1. Precious Things

**Precious Things**

The smuggler is calm and unworried and Solak knows that the proof they have against him will somehow turn out to be useless yet again. Five times already the man has defied their attempt to prove his guilt and annul his trading contract. Today will be the sixth, it would seem. Solak takes a small breath, steadies himself and recites one of the many new meditative mantras he has memorized since the rotund creature first appeared in his office, all waving arms and cheerful demeanor.

It is a small and petty victory and one he knows he will only admit to his wife that evening, but at least he has in return – once again – deprived the smuggler of seeing any frustration or anger.

The data sent to the Vulcan Trade Regulation office is returned to his computer with the expected notice and Solak taps out a response quickly and efficiently before nodding to his assistant.

"Release him."

His assistant nods – already prepared for the moment and showing no sign of anything at all either – and the smuggler sags slightly in disappointment before vacating the office with a cheerful waggle of his fingers in farewell. His laughter echoes through the hallway of the security office long after his flamboyant departure and sometimes, Solak thinks that if he could allow himself hate, the human male would garner a great deal of it from him.

Instead he leans on his desk and steeples his fingers, trying to understand how the man managed to find yet another loophole in the trade rules to justify his illicit activities.

~*~

It has been ten years now and Solak has managed to thwart the smuggler only twice. He treasures both those events, though it is the first time he managed to do so which is still bright and sharp a memory in his mind.

The man had laughed when presented with the evidence. The very same, cheerful laugh as all the other times he got away with his criminal behavior, and that was when Solak realized that the man actually enjoyed having Solak chase him down and try to pin every possible rule in the book on him.

Though he is quite certain his surprise never showed upon realizing that fact, the man looked entirely too satisfied with himself then.

"Rematch for next time, buddy!" The words were unexpected, as was the underlying current of friendliness in the man's voice.

Solak found himself thinking about other things than rules or regulations after that meeting for quite some time.

Humans, it turned out, were not as simple as he had originally thought they were.

How very fascinating.

~*~

His world is dying and there is nothing more he can do. All the ships have been unclamped from their moorings, all the prisoners released and now he and his people stand by the edge of a cliff and watch the great planes and angles of the canyons ahead shift and grind as Vulcan slowly tears itself apart.

All of them are silent and wide-eyed, dust streaking their clothing and skin, when the first smuggler's ship lands behind them in a shriek of abused metal on rock and sand. It is one of many, they realize, other crafts discernable in the horizon.

"Don't just stand, you idjits! MOVE!" The words thunders behind them and Solak whirls around at the sound of a familiar voice. His expression is blank yet he numbly acknowledges that his shock must be showing. When he finally picks out the face of the speaker through the whirling dust and tarnished metals plates of a smuggler's ship, a sharp, brief smile greets him. It is not triumphant nor mocking and Solak can see the anguish lying underneath the man's urgent gaze.

He and his staff board the craft hastily and are met with the solemn and grave stares of the children from the nearby school. Their faces are dusty and smudged and the smuggler's spindly limbed assistant flutters among them, as though she might be able to keep them all safe simply by wrapping her many arms about them. There is no safety harnesss for her this time Solak notices, her usual seat taken up by a plethora of boxes and containers and two of the smallest children, one sitting in the other's lap and both of them snugly strapped down to her seat. Crates and cages are piled on the laps of the other children and the smuggler's latest haul is neatly displayed for all to see. From the furious hissing breaking through the sounds of the craft as it prepares for a hasty take-off, Solak can discern that there are at least a dozen small sehlat cubs within the cages in the far corner, and at least three variety of rare sandworms packed in heated sand somewhere out of sight. There will be precious pottery in the blue boxes, Solak knows, each tenderly packed away. The green lined crates doubtless contain many a scroll or ancient book – how the smuggler would discover such venerated artifacts had always confounded him. He cannot even begin to imagine what might be safely packed away in the ship's many hidden holds. He does not dare to hope – not when so much is lost.

