiled softly at the memory, then re-focused his eyes on the
swirls of color in the sand, letting his mind slip into the beginning levels of
transcendence. His consciousness
finally became aware of the texture and color of individual grains of sand,
indicating his passage into an intermediate state. As he slowly walked the circular path, he was no longer aware of
his surroundings or of his own internal conflict. He became one with the sand.
“Sort of
reminds you of the color of her eyes, doesn’t it?” a familiar voice asked from
behind him.
“I have no
idea, I assure you,” he answered. There
was no point in ignoring the voice. In
fact, he welcomed it. It was the only
reason he bothered meditating at all these days. To hear that voice for as long as possible.
“Humph. 'No idea', he says. You were only staring at her nonstop for
about an hour today. Or were you too
drawn to her other, uh, assets to notice her eyes?”
“I suppose there might be some slight resemblance,” he
allowed.
“Slight? I’d say that it’s a pretty close match…
almost perfect. As green as polished
malachite with delicate flecks of gold.
Of course I’ve not had the opportunity to see her firsthand, mind you.”
Sarek
sighed again and stopped his pacing to turn toward the voice. His breath caught in his throat. She stood at the edge of her garden, looking
just as she had on the day he met her so many years ago.
This was
not the first time she had appeared.
Once he thought he had seen her in the open-air marketplace while
shopping for fresh fruit. He wanted to
catch her, to run into the street, but his strict
Vulcan discipline asserted itself before he could act. He stayed rooted to the spot, the juice and pulp from the kaasa oozing between
his clenched fingers the only betrayal of his emotions. He convinced himself that it was
simply a female who bore a striking resemblance to her.
Another
time, he swore that he had seen her in Council Chambers during the Klingon
debates. He glanced up from his padd,
half listening to the Bolian delegate and the newly-appointed Ambassador
Spock. There, in the balcony, he saw
her. His heart lurched in his side and his hands
gripped the tabletop reflexively.
Consciously forcing his heart rate back to normal, Sarek slowed his
breathing and willed himself to stay seated in his chair. He purposefully relaxed the tension in his
hands, pulling them from the table and folding them into the sleeves of his
robe. He refused to acknowledge that
they were shaking. What he was seeing
was a logical impossibility. 'Perhaps
some of her essence remained,' he reasoned. Could that be a possible
explanation? He kept staring at the
spot in the balcony and she finally turned her head and looked right at him
with a smile. Sarek felt the urge to go to her once again. He looked down at his padd to distract
himself from that thought. When he
permitted his eyes to travel to the balcony again, she was gone. He felt his hands clench inside the sleeves
of his robe. Sarek could sense his
senior aide, Soran, looking at him with concern, but he
ignored him. After that, his attention
was only partially on the argument raging on the Council floor between the
Bolian delegate and Spock. As he
listened to his son’s first skirmish, Sarek's eyes swept the great room continuously, hoping to
catch another glimpse of her silver hair, but he did not see her again that
day.
Sarek shook his head slightly as he returned to the present from his
memories. “Amanda. It is good to see you, aduna,” he said softly, as he
cautiously inched toward her. He did
not want her to disappear this time. He
needed her. To his amazement, she did
not vanish into thin air.
She crossed
her wrists with her palms held
outward in the traditional Vulcan embrace. Sarek stopped directly in front of her and
returned the gesture.
“And you
also, my husband,” she responded with a smile, letting her arms drop to her
sides. She made no move to come closer,
her sapphire eyes scrutinizing him carefully.
Sarek stood
stock still. He wanted so badly to
touch her. To wrap his arms around her
and never let her go. But he did not
know whether it was even possible for him to do so, or if she would slip from
his grasp, as ephemeral as the wispy clouds obscuring T’Khut’s southernmost
regions. Sarek clasped his hands behind
his back to keep them from reaching for her.
He wanted her to stay. He did
not care that his desire to be with her was not only completely illogical, but
impossible as well.
“You look
well, Sarek. A little thin, perhaps,”
she told him, her eyes fastening on his,
"and a bit tired,” she noted
with concern as she reached out and lightly touched the dark green half-moon
under his eye.
Sarek’s
eyes closed at the contact. When he
felt her hand move away, he opened them again, afraid that she would no longer
be standing in front of him. To his
relief, she was still there, blue eyes regarding him curiously.
“It is of
no importance, my wife,” Sarek answered when he was able to find his voice
again. “What is important is that you are
here.” Automatically, he offered her
his paired fingers, his eyes closing once again as her fingers settled
comfortably against his own.
He did not
open them until Amanda softly cleared her throat. “Yes, well now that you’ve brought it up, that’s something we
need to talk about,” she told him pointedly.
“As you wish,” Sarek said hesitantly, his eyes not quite meeting hers
for the first time that evening. When
he returned his gaze to her face, she was looking up at the night sky.
