Chapter Text
When the interference ended, and the Kobayashi Maru resumed as programmed, Beckenbauer called out.
"Commander Spock, how the hell was your test disrupted?”
Spock had rejected two possible causes already, and was in the process of considering a third.
“I do not know,” he answered.
That was earlier in the day. Now the last member of the simulation team wished him goodnight and left the arena boardroom. The debriefing had gone forty minutes over time. Spock stayed back to review his notes.
In particular he considered suggestions put forward to explain the disruption. Two minutes and twenty-eight seconds into the Kobayashi Maru, all instruments on the simulation bridge remained responsive, but the mission parameters -- the number and model of attacking Klingon ships, their configuration in space and ability to cloak -- did not conform to the programming. Also, Communications received messages from one Bird-of-Prey in a language identified by the universal translator as Makonde. The disruption lasted thirty-three seconds, after which there was a two point four second blackout before the simulation reverted to its programme, exactly where it had deviated.
Spock reevaluated all the ideas presented by the team. And he had to concede that the theory put forward by Sub-lieutenant Gaila Jadillu, although unproven, provided the only plausible explanation.
He saved the notes on his PADD and switched the device to his private channel, so he could write a message to Nyota.
He used her stylus -- the brushed titanium implement engraved with the sigil of clan Tetov’yth on the nib. She used his. It was a permanent arrangement. Spock was inclined to propose they make another one, given the highly satisfactory nature of their time as a couple. Tonight might be a suitable occasion to ask. It was imperative, therefore, not to mar the celebratory nature of the evening by making her wait without explanation.
‘E’lev Nei’rrh (Nei’rrh my love),’
He chose to compose in Rhiannsu. Since Alpha Incognito, it had become their private language.
‘An unexpected incident occurred during the Kobayashi Maru examination. I have deferred the comprehensive analysis of the problem until Monday, and Gaila will review the programme tomorrow.’
The lingua franca of the Romulan Empire had an additional advantage: considerable vocabulary and idiom created to express the intensity of emotion between lovers.
‘My desire was to deprive you of nothing, Thermaenen Khiialev (Little Mesmeriser), which you had planned. But my efforts have failed. Punishment is always your prerogative, and I submit to your will unreservedly upon arrival –- for which allow forty-three minutes in anticipation of heavy traffic. H'levreinnye Nnerhai Aehallh (Your Love Devil Aehallh).’
After he sent this, he asked the simulation computer to confirm whether all its files had been closed and secured with new encripting. It replied in the affirmative. It also told him that the arena's security systems had been reset as instructed. Only Sub-Lieutenant Jadillu could access the building or check its data banks over the weekend.
Then Spock left the boardroom. He walked along the corridor which led to the stairs, and then walked four flights down to the ground floor. The computer switched off the lights behind him, one floor at a time. At the point he reached the entrance foyer, the entire simulation arena was in darkness, except for a single light which still shone over Spock's head.
As the main doors drew apart to let him exit, he heard the voice a second time.
-I don’t really love you, Spock.-
It was Uhura’s voice, unmistakably. During the test disruption he heard the same words spoken, as if he had thought them.
Spock left the building more convinced that Gaila's theory was correct.
Outside, the June evening remained warm, a temperature he could tolerate without additional layers of clothing. The sun was setting amidst slender trails of red cloud. In the distance he saw the silhouette of the space elevator, the newest addition to the San Francisco skyline.
Thirteen steps led down from the arena to a broad concourse which functioned as the entryway to Starfleet Academy. In the daytime it was crowded with students, faculty, visiting dignitaries. Now Spock saw only a single human seated on one of the benches. This stranger was male, perhaps the same age as Nyota but his skin had a cool undertone. His scalp was shaved around his ears and the hair cut very short on top. There was a tattoo on the left side of his neck, a black five pointed star. He wore an Andorian leather suit and some decorative Orion chain appendages. As the arena doors opened, the man turned his head in Spock's direction, and rose from his seat.
“Sir,” he called out.
Then the stranger started to run towards him, meeting him half way up the steps.
“Forgive me for detaining you,” he apologised, and bowed.
Spock returned the gesture as a courtesy.
"May I assist?" he enquired
“This is my first visit to San Francisco." The stranger turned at the waist and pointed behind him, in the direction of the space elevator. "Do you know the best way to get to the Hotel Sugureta?”
