The Gardens of the Desert, Part 2
Title: Gardens of the Desert
Authors: lindmere and merisunshine36
Artist: ladymac111
Mixer: nextian
Beta: sail_aweigh
Series: ST XI
Character/Pairing(s): Joanna McCoy, Kirk, McCoy, Pike, Spock/Uhura/OFC, Winona/Sarek
Rating: PG-13 for violence and language
Word Count: 27,000
Warnings: Secondary character death, violence, discussion paralleling the autism debate
“What do you think? Would it look better if we put the cross tabs in the upper right, and the scatter plot in the middle?” Joanna McCoy waves at the screen in front of her and the panels rearrange, a beautiful dance of statistics and their representations that makes her feel like she knows what she’s doing.
“I do not believe the Review Board is concerned with appearance, but with the data themselves.” Saiehnn says. “In any case, you have mislabelled the X axis, there.” Joanna follows Saiehnn’s slim finger as she leans in close and flushes with more than embarrassment.
Joanna thinks of herself as a good statistician, but it’s one thing to do charts for an Academy project and quite another to do them for a Vulcan policy council, especially under the eye of a Vulcan--a beautiful Vulcan who possesses more than her share of her people’s cool, unsparing frankness.
“Oh, right. Um, sorry. But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with putting the best spin on the figures that we can, is there?”
Saiehnn gives Joanna a long, steady look, long enough for Joanna to be transfixed by her eyelashes. “Rotation is unlikely to address the fundamental error in your calculations. I advise you to start from the beginning and proceed with more deliberation. In the meantime, I will attempt to anticipate possible objections and consider what our response should be. Should you require my help, I will be in my office.”
Saiehnn turns with a rustle of her long, blue work shift and vanishes into her office with a decisive click of the latch. She leaves behind a scent like orange blossoms and the complete destruction of Joanna’s ability to concentrate.
It’s way past the point that Joanna can chalk it up to collegial respect, or hero worship, or even an innocent crush. She had plenty of those during her Academy years, more than actual relationships in that nest of charismatic overachievers. But falling in just-might-be-love with a doubly married woman is a new level of screw-up, and Joanna has no idea what to do about it. She could leave Vulcan, but she likes the work, dividing her time between helping the Teslau Project (and Saiehnn) with administrative support and teaching science to its fearsomely bright progeny.
Joanna feels at home here and, more importantly, useful; more so than she did pretending to care about deep-space astronomy when the galaxy seems to be about to burst into flames. Starfleet would have been happy to send her, even without her father to pull strings. It’s impolitic to say so, but arid and almost featureless New Vulcan, with its constant resource shortages and tense politics, is an unpopular posting. And then, as her father had said, there are all the damn Vulcans.
Joanna can deal with the Vulcans just fine; there’s only one that’s really causing her trouble. She turns back to her station and tries to pour her impossible longing for Saiehnn into a 3D scatter chart.
The morning wears on, and Joanna drinks three cups of coffee, each worse than the last. She’ll have the stomach of a bureaucrat when she gets home, if not a bureaucrat’s patience.
“Oh, that’s good--those are the aggregate population projections, aren’t they?” Joanna’s nearly jumps out of her chair when she hears Winona Kirk’s voice from over her right shoulder.
“Yeah.” Joanna steps a little to the side so Winona can lean in, which she does, with a friendly hand on Joanna’s shoulder. “I used the Vai Ba’Tak projections for Romulan immigration. Even though it makes the 20-year forecast a little less impressive--”
“--It’s better not to be any more politically incendiary then we have to be. No, I quite agree.” Joanna gives Winona considerable credit for agreeing to use the Vai Ba’Tak’s research, as she has plenty of professional reasons to dislike the Vulcan traditionalists and their dogmatic opposition to Teslau. “But oh,” Winona says, running a hand through her gray-blonde hair, “how I wish we had another month. There are a hundred factors that could be affecting the psi status of these kids, but everyone’s going to blame the hormone treatments and want to cut the funding just as we’re dramatically improving on the number of live births.” Winona’s voice rises, and Joanna casts a nervous glance at Saiehnn’s door. “This is supposed to be a planet of scientists. Why is it so hard to get everyone to focus on the science?”
Joanna shrugs, feeling useless. She sympathizes with Winona. In the last five years she’s done exactly what Starfleet asked her to do: triple the number of Vulcan children being born while navigating the nightmarish complexity of Vulcan culture and tradition. But success and failure are equally fraught on this trying, turbulent planet, and poor Winona has ended up in between: succeeding in the letter, but not the spirit.
But Winona is not a Kirk for nothing. After a moment or two she breaks into a smile. “You know Jim’s due in tonight on the Carson? He was here at the beginning, so he wants to receive the interim report in person.”
“Lucky you have an in with the Science Fleet Admiral.”
Winona tosses her curls and laughs. “As if that’s ever helped me before. I’ll be lucky if he turns up for the presentation; I’m sure his social calendar’s already full. But Sarek and I are having a dinner tomorrow night. We’d love to have you, if you’re free.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Joanna says, and means it. The Enterprise crew are her second family, and like most of the project staff she’s hoping for a surprise wedding, although unlike most of the staff, she hasn’t bet credits on the day. In her mind she hears her father’s voice, dripping with wicked anticipation: Jim’s been calling that Vulcan ‘brother’ for years; let’s see if he means it.
+++++
"Computer, next image," commands Uhura. After the barest hesitation, the small screen she and T'Sura are seated in front of produces an image of a young human girl wearing a slight frown, with tear tracks running down her face.
They're practicing emotional identification, a lesson crafted especially for T'Sura under the individual development plans developed to cater to the needs of the Teslau children. T'Sura, like all of the Teslau children, is performing at the same level as her peers in all the traditional academic areas--math, science, reading comprehension. But there's an unspoken worry that they'll begin to fall behind once they enter the traditional Vulcan educational system, whose traditional teaching methods rely heavily on a minimum level of assumed psychic ability. This week they're covering human expressions, which is easy enough, but the database they've built contains testing material with images of Vulcans and Betazoids as well. Uhura would like to see it expand to include sample data from races on all Federation planets, but for now they've settled on representation of the races most common on the colony.
A tiny wrinkle appears between T'Sura's eyes as she tries to divine the answer. "Angry?" she asks the computer.