“The
Watcher is beautiful tonight. We can
walk and talk at the same time. I want
to see the garden. It’s been a while.” Amanda smiled at him again, and hooked her
arm through his.
They
meandered along the stone path in companionable silence. Amanda led him to her favorite part of the
garden. She sat down on the stone bench
and sighed. Sarek swallowed hard; it
was exactly the spot where he had sat waiting to scatter her physical
remains. He watched her looking at the
rosebushes she had finally gotten to flourish in the harsh Vulcan heat.
“They look pretty good, Sarek. My compliments to the groundskeeper.”
“I do not have your skill at making them bloom, Amanda,” he
apologized.
“Well, you have to *talk* to them if you want the bushes to
be full of flowers.”
Sarek had
actually tried talking to his wife’s plants just as she had done for so many
years. They did not seem to appreciate
the logic of his words. “I have found that they do not seem to
respond to me in quite the same way, Amanda,” he informed her.
“That’s because they *know* that you don’t really mean it,
Sarek,” she laughed.
“Ah. Then perhaps I should meld with them in
order to build a sense of trust,” Sarek responded, his voice light and
teasing. He gave a small, slight smile
when she threw back her head and laughed until tears came to her eyes.
“Oh, my.
Now that is something that I’d like to see,” she replied, a smile still
on her face. She patted the bench
beside her. “Come here and sit with
me. We’ve got a few things that need to
be said.”
Sarek sat
on the hard cool surface at his wife’s side, and looked out at the explosion of
red and yellow blossoms in silence.
‘How ironic,’ Sarek thought, ‘all this time thinking of all the things I
left unsaid between us and wishing it had been otherwise, and now I cannot find
my voice.’
“Amanda,”
he began uncertainly, “do you know how much…” his throat constricted around the
words. As much as he wanted to say
them, it was not the Vulcan way.
“I know. I
always have. It's not exactly easy being Mrs. Sarek;
I couldn't have done it if I hadn't known what was in your heart.”
Sarek
glanced gratefully at his wife. From
the very beginning of their relationship she had always honored the differences
between them.
“I also
know that you need to move on. You’ll
never admit it to yourself, but it’s true.
I’ve been gone for quite some time now, my husband. I’m the one who’s dead, Sarek, not you,”
Amanda forged on bluntly.
“I find
that there is nowhere to move on
to, without you here, Amanda,” Sarek said
softly. He seemed to be doing
what she referred to as ‘running in place.’
He could not go back, yet found himself unwilling to go forward. Well-meaning friends had nudged him toward
unbonded acquaintances but nothing had come of their efforts. Logically they were suitable matches, but an
indefinable something was lacking. He
had not been able to connect with any of them in the way he had with
Amanda. Perhaps that simply wasn’t
possible. Perhaps his expectations were unrealistic. Or so he had thought until last week. He
quickly pushed the thought from his mind.
“You have
too many years ahead of you, Sarek, to spend them all alone. You promised me,” Amanda reminded him.
“I am aware
of that, Amanda. It is too soon,” Sarek
stated. He was not behaving logically,
he knew.
“Too soon?”
Amanda said incredulously. “Well,
perhaps. Better ‘too soon’ than ‘too
late’ in my opinion. Vulcans *are*
long-lived, but you aren’t going to live forever, Sarek.”
“Indeed,”
he responded obscurely. He did not care
to speculate about just how many years lay ahead of him without her. He was just beyond what would be considered
‘middle age’ for a Vulcan. His wife had
grown frail before his eyes while his own body aged slowly. He had never let himself fully contemplate
the differences in their physiological longevity, although he knew that Amanda
had fretted about it. She had only been
in her forties the first time she had extracted a promise from him that he
would remarry after her death. He had
not known what else to do except agree with her. It was only logical, after all.
Little had he known just how uncertain his logic would become where his
family was concerned.
“And now
that you’ve…” Amanda searched for the right phrasing for what she wanted to
communicate to her husband, "…
met someone special, I think that the time is right,” she finished, her eyes on
the delicate curve of a single rose petal.
Sarek
looked up quickly with surprise. His
shielding must be slipping, or his wife’s command of the Vulcan disciplines was
quite a bit more powerful than he remembered.
She seemed to be remarkably
well informed for someone who
was… no longer alive. Sarek pushed that
thought from his mind as well. He had
no explanation, logical or otherwise, for her presence. A denial regarding there being ‘someone
special’ died on his lips. Vulcans did
not lie, after all.
“I do not
think that I am ready to take another bondmate. At my age there is no need,” Sarek spoke more to the field of
flowers than to his nocturnal companion.
“Hmph. No need?
Rattling around this empty house all by yourself and there’s no
need? I’m not talking about pon farr,
Sarek.”
Sarek
breathed in sharply. Vulcans did not
speak openly of such things. Yet he had
to admit that it had been on his mind.