“I am going there myself,” Spock replied. “You are welcome to ride in my vehicle.”
The young man faced him again, eyes wide.
“That is … thank you,” he stammered. “Very kind, thank you.”
“Logical,” Spock corrected him. “This is the only way I know to reach the hotel in a reasonable amount of time, and I have an unoccupied passenger seat. Please follow me.”
He heard the man repeat 'very kind' as they descended the stairs and crossed the concourse. Spock headed towards the rear of the Academy administration building, to the staff parking lot.
While walking there he considered his obligations to the stranger, according to Terran etiquette. During the drive, he would need to initiate more than one inconsequential and unnecessary conversation with this man –- small talk. It was a skill he had developed “to a level of competence just below adequate” according to Doctor Christine Chapel. This would have to suffice.
He knew he could begin with introductions. Since the young man walked behind him rather than alongside, he was able to delay this task until they had reached the car and seated themselves inside.
“My name is Commander Spock.”
“Emmanuel,” the stranger said. “I’m afraid I have no rank or title.”
Spock expected his passenger to initiate a handshake, but this did not happen. Perhaps Emmanuel knew something about Vulcans. He remained silent while Spock started the engine, steered the car out of the parking lot and onto Hubble Boulevard. It would have been easy to assume the young man felt comfortable without conversation. Easy, but premature. Spock knew he must make an appropriate foyer into polite human interaction.
“Will you stay long in San Francisco?” he asked.
This enquiry prompted his passenger to lean forward.
"Well --,”
Emmanuel spread out his hands, presumably to gesticulate. It seemed a new aspect of this human was about to reveal itself.
“It was not my intention to visit at all, which is why you find me so unprepared. I arrived late at the spaceport on Rigel -- too late to catch the shuttle to Africa headquarters, or else I would have flown directly to Dar-es-Salaam.”
Spock said nothing. He was considering the cadence of Emmanuel’s last sentence, which put such emphasis on the final words. Whether this was a personal affectation or intended to convey some meaning, Spock could not be certain.
“That is where I grew up,” the young man continued. “My father was Facilities Director for the African Academy until he retired.”
Spock nodded, as he knew he should, while turning the car off Hubble onto 25th Avenue southbound. The traffic slowed, but did not stall, which was better than he had expected.
“Dar-es-Salaam is a beautiful city,” enthused his passenger. Emmanuel extended his vowel sounds, particularly when he used adjectives. “Beautiful beaches especially. Soft, white sand. And warm water –- you don’t get a shock when you wade in.”
In his own mind, Spock agreed. During his time as a cadet, physical training had included open water swimming. After his first lesson and subsequent viral infection, a wet suit was procured as a matter of urgency to insulate him from the Pacific. Even in summer the contact between the water and his bare skin hurt. Immersion in the Indian Ocean, conversely, had caused him no discomfort.
To any of Emmanuel’s observations about Africa, Spock could have provided a response. This was where, according to Terrans, his execution of polite conversation fell short. He knew that a remark about his visit to Dar-es-Salaam last December would establish commonality, and that this was an important aim of successful small talk.
But to do this offered Emmanuel the freedom to make personal enquiries. On Vulcan no such liberty would be given or taken during a first meeting, or a second or a third.
Spock knew that humans exercised a measure of restraint, whether asking or answering such questions. But it differed from individual to individual. This was what made him reticent. He preferred to know the rules of engagement beforehand.
Thankfully, Emmanuel seemed prepared to continue talking regardless.
“And of all the beaches, I love those to the south of the city. Kijiji – it’s a private resort now, but when I was a boy …,”
Suddenly the young man paused. His interval of speechlessness lasted the time it took for the traffic lights on the intersection of 25th and Lincoln Way to go from amber to red to green, and for Spock to steer the car in the direction of the coast.
“--Picnics,” the young man resumed. “Sorry, I meant Kijiji used to be open to the public for picnics and such. It got very crowded in the hot season. I understand it is much quieter now.”
Then, after another short silence, Spock noticed that Emmanuel had stopped looking out his window and turned his gaze on his driver.
“Have you ever been to Tanzania, Commander?”
There it was. Having received no reciprocation, Emmanuel took the only option which remained and started to ask questions anyway. There was no escape.