The computer produces the low, flat tone it uses to indicate when a student is incorrect. Uhura tries and fails not to feel frustrated. For the average Vulcan, empathic sensitivity and the ability to read physical cues are inextricably linked. During the brief period spent in arms as an infant, the average Vulcan child learns to associate subtle alterations in facial expression and vocal pitch with the emotions received via direct physical contact. Uhura knows that Spock and Saiehnn regret letting T'Sura use Saavik as a psychic crutch of sorts for so many years--when the twins are separated, it's almost as if T'Sura is navigating her way through the world with the lights at ten percent. Everything is dimmer, harder to make out.
T'Sura's displays no visible disappointment at the incorrect answer, but her eyes drift over to where her sister is on the other side of the room at work with Vesko, who is both a Teslau parent and an early proponent of the project within the scientific community. Uhura wishes she could let the twins help each other, but they have to learn how to function as two independent people. There's no guarantee they'll still be on the same planet thirty years from now, much less in the same household.
She gives T'Sura a small smile and ruffles her hair, which earns her a miniature eyebrow tilt.
"Keep working at it. I'll come back in a few minutes, okay?"
"The curriculum you have prepared appears insufficient to compensate for their natural deficiencies," comes a voice from behind her. Uhura recognizes it immediately.
"T'Pau," she says, and gets to her feet to greet the elderly woman. She's as stiff and unyielding as an oak, both in physical stature and mental temperament. When Vulcan disappeared from the skies, what little liberal feeling T'Pau held towards Starfleet vanished with it. Now, as the leader of the Vai Ba’Tak movement, she holds no official position, but is deeply influential as the keeper of the flame of Surak. Uhura has noticed that Surak, like so many great, dead leaders in Earth history, always seems to be on the side of the person quoting him.
T’Pau gives the children a long, steady glance, which is all she needs to fully convey her disappointment.
As annoying as they were, Uhura would almost prefer having this conversation with one of the curious onlookers who had come to stare at the children when the school first opened. Most of them had been elderly, but every now and then a few adolescents would stop by and just stare silently into the windows. It had only taken a few weeks for Winona and Vesko to formally ban visitors from the center. Only T'Pau, who wields as much political and social clout as all the Teslau staff combined, is largely immune to such restrictions.
"Commander," she says, by way of reply. Uhura can't recall a single time when T'Pau has called her by name. It's not that they're enemies, per se, but she's felt more warmth standing in a desert at midnight than T'Pau has ever sent in her direction.
"The Vulcan Science Academy gave full approval to the proposed curriculum for these children. If you would like to make a complaint, you should take it up with them." Uhura learned long ago that it was easier to deflect an argument onto someone else rather than get into it with T'Pau.
"I have, but I thought it prudent to voice my concerns to you as well. You are, after all, their teacher."
T'Pau's expressionless face made all the more unnerving because of the craggy lines carved into her face over the years. Uhura doesn't know what she expects--she has no intention of just throwing up her hands and closing down the whole operation, as much as some factions would like her to.
"They never should have been born," T'Pau says, as calmly as if she were offering Uhura tea.
"They cannot even function at the minimum level necessary for participation in society.This entire initiative was a grave mistake."
Uhura closes her eyes and just fumes silently, her short nails boring holes into the palms of her hands. Vesko is watching them carefully from across the room, poised to come over at any second. Uhura longs for her assistance at the same time she wants to do this by herself; she'll do herself no favors by proving that she can't hold her own here.
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask that you leave, T'Pau. The children have much to learn, and unannounced visitors distract them from their work."
T'Pau raises her chin in defiance. "This experiment will not go uncontested, Commander. You have my word."
++++
“James, I recommend that you eat your farr-kahli promptly; it is best enjoyed while still chilled.”
Sarek addresses Jim with the seriousness of a cook as well as a Vulcan High Council member. Jim looks down at his large helping of blue-ish, algae-like vegetable and musters up a smile. Joanna and Uhura exchange glances, and Joanna tries not to laugh; Jim may possess famous charm, but he’s never learned to be a diplomat. Joanna’s mostly content with a diet her friend Hana calls “moldy with occasional bursts of fire,” especially since it’s supplemented by Starfleet with shipments of often random Terran foodstuffs; her team is currently obsessed with dipping peanut crackers in mayonnaise.
Jim shovels a forkful of farr-kahli into his mouth with a hero’s resolve, and Joanna sees Winona’s shoulders relax a fraction. As far as Joanna knows, Jim and Sarek both like and respect each other, but Sarek is entertaining at his own home, and Vulcan pride is a fragile thing these days.
“There’s been a lot of construction since I was here last time,” Jim says after finally swallowing. “The Academy annex, the new apartment blocks--very impressive.”
“Yes, and the expansion of the Romulan colony,” Sarek says. “I am interested in your opinion of it, James, since you have been outspoken on the Romulan matter.”
Joanna feels tension blow in like the hot wind out of the dry hills.
“An interesting topic, Sarek, but can’t it wait?” Winona says, refilling her water glass for the third time. “I have a hundred questions about what’s going on at Starfleet. Practically speaking, that has a lot more impact on us here than a few hundred Imperial expatriates.”
“I disagree.” Saiehnn has put down her fork and drops her hands in her lap. Though they’re hidden beneath the table, Joanna guesses she’s got them interlocked; it’s what she does before she says something she suspects will be unwelcome. “With respect, Commander, the presence of Romulans on New Vulcan is without precedent in Vulcan history, at least since the Separation. Whether they are here because of a sincere desire to follow the teachings of Surak as the High Council has concluded, or to spy and establish an outpost for conquest as Starfleet believes--in either case, I believe the consequences to be profound.”
Spock, who’s been staring straight ahead through this recitation, turns abruptly to his father and says, “Saiehnn is not a Reunificationist.”
“And what if she were?” Uhura says, throwing her napkin on the table. “The family isn’t required to share the same political beliefs, are we?”
“I neither expect nor desire such orthodoxy,” Sarek says. “Any opinion is welcome in this house so long as it is informed by reason. The Vai Ba’Tak’s opposition to Romulan immigration may be xenophobic at its heart, but in this one matter I agree with them: reunification with Romulus would mean the end of Vulcan civilization. No other conclusion is logical. As I know Saiehnn to be a logical being, I know it is impossible for her to be a Reunificationist. Thus, it is not necessary to say so, my son.”
