Child of Two Worlds

by Greg Cox

“It was a good ship,” she said flatly. “It served its purpose.”

  “That’s right.” Rosha circled around to take the hand Junah had rejected. “You finally did it, just like you always said you would.” Both joy and sorrow could be heard in her voice, along with what sounded to Spock like guilt. “I know we’ve quarreled in the past, that I didn’t always support your quest the way I should have, even tried to talk you into getting on with your own life, but—”

  “It’s okay,” Soleste assured her. “You meant well, I know. You didn’t want to lose two daughters. I understand that. But that’s all behind us now.” She sat up straighter, seeming to grow stronger as she spoke of her triumph. “I found Elzura, Mom. I brought her home!”

  “Well, not exactly,” Junah pointed out. He glanced around the sterile sickbay. “This doesn’t look much like Cypria to me.”

  Rosha turned to Spock. “What about Elzura? When can we see her?”

  As a Vulcan, Spock found the intense family drama unfolding before him to be more uncomfortable than fascinating. And he feared that even more emotional turmoil was in store once mother and brother came face-to-face with Merata.

  Still, there was little point in delaying the inevitable.

  “Allow me to give you some privacy here, while I inform your other daughter of your arrival. When you are ready, we will see about visiting her in her quarters.”

  At least Merata was no longer confined to the brig, he reflected. That would have made for an even more potentially upsetting reunion.

  If only slightly.

  * * *

  “My apologies for this unfortunate incident,” Flescu communicated via holographic projection. “I can assure you it will not happen again.”

  Number One wanted more than apologies. Glass granules still littered the floor of the suite, while a team of Cyprian laborers were already hard at work replacing the shattered window. The interrupted luncheon, now spiced with broken glass, had been carted away, although Number One had taken the liberty of tucking a pair of knives under a seat cushion. The offending disk had been confiscated by the local security forces, who had confirmed that it was nothing more than a routine device ordinarily employed for advertising and entertainment purposes. There had been some talk of trying to trace the disk to its original owners, but the investigators had not sounded particularly optimistic—or motivated. Their manner had been notably brusque and unsympathetic, as though they’d figured the visiting aliens had had it coming. A few had even blamed Pike for the disturbances and expressed sympathy for the protestors.

  “Thank you, Prime Minister,” she replied, “but I remain concerned for the safety of my landing party. We were lucky this time, but this could have been much worse.”

  To her relief, the landing party had suffered only minor cuts and abrasions from the flying glass. Nurse Olson had treated the others with antiseptics and was presently applying a bandage to a nick on his forehead. Feeling an itch, Number One plucked a stray piece of window from her own dark locks. She resisted a temptation to flick it directly at the hologram.

  “Let’s not overreact,” Flescu insisted. “It was just a bit of political theater, that’s all. Merely the people making their feelings known.”

  “At our expense,” Number One said tartly.

  “I’m quite sure there was no serious intent to harm you and your party. My people assure me that the device posed no real threat.”

  “This time, perhaps,” she said, “but you’ll forgive me if I do not wish to take chances with my own people’s safety. Perhaps we should relocate to our shuttlecraft for the time being, or, at the very least, you could return our weapons so that my security officers are properly equipped to carry out their duties.”

  She recalled how much she had yearned for a laser pistol before, so that she could have disintegrated the suspicious disk if necessary. A pair of purloined knives was a poor substitute for modern sidearms.

  “I hardly think that’s necessary.” The hologram’s forced smile slipped a bit. “I’ve ordered increased protection around Envoy House and launched a full investigation into this incident, but Cyprian forces must stay in charge of any security issues while you remain on Cyprian soil. That is non-negotiable, simply as a matter of planetary sovereignty.”

  “Then perhaps we should not remain on Cyprian soil,” she countered, “until you can fully guarantee our safety.”

  “I thought I had just done so,” he said curtly. “But you are perfectly free to leave our beautiful planet if you so choose . . . although you will do so without the ryetalyn you came for.”