“Yes,” Spock replied.
“Ah, yes?” Emmanuel relaxed into his backrest. “How interesting. When was this?”
It was a simple decision. What Spock revealed about himself was his own concern. The choice he made was to protect the privacy of a person who could not be consulted.
“On the eighteenth of July, 2253. My first Starfleet commission after graduation was a short assignment on board the USS Titan. Admiral Xiang was the captain, and her crew was assembled and debriefed at the African headquarters.”
“Ah.”
They had reached the last set of traffic lights. The hotel’s expansive parking lot was just ahead.
“I presume you had little opportunity to explore your surroundings,” Emmanuel remarked.
“Your presumption is accurate.”
“Such a shame. And a pity your visit did not occur between December and January. If you prefer hot weather,” Emmanuel pointed at Spock’s sleeve, “much hotter than here, where you would not need a jacket, it would be the ideal location.”
Spock drove through the car park, aiming for the three lane porte-cochere in front of the hotel entrance.
“I suppose your responsibilities now would not afford you the opportunity for a second visit.”
Several doormen were on duty, to direct approaching vehicles to the drop-off points. Spock obeyed the signal he was given, pulled into a bay and engaged the parking brake. Then he turned to his passenger.
“I hope you are able to complete your journey satisfactorily, " he said.
Emmanuel smiled. “Thank you, Commander. Have a pleasant evening yourself. It was good to get to know you better.”
Then the young man climbed out of the car. He would not surrender his door to the waiting hotel staff, but closed it himself, turning round so he could look back through the window at his driver. He was still smiling.
Fuck the Kobayashi Maru. Fuck all the Klingon Birds-of-Prey with their shields at one hundred percent, and fuck his cadet crew who just sat back and accepted their fate before the torpedoes started to fire. Fuck the faculty assessors who said his anger was simply a form of grief he did not want to process.
And fuck the Orion Computer Science aide –-
Or, if that much wasn’t on the cards, Jim Kirk would settle for her hand inside his uniform trousers.
He would need to find a fire escape or unlocked cleaners’ cupboard, whatever they decided to do. In this hotel, a room was beyond his budget. At a push, there was the beach. The beach should be pretty quiet.
Gaila was speaking to him again. He considered that the single positive achievement of the day. And she agreed to a date, though that may have been because he suggested drinks at the Sugureta, the city's newest and therefore most desirable night spot. The Tochi Bar on ground level would not win her back, so he’d been to the reception desk and purchased return tickets to take the space elevator to the Seisoken Lounge and Restaurant, fifty-five kilometres up in the stratosphere, with a rotating floor so patrons could enjoy a cosmic panorama through immense viewscreens.
Gaila was running late. Jim took a seat in the Sugureta lobby so he could watch the main doors, but the only intelligent life coming inside was a Denobulan tour group. Sixty-two individuals (what else did he have to do except count them?) of which seventeen were children, crowded the plush carpet. The adult females were interesting, often taller than their males and elegant in the way they moved. Their eyes surveyed the room and studied any non-Denobulans in their line of sight. One of them smiled at him, invitingly.
He smiled back. Never hurt to have a back-up plan.
Then that female was distracted. Her fellow tourists were urging her to check out a new arrival. Jim looked in the direction they were pointing. He reckoned the man they spotted, who steered a path through all bodies in his way, and presented anyone who dared meet his gaze with a scowl, was in his thirties. Six foot two maybe, and dressed in one of those Andorian suits Jim would not be able to afford even if he did manage to pass the Kobayashi Maru one day and become a Starfleet captain. A cascade of platinum body chains hung down the guy's jacket: filigree thin, coiled, double linked and herringbone. It was like wearing a bank balance.
Was he human?
He seemed human, although his brown eyes had a look –- how to put it -- like he knew things.
Mr. Platinum approached the reception desk and spoke with a clerk. Jim was too far away to overhear. But he saw the clerk consult his computer, frown, consult it a second time, and shake his head.
Whatever Mr. Platinum said next caused the hotel employee to clutch their own throat and keep the hand there.
When the stranger turned away from the frightened receptionist, he headed across the lobby in the direction of the Tochi Bar. He passed very close to Jim's chair. There seemed no reason, but something caused Mr. Platinum's laser focus gaze to shift. It wasn't more than a flicker, a glance so quick Jim might have missed it, except he happened to be wondering about the star-shaped tattoo on the guy’s neck. And the look Jim got would have meant nothing, except that the instant their eyes locked Kirk heard the voice a second time.