Solak gestures to one of his agents and the woman nods, directing the children to grab hold of the alien hovering among them and soon the female is anchored as securely as she might have been in her seat's webbing, small hands determinedly holding on to her every arm and leg. She sighs and hums sadly, settling among them protectively, large unblinking eyes fixed upon Solak as he nods at her once and then turns, making his way through the passageways of the smuggler's ship until he reaches the bridge. It is equally cluttered and Solak finds himself cataloging every rare species of fauna, flora and forbidden items he can see as an afterthought and nothing more.

"How about," the smuggler says, voice low and sad before he stops speaking, focusing instead on the task at hand. He does not look back over his shoulder as he pounds on controls and sends his ship tearing through the atmosphere, does not say a word as the customs officer straps himself in the co-pilot's seat and sets about assisting them in their desperate flight, their efforts taking them away from a dying world barely in time.

When they are safe, the smuggler gives him a sidelong glance, features unreadable. "So. How about you do an inventory of all that when we hit port so you can arrest me properly, eh?" The man's voice is a ghost of its usual, teasing self but he still tries. After a moment, Solak realizes that the tracks breaking through the dust on the mans' face are tears.

He remains quiet a long time, the human in the other seat no longer breaking the silence as the customs officer takes over reception of the incoming transmissions. More smugglers he discovers – some released from the holding cells of his own facility not so long ago – each of them checking in with reports of what they brought back with them, the Vulcans they now bear upon their ships, each of them confirming coordinates so that they can gather up and organize themselves. Solak intercepts the names he recognizes and sends the information along to those among his staff who will find comfort in hearing of loved ones having survived the death of Vulcan. He notes that the smugglers are all including their illegal inventory in these reports. He understands what they have done, each and every one of them.

"I do not believe that will be necessary." Solak reaches out, resting his fingertips lightly on the top of the smuggler's hand and nods once, gravely. He can feel the grief and helplessness radiating from the man ease ever so slightly and though his own countenance does not change nor waver when the human looks at him, Solak nonetheless finds that no further words are needed to express his gratitude.


	2. Points of Intersection

**Points of Intersection**

"What is she doing?"

The child waits for an answer, solemn and unsmiling. They are all solemn and unsmiling and Harry has no idea how to separate any of the children from the other, save that – he presumes – the boys all have that hair cut that resembles a bowl casually dropped on their heads while the girls tend to have longer hair. It is only luck that he guesses their names right each time, of course.

"Um. She's fussing?" His voice squeaks a touch on the last syllable and from the look he's given (it hasn't changed any, yet he's definitely feeling like he just failed some test), his answer has been deemed irrevocably lacking. "Well... C'mere, kid." Harry sighs and plops himself down on the steps, patting the stone next to him until the boy gives in and sits down next to him. They watch Harry's partner scuttle from one building to another in a manner Harry knows to be ferociously single-minded. She spends a moment inside each one, nearly the exact same amount of time (unless it takes her a bit longer to find her target) then moves on, purposeful and intent. Harry isn't worried and figures she'll settle down once she's done. He does know that if he tries to interrupt her, she'll bite him, which is really the reason why he's not interfering. He remembers exactly how sharp those teeth of hers are and has no desire to relive the experience if he can help it.

"She's making sure you're all okay. She's a very tactile thing, y'know. I think it might also be part of how she sees, if that makes any sense at all," he laughs at the last bit, the sound breaking through the quiet harmony of the street and he doesn't feel at all out of place or awkward about it while surrounded by so many quiet, dignified figures going on about their business.

"Why?"

Short and to the point. That's something every child is good at, Harry's come to realize over the years, regardless of their species. Harry himself is barely in his thirties and most of the Vulcans in the settlement would likely consider him a youngster, but that has no bearing on the issue at all in his opinion.

"Because, well," and now Harry is a touch embarrassed. This isn't the sort of thing he's used to explaining. His partner had previously kept her antics confined to Harry himself until recently and as such Harry had been hoping he'd get away with not explaining. A slight lifting of an eyebrow tells him explanations are going to occur, one way or another.

"I searched for information on her species on the datanet." The child gives Harry a piercing look. "I found nothing."

Harry's bright smile fades to something smaller and dimmer and he turns to watch his partner pause in her search to settle in a particularly bright patch of sunlight on a low, nearly completed stone roof. He can hear her chirring to herself contentedly, and the tips of her limbs flutter slightly with each breath she takes. It is cold in space she's given him to understand, and she always ends up sunning herself like this whenever they make planetfall. Harry makes a mental note to stop by more often – this planet is warm. She likes it here. Those are all very good reasons to drop by, he decides.