  And there was the rub. Despite the attack on the suite, Number One balked at returning empty-handed to the Enterprise, where the fever outbreak was, by all accounts, still burning through the crew unchecked. She had to weigh the safety of the landing party against the more than two hundred lives at risk aboard the ship, as Flescu damn well knew.

  “I will have to consult with my colleagues,” she said. “And my captain.”

  “Of course,” the hologram said, smirking. “Let me know what you decide.”

  He vanished in a blink.

  “Is it just me,” Olson groused, “or is that guy not on our side?”

  At this point, Number One doubted that any Cyprians were. Acutely conscious of the locals working to replace the window, she beckoned the team over to the other end of the living area so they could confer in relative privacy.

  “You heard the prime minister,” she said in a low voice. “Our options are limited. I would value your opinions.”

  “Don’t worry about us, Commander,” Giusio said. The small cut on his cheek had stopped bleeding. “We’re in this if you are.”

  Jones and Olson added their assent. “We came for the cure, right?” Olson said. “Not sure I want to face Doctor Boyce without it.”

  “Exactly,” Jones said. “The captain is counting on us. If we give up now, we may never get that ryetalyn.”

  Number One agreed in theory, and yet the odds of them succeeding in their mission were looking slimmer by the minute, while the danger planetside appeared to be steadily increasing. The shouting of the protestors outside continued unabated. If anything, they seemed to have been emboldened by the “attack” on Envoy House. At what point did insurmountable odds dictate a prudent retreat? And what would become of the Enterprise if they called it quits? What posed the greater threat, the angry populace on Cypria III or the Rigelian fever waiting back on the ship?

  “Very well,” she said. “Thank you for speaking freely.”

  Good thing I stowed those knives away, she thought. Here’s hoping we don’t need them.

  * * *

  “Very well,” Merata said. “Show them in.”

  Spock was relieved to find her willing to meet with her newly arrived family members, but could tell that she was uneasy about the impending visit. She fiddled with the pendant around her neck, while facing the sealed doorway with a tense, wary expression. He knew her well enough by now to sense her discomfort. Her shields were raised, so to speak.

  “As you wish,” he replied. Opening the door, he stepped out into the corridor, where Rosha and Junah were waiting. A security guarded remained posted in the hall as well. Spock blocked the open door with his body as he made a final attempt to prepare the visiting Cyprians for the encounter ahead. “Please keep in mind that Elzura is much changed, and that she prefers to be addressed as ‘Merata’ for the present.”

  “So you said,” Rosha said, wincing somewhat, while Junah rolled his eyes in disgust. “I can’t say I like that name, though. It’s so . . . Klingon.”

  As is your daughter now, Spock thought, but refrained from belaboring the point.

  Junah eyed the doorway apprehensively. He nodded at the looming security officer. “Is he coming in too?”

  “He can, if that would make you more comfortable, but I do not believe it necessary.”

  Spock’s own laser pistol rested discreetly on his hip. He did not anticipate vi
olence, but felt it better to be prepared. Adding another armed Starfleet officer to this volatile mixture concerned him. He did not wish Merata to feel outnumbered.

  “Don’t be foolish, Junah,” his mother said. “Your sister is waiting.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he groused. “But . . . fine. Let’s get this over with.”

  Spock was inclined to agree. He stepped aside to let them enter the stateroom.

  Unable to wait any longer, Rosha hurried inside, only to freeze at her first sight of Merata, who stood imposingly at the far end of the stateroom, still clad in full Klingon regalia, with her arms crossed atop her chest. She was uncharacteristically still and silent, her face betraying little emotion. Spock was uncertain if that was a good sign or not.

  The door slid shut as he entered behind Rosha and Junah. Spock tried to see Merata through her mother’s eyes. The intimidating Klingon teenager standing before them bore scant resemblance to the small Cyprian child lost so long ago. No matter how much Rosha had attempted to prepare herself for whatever changes had been wrought by the years, the reality of the transformation had to be shocking to her. She was looking at Merata, not little Elzura.

  “Elzy?” she whispered.