-Jim, I think I love you.-
It was Gaila’s voice, no mistaking it. He heard the same words in his mind that afternoon, when the Kobayashi Maru simulation was mysteriously interrupted.
Jim shook his head, and the voice disappeared like it had been nothing but a mosquito buzzing by his ear. And Kirk could see the real Gaila now, fighting her way into the lobby. One hotel doorman, a bellhop and two Denobulan females fought for her attention, jostled against her like puppies and talked over each other as the Orion tried to walk in one of her many pairs of precarious heels.
Jim stood up, straightened his uniform jacket and marched into battle.
“Excuse me,” he shouted over the competing voices, “ladies and gentlemen, please, EXCUSE ME!”
And when they were quiet, he came alongside Gaila and slipped his arm through hers.
“She’s taken,” he told the others. “For tonight, at least.”
Spock drove the car round the perimeter of the hotel to a secure, covered lot at the back of the building.
A barrier lifted to let him inside. A numbered parking space waited. This was where the Sugureta had a second entrance, accessible only to those with a premium reservation code. Premium guests were provided with a private reception lobby and elevator. According to Ensign Tiavro Dre, who secured the booking on Spock’s behalf, this facility wasn’t well known, not yet. But it doubtless would be. For now, it provided what he and Nyota wanted, the opportunity to enjoy the city’s latest attraction without being observed together by Academy students or staff.
During the elevator journey he rode in a comfortable chair, was served replicated tea by a service robot and had the option to activate the hotel’s video documentary about its structures and amenities. There was time to watch all the special features, including time lapse footage of the construction of the ground level building and the official ceremony which marked the lowering and connection of its link with Space Station Honshu.
At Mesosphere Level Five, the elevator secured itself to the airlock for Penthouse Three. The robot checked the integrity of the seal and atmospheric quality while a computer voice wished him a pleasant stay.
When the door swept aside, his view ahead was full of stars.
Only the penthouses offered this, an observation feature incorporated into the floor, walls and ceiling around the entrance, which accounted for half the area of the suite. It created the illusion that Nyota waited for him in self-powered suspension, standing in space, a star in the company of stars.
She wore her cadet uniform, the high-collared jacket whose bodice was sewn together in panels tailored for a close fit down to the hips. She stood to attention, her PADD clasped in both hands ready to read. The presentation was businesslike, typical of the student who had attended his Subspace classes over the last semester. He believed it safe to say their behaviour as professor and pupil could not be faulted. They made eye contact in the lab only when Nyota asked a question. If, during practical work, she requested assistance, he would lock into her data feed from his own PADD rather than approach her station. He would ask for her cadet number to complete the connection, though he knew it already.
Neither of them had expected the peculiar tension which would accumulate as a result of their efforts. Before the need was understood or discussed, a solution began to create itself, starting on the third Friday in March. Nyota had asked him about midterm extra credit projects. They were in his apartment, and had not changed out of their uniforms. She addressed him as “Sir” in an attempt at humour, but something very different resulted.
Acting out prohibited behaviour proved unusually titillating. And so it became accepted, another part of their intimate repertoire, utterly illogical though it was. But even the katra of T’Shin advised there was no point expecting desire to take rational forms.
Nyota saluted him as he entered the penthouse.
“Good evening, Commander.”
“Good evening, Cadet,” he replied, “at ease.”
She did not move to greet him or smile, but activated her PADD so the light from the display illuminated her face. She had applied a gel based cosmetic to her lips, to make them slick and reflective. Spock crossed the transparent floor to get closer.
“Permission to ask a question, sir.”
“Granted,” he said. And he halted his approach, leaving two meters of space between them.
“The frequencies of the signals I’m seeing--,”
“I will need to view your display on this occasion, Cadet Uhura,” Spock interrupted. “My PADD is currently downloading the mock relay transmissions for your exam preparation.”
He walked past her on the left side and turned one hundred and eighty degrees. That positioned him directly behind her back, slightly off centre from perfect alignment so that he could see over her shoulder. Her hair had been gathered at the top of her head and fastened there. Nyota cast a brief glance in his direction before she returned her eyes front. The motion caused the ends of her smooth tresses to lift, swing and lightly brush his black instructor’s jacket.
