Star Trek: Unspoken Truth

by Margaret Wander Bonanno

  What was she so angry about?

  Admittedly, she was frustrated. Tolek’s complete silence was … unsettling, as if after all but begging for her help for all these weeks he had slipped over some sort of personal event horizon and disappeared. Logically, it might mean nothing more than that he was busy gathering more data at his end. Why, then, did she have this feeling of foreboding? In any event, they would be in Earth orbit within six days, their mission truncated by Command’s order that they return to report on their findings in the Deema system, and she would no longer need to rely on long-range communication in order to reach him.

  And, once on Earth, she could expect Sarek to summon her back to Vulcan to begin the long-overdue process of finding her a mate. Was it that which was making her—to borrow Lieutenant Palousek’s word—“cranky”?

  Why should it?

  “It’s all about the slime,” Mikal said. He had noticed a streak of it crystallized briefly in the hair above Saavik’s ear where Worm had touched her in parting after the wedding, a bright jewel that vanished as he watched.

  “It’s gone,” he said now, his feet up on the desk in the ready room, waiting for Mironova so that, as department heads, they could update her on what he considered their most important finding … after the Deemanot themselves, of course. “All of it. You were literally covered with it during the mind-meld, but by the time we got to the museum, it’s as if it never existed. There was none on your uniform, and when we were crawling through the tunnels we should have been covered in it, but the floors were dry.”

  “Traces were found under spectral analysis,” Saavik pointed out. Ever since they’d returned from the wedding, she had felt compelled to argue every minor point with him, and she did not know why.

  “Traces. Doesn’t explain how it’s able to sublimate so quickly!” he shot back, always ready for a good wrangle. “And I’m convinced it’s the reason we couldn’t detect the tunnels under our feet in all three biomes.”

  Mironova slid into her chair without a word, glowering at Mikal’s feet until he removed them from her desk and sat up straight.

  “Go on.”

  “We’ve isolated at least twelve different types of slime, varying by chemical composition, degree of viscosity, and the purpose it’s used for,” he said, handing her the padd he’d been holding. “There’s the variety that hardens egested soil into the marblelike consistency we noted on the inner walls of the museum. That’s actually very rare. Less rare is the type used as a communication medium, which is what we found traces of on Saavik’s uniform and in her hair. It dries very quickly but only seems to disappear. Under 3-nitrophthalic acid analysis, it shows up immediately.

  “Then there’s the most common type of slime, which is what they use to lubricate their bodies against the sun, and also for mobility. And nine other varieties we’re still working on. They all seem to evaporate almost immediately once they’re no longer in contact with the Deemanot’s outer dermis, regardless of ambient humidity, even underground. That’s why we were able to crawl through the tunnels with them without getting covered in it. But here’s where it gets interesting. We suspect the mobility slime sublimates onto the walls as it dries and has some sort of chemical property that blocks our scanners; Ta’oob and Esparza are still testing it. But just on a hunch, that’s probably why our newfound friends seem to be able to move so fast underground. The entire planet is probably riddled with tunnels our equipment just doesn’t register. If we can figure out what’s causing it and recalibrate for it …”

  “… you’ll have your next paper for the Kropasar Journal of Applied Biotechnology,” Mironova finished for him, giving Saavik a bemused look. Usually eager to provide counterpoint for Mikal’s monologues, the Vulcan hadn’t said a word.

  “You seem lost in thought, Lieutenant. Don’t you have anything to say?”

  “The slime is Doctor Mikal’s area of expertise, Captain,” she said vaguely. “My team has been cataloging the artifacts from the museum. If you will excuse me”—she was on her feet without even asking to be dismissed—“I should like to continue.”

  “Permission granted,” Mironova said after the fact, refusing to let Mikal see that she was smiling.

  It was not Pon farr, but she was as mystified as to what it was as that bewildered boy on Genesis. Perhaps, she thought, it was some resonance of that event. At the time she had not permitted herself to feel anything, compelled only by her duty—as a Vulcan, as a Starfleet officer—to save Spock’s life. Was it possible that only now, so many months later, some neurological remnant of that event, those actions, some chemical signature in her blood remained, causing her to experience … what, precisely?

  As if I am floating, distracted, strangely euphoric, and yet visited with an illogical sense of … need?

  How was it possible to have survived Hellguard, alone and without ever feeling a need for the companionship of another? She recalled her early days at the Academy, and her wish that the majority of those surrounding her, their voices piercing the thin walls of the dorm, could be somewhere else. As for the euphoria, there was indeed great satisfaction in their close encounter with the Deemanot, but that satisfaction was purely intellectual, not euphoric.

  No, this was something other. Not Pon farr, not the elation Mikal was experiencing now that his wish to make first contact with a new species had been fulfilled. What then?

  Or who?

  There it was again, that indefinable something between thought and impulse that in the past had bubbled into her consciousness and propelled her down paths that led she knew not where. Each time before it had enabled her to save Spock’s life.

