reunification The BLTS Archive - Reunification by Lyrastar (watergal@liquidfic.net) --- Warnings: Other than a happy ending. Narrative includes a brief mention of torture, rape and child prostitution. Disclaimer: The characters, a significant chunk of the ending dialogue, and all things Trek are the property of Paramount/Viacom, regardless of the time plane currently in play. They are being used in a derivative fashion under fair use laws and no money is being made. Author's Note: Written for the Sarek Fun Fest at http://hypatia.slashcity.org/slash/sarekff.html . The idea was to have all three Mark Lenard characters, namely Sarek; the Romulan commander; and the Klingon captain from TMP all converge in time. Thanks: to Birgit for her ever-helpful input and Dina for fearlessly beta-ing ahead into uncharted territory. Archive: ASC*, BLTS, SaFF as above, and my own site. In a different reality, I could have called you friend. --- "In a different reality, I could have called you friend." -Mark Lenard as the Romulan Commander in Balance of Terror --- Sarek pulled his lucky tunic over his head. He carefully straightened the timeworn fabric until it again fell in graceful lines from his shoulders. Vulcans did not believe in the non-random distribution of fortune and so neither did he. One of his senior staff had given the name to the faded vestment. He had worn it to every important negotiation for close to thirty years now and, irrespective of its accuracy, the name had stuck. The tunic itself was of no special manufacture. Sarek valued it for the photographic mnemojewels that bedecked the front. Amanda had added them herself. He rubbed one unthinkingly and her youthful face, smiling and perfect, appeared in it and reflected back at him in the mirror. The larger stone he carefully avoided touching. Although after all these years he found that he could do so without much pain, now was not the time. Sarek rubbed the first jewel again and Amanda vanished. The jewel reverted to its usual translucent red. The fabric of the tunic may have faded but the mnemojewels and the pictures they stored never would. And Sarek found a certain logic in carrying into difficult negotiations a concrete reminder of how one man can change so much. Or how so much can change for one man. Satisfied with the tunic, Sarek reached for the newly designed ambassadorial ribbon presented to him just yesterday. He added it to the seventeen others pinned over his left breast. And then he reached far to the back of the drawer for the preservation case containing his medals and honors. He never wore them. Never had. But today he would, for today's meeting would be with the Klingon Empire--and at their behest, no less. Today the galaxy stood on the very brink of peace and Sarek would use any device at his command to see that it crossed that threshold. To him it was the array ribbons that declared who he was: Federation Ambassador to seventeen, now eighteen, worlds. The medals said only what he had done in the past. Over the sum of his 103.735 years of life that was, of course, considerable, but to him that was no longer of any consequence. But Klingons thought differently. To them what a man has done is the same as who a man is. Perhaps that was the reason behind the one condition they had given for the talks: that Ambassador Sarek and his partner Proprio--that most likely of unlikely couples--be the Federation representatives. Together the couple had reunified their race. And then, when Romulus accepted the tenets of Surak and the Articles of Federation Membership, the whole timbre of the quadrant had changed. Hostilities faded away, exploration and increased, and the Federation ideals and influence expanded rapidly. So today the Klingons were a very small and a very under-powered minority. And now, eschewing the way of the warrior for the first time in countless centuries, the Klingons had expressed a desire to meet with the men who had reunited lost brothers once before. And so Sarek pinned on every one of his medals to tell the story of who he was and what he could do for them if they agreed. The Medal of Honor that he had earned thirty years ago for the mission that had started it all, he put in its rightful place--squarely on top of the rest. Studying himself in the mirror, the years replayed in his mind. --- A human might have commented on the unusual impact of the convergence of seemingly unrelated happenstance. A Vulcan would not. But it was-- curious. Under ordinary circumstances, Sarek would have been on Earth for Federation business and not in the Vulcan High Council that week. Under ordinary circumstances he would not have been there to vote. But circumstances were not ordinary. Instead, Sarek had taken bereavement leave on his home planet. Having nothing better to do with himself, he had attended the Vulcan