When he had become consciously aware of the attraction, he
assumed it was some sort of attenuated symptoms of pon farr, however,
his subsequent internal bio-scans did not indicate any unusual hormonal
activity. He would have to look
elsewhere for an explanation of his recent mental unrest.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sarek
mentally counted the minutes left until he could leave the
diplomatic reception. Although these
formal affairs filled up the hours giving him something to do, once he was in
attendance he felt oddly disconnected from the proceedings. His need for companionship and his
simultaneous desire for solitude was a most perplexing combination. Still, it was his jobduty to attend
these official functions.
His keen
hearing picked up snatches of conversation from across the room, but he did not
focus on any of the words as he would have done when he was a young ambassador.
He brought a his glass
of sa'ya-luks'iwine
to his lips, then paused as his eyes caught a flash of green satin. The woman carelessly swept a strand of
blonde hair back behind her ear as she picked up a glass of champagne from a
nearby table. She went to take a drink
and her eyes, the same color of green as her dress, met his. Smiling warmly, she raised the fluted
crystal in a silent toast. The corner
of Sarek’s mouth curved upward fractionally as he lifted his own glassgoblet in
return. He looked down briefly, unsure
of himself, but when he looked up again she was still regarding him over the
rim of her glass, her emerald eyes dancing with amusement. Sarek arched one eyebrow and saw her face
fighting unsuccessfully to control another smile. Before he realized what he was doing, he began moving through the
crowded room toward her location.
"Ambassador Sarek,
I'd like to meetpresent Under-secretary Tranlok, from the Bolian
delegation." Stenek, one of his junior aides, had materialized at Sarek’s
side as soundlessly as a le-matya stalking its prey across the Sas-a-shar desert.
Sarek bowed slightly to
the Bolian standing in front of him.
"Secretary
Tranlok, your service honors us," Sarek stated formally, his peripheral
vision tracking a blur of shiny green fabric.
“The honor is mine,
Ambassador Sarek,” the Bolian replied.
“We hope to negotiate a trade agreement with the Kustiens.”
"Indeed,"
Sarek commented, his eyes meeting meeting
those of the Terran
woman's woman yet again over the Bolian's shoulder. A Terran male
had engaged her in conversation. Sarek felt a flutter of
annoyance, and a sensation that he could not quite define. He suddenly,
illogically, did not care for the Terran male whom he did not even know. The
man waved over some companions, and the woman smiled at Sarek and rolled her
eyes. Sarek noted the members of the group surrounding the woman and then turned
his attention back to the Bolian.
"Secretary
Tranlok, I believe I know someone who can assist you in negotiating with the
Kustiens," Sarek nodded in the direction of the group, and the Bolian
turned around to look.
"Come," Sarek
commanded, "let me introduce you to
the Kustien representative to the Federation Council." Sarek steered the
Bolian toward the group, leaving his aide, Stenek, in their wake.
As they approached the
group, Sarek's old acquaintance, Kartaan, saw them coming and lifted his hands in greeting
as he stepped forward.
The Vulcan ambassador
extended both hands to his friend.
"Soteka
ma karik," Sarek greeted him in a Kustien dialect.
"Dif-tor heh
smusma," Kartaan replied in accented Vulcan. "It's been a while, you old Vulcan! Did they have you come
to show these young ones how it's done?"
"Indeed,"
Sarek replied drolly. "Allow me to present Secretary Tranlok, from the
Bolian system," he continued, gesturing to his companion.
"Secretary,"
Kartaan said formally to the Bolian. "It is an honor to meet you."
"No, it is I who
am honored, Ambassador Kartaan," Tranlok bowed his head in acknowledgment.
"Come. Let me
introduce you to everyone," Kartaan swept his arm in a wide arc
encompassing the group. Kartaan introducedpresented Sarek and Tranlok to
the circle of diplomatic personnel.
Sarek’s mouth felt dry
as Kartaan introduced him to the woman in the green dress.
“Ambassador
Sarek, Secretary Tranlok, this is Perrin Ross who is our social historian on the
Cardassian negotiations, as well as a visiting scholar at the Vulcan Science
Academy.”
Tranlok bowed to the
woman. Sarek inclined his
head. “Professor Ross, I am pleased to
finally meet you.”
The woman caught her
smile before it blossomed fully. “Mr. Ambassador, the
pleasure is mine,” her voice every bit as pleasant as the smile she
suppressed.
Sarek’s eyes held hers
for a moment longer before he shifted his attention to the Terran male that
Kartaan was introducing.
“Ki Mendrossen, who has
been my liaison during my stay here on Vulcan.” Sarek and Tranlok both nodded at the young Terran.
“It’s such an honor to
meet you both,” the man gushed. The
corner of Sarek’s mouth twitched as he recalled Perrin rolling her eyes at
him. If he were not Vulcan, he would be
tempted to do the same himself.
Tranlock
and Kartaan immediately began discussing possible trade agreements between
their two systems.