There’s a long pause during which Joanna watches Saiehnn watching Sarek, trying to guess what’s going on behind her dark, glittering eyes. It’s Saiehnn’s mind that Joanna loves--not just for its brilliance, but because she seems to have a passion for uncomfortable truths. It appeals to Joanna, who’s spent the last five years since her Academy graduation trying hard to care about the things she’s supposed to care about--science and Starfleet and the fate of the galaxy. She thinks of Saiehnn, with her two famous spouses and difficult children and has fantasies of rescuing her, though Saiehnn is the last person who’d ever be in need of rescue.
The awkward silence is broken by Jim’s communicator beeping. He pulls it out of the pocket of his civilian dress trousers and plunks it on the table.
“Sorry,” he says. “Thought I’d turned the damned thing off. It does remind me, though, of a hilarious story about Admiral Zengaat.”
“Share it with us,” Winona says. “Please.”
Sarek rises a little stiffly and begins to clear the plates. Joanna, being the youngest there and useless at diffusing the tension, feels she should help; she looks at Winona, who nods and smiles.
“Sure,” Jim says. “Well, the Admiral loves vintage Romulan ale and keeps a bunch of it in his secured wine cellar, which is the worst-kept secret in the ‘Fleet. So he arranges to get Anna Aroso, who’s captain of the Exploradora, to pick up a shipment for him on Starbase 12. It’s twelve casks worth, labeled as Risidic oil, which of course is ridiculously flammable. So Aroso picks it up personally in her shuttle--”
Jim’s voice fades as Joanna walks into the kitchen, though it’s half indoor and half outdoor like a traditional Vulcan kitchen. Joanna has seen holos of Sarek’s estate on Vulcan, a large, low, architecturally striking building set among pale pink hills. Now the Vulcan liaison to the Federation lives in a prefabricated four-room building of little charm or distinction except for the terrace where they’ve been dining. For this evening, he’s dismissed his small house staff to wait on his guests himself, an honor that makes Jo feel more than usually self conscious.
Sarek walks in a moment later with a stack of plates and beings to scrape them into a recycler with such gravity that it softens the grievance Joanna might have had with him over Saiehnn.
“I wish you to know, Lieutenant, that there is no discord in my family,” he says, back still to her. “If there were, we would certainly not have displayed it before our guests, as it might cause them distress.”
“Of course, sir.” Joanna’s grateful he can’t see her flushing. She wants to tell him not to worry, but isn’t sure how to say it.
“Your own father, I believe, is fond of vigorous debate?”
“You could say that, sir.”
“As are we. There are some subjects, however, that are not suitable for recreational argument.” He opens a low cabinet and pulls out a box. “Ah. Here is the next course, which is a--” Sarek pauses “--’German chocolate cake’ brought from Earth by Admiral Kirk. He informs me that it is made from the seed pods of Equatorial plants and a large quantity of sucrose. I am sure it will be quite...exotic. May I ask you to carry it to the table?”
Joanna does, feeling keen anticipation of her portion of sucrose.
“--Of course, she had no choice but to light it, and next thing you know, there’s a giant fireball.” Jim mimes an explosion with his long fingers. “The Exploradora picked it up from space, and Aroso got stuck with the bill for the fire crew.” Jim wipes his eyes, looking affably boyish as he leans forward, elbows propped on the table. Everyone is laughing, or at least everyone who isn’t Vulcan; Spock looks indulgent, and Saiehnn confused.
“What’s the moral of the story?” Uhura asks. “Never do an admiral a favor?”
“And if you do, insist that he pay up front.” Joanna catches what might be a wink aimed at Uhura. “Ah ha, the cake! Mom, I picked it up at Esther’s on Lombard, and that lady Kate that works the counter--”
Jim’s communicator goes off again--this time, a chirp like an angry bird, indicating an emergency override. Jim has it flipped open in a matter of seconds.
“Kirk here.”
“Sorry to bother you, Admiral, but we received a message for you. It’s coded SSC3.”
“Understood. Route it to Councillor Sarek’s comm link--” he turns toward Sarek “--if that’s all right with you?”
“Certainly,” Sarek says, inclining his head.
“Kirk out.”
Everyone at the table except Sarek knows that Security Code 3 is used for emergency personal communications--almost always bad news, especially on deep space missions. All of Jim’s family, and those he counts as family, are around this table; Joanna wonders who else might--
Jim hears her sudden intake of breath as he rises to go inside. He drops a hand on her shoulder, and she feels the warmth, reassuring as if it could really protect her from disaster.
“I’m sure your dad’s fine, Jo.” She tries to nod. “I’ll let everyone know what’s up as soon as I find out myself.”
Vulcans being Vulcans, they expect the cake to be served anyway. Joanna does the honors, even though her hand is trembling a little and her own piece, when she tastes it, seems gummy and tooth-achingly sweet. She knows the bakery where Jim bought it; it’s one of her dad’s favorites, where they used to go sometimes on Sunday mornings when she was still a cadet. She pokes at the slice of cake with her fork and wishes with all her heart that they were back there now.
After a few minutes of silence, Jim appears in the doorway, looking so pale that for a heart-stopping moment Joanna’s sure her worse fear has come to pass.
“It’s okay,” Jim says, a little breathless. “Bones is fine; I just talked to him. It’s bad news, though.” His fists clench a few times and then he looks at them all, clear eyed. “Christopher Pike is dead.”
Winona gasps; Spock lowers his head.
“In what manner, Jim?”
“He was coming back to Starbase 9 after a couple of days of leave. The runabout he was in, suddenly depressurized and was lost with six other crewmembers.” Jim runs a hand through his hair. “There’s an official investigation underway, but it seems like a pretty straightforward case of structural failure.” He sags a little against the door frame.
“It’s hard to believe something like that could kill Chris Pike,” Winona says. “But we’re fragile creatures, even the strongest of us.”
There’s a long pause, during which Joanna is a little ashamed of herself for mainly feeling relief. She’d only met Admiral Pike a few times, but she liked him, by looks and reputation--a man of Winona’s age, with the sharp eyes and an easy swagger she could imagine Jim having when he got older.
“Well, then,” Winona says, picking up her glass. “We should drink to his memory. Jim, can you say a few words? You knew him best.”
There’s a scrape of chairs as they get to their feet. Jim takes a few steps forward and looks around blankly, like he’s forgotten where he is. His eyes linger on Spock’s, and then he shakes his head.
“No. No, I’m sorry. I really can’t,” he says, and walks out--not through the house, but down the dry path that leads to the road and, beyond that, to the barren hills.