High Council session. And that was the day they had issued the directive for reunification overtures with Romulus. He had voted for it, of course. In fact, his had been the pivotal and deciding vote. It had been termed a suicide mission, albeit not by Vulcan. The High Council had declared it 'an objective of such immense significance and potential future benefit that loss of life arising in its attainment would be acceptable and not unexpected.' In other words, a suicide mission. Only a man with nothing of value left in his life, only a man with nothing left to lose would go. And so Sarek went. It was only after the balm of many years had dulled the memory of the day that he could admit that he had actually hoped to die. It was not logical and it was not Vulcan, but it was most certainly true. Amanda had not yet been three weeks dead. The shuttle that she had left in had disintegrated on impact. There was nothing to bury, no chance for the transfer of any vestige of a katra that humans might possess. There had been an open question as to how much of her might live through their bond in him. But she had died parted from him, not only physically, but in all ways that mattered and now they would never know. Her love for him had died months ago, in the desert with their young son, Spock. And the cruelest twist of fate, the one that haunted his dreams both asleep and awake, was that Spock--that Spock and Amanda--had been right all along. For it was Sarek who had driven his son to his death on the Forge. He had left ill advised, prematurely for the Kahs-wan in an effort to drive out his human feelings and weaknesses and to show himself to his father as truly Vulcan. It was only through the all-too-great price of Spock's death that Sarek had come to see that such depth of passion was not of just human blood at all. He did not try to stop Amanda when she left. Why should he? It was logical. He would have left himself if he could. It no longer mattered, he could hurt no worse. But again he found that he had been wrong for in her absence the grief and the guilt and the pain redoubled. Shamefully, he found that once having known love, the loneliness, now, was the worst of all. Day after day he went about the business of Vulcan government and Federation intercourse. Night after night he came home to an empty estate and grieved, still outwardly unmoved, for the death of something he had recognized only in its absence. And so, impassively he had accepted Vulcan's commission as the first Ambassador to the Romulan Star Empire with the reluctant unction of the Federation. And so, he had tidied up his affairs and left in the one-man craft, calculating that he would be dead within 12.6 days. Nine point six two days after departure he crossed into Romulan space, was intercepted and captured. He was brought before the commander, presented his message and was dismissed as an enemy spy. He was interrogated, stripped, starved, beaten, raped then brought back before the commander and re-interrogated just to begin the cycle afresh. But he was not killed. And as long as he was not dead he continued to perform his job. An every interlude he presented the Vulcan message of peace, and brotherhood, and unity. For forty-two days the scenario repeated. They called what they inflicted torture; he did not. Pain was simply a thing of the body. Every time his captors renewed their assault he went farther inside himself. Once there he paid no heed to what was done to his corporeal being. But once there he found himself face-to-face with demons that were of no one's doing but his own. Now that was torture indeed. During the interrogations he openly volunteered all information of interest, but none of importance. He spoke freely of his own life and philosophies, Vulcan history, their joint culture, and their separate differences. He outlined the proposed strategy of reunification and the hopes and concerns of the High Council. But when asked for details of strategic significance he stood mute. And no matter how often the commander tried to catch him off guard, he never slipped. Never once. On the forty-third day things changed. Sarek was brought into rooms in the residential sector and left to his own devices. He tested the door. Locked of course, and he had no doubt no that security monitoring devices peppered the room. Nonetheless a bowl of hot soup sat steaming on the table. He sampled it, found it suitable, and finished it with gusto. His clothes had been laundered and hung neatly pressed on a rack. A lavatory station stood waiting and he scrubbed himself clean for the first time since his capture. And then Sarek of Vulcan fell into the first restful sleep he had had in many months. When the door opened he awoke with a start. For a moment he knew not where he was. His heart hammered in his side. His shuttle had