Notes: This is not, in fact, shotacon (underage); Iowa's age of consent seems to be 14 'for those less than five years apart.' Nothing happens on-screen anyway, if you think it happens at all, and the limey part (chapter six) is clearly marked and can be skipped.
t'Khasi is the Vulcan word for Vulcan. It can be used as planet, species, culture, and language. I'm just using it for language. T'Khar means teacher. There are some other Vulcan words, but the rest are, I think, more or less in common usage at this point.
Even when I met him he was more real than his surroundings, and he was very pale under his tan, then, wounded and weary. He was molten metal, fired to red heat in places and to white in others. I thought the metal was bronze, but that darker shade washed off.
One point seven two months after the birthday which my mother declared to be my seventeenth and my father declined to validate, my father was assigned to negotiate with Planetary Governor Kodos of Tarsus IV. My family was brought in on Starfleet's flagship. Father said it was an honor. He did not seem to mean that we were receiving the honor. I did not see the point of our presence. The Enterprise carried food, thus eliminating the need for the continuance of Kodos's drastic measures. When I pointed this out to my mother, she sighed in a regrettably Human way. I did not inquire of my father.
Our presence was pointless, as I had suspected, but I had predicted the cause of our irrelevance incorrectly. We were not in time for him to prevent the execution of half the colony, we were not in time to prevent the rebellion, and by the time we arrived there was, apparently, no Kodos to negotiate with. There is no incontestable proof of the governor's death, but it seems established nonetheless.
From the reactions of the survivors to a certain individual, I have my suspicions as to whom they believe to be responsible. I will name no names. I cannot blame that individual. I speak not morally, but factually. Although I, like any Vulcan, abhor the taking of life, I believe I would have had trouble assigning blame to that individual even if I had seen him performing the act in question.
It was in the transporter room that I saw him first. He had just beamed up from the planet and stepped off the platform.
I was assisting Dr. Poole. She had commandeered all able-bodied persons to help as orderlies. Like most Vulcans, in comparison to most Humans I am quite able-bodied. I therefore went to him and announced, "You are injured."
His next actions, I learned, were characteristic, but they astonished me at the time. He said, "She's just malnourished, like everyone else, but she won't talk to strangers." I stared at him. I had no notion of whom he was speaking. He demanded my name, and I told him. He then said, "T'Lia, this is Spock, he's going to take care of you for me."
I found myself holding a very small, very dirty, female Vulcanoid child. It was only then that I saw the group of children surrounding him, all equally dirty and most in some state of injury.
I thought, then, that he smiled. I was later disabused of that misconception. In any case, his lips moved slightly upward. He said, "Tell me, Mr. Tiunsurak, what ship is this?"
I was surprised. I felt my face reflecting it. "Tiun Surak," I informed him, "is my clan name. I am called Spock. I had gathered, from the way you introduced me to this young person, that you understood that. This ship is the Enterprise."
I did not have a chance to finish the ship's name. I am not quite sure how he managed it, but he had grabbed three more young persons and was out the door before I finished the second syllable. He was making a noise. I believe it is called 'whooping.' I may be mistaken.
On his absence I found that I had been left with two more young people, both of whom seemed abnormally quiet for human children. This silence was not peaceful, and the empty tension in them increased as he departed. I decided that he did not seem to be in need of guidance, and took my subdued charges to sickbay. I hoped to see him there, as he seemed to be in worse physical condition than any of the children left in my custody.
My hopes were not disappointed. As I entered sickbay I saw him, and thought he seemed rather taller. I quickly corrected this impression, for I saw that he was being held by the starship's captain, Robert April, as I was holding T'Lia. I, of course, was not pounding the infant on the back, nor was she doing the same to me, and neither of us were experiencing difficulties with our tear-ducts.
I looked on, bemused, as Dr. Poole advanced on him stealthily, with a hypo. He noticed her, yelped, and climbed over Captain April, monkey fashion, to avoid her. She began to scold him as her husband fought to keep himself and the boy reasonably vertical. At this point my illusion regarding his earlier smile was banished, for they all began to chuckle, and he grinned hugely. My reason informed me that the lighting in the room had not increased by a single watt, but I was not easily convinced.
I formed the only possible conclusion. "I have brought the rest of your companions, Mr. April," I said politely, not voicing my belief that they were all behaving in a most undignified manner.
"Captain April," Dr. Poole snapped.
"I was referring to your son, madam," I explained. "He left these children in the transporter room with me and, as they all seemed to be suffering from malnutrition, dehydration and exposure, as well as various lacerations and contusions..."
He was laughing at me. He slid off Captain April's back, extended one hand in the ta'al--the correct hand--and bestowed upon me a half bow. It was a definite condescension. "Hi," he said. "Mehe nakkhet ur-seveh. My name is Jim Kirk, I thank you for taking care of the kids, and I think my mother and Aunt Sarah would both get very upset if you were to insist that Uncle Rob is my father."
I later discovered that the obvious conclusion was incorrect in this case as well. Captain April is in reality his father's t'hy'la, not his mother's brother. At the time, however, I found it to be a satisfactory explanation.
He was continuing. "I'm sorry for leaving you with them, Spock, but I had to see Uncle Rob and Aunt Sarah, and I knew they were safe with you, since Aunt Sarah had conscripted you. You know I wouldn't have left you if it wasn't safe, guys, right?"