“Am I not
right about those figures, Mendrossen?” Kartaan pulled the Terran male into the
debate. The man seemed to be well informed and efficient, despite
his sycophantic behavior.
Sarek only
partly listened to the exchange, stealing glances at the woman when he was sure
she would not notice. He quickly
shifted his gaze when her eye caught his as she stole a look in his
direction. When he gave another
sidelong glance she was looking intently at the bubbles in her glass. He was pleased to note her cheeks colored
slightly with embarrassment at having been caught staring at him. He asserted his bio-controls to stem the
flow of blood to the tips of his ears.
She was not the only one who was uncomfortable with being caught.
The woman
brought the glass of champagne to her lips and quickly drained the remaining
liquid. Sarek did the same with his sa'ya-luks'iwine.
“Allow me,”
Sarek said, holding out his hand for her empty glass. Her face turned pink again, but she looked unswervingly into his
eyes as she handed over the champagne flute.
Sarek
placed the empty glasses on a nearby table and turned back to the woman. “I believe I can recommend something more
palatable than the standard reception champagne.”
“Please
do,” she told him, her bottle-green eyes lighting up. “That was very close to vinegar. “
Sarek
turned to the group of three men who were still deep in discussion of trade
agreements. “Please excuse us for just
a moment,” he told them. Tranlok,
Kartaan, and Mendrossen nodded in acknowledgment before resuming their debate.
“Come, I
will show you,” he told her, gesturing to a table near the wall that was a
short distance from their current location.
Sarek
watched her surreptitiously as she surveyed the vast array of brightly-colored
liquids.
“What would
you suggest, Mr. Ambassador?” she asked, looking up at him. With her slight movement, Sarek’s olfactory
sense was assailed by a light, floral scent that was quite satisfactory.
"There is a
rather large selection. Logically we
can eliminate half of these since they produce neurotoxic effects in humans,”
he commented.
“My word,” she said softly.
“I might be better off with the vinegar.”
“Do you find wine to be agreeable?” Sarek inquired.
“Very,” she replied.
“Wine it is, then,” Sarek decided.
“Two sa'ya-luks'I,” he told the Vulcan waiter pouring drinks.
“As you wish, S’haile." The waiter deftly pulled the stopper
out of an ornate decanter filled with a rich burgundy liquid.
Sarek took the
two goblets of sa'ya-luks'iwine
and proffered one of the glasses to the woman.
“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador.”
“You are
welcome,” Sarek responded, letting a small smile barely touch his lips. “I
believe you will find the sa'ya-luks'I to be somewhat more palatable than vinegar.”
Her face creased into a broad smile this time that reached all the way
to her eyes. “Well, there’s something
to be said for that,” she told him, her emerald eyes mirthful. For the second time that evening she raised
her glass. “Here’s to trying something
authentically Vulcan,” she toasted.
Sarek clinked his glass lightly against hers, watching as she took a
tentative sip of sa'ya-luks'i.
Her expression went from one of uncertainty to one of surprise to one
of pleasure as the Vulcan wine tickled her palate. “It’s really quite good,” she proclaimed looking at the beverage
as if it were some sort of strange potion.
“You are surprised?” Sarek asked, his mouth curving upward again. Many Vulcan foods and drinks were either
considered tasteless or downright bitter to offworlders.
“Um...well, as a matter
of fact, I am,” she
commented. Her tongue lightly licked
her lips as she considered her words.
“I have been having considerable difficulty with Vulcan tea.” This time she took a bigger swallow of sa'ya-luks'i.
“Vulcan teas, particularly relan tea, are
something of an acquired taste,” Sarek informed her. “Sa'ya-luks'I is
fermented from the juice of a fruit that is fairly sweet,” he continued.
“Well, it’s wonderful,” she
enthused.
“I hope you find other things on Vulcan to appreciate as well,” Sarek’s
voice was soft and deep. He took a
drink from his goblet, letting the Vulcan wine lay on his tongue before
swallowing.
Her eyes lingered on his for a long moment. He noted that they were not pure green--gold glittered close to
the center of each iris.
“Believe me, Mr. Ambassador, I already have,” her voice silky, the gold
in her eyes seemed to flame briefly.
Before Sarek could think of an appropriate response, she cocked her
head to the side, listening, a wistful
half-smile on her face. The string
quartet that had been playing in the background all evening had begun a new
piece.
“Mozart,” Sarek identified.
“Yes. One of his string quartets.
I’m not sure which one,” she informed him.
“I believe there is a Mozart series at the Academy’s Center for the
Performing Arts,” Sarek said, warming up
to the new topic of conversation.
“Yes, I saw that on the news uplinks.
Next week Tataglia himself will be performing on violin,” she recounted,
excitement in her voice.
“I understand that it will be his
last performance before he retires,” Sarek added.
“That’s what I heard as well.