crashed on the cracking clay of the desert Forge. His body lay broken and bleeding in the dust. A le-matya loomed over him, his fangs ready, hot and dripping with lust. But its eyes sparkled, warm, human and gray. It lunged for him; he did try to move away. Then his eyes opened, the vision dissolved, and the commander was there in its place. "Good morning, Ambassador Sarek. I trust today finds your condition somewhat improved from our previous meetings?" Sarek blinked. Reality separated from dream. His internal clock told him 11.374 hours had passed since he fell asleep, and yet the situation remained, to say the least, unexplained. His clothing still hung neatly on the rack. He was naked beneath the sheets. He drew himself up in the bed and mustered as much dignity as he could. It was not inconsiderable. "I am well, but I am at a loss to explain the change in my circumstance." "No doubt," the commander said dryly. He moved to the table and sat at the head. "Come, join me." His tone was not unfriendly. While Sarek had slept, the table had been lain with a variety of foods. All vegetarian, Sarek noted with interest. And for the first time in forty-three days the commander wore only his under-uniform without the benefit of the body armor that seemed to be Star Empire standard. Assessing his options and deciding upon the simplest, Sarek threw the covers aside and sat at the table. The commander gestured across the table. "Please, eat. You must be hungry after our...interrogative sessions." He surveyed Sarek's form, which had since shed several pounds that he could ill-afford to lose. Sarek reached for a fruit that appeared similar to the Vulcan gam'on. He sampled it and judged it satisfactory. He added to it a measure of a spread that seemed to be based upon a dairy protein. "I am gratified for the opportunity to replenish my body. My time here has been somewhat physically taxing. But I wonder, does this indicate a change in the policy of Romulus towards my mission?" The commander rocked back in his chair and studied Sarek carefully, as if contemplating tactics at a chessboard. "Your mission--that has yet to be decided. But it is possible. My people grow tired of the waste of defense and the loss of war. We are less than one day away from our homeworld. There you will be interviewed by far wiser heads than mine and policy towards your mission will be determined by them. "But for now, let us say that there has been a change in my policy towards you. "Through our most intensive methods of... persuasion, you have remained disciplined and true. You have never indicated aggression towards us, nor have you revealed any of the confidences of your people. If you had done either, you would have been killed instantly." Sarek raised one eyebrow, but continued to eat the gam'on without comment. Its flavor was harsher than the fruit he knew from home--bitter, not as sweet--but its juice was thick and rich and tantalizingly complex in its own way. The commander continued, "But you have done neither. I find you most remarkable, Sarek of Vulcan, and I find that I would offer much to have your fealty. As an officer, as an ally, as my friend. "I have never told you my name. It is Proprio. You may address me as such. I do not know if such revelation has meaning on your world, but on ours it is an honor reserved for the few who have shown themselves to be of equal worth." Suddenly Proprio pushed back from the table. His chair clattered to the deck. He paced the length of the cabin on his own ship appearing for all the world like an animal trapped in a cage. "You will be brought before the Senate where you may plead your case. I cannot predict their response or your fate, but I will submit a statement to them of what I know of you." Sarek responded formally, "That is all I would ask and more than I would expect. And I thank you, Commander Proprio. Do not concern yourself with me. My fate has been determined by no actions but my own. But I beg you to consider the words I have said and the future of your people." Proprio stopped and stared, his gaze hard and piercing. "We are much alike, you and I, Sarek of Vulcan. Such similarity between supposed enemies does beg the question: why." Sarek said, "That will be my message to the Senate. We are of one blood and it is both logical and pragmatic that we be reunited as kin." "No!" barked Proprio. "I do not mean Romulus and Vulcan. I mean you and I. Stand up." Reviewing all of the options available to him in less than a millisecond, Sarek stood. Proprio studied his naked form critically, inch by inch, line by line. He seemingly caressed him with his eyes, idling over his most sensitive curves, circling around his most intimate parts. The Vulcan was not oblivious to the significance of the scrutiny, but he endured it without reaction. Such thoughts no longer