+++++
“Spock, oh--” Winona Kirk opens the door of her small house in a two-piece sleeping garment, though it does not appear as if she has retired to bed. “Come in.”
Spock does so, experiencing an unpleasant sympathetic nervous system response to the artificially chilled air. His own house is kept at a temperature Nyota terms a compromise--too cold for him and Saiehnn, too warm for her.
“As the Admiral is meeting with Minister T’Shar tomorrow, I wished to know if I he required a briefing. Sarek was prepared to provide one before Jim’s hasty departure from--”
Winona stops him with a raised hand. “It’s all right, Spock, I don’t need an excuse, although he might. And he’ll be glad you came, even if he doesn’t say so.”
Spock nods. He considers Jim’s propensity to mourn in private to be Vulcan in character if not in practice, as it is generally accompanied by a large amount of self-blame.
Jim is in sitting in Winona’s small common room in the near-dark, long legs stretched out, still in the tunic he wore to dinner, though it appears carelessly unfastened.
“Mom, go to bed.”
“I believe she already has.” Jim’s shoulders hunch in surprise, but he doesn’t turn around, only glances over his shoulder at Spock.
“Is this what passes for night life around here?”
“The Science Academy runs classes around the clock, due to the shortage of classrooms. I am sure there is a lecture in progress, if you wish to attend one.”
This prompts a soft grunt of laughter from Jim, who knows that Spock is capable of using humor when it serves a purpose.
“I know why you’re here, and I appreciate it, but I’m fine.” He gathers in his legs and turns to look at Spock. “I’ll just mope around for a while; mom’s used to it. Then I’ll pull myself together because I have a lot of work to do. Chris made me his executor, among other things. I’m thinking about adopting his dog. And maybe taking over military operations of Starfleet. But definitely probably keeping the dog.”
Spock walks to the window with measured steps, hands clasped behind his back. “Starfleet has already asked you to take this role?”
“Not in so many words, but Nogura commed me a half hour ago to offer his condolences. Laid a lot of heavy stuff on me about Pike’s legacy, how he knows we had our disagreements but managed to stay close. You can be sure that if there’s an afterlife, Chris took a slug of Scotch every time Nogura said something about the bonds forged in battle, blah blah blah.”
Spock hears Jim flop back into his chair, temporary burst of energy exhausted.
“Yet Admiral Nogura opposed your promotion, or so you believe.”
“Oh, I know he did. He likes me personally but he thinks I’m soft on the Romulans. Unfortunately for him, they need a consensus candidate to replace Chris, and I’m the closest thing there is. Bones says the Admiralty is freaking out because they’re afraid the Romulans will test us the minute they find there’s nobody at the big wheel. I’m kind of surprised Starfleet went public with the news so quickly.” Jim’s fingers beat a silent tattoo on the arm of the chair. “Too many people in on the operation to keep it quiet, probably.”
“To what ‘operation’ do you refer?”
“For fuck’s sake-do you really think Christopher Pike could have died in a runabout accident? When was the last time you heard of a runabout suffering catastrophic failure, let alone with a Fleet admiral on board?” Jim hunches forward, lines of tension visible in his body. “I know him, Spock. Whatever he was doing, it was something that he wouldn’t have felt comfortable ordering anyone else to do. Something risky, something that could make him or the Fleet look bad if it went balls up.” There is a long pause. “Something I would have done in that position. Which, you know, I wasn’t.”
Now, Spock thinks, they have come to the crux of the matter.
“And so you have constructed a scenario in which Admiral Pike died because you alienated yourself from the military branch of the Fleet?”
“If you’re going to read my mind, could you at least be more elliptical about it?” Jim puts his fingers to his temples.
“I assure you, I have not attempted--”
“I know, not literally. But it’s weird that you can still know me so well. Haven’t I changed at all in the last five years?”
“In your essential characteristics--no, you have not.” Spock moves to stand closer, but does not touch him. “I am not the only one to have made this observation. It is perhaps for this reason that your performance in your current role has been described as, and I quote, ‘surprisingly competent.’ ”
“Ouch.”
“It is also a fact that in the years since you accepted command of the science fleet, the Federation has drawn closer to war with Romulus, rather than the opposite.” Spock keeps his voice neutral, though he is well aware the words will sting.
“And this is your idea of consoling me?” Jim looks faintly amused.
“I have never known you to be content with platitudes. This is the truth of the matter, but it certainly not your fault. Starfleet would have given you command of the military fleet, but only if you had agreed to Federation policy that you regarded as not only confrontational, but on occasion, reckless.”
“I could have made it work. I always have before--what would have been different? There are still admirals there who think I never should have been given the Enterprise.” The mention of the Enterprise has a predictable effect; Jim slumps back into his chair, hands on his knees, palm up, as if in appeal.
“Short of going back in time, there is no way to be certain. Knowing the consequences of our actions gives us false confidence in our ability to change them to a more favorable outcome. And yet on this very planet, there lived a man who had lived one permutation of our future, and yet refused to say anything about it.”
“Spock,” Jim says, and something in the tone tells Spock he means his future self.
“Yes. Do you think he was wise, or foolish?”
The question hangs in the air, and Spock contemplates--not for the first time--whether he himself would have had the forbearance not to reveal information that might have saved planets full of people or, at least, a wife or a friend.
“That’s philosophy, Spock, and I don’t do philosophy. But I’m certain of this--if Ambassador Spock had given the Federation the secret of red matter, no matter with what good intentions, we’d be thinking about using it now. And whatever I had to do with putting a stop to the research program--that, I don’t regret.”
“And Admiral Pike disagreed. He supported a research program, for strictly defensive purposes.”
There is a long pause during which Spock is in suspense about how Jim will receive the conclusion to which he has led him. But Jim reaches out to catch the fabric of Spock’s tunic sleeve between his fingers. The contact is sufficient for Jim’s mind to flare brightly against his own, like the fireflies of Earth in the darkness.
Jim’s is one of two human minds he has grown to know well enough to have a sense of its interior architecture: it is not an obscured and tangled mass of patterns in search of external agency, like that of most humans. Nor is it branching, linear structures with assigned probabilities, like that of Vulcans. Jim’s mind is a curious hybrid, able to discern much from insight, but deriving confidence from the urgency of life-or-death decisions.
“Thank you,” Jim says. At this moment, no other acknowledgement between them is required.
He leaves Jim alone in the small, dark room, and tries not to be be embarrassed when Winona stops him in the hall, kisses the air a millimeter from his cheek and whispers the same words.