  As far as she knew, Spock was safe aboard Enterprise, continuing the studies that would restore his mind, in the company of Admiral Kirk and his crewmates, who would keep him from harm, inasmuch as anyone aboard Enterprise was ever safe from harm.

  Nevertheless, she felt a shiver that raised gooseflesh on her arms, though the lab was no more chill than most humancentric environments to which she had learned to adapt. Was she ill? Should she report to the ship’s tiny sickbay? Or was it her mind that beset her?

  It was not Pon farr. She had time yet; she was certain. Before that time came, Sarek had assured her, he would find her a suitable mate.

  And why could she not get Tolek out of her mind?

  His continued silence troubled her, but perhaps not as much as it should have. It might mean everything or nothing. His arrival in her world had been abrupt; might not his departure be as well? Perhaps he had reached the same conclusions she had, that the death of a handful of survivors was, lacking more concrete data than they between them had gathered, even with the recent deaths, only coincidence, random accident.

  Tolek was the last link to her past, a past she would as soon forget. Nevertheless, could this desolation, this sense of loss, have something to do with him?

  The pictograph currently on her computer screen, part of a display in one of the many underground rooms of the hidden Deemanot museum, showed an ancient wedding ceremony, no different in form from the one she had just witnessed. Clearly that was the answer. The joining of Scolex and Cina had left resonances in her central nervous system. That was the cause, nothing more.

  “You feel it too,” Mikal said.

  “Indeed. Undoubtedly some as yet indeterminate effect of the electrical and telepathic impulses the Deemanot emitted during the bonding.”

  “Is that all you think it is?”

  “I have eliminated all other possible causes for the sensations I am experiencing, and the fact that you are experiencing them also suggests an explanation.”

  “Oh, yes it does!” he said, his eyes dancing. “Now follow that thought to its logical conclusion.”

  Saavik frowned slightly. “I do not—”

  “Galina never felt a thing.”

  “You have asked the captain this?”

  “No need. Trust me, I’d know.” He seemed to be waiting for her to say something
more. When she didn’t, he said. “Any theories?”

  “Perhaps different species experience different effects.”

  “Or perhaps it has something to do with you and me.”

  “You and me?” she repeated.

  “You’re a scientist. Examine the evidence. What conclusions do you draw?”

  Had she never noticed before how beautiful his eyes were? Accentuated by the perfection of his hairless head, framed by the tattoos, they were large and clear and an unusual shade of hazel, fringed by long, thick lashes, framed by whimsically arched brows that expressed whatever emotions his mobile mouth and flamboyant gestures did not.

  “You told me you were not betrothed.” His hands were on her shoulders, but lightly, as if to let her know he would step back at once if she commanded him. “But if there is someone else, someone important to you, even if you’re not spoken for …”

  The Vulcan pulse was normally quite rapid. Was it possible for it to go faster? For some reason her mouth was dry, and she had difficulty finding her voice.

  “There is not,” she said. What else could she say? “However, while I am mindful that you and I have shared a bond of mutual trust and respect, I hardly think—”

  “Shut up,” he said and, his lips on hers, made it so.

  She had read Shakespeare’s sonnets and the poems of Donne, as well as the love poems and songs of many other worlds, examining them as cultural artifacts whose sentiments had nothing to do with her. What she knew of this most puzzling emotion she had learned from observing Amanda and Sarek. The light she saw in Mikal’s eyes was familiar, yet not the same. She had seen its like in Sarek’s eyes when he looked at Amanda, but …

  He held her in his arms and kissed her between her upswept brows and caressed her ears, even as she traced the swirling tattoos from the curl in the center of his brow, down his neck, across his shoulders to the wrists, sensing it would please him. He in turn traced the delicate shape of first one ear and then the other, as she did the same. Even then, however, she could not turn off the thoughts churning in her mind.

  I am not betrothed, it is not forbidden. But even if, apart from my foster father’s wishes and the Vulcan way, I were free to choose, I could not join my life with that of a nontelepath.

  But who is to say that he cannot learn, as Amanda did in joining with Sarek? Was I not aware of his presence in my mind when I was joined with Worm? Do I not feel it now? Do not some scientists postulate that all sentient beings have telesper skills, but only some use them? If anyone can teach him, can it not be I?

  Stop overthinking everything! Or if you must think, think of what you know of him and the casual way he falls in and out of relationships. Let this be what it is for the moment, in the moment, and do not fear hurting him when it is ended, if it is ended. For all your pretense, you are not fully Vulcan. To deny the passions that are yours from that … other side is … illogical.

  Mikal is correct, she thought, acknowledging this for the first time in their adversarial relationship, as he entangled his fingers in the luxury of her hair and they tumbled in unison onto the bed, You really do need to shut up!

  She knew all the biochemical reasons why certain sensations evoked certain responses, knew all the logical reasons why perpetuating a species compelled certain impulses, though why those impulses should occur beyond the need to propagate had been presented philosophically as both arguments for the superiority of certain species as well as a weakness that needed to be overcome by religious sublimation probably since those species had first crawled out of the primordial ooze and stood on their hind legs.