"Well, that's because there isn't any other like her around. I found her, you see. Just a little wee thing," Harry looks down at his hands, an incredulous gleam in his eyes. "She fit in my hands back then, both of them – look at her now, eating me out of ship and home every day!"

"You found her?" The boy's question cuts through Harry's bemused yet fond laughter and he finds himself nodding. Carefully and slowly. Suddenly aware of all the implications of what he is saying and to whom he is saying it.

"Yes. Some destroyed outpost on the far reaches of the Neutral Zone." Harry waves his hand as though the matter were inconsequential; as though the smell of death and despair were not something that haunted him to this very day. "She grew up fast, she did. Took to me on the spot, has a fit if I'm out of her sight for too long."

Harry watches her sun herself, unaware his smile has faded entirely.

"We haven't found another outpost like that one, since. But we'll find one, someday. We'll find her people." His words are a promise and though he is whispering to himself, he looks up from the boy beside him to see his partner peering down at him intently from her perch high above. He's learned not to worry over time, figured out that climbing is to her what breathing is to him. She squeaks loudly at him once, the sound bright and cheerful and then skitters off again in search of the children she still hasn't inspected, a trail of incomprehensible and happy chatter the only sign of her passage as she disappears from his sight. Eventually Harry looks down once more and the boy is still staring at him, waiting patiently. This one has figured out that if you stare and wait long enough, there'll be answers from this particular smuggler, Harry realizes.

"She thinks of you as family," he finally says, whispering the words to the boy as though sharing a secret.

"You found her. On that outpost." The boy pauses and tilts his head to the side, slowly. "She found us. When Vulcan was destroyed."

The words are a statement, not a question. Harry would say yes anyway, only suddenly his throat is too tight so instead he settles for a nod and a tight smile.

"That is logical." The boy nods once then stands up, dusting off his clothing with attentive, meticulous care.

There is far too much dust on this planet, Harry decides.

Vulcan was like that, too.

~*~

It has been three months since Harry last visited the settlement. He's found a remarkable archive of Vulcan music since, and liberated a nearly complete collection of musical instruments which he can make neither heads nor tail of, but all bear the stamp of a crafter he was most fond of and will never see again. It seems only normal to drop by and see if it might be something Solak might wish to keep and add to his settlement's steadily growing collection of artifacts and treasures.

He is busy laughing and swatting away at his partner as they exit the ship, the alien feverishly trying to scuttle around his bulky frame to do her usual round of 'check on the babies' right now on the spot. Though he'd normally be annoyed at her, the delighted gleam in her many eyes is such that instead he hurries up a bit more instead, finally flattening his rotund self to one side to let her squirm through.

When he finally clears the doorway himself the first thing Harry notices is the heat. It is reminiscent of that of Vulcan in winter, though milder perhaps. The same yet not. The second things he notices is that his partner has come to a stop merely a few feet away and is staring ahead, unmoving and silent.

The only time he's ever seen her attention so caught is a memory still fresh and sharp. Harry prefers not to think of the school they landed next to on Vulcan, or all the people they didn't have the time to find and save.

"What is it, luv?" His eyes are only for her, so it isn't until she raises one primary limb (along with three secondaries and five tertiaries, something Harry is certain she does because she is firm in her belief that her human partner is a touch dim as creatures go) that Harry realizes there are others on the dock and as he looks in the direction she is pointing at, Harry finds himself staring in surprise.

He grins crookedly after a moment and gently nudges her forward, insisting until she is moving under her own power. She looks back at him once, then twice, as though unsure.

"Go on then, old girl. Enough lollygagging about. They're waiting for you." Harry watches and wipes the dust out of his eyes repeatedly and maybe mutters something about Vulcan being far too fond of dust and other such damnable discomforts.