Authors: lindmere and merisunshine36
Artist: ladymac111
Mixer: nextian
Beta: sail_aweigh
Series: ST XI
Character/Pairing(s): Joanna McCoy, Kirk, McCoy, Pike, Spock/Uhura/OFC, Winona/Sarek
Rating: PG-13 for violence and language
Word Count: 27,000
Warnings: Secondary character death, violence, discussion paralleling the autism debate
“What do you think? Would it look better if we put the cross tabs in the upper right, and the scatter plot in the middle?” Joanna McCoy waves at the screen in front of her and the panels rearrange, a beautiful dance of statistics and their representations that makes her feel like she knows what she’s doing.
“I do not believe the Review Board is concerned with appearance, but with the data themselves.” Saiehnn says. “In any case, you have mislabelled the X axis, there.” Joanna follows Saiehnn’s slim finger as she leans in close and flushes with more than embarrassment.
Joanna thinks of herself as a good statistician, but it’s one thing to do charts for an Academy project and quite another to do them for a Vulcan policy council, especially under the eye of a Vulcan--a beautiful Vulcan who possesses more than her share of her people’s cool, unsparing frankness.
“Oh, right. Um, sorry. But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with putting the best spin on the figures that we can, is there?”
Saiehnn gives Joanna a long, steady look, long enough for Joanna to be transfixed by her eyelashes. “Rotation is unlikely to address the fundamental error in your calculations. I advise you to start from the beginning and proceed with more deliberation. In the meantime, I will attempt to anticipate possible objections and consider what our response should be. Should you require my help, I will be in my office.”
Saiehnn turns with a rustle of her long, blue work shift and vanishes into her office with a decisive click of the latch. She leaves behind a scent like orange blossoms and the complete destruction of Joanna’s ability to concentrate.
It’s way past the point that Joanna can chalk it up to collegial respect, or hero worship, or even an innocent crush. She had plenty of those during her Academy years, more than actual relationships in that nest of charismatic overachievers. But falling in just-might-be-love with a doubly married woman is a new level of screw-up, and Joanna has no idea what to do about it. She could leave Vulcan, but she likes the work, dividing her time between helping the Teslau Project (and Saiehnn) with administrative support and teaching science to its fearsomely bright progeny.
Joanna feels at home here and, more importantly, useful; more so than she did pretending to care about deep-space astronomy when the galaxy seems to be about to burst into flames. Starfleet would have been happy to send her, even without her father to pull strings. It’s impolitic to say so, but arid and almost featureless New Vulcan, with its constant resource shortages and tense politics, is an unpopular posting. And then, as her father had said, there are all the damn Vulcans.
Joanna can deal with the Vulcans just fine; there’s only one that’s really causing her trouble. She turns back to her station and tries to pour her impossible longing for Saiehnn into a 3D scatter chart.
The morning wears on, and Joanna drinks three cups of coffee, each worse than the last. She’ll have the stomach of a bureaucrat when she gets home, if not a bureaucrat’s patience.
“Oh, that’s good--those are the aggregate population projections, aren’t they?” Joanna’s nearly jumps out of her chair when she hears Winona Kirk’s voice from over her right shoulder.
“Yeah.” Joanna steps a little to the side so Winona can lean in, which she does, with a friendly hand on Joanna’s shoulder. “I used the Vai Ba’Tak projections for Romulan immigration. Even though it makes the 20-year forecast a little less impressive--”
“--It’s better not to be any more politically incendiary then we have to be. No, I quite agree.” Joanna gives Winona considerable credit for agreeing to use the Vai Ba’Tak’s research, as she has plenty of professional reasons to dislike the Vulcan traditionalists and their dogmatic opposition to Teslau. “But oh,” Winona says, running a hand through her gray-blonde hair, “how I wish we had another month. There are a hundred factors that could be affecting the psi status of these kids, but everyone’s going to blame the hormone treatments and want to cut the funding just as we’re dramatically improving on the number of live births.” Winona’s voice rises, and Joanna casts a nervous glance at Saiehnn’s door. “This is supposed to be a planet of scientists. Why is it so hard to get everyone to focus on the science?”
Joanna shrugs, feeling useless. She sympathizes with Winona. In the last five years she’s done exactly what Starfleet asked her to do: triple the number of Vulcan children being born while navigating the nightmarish complexity of Vulcan culture and tradition. But success and failure are equally fraught on this trying, turbulent planet, and poor Winona has ended up in between: succeeding in the letter, but not the spirit.
But Winona is not a Kirk for nothing. After a moment or two she breaks into a smile. “You know Jim’s due in tonight on the Carson? He was here at the beginning, so he wants to receive the interim report in person.”
“Lucky you have an in with the Science Fleet Admiral.”
Winona tosses her curls and laughs. “As if that’s ever helped me before. I’ll be lucky if he turns up for the presentation; I’m sure his social calendar’s already full. But Sarek and I are having a dinner tomorrow night. We’d love to have you, if you’re free.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Joanna says, and means it. The Enterprise crew are her second family, and like most of the project staff she’s hoping for a surprise wedding, although unlike most of the staff, she hasn’t bet credits on the day. In her mind she hears her father’s voice, dripping with wicked anticipation: Jim’s been calling that Vulcan ‘brother’ for years; let’s see if he means it.
+++++
"Computer, next image," commands Uhura. After the barest hesitation, the small screen she and T'Sura are seated in front of produces an image of a young human girl wearing a slight frown, with tear tracks running down her face.
They're practicing emotional identification, a lesson crafted especially for T'Sura under the individual development plans developed to cater to the needs of the Teslau children. T'Sura, like all of the Teslau children, is performing at the same level as her peers in all the traditional academic areas--math, science, reading comprehension. But there's an unspoken worry that they'll begin to fall behind once they enter the traditional Vulcan educational system, whose traditional teaching methods rely heavily on a minimum level of assumed psychic ability. This week they're covering human expressions, which is easy enough, but the database they've built contains testing material with images of Vulcans and Betazoids as well. Uhura would like to see it expand to include sample data from races on all Federation planets, but for now they've settled on representation of the races most common on the colony.
A tiny wrinkle appears between T'Sura's eyes as she tries to divine the answer. "Angry?" she asks the computer.