Unfortunately, there isn’t a ticket to be had anywhere on this
planet. I tried all day yesterday
before finally conceding defeat.”
“Indeed,
that is not surprising. His concerts sell out as soon as they are announced in
every star system,” Sarek provided.
“Sometimes
even before they are announced,” she pointed out. She took another drink from her glass, then hesitated a beat
before speaking. “Perhaps you would
care to join me for another Mozart performance sometime, if your schedule
permits.”
Sarek
swallowed reflexively, his facial expression neutral. Had she just asked him for what the Terrans called a ‘date'?
He was not sure how to respond.
He was used to being in charge, and her warmth coupled with the
unexpectedness of the invitation set him off-balance temporarily. The strength of his attraction to this woman
unsettled and surprised him. He could
recall only one other time in his life when such an unanticipated rapport had
developed so quickly--and that particular Earthwoman had changed the course of
his life forever, and in a very gratifying way.
Sarek found
himself in unfamiliar territory. His
courtship with Amanda was so long ago that he was uncertain if his theoretical
models pertaining to such a situation were still valid.
"My schedule rarely permits such luxuries, however…”
Sarek began.
Kartaan’s
voice from a few feet away interrupted him.
“Sarek. Doctor Ross. We need your input here. The subject of Cardassian freighter routes
overlapping with Bolian interests just came up…”
“Of
course,” Sarek stated. He was very
aware of the woman’s presence at his side as they made their way back to
complete the group’s semi-circle. He
considered what he had left unsaid between them as he listened to the
professional tone her voice took on as she outlined the historical vagaries of
Cardassian trade practices.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sarek’s
mind returned to the present, the cold bench beneath him having grown
uncomfortable. He gazed at the
arrangement of rosebushes a moment longer.
Only a human would plant flowers in such a random pattern. The deliberate disorder was what made the
garden so beautiful. There wasn’t one
that could rival it on all of Vulcan.
“Amanda…”
he began, turning to address his wife who was seated beside him. His brow knitted together when he saw that
he was all alone in the garden. A
single yellow rose adorned the spot where she had been. Sarek reached over and gingerly brought the
petals to his nose and inhaled. A soft
smile tinged with regret and longing played across his lips at his wife’s
unspoken message. According to Terran
custom, yellow roses were for goodbyes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sarek awoke
to the strong smell of roses. Feeling a
cool breeze, he noted that he had left the bedroom window open during the
night. He got up and closed the window
that abutted the garden so that it would not be too cold when he dressed. He went about his morning routine with a
renewed sense of purpose. There were
many things he wished to accomplish before mid-meal.
After
indulging in a water shower, Sarek dried off and wrapped the thick towel around
his waist as he went into a large walk-in closet to select his wardrobe. He reached for a slate grey robe, then
changed his mind. Although Vulcans did
not place much importance on clothing as a general rule, he had learned to
dress for the particular effect he wanted to achieve in Council Chambers. For the
negotiations he had in mind, he did not want to appear intimidating, yet he did
not want to blend into the background either.
His hand automatically fell on the hanger of the robe that had been his
wife’s favorite. His mouth quirked
upward as he thought of the effect this particular garment always had on
her. He had never understood her
reasoning, but she insisted that it made him ‘more handsome’ by somehow bringing
out the color of his eyes. He did not
understand the logic of how other species judged physical aesthetics, but he
could not argue with the end result. He
threw the plush brown robe over his arm and left the closet to get dressed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
‘Finally,’
Sarek thought as he stood up and stretched his back. He had been on the communications unit for the past two point
eight one hours. Sarek had employed
every trick of diplomacy he had ever learned in these negotiations. He was
drained, but very satisfied with the outcome.
He was gratified that strong-arm tactics had not been necessary, and
that he had found a solution that was acceptable to all parties involved.
Sarek
remained standing as he scrolled through the menu on his computer
terminal. Excellent. It would appear that his timing was perfect;
he would have just enough time to perform an errand and return to his office
before his next meeting. He checked the
diplomatic corps directory and headed out the door.
“S’haile,”
his aide Stenek addressed him with a puzzled look on his face. “Do you require something, sir?”
“Not at
this time, Stenek. I am simply going
out for a breath of fresh air,” Sarek told him.
The young
Vulcan’s slanted eyebrows came together in confusion as he sniffed the
surrounding air purposefully. “Fresh
air, S’haile? I will contact
Environmental Facilities Management immediately,” Stenek said as he punched
keys on his communications console.
“That will
not be necessary, Stenek,” the elder Vulcan replied. “It is a Terran expression that means I am taking a break.”
“Ah. I will add that
to my list of Terran idioms,
Ambassador.”
Sarek felt
the corner of his mouth tug upward. He
had been only a little older than Stenek when he was first posted to the
embassy on Earth. He had no idea at the
time that Terrans often communicated ‘between the lines’ rather than
literally---but he had learned quickly, with Amanda’s tutoring.