meant anything to him. Swallowing hard, Proprio crossed the deck to stand before him. His voice was thick and low, no longer one of command. The sweet fermented stench of overripe grippa fruit bled from his breath. He laid one hand upon Sarek's naked shoulder. "Touch yourself," he whispered harshly. Sarek raised an eyebrow. Proprio said, "I wish to see how similar we are, as men, so touch yourself." Again considering his options and finding them extremely limited, Sarek began to manipulate himself mechanically. In a few efficient strokes he was erect against, the bulbus glandis swollen dark and hard at the base. "Fascinating," said Proprio. "There are clearly a number of most desirable qualities shared between us. It does seem that they merit...exploration, don't you agree?" "It is of no consequence to me; you may proceed as you wish," Sarek said. "No consequence? You misunderstand me. You are no longer a prisoner. You are a visiting emissary, albeit with some...restrictions. But I am not issuing an order. You are a man such as I and I am asking you to make a choice." Sarek said placidly, "My choice is whatever avenue will be the most expedient for my objective." Proprio's eyes narrowed dangerously and his voice grew thick and dark. "It has been said that Vulcans speak in circles." "And it has been said that Romulans speak in lies," Sarek responded. Proprio drew back as if to strike him with his hand, but then the door hissed open. In the entrance stood a brown-haired youth, his skin as sallow as the commander's own. "Cover yourself!" demanded Proprio and tossed the tunic in Sarek's direction. He donned it in haste. The embroidered edge fell just above his knees. The boy carried himself with a self-confidence that belied his years. He was dressed in a rich brocade with soft slippers upon his feet. His hands were clean and soft without a trace of a callus anywhere to be found. His lips were full and sensuous, but his eyes were sharp and bright. They seemed to take in every detail of Sarek with one supercilious sweep. Turning back to Proprio he asked, "Is this a Vulcan?" Proprio responded, "Goodeven, Vijo. "Yes, this is the Vulcan ambassador, Sarek. And these are the Ambassador's private quarters into which you were not invited. Now go and wait for me in my bedchamber." "As you command." The boy ran over to Proprio and, looking at Sarek slyly out of the corner of his eye, caressed Proprio's two fingers sensually, taking his time. The boy gave Sarek one last glance. He bowed his head minutely and said in the formal manner. "Romulus is honored by your presence, Sir." With his back to Proprio, for a moment his face took on a queer expression. And then he vanished through the door. Alone again, the two men stared at each other. "Your son?" asked Sarek. "My catamite," said Proprio mildly. "Indeed," said Sarek. "It would be most unusual in any culture to protect a whore from sexual activity." At that Proprio lunged. He grabbed Sarek by the neck and threw him up against the wall. While Sarek was his match in bulk and strength, he made absolutely no effort to resist. "He is mine and mine alone, Vulcan! Get that through your head. If any man interferes with Vijo in any way, I will kill him. Do you understand?" "Yes." The commander released him. "He is your son." Proprio stiffened. "You don't know that." Sarek said, "Perhaps I misspoke. I do not understand all the kinship relationships of your culture, but I do not speak of simple genetics. I mean that in any way which matters to you, he is your son." "Yes," Proprio said under his breath. He collapsed into the settee. "His mother was a scullery aide, killed during a battle with the Ferengi. Vijo was only two with the most beautiful, brown eyes and pink, cherubic cheeks. I couldn't let him be sold as a slave. I couldn't let him--" His voice trailed off. He took a breath. "The softer passions are not tolerated on our world, Vulcan. As an orphan he would have either been killed outright or sold into slavery. I do not know who his father is. His mother refused to name him. It might easily have been me. At one time I would have liked to think it so but now, as you say, it no longer seems to matter at all. "And so every night he comes to my chambers and I tell him stories of the galaxy, and of the Empire, and of heroes, and of my life and I temper him to be a leader of our people. But he will never lead our people for, thanks to me he is now but a prostitute in the eyes of the world. "As my prostitute he is my property and no man will touch him except under the cloud of death. "But as my son--" He shook his head. "As my son he would be a hostage, a weapon against me, my only weakness, my only fear. "And so every night I kiss him chastely and carry him to his own bed. But he grows rapidly into a young man and must soon realize that something