The computer produces the low, flat tone it uses to indicate when a student is incorrect. Uhura tries and fails not to feel frustrated. For the average Vulcan, empathic sensitivity and the ability to read physical cues are inextricably linked. During the brief period spent in arms as an infant, the average Vulcan child learns to associate subtle alterations in facial expression and vocal pitch with the emotions received via direct physical contact. Uhura knows that Spock and Saiehnn regret letting T'Sura use Saavik as a psychic crutch of sorts for so many years--when the twins are separated, it's almost as if T'Sura is navigating her way through the world with the lights at ten percent. Everything is dimmer, harder to make out.
T'Sura's displays no visible disappointment at the incorrect answer, but her eyes drift over to where her sister is on the other side of the room at work with Vesko, who is both a Teslau parent and an early proponent of the project within the scientific community. Uhura wishes she could let the twins help each other, but they have to learn how to function as two independent people. There's no guarantee they'll still be on the same planet thirty years from now, much less in the same household.
She gives T'Sura a small smile and ruffles her hair, which earns her a miniature eyebrow tilt.
"Keep working at it. I'll come back in a few minutes, okay?"
"The curriculum you have prepared appears insufficient to compensate for their natural deficiencies," comes a voice from behind her. Uhura recognizes it immediately.
"T'Pau," she says, and gets to her feet to greet the elderly woman. She's as stiff and unyielding as an oak, both in physical stature and mental temperament. When Vulcan disappeared from the skies, what little liberal feeling T'Pau held towards Starfleet vanished with it. Now, as the leader of the Vai Ba’Tak movement, she holds no official position, but is deeply influential as the keeper of the flame of Surak. Uhura has noticed that Surak, like so many great, dead leaders in Earth history, always seems to be on the side of the person quoting him.
T’Pau gives the children a long, steady glance, which is all she needs to fully convey her disappointment.
As annoying as they were, Uhura would almost prefer having this conversation with one of the curious onlookers who had come to stare at the children when the school first opened. Most of them had been elderly, but every now and then a few adolescents would stop by and just stare silently into the windows. It had only taken a few weeks for Winona and Vesko to formally ban visitors from the center. Only T'Pau, who wields as much political and social clout as all the Teslau staff combined, is largely immune to such restrictions.
"Commander," she says, by way of reply. Uhura can't recall a single time when T'Pau has called her by name. It's not that they're enemies, per se, but she's felt more warmth standing in a desert at midnight than T'Pau has ever sent in her direction.
"The Vulcan Science Academy gave full approval to the proposed curriculum for these children. If you would like to make a complaint, you should take it up with them." Uhura learned long ago that it was easier to deflect an argument onto someone else rather than get into it with T'Pau.
"I have, but I thought it prudent to voice my concerns to you as well. You are, after all, their teacher."
T'Pau's expressionless face made all the more unnerving because of the craggy lines carved into her face over the years. Uhura doesn't know what she expects--she has no intention of just throwing up her hands and closing down the whole operation, as much as some factions would like her to.
"They never should have been born," T'Pau says, as calmly as if she were offering Uhura tea.
"They cannot even function at the minimum level necessary for participation in society.This entire initiative was a grave mistake."
Uhura closes her eyes and just fumes silently, her short nails boring holes into the palms of her hands. Vesko is watching them carefully from across the room, poised to come over at any second. Uhura longs for her assistance at the same time she wants to do this by herself; she'll do herself no favors by proving that she can't hold her own here.
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask that you leave, T'Pau. The children have much to learn, and unannounced visitors distract them from their work."
T'Pau raises her chin in defiance. "This experiment will not go uncontested, Commander. You have my word."
++++
“James, I recommend that you eat your farr-kahli promptly; it is best enjoyed while still chilled.”
Sarek addresses Jim with the seriousness of a cook as well as a Vulcan High Council member. Jim looks down at his large helping of blue-ish, algae-like vegetable and musters up a smile. Joanna and Uhura exchange glances, and Joanna tries not to laugh; Jim may possess famous charm, but he’s never learned to be a diplomat. Joanna’s mostly content with a diet her friend Hana calls “moldy with occasional bursts of fire,” especially since it’s supplemented by Starfleet with shipments of often random Terran foodstuffs; her team is currently obsessed with dipping peanut crackers in mayonnaise.
Jim shovels a forkful of farr-kahli into his mouth with a hero’s resolve, and Joanna sees Winona’s shoulders relax a fraction. As far as Joanna knows, Jim and Sarek both like and respect each other, but Sarek is entertaining at his own home, and Vulcan pride is a fragile thing these days.
“There’s been a lot of construction since I was here last time,” Jim says after finally swallowing. “The Academy annex, the new apartment blocks--very impressive.”
“Yes, and the expansion of the Romulan colony,” Sarek says. “I am interested in your opinion of it, James, since you have been outspoken on the Romulan matter.”
Joanna feels tension blow in like the hot wind out of the dry hills.
“An interesting topic, Sarek, but can’t it wait?” Winona says, refilling her water glass for the third time. “I have a hundred questions about what’s going on at Starfleet. Practically speaking, that has a lot more impact on us here than a few hundred Imperial expatriates.”
“I disagree.” Saiehnn has put down her fork and drops her hands in her lap. Though they’re hidden beneath the table, Joanna guesses she’s got them interlocked; it’s what she does before she says something she suspects will be unwelcome. “With respect, Commander, the presence of Romulans on New Vulcan is without precedent in Vulcan history, at least since the Separation. Whether they are here because of a sincere desire to follow the teachings of Surak as the High Council has concluded, or to spy and establish an outpost for conquest as Starfleet believes--in either case, I believe the consequences to be profound.”
Spock, who’s been staring straight ahead through this recitation, turns abruptly to his father and says, “Saiehnn is not a Reunificationist.”
“And what if she were?” Uhura says, throwing her napkin on the table. “The family isn’t required to share the same political beliefs, are we?”
“I neither expect nor desire such orthodoxy,” Sarek says. “Any opinion is welcome in this house so long as it is informed by reason. The Vai Ba’Tak’s opposition to Romulan immigration may be xenophobic at its heart, but in this one matter I agree with them: reunification with Romulus would mean the end of Vulcan civilization. No other conclusion is logical. As I know Saiehnn to be a logical being, I know it is impossible for her to be a Reunificationist. Thus, it is not necessary to say so, my son.”