“Very
good. I will return at 12:45 Federation
Standard Time for my meeting with Ambassador Sertik,” Sarek informed his young
aide.
Sarek
exited the suite of offices and took the turbolift to the ground floor where he
walked out into the hot Vulcan morning.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The tinkle of the bell that announced his arrival was a familiar sound,
but one he had not heard in a long time.
His visits had become progressively less frequent since Amanda’s
passing. Sarek pushed hard against the
heavy wooden door that had had a tendency to stick for as long as he could
remember, even when he was a boy and had accompanied his grandfather Solkar on
his weekly sojourns to the shop. As the
door opened a crack under his forceful shove, the exotic smell of roasting
coffee beans, teas, spices, and various pastries and delicacies from the
Federation’s many worlds wafted over him, as comforting as his favorite
meditation robe.
T’Risa looked up as she wiped her hands on her apron, and her eyes filled
with warmth when she saw who was standing in the middle of her shop. She came around the counter and inspected
him meticulously.
“Dif-tor heh smusma,
Sarekam,” she greeted him, crossing her wrists with
her palms held outward.
“Peace and
long life,” he responded, returning her gesture. His lips formed a tight smile; there were very few Vulcans old
enough, or impertinent enough, to get away with adding the diminutive to his
name.
“Sit down,”
she said, leading him to a table by the window. “I want your opinion on a new recipe.” T’Risa glided behind the counter and emerged with a tall mug that
had a steaming red cloud hovering over it.
Sarek
looked at the mug and raised a single eyebrow.
“What manner of concoction is this?” he asked, knowing that T’Risa often
blended seemingly disparate items from different cultures to create new drinks
and desserts that were amazingly appetizing.
“Try
it. It has not been so long since you have been to visit me that I would
poison you.” She took a seat opposite
him and watched him with anticipation.
Sarek
picked up the mug and looked incredulously at the red fog coming from the top
of the mug.
T’Risa
shrugged in a most un-Vulcan way.
“Tourists seem to be taken with bright hues for their drinks. Preferably ones that look like they might
spontaneously ignite or explode,” she intimated.
Sarek
nodded sagely. “Then it is a logical
marketing technique,” he replied, sipping experimentally from the cup. He blinked, then gave her a look of
approval. “It appears to be adequate,
even though it did not combust,” Sarek proclaimed.
“Adequate. I will take that as a positive vote in its
favor. I will make some modifications
so that the next time your eyebrows are singed off,” T’Risa intoned, raising an
eyebrow mimicking him.
“Indeed.” Sarek stretched his legs out, relaxing. He felt a heavy warmth against his leg. He reached his hand out automatically to pet
the sehlat nudging him affectionately.
“Behrak seems pleased to see you,” T’Risa noted.
“Yes. I did not
remember to bring him a treat, however,” Sarek commented.
“Do not concern yourself. He
indulges excessively already, as you can see.”
She patted the sehlat’s paunchy belly and he rolled his head back in
ecstasy. His fangs glinted in the
morning sunshine as he enjoyed being the center of so much attention.
“Let me get you a cup of tea,” T’Risa offered, bustling back
to her work area.
Sarek
scratched the sehlat behind the ears and under the chin. Behrak flopped over so that his stomach was
exposed, and Sarek patted him gently before rising from his chair.
“Actually,
I have a time constraint today and would like to have a large pot of tea to
take back to my office,” Sarek told T’Risa as he came around the counter to
observe her while she worked.
“Relan tea?” she inquired. Sarek had adventurous tastes in food and
drink, just as she did, and he would often request unusual mixtures, depending
upon whom he was negotiating with.
“No. Something more…
agreeable to a Terran’s senses,” Sarek requested.
“How about my Special Blend Number 27.325?” T’Risa asked.
“That would
be acceptable,” Sarek responded, knowing full well that T’Risa made up her
Special Blend numbers randomly, and that she would mix him whatever she
pleased. He also knew that whatever she
created would be outstanding.
“How many
will you be serving, Sarek?” She surveyed a selection of tea pots in various
sizes.
“Just two individuals.”
“Is that including yourself?” she pried subtly.
“Yes, that
is including myself.” Sarek bent to
examine an assortment of kreyla,
which also permitted him to avoid her curious gaze.
“Here. Let me pack a few of those kreyla to go with the tea.” T’Risa selected two large kreyla and wrapped them up.
“I would also like a pound of the French Roast,” Sarek
indicated.
T’Risa
measured out the coffee beans and poured them into a bag. She took everything and packaged it up for
Sarek to carry back to his office. She added two small teacups to the top
before sealing the package.
Sarek gave
her his credit number, and she waved him off.
“This way,” she told him, “you will have to come back more often.”
“Understood,”
Sarek said as he nodded his goodbye, and turned to the warped wooden door. Shifting the box to his other arm, he pulled
hard on the handle and it slowly opened.