  But why should the curve of his earlobe, the flex of the muscles in his forearms, evoke more of an aesthetic response in her than anyone else’s? Why should the spangling of freckles across her shoulders be rendered special somehow simply because he had kissed them one by one? Were the sensations they shared in those brief hours enough? Enough for what?

  For probably the first time since the moment in infancy when her eyes had first focused (Focused on what? A face? Stern or smiling? A blank wall? She would never know), she did not think. She simply was. And he, more practiced in living in the moment, dared to think beyond it, beyond his own need for gratification, to consider, Do I want this for more than now, possibly … for life?

  For a brief and timeless moment two lonelinesses touched, canceled each other out, and then the universe moved on.

  After, he was the first to stir, gathering all the pillows and arranging them at the foot of the bed so that they could gaze at the traces of star shine flowing by in the window behind the headboard.

  “I’ll never understand why anyone would want to sleep facing away from the stars,” he remarked, drawing the coverlet up over both of them and nestling her head in the crook of his shoulder. “You have to agree this is better.”

  “It is … quite pleasant,” she murmured, marveling at herself, at him, at the two of them.

  Was this happiness? She could, if called upon, describe precisely the pathways in the brain responsible for sexual response, the release of hormones, plus endorphins and serotonin that resulted in climax and the sense of relaxation and well-being in its wake, even the likelihood that the male would fall asleep before the female, whose responses often included an enhanced wakefulness and sense of contemplation.

  She could, but she would not. Instead she laced the fingers of one hand through the downy hairs on Mikal’s chest and felt the slow basso continuo of his heart beneath her hand. If not happiness, at least contentment. It would serve.

  For a time they watched the stars, unspeaking, the only sound the ubiquitous hum of the engines beneath the deck plates and the softness of each other’s breathing. Far from being sleepy, Mikal took Saavik’s hand and kissed her palm, in the same gesture she recalled his greeting the captain with the first day he’d beamed aboard. She closed her eyes to heighten the sensation and allowed herself a smile. He kissed the tips of her fingers one by one, and her smile deepened. But then he joined her first two fingers and absently began caressing them with his own—

  (“So, it has come. It is called Pon farr … Pon farr. Will you trust me?”)

  He felt her tense and stopped. “What’s wrong?”

  You cannot tell him, she thought, forcing herself to relax. What you know is as much about Spock’s privacy as about yours. But what can you tell him that will not be a lie?

  And the Spock you shared that with no longer remembers, may not ever remember what transpired, so where is the harm?

  And what of what you have done this night, when you know that as soon as you return to Vulcan, Sarek will be waiting for you and you will have to choose a mate?

  “It is … nothing,” she replied, tracing the extraordinary shape of his mouth, thinking, Nothing about you, about us, about now. I have lived all my life haunted by the past, uncertain of the future. Now, for now, I will live in the now …

  “Argued like a Romulan!” the man who’d watched her kill and eat the lizard would say with more than a touch of pride. “You are your father’s daughter in spite of all attempts at corruption from the other side!”

  She’d woken in a cold sweat that morning despite the desert’s heat, knowing somehow that this would be the day he would come. Mikal, Tolek, Spock, Sarek—all were lost to her by then. Only the desert remained.

  How did the rest of the crew know? She and Mikal had been discreet, speaking only as colleagues in public, making certain no one saw one leaving the other’s cabin or vice versa. Surely Mikal hadn’t said anything to anyone—or, given his propensity for mischief, had he? Perhaps then it was the contrast between his usual behavior and a sudden quietness about him that made people notice. In any event, she heard the whispering, saw the knowing looks, and did not care.

  Was this happiness?

  Whatever it was, it seemed to be affecting her innate Vulcan time sense. While objectively she could count the time she and Mikal had been together, down to the minutes and seconds, it see
med somehow that they had left orbit around Deema III only moments earlier, and yet Earth’s spacedock suddenly loomed on the forward screen, and everything changed.

  Eleven

  Sarek was speaking to her and she could not hear him. Her only thought was, What is he doing here, on Earth, at Starfleet? Surely the matter of my betrothal is not so urgent? The time, the place, are wrong. I cannot do this now, not with Mikal here, not with what I have just learned …

  Mikal caught her as she stumbled.

  “What is it? Saavik, what’s wrong?”

  Later, in the long desert nights, she would have more than enough time to sort out the sequence of events, the hows and whys of Sarek’s presence and why the message from Tolek had come through on a coded frequency so secret it required her to report to the comm center in person. For now, she recalled it this way:

  Chaffee’s crew had been debriefed and granted shore leave while Command decided what to do next about the matter of Deema III.

  Mikal suggested sightseeing. For all his time on Earth, he had never been to San Francisco. They were crossing the grounds on the way to the tram that would take them into the city when they heard the announcement.

  “Lieutenant Saavik, please report to Comm Center Main immediately. Lieutenant Saavik, please report …”

  “Go,” Mikal said, squeezing her hand, “I’ll wait for you in the tram station.”

  There were retinal scans and several locked portals and long corridors to traverse before she got to where a perky little human yeoman took a palm print and examined her clearance level on a screen.