There’s a long pause during which Joanna watches Saiehnn watching Sarek, trying to guess what’s going on behind her dark, glittering eyes. It’s Saiehnn’s mind that Joanna loves--not just for its brilliance, but because she seems to have a passion for uncomfortable truths. It appeals to Joanna, who’s spent the last five years since her Academy graduation trying hard to care about the things she’s supposed to care about--science and Starfleet and the fate of the galaxy. She thinks of Saiehnn, with her two famous spouses and difficult children and has fantasies of rescuing her, though Saiehnn is the last person who’d ever be in need of rescue.
The awkward silence is broken by Jim’s communicator beeping. He pulls it out of the pocket of his civilian dress trousers and plunks it on the table.
“Sorry,” he says. “Thought I’d turned the damned thing off. It does remind me, though, of a hilarious story about Admiral Zengaat.”
“Share it with us,” Winona says. “Please.”
Sarek rises a little stiffly and begins to clear the plates. Joanna, being the youngest there and useless at diffusing the tension, feels she should help; she looks at Winona, who nods and smiles.
“Sure,” Jim says. “Well, the Admiral loves vintage Romulan ale and keeps a bunch of it in his secured wine cellar, which is the worst-kept secret in the ‘Fleet. So he arranges to get Anna Aroso, who’s captain of the Exploradora, to pick up a shipment for him on Starbase 12. It’s twelve casks worth, labeled as Risidic oil, which of course is ridiculously flammable. So Aroso picks it up personally in her shuttle--”
Jim’s voice fades as Joanna walks into the kitchen, though it’s half indoor and half outdoor like a traditional Vulcan kitchen. Joanna has seen holos of Sarek’s estate on Vulcan, a large, low, architecturally striking building set among pale pink hills. Now the Vulcan liaison to the Federation lives in a prefabricated four-room building of little charm or distinction except for the terrace where they’ve been dining. For this evening, he’s dismissed his small house staff to wait on his guests himself, an honor that makes Jo feel more than usually self conscious.
Sarek walks in a moment later with a stack of plates and beings to scrape them into a recycler with such gravity that it softens the grievance Joanna might have had with him over Saiehnn.
“I wish you to know, Lieutenant, that there is no discord in my family,” he says, back still to her. “If there were, we would certainly not have displayed it before our guests, as it might cause them distress.”
“Of course, sir.” Joanna’s grateful he can’t see her flushing. She wants to tell him not to worry, but isn’t sure how to say it.
“Your own father, I believe, is fond of vigorous debate?”
“You could say that, sir.”
“As are we. There are some subjects, however, that are not suitable for recreational argument.” He opens a low cabinet and pulls out a box. “Ah. Here is the next course, which is a--” Sarek pauses “--’German chocolate cake’ brought from Earth by Admiral Kirk. He informs me that it is made from the seed pods of Equatorial plants and a large quantity of sucrose. I am sure it will be quite...exotic. May I ask you to carry it to the table?”
Joanna does, feeling keen anticipation of her portion of sucrose.
“--Of course, she had no choice but to light it, and next thing you know, there’s a giant fireball.” Jim mimes an explosion with his long fingers. “The Exploradora picked it up from space, and Aroso got stuck with the bill for the fire crew.” Jim wipes his eyes, looking affably boyish as he leans forward, elbows propped on the table. Everyone is laughing, or at least everyone who isn’t Vulcan; Spock looks indulgent, and Saiehnn confused.
“What’s the moral of the story?” Uhura asks. “Never do an admiral a favor?”
“And if you do, insist that he pay up front.” Joanna catches what might be a wink aimed at Uhura. “Ah ha, the cake! Mom, I picked it up at Esther’s on Lombard, and that lady Kate that works the counter--”
Jim’s communicator goes off again--this time, a chirp like an angry bird, indicating an emergency override. Jim has it flipped open in a matter of seconds.
“Kirk here.”
“Sorry to bother you, Admiral, but we received a message for you. It’s coded SSC3.”
“Understood. Route it to Councillor Sarek’s comm link--” he turns toward Sarek “--if that’s all right with you?”
“Certainly,” Sarek says, inclining his head.
“Kirk out.”
Everyone at the table except Sarek knows that Security Code 3 is used for emergency personal communications--almost always bad news, especially on deep space missions. All of Jim’s family, and those he counts as family, are around this table; Joanna wonders who else might--
Jim hears her sudden intake of breath as he rises to go inside. He drops a hand on her shoulder, and she feels the warmth, reassuring as if it could really protect her from disaster.
“I’m sure your dad’s fine, Jo.” She tries to nod. “I’ll let everyone know what’s up as soon as I find out myself.”
Vulcans being Vulcans, they expect the cake to be served anyway. Joanna does the honors, even though her hand is trembling a little and her own piece, when she tastes it, seems gummy and tooth-achingly sweet. She knows the bakery where Jim bought it; it’s one of her dad’s favorites, where they used to go sometimes on Sunday mornings when she was still a cadet. She pokes at the slice of cake with her fork and wishes with all her heart that they were back there now.
After a few minutes of silence, Jim appears in the doorway, looking so pale that for a heart-stopping moment Joanna’s sure her worse fear has come to pass.
“It’s okay,” Jim says, a little breathless. “Bones is fine; I just talked to him. It’s bad news, though.” His fists clench a few times and then he looks at them all, clear eyed. “Christopher Pike is dead.”
Winona gasps; Spock lowers his head.
“In what manner, Jim?”
“He was coming back to Starbase 9 after a couple of days of leave. The runabout he was in, suddenly depressurized and was lost with six other crewmembers.” Jim runs a hand through his hair. “There’s an official investigation underway, but it seems like a pretty straightforward case of structural failure.” He sags a little against the door frame.
“It’s hard to believe something like that could kill Chris Pike,” Winona says. “But we’re fragile creatures, even the strongest of us.”
There’s a long pause, during which Joanna is a little ashamed of herself for mainly feeling relief. She’d only met Admiral Pike a few times, but she liked him, by looks and reputation--a man of Winona’s age, with the sharp eyes and an easy swagger she could imagine Jim having when he got older.
“Well, then,” Winona says, picking up her glass. “We should drink to his memory. Jim, can you say a few words? You knew him best.”
There’s a scrape of chairs as they get to their feet. Jim takes a few steps forward and looks around blankly, like he’s forgotten where he is. His eyes linger on Spock’s, and then he shakes his head.
“No. No, I’m sorry. I really can’t,” he says, and walks out--not through the house, but down the dry path that leads to the road and, beyond that, to the barren hills.
+++++
“Spock, oh--” Winona Kirk opens the door of her small house in a two-piece sleeping garment, though it does not appear as if she has retired to bed. “Come in.”