“The frequencies are consistent with a Class 2 signal,” she told him. When she lifted her PADD to show him, her writing arm moved back too far and the elbow pressed gently against his stomach.
“But the textbook problem says we are intercepting communications between two Starfleet space docks," she went on. "It does not mention an enemy vessel.”
He reached around her arm and took the stylus, his stylus, from her left hand. His fingertips tangled with hers and the electricity they exchanged made his tongue tingle.
“Have you determined the distance the signals have travelled?” he asked.
He also leaned closer and blew on the flat face of her earring pendant, so it fluttered near her jawbone.
“My calculations are saved,” her left hand, having nothing to hold, dropped to her side. As he used the stylus to retrieve her work, he felt her fingernails scratch his thigh in little circles. Had he actually needed to check her mathematics, this particular attention would have decreased his efficiency.
“You have neglected --,” he began to speak, but then her hand slid between his legs. She turned her head slightly.
“Sir?”
She had searched for and found his scrotum, and was carefully identifying the firm globe of each testis by pressing into the loose skin which enclosed them, tracing over and round their circumference. Spock concentrated on maintaining his hold on the stylus.
“You may have made an assumption --,” he tried again, after a surge of sensation cut off his power of speech. “You may have --,”
“Commander,” her hand withdrew. She turned slowly to face him, tipped her head back and gazed up at him with innocent concern. “Is anything wrong?”
“No,” he said, and then, “yes.”
She stroked his jacket sleeve. Her voice became softer. “I don’t understand.”
His hand holding the stylus moved of its own volition, seemingly. It snaked round her lower back and pressed their bodies together.
“What we are doing,” he was rolling the stylus over the zipper of her skirt, “constitutes a violation of faculty/student fraternisation rules.”
“May I kiss you?”
They tasted each other tentatively, as if their lips and tongues were foods they had never tried before.
“Is that better?” she asked, when they finished.
“Yes,” he said, and then, “no.”
“You seem so warm. Would you be more comfortable without your jacket?”
She opened the front of his uniform slowly, giving her free hand time to appreciate the weave and density of his undershirt and the physiological terrain it covered. And when she finally reached the bottom, where the jacket overlapped his trousers, she stopped again to examine how her ministrations had affected him.
“I think we’ve found the problem,” she said, and unfastened his fly button.
“Cadet …,” the word came out distorted by involuntary exhalation, as she unzipped his trousers and adjusted the vent on his shorts to liberate a swollen lok.
“There.” She held him a moment, provoking a blood rush that pushed against her fingertips and tilted his erection higher.
“Sir, there are no rules where we are concerned. Also, there is no lingerie under my skirt which would impede our continued fraternisation.”
“I see,” he said hoarsely, and paused to swallow. “In that case, I must order you to lie down.”
Nyota obeyed as if this were part of a lesson. Spock let her take the stylus from him. She placed it with her PADD against the partition they could raise to screen off their sleeping area. Then he watched her remove her boots. She walked barefoot to a place in the middle of the clear observation floor, sat down and eased herself onto her back, letting the motion drag her skirt up round her hips.
Their relationship had been sexual for eight months. This time allowed Spock to achieve the tolerance his mother assured him he would develop for mouth contact with Nyota’s body. Rationing, therefore, had ended. He could kiss Nyota anywhere he desired, as often as he desired. A craving remained for locations which had been most intoxicating, a psychosomatic reaction, perhaps. He knelt between her parted legs and sampled the skin on the inside of each thigh in turn, sucking her between his teeth.
“Commander,” she sighed.
It was the last line spoken in their strange role play. From then on she whimpered 'Spock' as he nuzzled his way into her centre and ground her ko-lok under his tongue. She panted “Aehallh, Aehallh!” when she convulsed. In the aftermath of her orgasm he drew himself up and over her legs, hovered near her face to quiet her with more kisses and eased himself inside her body. Then they rocked together at the furthest reaches of Penthouse Three, building his fire and her residual burning while it seemed as though they were no longer corporeal at all. The optical illusion of the transparent floor, combined with heightened emotion, made it no effort to believe they had become pure erotic energy, travelling in perpetual embrace across the galaxy.