  “My name is Merata,” the younger woman replied, but not as indignantly as Spock might have anticipated. If anything, she appeared unusually subdued, by Klingon standards. Her eyes widened as she gazed at Rosha and she swallowed hard, as though shaken by the sudden appearance of a ghost from her past. Rosha Mursh had also aged a decade since they had last laid eyes on each other, but Spock had no doubt that Merata recognized the woman before her. Her voice faltered under the weight of early memories. “You . . . you wished to see me?”

  “Yes. Of course. I . . . I mean . . .”

  An awkward silence ensued as Rosha found herself at a loss for words. No doubt she had been dreaming of a much more tender, heartfelt reunion, possibly involving tears and a loving embrace, as with her other daughter in sickbay. It was not logical that she should have expected such, but Spock could not find it in his own heart to condemn her for wishing for the improbable. He suspected that his own mother had sometimes nursed similarly unlikely fantasies—and been disappointed as well.

  Truth to tell, he had never even told his mother he loved her.

  He was about to say something, in an attempt to break the ice, when Merata took the initiative instead. “Was your journey uneventful?” she asked stiffly.

  “Yes, thank you for asking.” Rosha managed a weak smile. “I’m so glad you agreed to see us.”

  Merata shrugged, not unlike Junah had before. “You have come a long way. It would have been dishonorable not to greet you.”

  “Honor,” Junah echoed sarcastically. He eyed her with naked revulsion. “That’s pretty, coming from a Klingon . . . of sorts.”

  Merata glared balefully at her brother. She dropped into a battle stance, her fists raised before her. A wolfish grin curled her lips; she appeared almost grateful for an enemy to oppose. “Klingons know nothing but honor, boy. Challenge me if you dare!”

  Spock reached for his laser pistol, ready to intervene if necessary. Had he miscalculated by including Junah in this encounter? He should have anticipated that the surly youth might provoke Merata.

  “Junah! Hush!” Rosha got between her squabbling children, perhaps not for the first time. “This is strange enough for all of us.” She drew closer to Merata, who flinched at her mother’s approach, but allowed the invasion of her personal space. Rosha peered at Merata’s taut, suspicious face as though searching for some trace of her lost child. “Do you remember us at all?”

  Merata lowered her shields slightly.

  “Perhaps . . . I think.” She spoke haltingly, sounding more vulnerable and unsure of herself than Spock was accustomed to. Her fists unclenched and her arms dropped to her sides. She shifted her weight restlessly. “I’m not certain. It was so long ago . . .”

  “Ten years,” Rosha confirmed, choking up. “I can’t get over how . . . grown-up . . . you are now. When I last saw, you were just a little girl . . .” Sobs shook her body as tears streamed down her cheeks. Trembling fingers fished a handkerchief from somewhere beneath her embroidered vest. “I’m so sorry. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this, but . . .”

  Merata raised her arms hesitantly, as though to comfort her mother, but they hung awkward in the air instead. She shot a desperate look at Spock, seeking direction—or perhaps simply blaming him for putting her in this position. It was said, he recalled, that Klingons had no tear ducts, although opinion was divided on whether that was literally the case or merely figurative. In any event, Merata clearly had no idea what to do with the weeping woman before her.

  Spock sympathized. Vulcans were also not prone to tears.

  “I regret causing you distress,” Merata said.

  “It’s not just sadness,” Rosha insisted. “It’s joy, too.” She gazed lovingly at Merata, somehow seeing past the scarred brow and pointed teeth. “You’re back. You’re finally back!”

  “Yes,” Junah said darkly. “Lucky us.”

  Spock pondered the youth’s hostility. What did Junah see when he looked at Merata? The barely remembered sibling whose loss had haunted his upbringing, perhaps to an excessive degree, or simply one of the monsters who had killed his father and torn apart his family?

  “Don’t mind your brother,” Rosha said. “He doesn’t remember you like your sister and I do, but everything will be fine once we’re back home on Cypria. You’ll have a family again.”

  Merata’s face hardened. She stepped back, putting more distance between herself and her mother. The uncertainly in her voice vanished.