Spock does so, experiencing an unpleasant sympathetic nervous system response to the artificially chilled air. His own house is kept at a temperature Nyota terms a compromise--too cold for him and Saiehnn, too warm for her.
“As the Admiral is meeting with Minister T’Shar tomorrow, I wished to know if I he required a briefing. Sarek was prepared to provide one before Jim’s hasty departure from--”
Winona stops him with a raised hand. “It’s all right, Spock, I don’t need an excuse, although he might. And he’ll be glad you came, even if he doesn’t say so.”
Spock nods. He considers Jim’s propensity to mourn in private to be Vulcan in character if not in practice, as it is generally accompanied by a large amount of self-blame.
Jim is in sitting in Winona’s small common room in the near-dark, long legs stretched out, still in the tunic he wore to dinner, though it appears carelessly unfastened.
“Mom, go to bed.”
“I believe she already has.” Jim’s shoulders hunch in surprise, but he doesn’t turn around, only glances over his shoulder at Spock.
“Is this what passes for night life around here?”
“The Science Academy runs classes around the clock, due to the shortage of classrooms. I am sure there is a lecture in progress, if you wish to attend one.”
This prompts a soft grunt of laughter from Jim, who knows that Spock is capable of using humor when it serves a purpose.
“I know why you’re here, and I appreciate it, but I’m fine.” He gathers in his legs and turns to look at Spock. “I’ll just mope around for a while; mom’s used to it. Then I’ll pull myself together because I have a lot of work to do. Chris made me his executor, among other things. I’m thinking about adopting his dog. And maybe taking over military operations of Starfleet. But definitely probably keeping the dog.”
Spock walks to the window with measured steps, hands clasped behind his back. “Starfleet has already asked you to take this role?”
“Not in so many words, but Nogura commed me a half hour ago to offer his condolences. Laid a lot of heavy stuff on me about Pike’s legacy, how he knows we had our disagreements but managed to stay close. You can be sure that if there’s an afterlife, Chris took a slug of Scotch every time Nogura said something about the bonds forged in battle, blah blah blah.”
Spock hears Jim flop back into his chair, temporary burst of energy exhausted.
“Yet Admiral Nogura opposed your promotion, or so you believe.”
“Oh, I know he did. He likes me personally but he thinks I’m soft on the Romulans. Unfortunately for him, they need a consensus candidate to replace Chris, and I’m the closest thing there is. Bones says the Admiralty is freaking out because they’re afraid the Romulans will test us the minute they find there’s nobody at the big wheel. I’m kind of surprised Starfleet went public with the news so quickly.” Jim’s fingers beat a silent tattoo on the arm of the chair. “Too many people in on the operation to keep it quiet, probably.”
“To what ‘operation’ do you refer?”
“For fuck’s sake-do you really think Christopher Pike could have died in a runabout accident? When was the last time you heard of a runabout suffering catastrophic failure, let alone with a Fleet admiral on board?” Jim hunches forward, lines of tension visible in his body. “I know him, Spock. Whatever he was doing, it was something that he wouldn’t have felt comfortable ordering anyone else to do. Something risky, something that could make him or the Fleet look bad if it went balls up.” There is a long pause. “Something I would have done in that position. Which, you know, I wasn’t.”
Now, Spock thinks, they have come to the crux of the matter.
“And so you have constructed a scenario in which Admiral Pike died because you alienated yourself from the military branch of the Fleet?”
“If you’re going to read my mind, could you at least be more elliptical about it?” Jim puts his fingers to his temples.
“I assure you, I have not attempted--”
“I know, not literally. But it’s weird that you can still know me so well. Haven’t I changed at all in the last five years?”
“In your essential characteristics--no, you have not.” Spock moves to stand closer, but does not touch him. “I am not the only one to have made this observation. It is perhaps for this reason that your performance in your current role has been described as, and I quote, ‘surprisingly competent.’ ”
“Ouch.”
“It is also a fact that in the years since you accepted command of the science fleet, the Federation has drawn closer to war with Romulus, rather than the opposite.” Spock keeps his voice neutral, though he is well aware the words will sting.
“And this is your idea of consoling me?” Jim looks faintly amused.
“I have never known you to be content with platitudes. This is the truth of the matter, but it certainly not your fault. Starfleet would have given you command of the military fleet, but only if you had agreed to Federation policy that you regarded as not only confrontational, but on occasion, reckless.”
“I could have made it work. I always have before--what would have been different? There are still admirals there who think I never should have been given the Enterprise.” The mention of the Enterprise has a predictable effect; Jim slumps back into his chair, hands on his knees, palm up, as if in appeal.
“Short of going back in time, there is no way to be certain. Knowing the consequences of our actions gives us false confidence in our ability to change them to a more favorable outcome. And yet on this very planet, there lived a man who had lived one permutation of our future, and yet refused to say anything about it.”
“Spock,” Jim says, and something in the tone tells Spock he means his future self.
“Yes. Do you think he was wise, or foolish?”
The question hangs in the air, and Spock contemplates--not for the first time--whether he himself would have had the forbearance not to reveal information that might have saved planets full of people or, at least, a wife or a friend.
“That’s philosophy, Spock, and I don’t do philosophy. But I’m certain of this--if Ambassador Spock had given the Federation the secret of red matter, no matter with what good intentions, we’d be thinking about using it now. And whatever I had to do with putting a stop to the research program--that, I don’t regret.”
“And Admiral Pike disagreed. He supported a research program, for strictly defensive purposes.”
There is a long pause during which Spock is in suspense about how Jim will receive the conclusion to which he has led him. But Jim reaches out to catch the fabric of Spock’s tunic sleeve between his fingers. The contact is sufficient for Jim’s mind to flare brightly against his own, like the fireflies of Earth in the darkness.
Jim’s is one of two human minds he has grown to know well enough to have a sense of its interior architecture: it is not an obscured and tangled mass of patterns in search of external agency, like that of most humans. Nor is it branching, linear structures with assigned probabilities, like that of Vulcans. Jim’s mind is a curious hybrid, able to discern much from insight, but deriving confidence from the urgency of life-or-death decisions.
“Thank you,” Jim says. At this moment, no other acknowledgement between them is required.
He leaves Jim alone in the small, dark room, and tries not to be be embarrassed when Winona stops him in the hall, kisses the air a millimeter from his cheek and whispers the same words.