“Let me know how she likes the tea,” T’Risa deadpanned.
Sarek’s step hesitated slightly as he shook his head and
shut the door firmly behind him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sarek
walked briskly down the corridor, checking the numbers on the office
suites. He slowed his pace just before
the correct door, took a deep breath and squared his shoulders before pushing
the door chime.
“Come in,” a female voice called.
The door
swooshed open and Sarek entered. She
stood at a small food replicator, her back to him. She shuddered slightly and put a cup down on the counter beneath
the unit.
“Damned
Vulcan contraption,” she muttered under her breath. She turned to greet her visitor and a shocked look crossed her
countenance, quickly followed by a big smile.
“Mr.
Ambassador! How nice. I thought you were a courier from the
Language Institute. I don’t get many
visitors down here in the…” her voice trailed off and her face colored.
“The Pit,”
Sarek supplied. Amanda had long ago
explained to him that the term the Terrans used for the wing that housed
visiting researchers and various contractors was one of affection for the
cramped, windowless offices. Sarek, who
tended toward claustrophobic restlessness when he could not be at least within
viewing distance of the outdoors, had searched for every opportunity to run
errands that would take him outside The Pit when he had started his diplomatic
career as an aide the summer before he was to attend the Vulcan Science
Academy. Everyone had interpreted his
enthusiasm for couriering tasks as a sign of his dedication to the job, when in
reality he had calculated that it afforded him the most time out-of-doors.
“Yes. Well,” she
recovered, then lapsed into an awkward silence.
“You are
having difficulties with the replicator?”
Sarek attempted to keep the conversation rolling.
“Oh,
there’s nothing wrong with the replicator per se. I’ve just been trying to get a decent cup of, well, anything out
of it,” she vented.
“I think I might be able to assist you.”
“You can
program this thing to put out a decent cup of coffee or tea?” she asked in amazement.
“No. That is
impossible,” Sarek told her frankly.
She looked
at him quizzically, then unsuccessfully tried to quell the laugh that bubbled
up.
“I see. What do you
propose, then, Mr. Ambassador?”
“This,” he held up the carton he had carried from T’Risa’s
shop.
“My, my. Vulcans
bearing gifts. May I ask what you have
in there?”
“Of
course. It happens to be a pot of
freshly-brewed tea that should be to your liking.”
“That
definitely sounds better than something from the Language Institute,” she said
with a smile, holding out her hands for the parcel. “Will you join me for a cup?” she ventured, placing the container
on the counter.
“That would
be acceptable,” he responded, watching her hands delicately lift the tea cups
from the package.
“Good. Please, sit down and make yourself at home,”
she told him as she hefted the pot by the handle.
“Very
well,” Sarek sat down in the chair next to her desk and perused the maps and
documents piled high on the workspace.
“You
brought coffee and… what is it called? Kreyla, too. I may not have to use the replicator for a while. I’ll have to dig out my coffee grinder,
though,” she said after she shook the bag and heard the sound of beans rolling
around inside. “I know I packed it,
even though I had no idea whether there would even be any real coffee on
Vulcan. I just haven’t figured out
which box I shipped it in,” she told him as she handed him a cup of the
tea.
“Do not
concern yourself. I have a coffee
grinder upstairs that you may use,” Sarek offered. He had taught all of his aides how to make a satisfactory pot of
coffee. After living on Earth for
extended periods of time, and having married an Earthwoman, he had acquired a
taste for the beverage, and the food replicators could not quite duplicate the
experience to his satisfaction. He was
convinced that T’Risa was the only Vulcan whose skills with coffee surpassed
his own.
“Thank
you. I might just do that. I haven’t had a great deal of time to unpack
since the Cardassian project took off at warp speed,” she confided.
She moved a
stack of historical documents and set the wrapped kreyla where they both could reach them. Perrin sat down in her chair and inhaled the fragrant aroma from
her teacup. “It smells wonderful,” she
commented. “Oh my. That’s good.” Her eyes closed briefly as she enjoyed the first taste from the
cup.
“I am pleased that it is satisfactory,” Sarek responded.
“Better
than satisfactory. It’s perfect. I can’t quite identify the blend of tea,
however,” Perrin stated, a look of concentration on her face as she drank from
the cup a second time. “I give up. What is it?” she conceded.
“I have no idea,” Sarek confessed.
“No idea? Then how
did you know I would like it?” she
asked boldly.
“I
consulted an expert who logically determined the appropriate mixture,” Sarek
replied sedately.
“Logic. I see.
Well, it seems to work better than the algorithm the replicator uses,”
she teased lightly.
“Yes, the replicator program has certain… imperfections,”
Sarek admitted.
“I’d like to meet your expert,” Perrin intimated.
“That is
highly classified information,” Sarek replied, his mouth forming a brief smile.
“Really? I had no idea that it was such a closely guarded secret. But I do have a top-level security
clearance,” she said with a straight face, bemusement showing only in her eyes.