As they nodded without enthusiasm, I raised an eyebrow. It is, I think, a most eloquent gesture. After I first saw T'Pau do it, I spent nearly half an hour in front of a mirror. I was succinct. "How?"
He grinned impishly at Dr. Poole, understanding my question. "Oh, all of her legions have the same look. She can't henpeck Uncle Rob, so she takes it out on her orderlies."
She advanced on him, smiling menacingly, with hypo. He yelped again, and ducked behind the Captain. The captain reached behind himself to pat the boy on the shoulder. It was an awkward pose, but he managed. He murmured amiably, "Now, children." Then he smiled warmly at Dr. Poole, and said, "I suppose we should consider ourselves lucky that he didn't head straight for the bridge, eh, love?"
"Well, I guess," she grumbled, wiping at her front hair with a rubber gloved hand. "But I don't see why he couldn't have rushed down to Security to bother George."
"Oh," Jim said calmly, not moving from the captain's shadow. "I saw Dad on the surface. He was busy. I didn't want to interrupt." He swallowed and gave the false smile I had first seen. I looked at him more closely. I decided I did not want to know what had been occupying his father. He then turned to the captain and began to discuss rooming arrangements. I delivered the abnormally subdued children to Dr. Poole, and returned to the transporter room.
I next saw him in the mess hall. Again, I saw no one else in the room. The room was not empty; I bumped into three people on my way to greet him, including my mother. I believe she was concerned for me.
He had washed. The bronze tone of his skin had lightened to copper. His color was more vivid. His scent had changed, considerably for the better, and the wash had, evidently, restored him. There was a plate of food next to him, but it was untouched and growing cold. He was scowling at a two dimensional chess board. His expression brightened as he saw me, and he gestured invitingly at the seat on the other side of the chessboard.
This was a tactical error on his part, for he was sitting on the black side of the board. He lost, but not nearly so badly as I had expected. I therefore challenged him to another game. He accepted, but suggested an alternate location of my choice, citing as reason for the move and his defeat that the crowd was distracting him.
I saw no crowd.
Then I looked for one, and we were in fact surrounded by eager onlookers. Most of the onlookers were eager, that is. My father's expression indicated that I was wasting my time and his. I agreed to Jim's suggestion, and offered the use of my room.
At this point, Father interfered. He caused the crowd to part, and suggested that I had been neglecting my studies. I resented this, but I believe I repressed the sentiment adequately, and did not object to being told to go, alone, to my room. I still do not understand why Father interrupted our match. Perhaps his reluctance to leave me with my opponent was connected with the wary glances the adult survivors were casting the Terran out of the corners of their eyes.
It was irrelevant, however, for at that point Jim was swooped upon by two men. I had seen them both before. The first, a red-haired man who looked slightly delicate from the mouth up, was the security commander. The shape of his mouth and eyes bore a familial resemblance to Jim's, and his bright hair may have been the source of Jim's strawberry highlights. I thought that his chin might have resembled Jim's, as well, had it not been permanently set in a stubborn scowl. He was not smiling, but the scowl had relaxed somewhat from what it had been before our arrival at the planet. He squeezed Jim's shoulder with one hand and disarranged the pale hair with the other. Jim grinned up at him, and said, "Guess you survived down there."
"Guess I did," the man admitted. "You okay, pal?"
Jim shrugged, and his grin slipped. His shoulder, I noticed, was slightly broader than his father's hand. If I was any judge, its current size was merely a hint of its real potential. "I'm alive, right?"
The hair was disarranged further, and the shoulder was squeezed tighter and jiggled. "Guess so," Commander Kirk allowed.
The second man, who had dropped a rather slighter hand on Jim's other shoulder, was staring at the chessboard with fascination. "I don't think so, Geordie," he said, grinning nearly as brightly as Jim had been. "Look at this game, it's a mess. Jimmy, if you're all right you've got to be pulling a scam here, and you know how upset your father gets about that." At least, I believe that is what he said. His accent, more manic than lilting and with a touch of swamp in it, was nearly indecipherable.
"Sure, Lieutenant," Jim drawled, "I'm stealing a page from your book. No, I'm just tired. My game's off. We're going to have a rematch later, right, Spock?"
"That is correct," I confirmed. "Not , however, tonight. My father reminds me that I have been neglecting my studies."
Commander Kirk's face changed. I recognized in it an exaggerated resemblance to my father's expression as he prepares to lecture. Jim looked up in alarm, hissed, "Oh, thanks a lot," at me in a decidedly sarcastic tone, disentangled himself from the security officers, and vanished through the crowd. I blinked.
Commander Kirk's brown eyes rolled. His lieutenant offered, "That's probably how he survived, Geordie." Again, I cannot be certain that these were his precise words.
My father ushered me out of the room. The last thing I heard was Commander Kirk complaining, "Look, he didn't even touch his dinner."
I did not see him again until the following evening. If I am to be entirely truthful, I must admit that I thought the chances of our meeting actually taking place were quite small, and therefore put the expectation aside.
I am beginning to learn the futility of attempting to calculate the odds of any situation involving James Kirk.
On to
inversion