  “I have a family,” she said firmly. “I do not wish to disappoint you, but we are not family anymore. Any prior blood ties were severed when I was adopted into the House of Krunn. You gave me birth and I honor that debt, but I am no longer your daughter. General Krunn is my father now.”

  Rosha stumbled backward, staggered by the crushing words.

  “And what about our real father?” Junah erupted, unable to keep silent. “You know, the one your new father butchered?”

  Merata opened her mouth, but no ready response came to her. She just scowled and clutched the pendant at her throat. Spock was grateful for her restraint.

  “I . . . I would hope he died an honorable death,” she offered finally. “For your family’s sake.”

  “Stop it!” Rosha pleaded. “Both of you. We didn’t come here to fight.”

  “I don’t believe this!” Junah couldn’t contain himself. “Listen to her. She doesn’t even care what her new Klingon friends did to us. She’s a traitor to our people!”

  “Junah, please.” Rosha wrung her hands. “Whatever happened to your father, this is still your sister. Elzura.”

  “Are you joking?” Junah said. “For harvest’s sake, look at her! She’s one of them. A murderous Klingon savage, just like the ones who massacred your husband!”

  The words were harsh, but not inaccurate. Spock considered interrupting the heated family dispute, but chose to stay out of it for the moment. In his experience, more emotional beings often needed to vent their feelings before a conflict could be resolved. It was not the Vulcan way, but he had observed aboard the Enterprise that humans did indeed sometimes benefit from “blowing off steam,” as they termed it. Perhaps the same applied to Cyprians . . . and a Cyprian turned Klingon?

  Watch and listen, Spock thought. Provided there is no bloodshed.

  “You think I wish to claim you as a brother, you pitiful, ill-mannered pup!” Merata snarled at Junah, baring her teeth. “Your mother, although confused, has treated me with respect. But you . . . I show you hospitality and you rudely slander my people. Be thankful that I am not entirely the ‘murderous savage’ you think me!”

  Caught up in the fury of the argument, Junah ignored the implied threat.

  “You hear that? She called them her people.” Contempt twisted hi
s face. “This whole thing is a sick joke. I can’t put up with this insanity any longer.” Storming back to the exit, he pounded on the sturdy door. “Let me out! I’m done here!”

  The door opened to reveal the security officer posted outside. Junah shoved past him in his haste to flee the stateroom.

  Concern furrowed the guard’s brow. “Is everything all right, Mister Spock? I heard shouting.”

  “Everything is under control,” Spock stated, which was arguably stretching the truth. “Please keep an eye on young Mister Mursh, Lieutenant. He is in an agitated state.”

  “Yes, sir,” the guard replied. “I’ll do just that.”

  Rosha reeled about, torn between following her son and staying with her daughter. She started toward the door, then stopped to look back at Merata. “You have to forgive your brother. It’s like I said before. He doesn’t know you the way I do, the way Soleste does . . .”

  “You once knew me,” Merata corrected her. She nodded at the doorway through which Junah had departed. “He was rude and offensive, but he was not wrong. I am not the girl you remember. I am Merata, a Klingon, and the sooner you can accept that, the easier it will be for all of us.”

  “You can’t mean that,” Rosha said. “You’re still Cyprian deep inside. You have to be.”

  “I am sorry,” her daughter said. “But you are mistaken.”

  The pained look on Rosha’s face was all too familiar to Spock. As before, a memory surfaced from his childhood:

  “Part of you is human, Spock,” Amanda had said. “You will always be a child of two worlds.”

  “You are mistaken,” he had informed her, as gently as he could. “I am and always will be Vulcan.”

  The parallels with the scene before him were . . . unsettling.

  Twelve

  “Commander, you need to see this!”

  Lieutenant Giusio called from the balcony, where he had been keeping a watchful eye on the demonstrations outside. Number One halted recording a new log entry into her tricorder to hurry out onto the balcony to see what was up, with Jones and Olson right behind her. Even though it was starting to get dark outside, stepping out into the muggy climate was like beaming directly from the Enterprise into a swamp, but the stifling heat and humidity were the least of her concerns right now.