“Indeed. In that
case I might be persuaded to divulge my contact,” Sarek hinted.
“And just
how would I persuade you, Mr. Ambassador?” she inquired, leaning closer to him
and selecting one of the kreyla.
“By
permitting me to escort you to an event tomorrow evening, Professor Ross,”
Sarek shifted the conversation decisively.
He picked up the remaining kreyla
and unwrapped it.
“What
event? Or is that information
classified as well?” she queried after swallowing a mouthful of the biscuit.
“I do not
believe it is classified. I acquired
tickets to tomorrow’s Mozart concert,” Sarek finished.
“You
didn’t!” she exclaimed, nearly dropping the piece of kreyla in her hand before she regained her control.
“I did,” he replied matter-of-factly.
"How did you ever manage to get tickets to see the
great Tataglia himself perform?"
“I am a professional negotiator, Doctor Ross,” Sarek
informed her.
“I realize that. But
I didn’t know you were that
good,” Perrin ribbed him.
“It did
require that I apply my diplomatic skills somewhat… aggressively,” Sarek
admitted.
“I think it
might be possible for me to free up my schedule tomorrow night. On one condition,” she told him, polishing
off the remaining bit of kreyla.
“And that would be?”
Sarek sat back in his chair and raised his right eyebrow.
“That you
stop calling me Doctor or Professor Ross.
Please, call me Perrin,” she stipulated.
“If you
insist, Doctor Ross… Perrin,” he gave in, enjoying the way her given name
sounded the first time he spoke it.
“I insist.”
“Very well, then. We
have an agreement?” Sarek sought clarification.
“We do,” Perrin confirmed.
“So, what’s the plan?”
“I will call for you at 19:30 Federation Standard Time,”
Sarek supplied smoothly.
“Great. That will give me plenty of time to get
ready after work," she contemplated, looking at him warmly.
“Excellent,” Sarek stood to take his leave.
“Oh wait! You’ll
need directions to my home.”
“Yes, of
course,” Sarek took out his private data padd, hoping she didn’t notice the
flow of blood to the tips of his ears.
He had already researched her personal information thoroughly. Nevertheless, he recorded the facts she
provided, and closed his data padd.
“I will
take my leave of you now. I am meeting
with Ambassador Sertik at 13:30 hours,” Sarek said as he returned his padd to
the pocket of his robe. “Until tomorrow
evening,” Sarek finished with a small bow.
“I look forward to it, Ambassador Sarek.”
Sarek
allowed himself another slight smile at the use of his birth name before he
turned and left her office.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sarek gazed
out of a window that ran the entire length of the wall. It was the first renovation he had made to
his office when he assumed his duties as the Voice of Vulcan. The corner of his mouth twitched upward as
he debated the logic of his claustrophobic sensation. On the other hand, it would be illogical to deny its
existence. He had mastered it for the
most part, save during long interstellar voyages where he sought out observation decks as often as
possible. He would have to get used to
the unsettling feeling as he suspected that he would be paying frequent visits
to The Pit in the future. A small smile
played at his lips and in the privacy of his well-appointed office he did not
bother to suppress it. His negotiations
had gone quite well, in his estimate.
Hopefully his meeting with Ambassador Sertik would be equally fruitful.
“S’haile,
your meeting with Ambassador Sertik is in five minutes in the Surak Conference
Room,” Stenek’s voice came from directly over his shoulder. Sarek looked at Stenek’s reflection in the
glass and wondered if his young aide was indeed part le-matya. Sarek had not
heard him enter the room or approach from behind.
“I will
depart directly,” Sarek told him, his eyes still looking outside at the distant
Sas-a-shar desert. Mt. Seleya was barely visible on the
horizon.
Sarek tore
his eyes from the view and went to his desk to collect his padds. As he retrieved the relevant materials, he
caught a splash of red out of the corner of his eye. This time his right eyebrow traveled all the way up into his
bangs.
He picked
up the object and scrutinized it.
Impossible. Although after the
unusual events of past few days he had mentally revised his vocabulary to
minimize his use of that word. His face
relaxed and a wistful look crossed it briefly.
Only a
human would weave vines together in such an illogical pattern. Only one particular human that he could
think of. Sarek brought the pair of red
roses to his nose and breathed in their fragrance. Smiling softly, he looked across the expanse of his office, out
the large window and into the Sas-a-shar
toward Mt. Seleya once more.
Impossible. Well, not very
probably, he amended.
Sarek
carried the roses to the wet-bar where he filled a glass with water. He delicately placed the intertwined flowers
in the makeshift vase and set it on his desk next to a framed holopic of Amanda
that was taken on their wedding day.
Sarek stared at the picture for a moment longer.
“Thank you,
my wife,” he said in voice that was barely a whisper. With one more glance at the distant Mt. Seleya, he left his
office for his next meeting.
THE END