is amiss. And soon I will be unable to protect him any longer and on that day I will know some portion of the torment that you have so recently endured." "Perhaps," said Sarek enigmatically."But it need not be that way. Your son can live in a world where he need fear no man save himself and nothing save the march of time itself." Proprio stared at him in wonder. "You can give him this?" Sarek shook his head somberly. "No. But together--your people and my people--we can." Sarek raised a hand to his breast. He rubbed the center gem, the largest of the prisms. In the depth of the stone, an image formed, a young black-haired boy with a serious face. Behind him stood the lumbering hulk furry pet. "My son, Spock, and Ee-chiya, his selat. Ee-chiya would have given his life to save him, did give his life, but it was not enough. My son was killed by the terrible clash of the demands of two worlds that should, by all rights, coexist in harmony. I would not see that happen again." Sarek rubbed a second gem on the tunic. "Spock's mother, Amanda--a human--she who was my wife. Also parted from me forever by my adherence to foolish and meaningless differences which, all told, were not so very different between our races after all." With a gentle caress, Sarek touched the stone and her face vanished once more. "I come to serve. I left all I know towards the end of preventing this from happening again. To me, to you, to your son, to anyone. If you will allow me, I will stay and begin that work." Proprio stared at him as if truly seeing him for the first time. His gaze softened as if something deep inside himself had suddenly given way. "Yes, Sarek of Vulcan, yes. I accept. I accept your proposition. I would entrust my son to your vision. "We are more alike than even I knew. And your words, your heart, speak to a spark within me that I had all but forgotten. If you would do this for your people, for my people, then how could I do less for mine? For my son? If you will allow it, I will stand with you before the senate--and afterwards. Together we will work to better their welfare--and our own." Sarek considered. "There is much logic in what you propose. I am honored by your words and I do accept. I accept for your people, for my people, and for the ideal of what one day might rightly be called "our people." Sarek offered his hand stiff in the air, fingers veed. Proprio matched it, palm to palm, apart at first, then heat to heat. He met Sarek's eyes but, seeing nothing, let the hand slip, drop down to the wrist. Lightning fast Sarek curled strong fingers down and caught the tips before they could drift away. He held Proprio's hand firmly to his, pulses strumming in harmony. "Together," Sarek said firmly. "I seem to have lost my--" he fingered the mnemojewels at his breast, "touchstone. I will need your assistance." Proprio twisted his wrist slightly and mated their hands in the manner of the Romulan handclasp. "Granted." he said. Then he marched swiftly from the cabin leaving Sarek alone with his thoughts and the door unsealed. --- That was 29.364 years ago now. If Sarek had waited too long to acknowledge the miracle that he had been given in one family, he would not repeat that mistake with this one. So few men were ever blessed with one great love of the soul, much less two, for any length of time that he would cherish and savor each moment now for what it was. For however long or short a time it was to last. For reunification of the races was not a one way street. There had been realignment by both parties. As the Romulans had come to appreciate the efficiency of cooperation and the logic of compassion, so had Sarek, formerly of Vulcan, found the perfect balance between passion and dispassion that set his aching heart to rest. The door hissed open and a muscular young man entered. "Fathers," he said. Proprio rose from his chair in the corner and greeted Vijo in the Vulcan manner. He wore full dress uniform, still resplendent, though much different from the heavy body armor of years past. His hair had salted gray, but he had lost nothing of his imperial bearing. "My son," he said. Vijo moved to the mirror and straightened Sarek's collar in the back. "Father," he said. They touched fingers briefly. "My son, what is the status of the Klingon contingent?" Sarek asked. "Captain K'lenar and his aides are now being escorted to the main conference room. Their mood is, I would say, deferential." "That is encouraging." He turned to Proprio. "Are you prepared, my spouse?" "I am." They touched fingers briefly, in the manner of those well familiar with the motion. Sarek said, "Then let us begin at once. This is a great day for the galaxy. Because of this accord, billions of lives will be saved. Billions will have a future that they did not have yesterday." Fingertips touching lightly they walked as one