The first child in line is the one to whom he spoke the last time he stopped by. The boy bows gravely to the alien bearing down on him, her hesitation entirely gone now that she has reached him. He stretches both arms forward with a patient expression, watching in bright interest as the alien carefully pats him down with her many limbs and runs light, cautious tendrils over his hair and cheeks. With a satisfied chitter she sits back on her haunches, ready to inspect the next child in line. They each file by her, and it is only once she is done and ready to turn towards Harry that she finds herself suddenly stopping, the small hand resting lightly on her primary right limb locking her in place more securely than any chain might have ever managed.

Gravely, without a word, the children gather around her and run their hands over her limbs, then pat her cheeks gently. The alien doesn't move, as though afraid the moment might be a figment of her imagination. It is only when one of the girls slowly and meticulously mimics the light, careful chitters she always directs at the children that she finally settles down once more. With a low, warm purr she stretches out her arms, limbs splaying out in every direction to wrap loosely about those she claimed as family when their world died.


	3. Legacy

**Legacy**

"I wish I could help, somehow. Wish there was something I could do." Molly wraps her arms around her knees as she watches the small projector nestled in the grass, the reporter speaking in a voice fraught with emotion. Vulcan's destruction has been heard of even in her tiny, backwards corner of the universe. Molly doesn't think it's possible anyone could be unaware of something so tragic and sad.

"Oh please. You're just the local nature nut. And besides, what the hell could people like you or me do anyway?" Her cousin laughs mockingly – she's not mean, Molly knows, but sometimes she wishes the girl would stop dismissing her so easily all the time. After all, she works in the flower nursery three days a week as well, doesn't she? Molly's annoyance does not go unnoticed. "Geez girly, aiming a bit high, aren't you? You've never even been off planet before. Don't you think any of those new colonies or whatever out there are just a little bit far for the likes of us?"

Molly's overt scowl is greeted with a snicker. She sighs and lets her shoulders drop, the anger draining out of her in a single instant.

"I know. I just… wish there were something I could do. That's all."

Her cousin offers her a placating smile and a small wave – not quite a comforting pat, but it's more than what she usually gets from her, so Molly can't find it in herself to complain.

She stabs her trowel in dark, rich earth and takes another sample and idly notes the volunteer positions the reporter is describing, her thoughts literally galaxies away. She is just a first level, newly graduated botanist. She has no relevant expertise to speak of. She's good with plants, she's told. That's all.

That night she fills out an application form and sends it off. She forgets about it the very next day.

~*~

When the answer comes, Molly's younger brother races into the house, shrieking incoherently. It takes their parents ten minutes to calm down the boy and another five to pry the datapad he is holding out of his dirt smeared hands.

The thing is sleek and shiny and brand new – nothing they've ever seen on the farm, where everything is bought secondhand in order to spare any credit they can, and used until it comes apart before it is replaced. Their flowers always come first and foremost. They live comfortably, in this modern day and age, but they must still be thrifty and careful for the sake of their livelihood.

Molly's father reads the tag on the datapad and looks up gravely at her, something indefinable in his gaze that both scares and thrills Molly alike.

"Are you sure this is what you want to do, Mollygirl?"

It takes him handing her the datapad and nodding in confirmation when she looks up at him, all shock and surprise, before the realization finally sinks in. The logo on the datapad is that of Vulcan, along with another smaller one she can't identify until she looks it up later. It is the IDIC symbol. Later that night Molly reads the explanation that comes along with the picture and finds herself hoping. She's not sure for what, yet. She just knows that it's something bigger and better. And she has a chance at it.

It takes her three days to pack properly, acquire a new set of clothes and find the right things to bring with her. Her parents drive her to the nearest transit station, eyes tearful but proud. Two hours later Molly is finally on her way, a cheerful attendant kindly guiding her through all the steps she will be going through as she heads out into the vastness of space, her destination an alien world.

She has never felt so small, yet so very alive before. She even forgets to breathe as the shuttle breaches the barrier between atmosphere and space, until she is dizzy from lack of air and giddiness alike.

She's seen all the pictures of her planet before, floating in space like a precious jewel nestled in the darkest and richest of satins.

They are nothing next to actually being up there, looking down below.

Molly stares in wonder and thinks that she and every single other human being in the universe are very, very lucky to still have that sight.