toward the door but, before they reached it, their world shivered and shimmered and dissolved away forever in a haze of yellow and red. --- Back on the Guardian planet, five figures stood around the portal. To the side, Commander Thelin peered into Aleek-om's history tricorder. Directly in front, Captain Kirk and Commander Spock consulted with historian Jan Grey. They compared ideas as the realization hit. "...you couldn't be in two places at once, so you died as a child," Kirk surmised. Kirk turned and addressed the stone. "Guardian, did you hear that?" "I hear all," came the spectral answer. "Is it possible for Spock to return to Vulcan and repair the timeline that was broken so that all is the same as before?" "It is possible if no other major factor is changed," the faceless voice said. Spock replied, "I do not remember everything. I have a vague memory from a child's point of view, but the details are not clear." "You have to remember, for you and your mother to live," Kirk prodded. "Yes," Spock said pensively. "I will require a Vulcan desert soft suit, boots, and a small supply of street-wear circa 8877 Vulcan years. The carry-bag should be of the same period." "You've got it. I'll order the wardrobe section to prepare it now." Jim turned his head and watched as Spock stepped away to take his leave of the Andorian officer who served here in his place. Jim flipped open his communicator and as he gave the orders, he wondered absently at all the infinite variations that such a small change in the time line might bring. In his own reality, relations with Andor were allied but tense. He marveled at a timeline in which it was possible for him to have trusted such a man as his first officer. Trusted him with his life, with his mission, with his ship. He wondered what else might be different in this reality and how other lives might be affected. With more than a little regret Jim wondered what would become of Thelin if they were successful. As an afterthought he wondered who else might live and who else might die with the change back. But that could not be helped. "Ooof!" Jim startled to the thud. Out of nowhere, a curly-haired child had appeared and crashed headlong into his leg. He couldn't have been more than eight or nine. "Sorry, Sir," he said rubbing his forehead. He shook his head full of blond curls. One in the center stuck impudently up and to the side. "I guess I wasn't looking where I was going." "Davie!" Jan took him by the arm and yanked him back forcefully. "Sorry, Captain, this one keeps getting away from us. He's supposed to be studying geological evolution while his mother works, but all he wants to do is run around chasing adventures and getting into trouble. You'd never know that his mother is one of the Federation's top terraforming scientists. Honestly, what must his father be like?" "I said, I was sorry," mumbled Davie, sounding suspiciously unrepentant. "Fine. Now prove it. Get back inside the observation hut and wait for me there." "It's all right. We were all young once," said Jim with his most tolerant smile. He turned to the youth, "And as for you, young man, you need to know that discipline is the route to success at anything, even adventure. There is nothing more important on a Starship, even for the captain. So you mind your elders." "Yes, sir," murmured the boy looking up at Kirk with wide-eyed awe. He continued staring backwards even as he scurried off inside the observation station. The carry bag appeared at his feet. "Nice to know the crew is efficient in this timeplane too." He felt more than heard Spock arrive back at his shoulder and bent over to pick the bag up. Kirk turned back to his erstwhile First Officer. Spock reached for the carry-bag but Jim jerked it back. "Spock, if you aren't able to repair the timeline, or if something else unforeseen happens down there--" "Captain, I must point out that as the events of the Kahs-wan have already occurred as in our time plane, the probability of my success is extremely high." "Spock, if it doesn't go right, you do know that I love you in any timeline?" "Affirmative," said Spock formally. Jim grinned and held out the bag, for real this time. Spock shouldered it gracefully. "Spock," Jim said deceptively quietly and stuck out his hand. Spock took it but, quick as a flash, Jim grabbed his wrist and pulled him into a fierce embrace. They held for long seconds, then after kissing him squarely on the lips, Jim released his hold. Jim winked. "Good, because I want the timeline we had. After all, who knows? Things could work out quite differently in this one." Young David Marcus shivered and watched from the window of the observation hut. His eyes loomed haunted and wide as Spock vanished through the time portal in a shimmer of yellow and red taking with him most of his future --- The End --- ~Lyra June 2003