~*~

The trip is long and tiring, and her arrival signals the first moment where she doubts her decision and fears she has somehow made the biggest mistake of her life. The heat is brutal, the air is harsh and everything smells wrong. The welcome interview is long and arduous and the Vulcan asking her questions turns her brain inside out while figuring out her qualifications. Many of her answers leave him unsatisfied; of this she has no doubt. ("You know when conditions for optimal growth are adequate because it 'feels right'?" she remembers him asking, each word carefully enunciated.) Finally though she is turned over to the administrator of the small settlement, another Vulcan male with whom, for some reason, she feels safe enough to ask the question that has plagued since she first set foot on the planet.

"Why did you hire me?" She speaks hurriedly, before he can ask her for more details. Molly's been asked to be more specific as to what she means more often in the past hour than she has her entire life. The interviewer may have even asked her that single question more often than all the others put together – she doesn't have the exact number though, having lost count early on. "I mean – I'm just some average botanist from some hick town on Earth. My specialty isn't even in xenobotany, I just… make things grow. I'm nothing special." She can practically feel the uncharacteristic bemusement radiating from the Vulcan standing before her and curses herself for being insecure and stupid and a million other things she doesn't have the time to put into words. Solak moves slightly before she can apologize and retreat, so she remains silent, trying not to make things worse.

"You offered assistance." At her confused expression, Solak elaborates. "You are a botanist. You volunteered to help us. We have need of botanists. And of assistance. You were a logical selection from the pool of volunteers at our disposal."

"Oh." Molly stares at him for a moment. She doesn't ask him if there were many botanists who applied, and if her candidacy was the very last one down the list, which they accepted anyway because they needed everyone they could find. Even some silly farm girl from some village no one would ever hear about.

"Then if all is satisfactory, I shall accompany you to your new lodgings." They are being housed, fed and paid a salary. Molly understands why they are still called volunteers though. The work they will face will be hard and uncompromising. Not something most people would volunteer for, in normal conditions. Molly is watching him more than where they are going, until she reminds herself that staring is rude and shifts her gaze back towards their destination, a small building built to house some of the volunteers. She hopes her roommates will be people she can like. "I… I'm glad you did. Select me to help, I mean."

Her statement is answered by a polite nod. As they walk, Molly wishes she'd worn something lighter and misses the cool winds from home and the smell of the flowers her family cultivates, strewn across more fields than the eye can see. Here the dry earth crunches and crackles underfoot and as tired and worried as she is, Molly wonders if the seeds she brought form Earth will manage to thrive under such harsh conditions.

They will, she decides as they walk down the barren path, devoid of any vegetation or flowers. She'll figure out how to make it happen, and they will. If she achieves nothing else while she is here, Molly will make certain these people see life and color blooming in their new home.

A Vulcan woman is waiting for them at the compound. Solak introduces her as the one in charge of ensuring the volunteers have everything they need, and places Molly in the her care before returning to his office.

~*~

It takes her a month to settle in and two to start making friends among the volunteers, though Molly suspects that the Vulcan woman who has been greeting her every morning and who carefully inquires as to her physical well-being every evening is – in a distant, controlled sort of way – actually attempting to make her feel welcome and at home. As much a home as this place can be, for someone who has just lost a whole world, she thinks. It seems obvious to her why the volunteers have their own quarters, though she doesn't offer her thoughts on the matter to the others who eventually stop wondering and instead focus on working. It's not that the Vulcans feel they are better than them, she decides. It's just that everything is still too raw, and having to be even more polite and more controlled around anyone not Vulcan is just asking for too much. Molly makes a point of being calm and silent around the one assigned to ensure their well-being. After a while, some of the others start behaving the same way as Molly is. She feels better then, slightly. Her mother would approve of the balance that is being worked out – a harmony of the household Molly desperately missed and welcomes once she finds it again, as strange and different as this place is.

The homesickness that keeps her awake through the nights fades eventually as of that moment, just like her mother promised her it would. Molly decides that she would miss it were her otherwise quiet and solemn hostess not there to inquire after her, all gentle solicitousness and silent companionship. So she tends to the fields or the nurseries and carefully follows the instructions when running tests and otherwise is as pleasant and unobtrusive as she can be. Outside working with the plants or inside in the laboratory – those are the places where she and all the other volunteers live during the day, focusing on their labor in order to bring back at least a semblance of home for those who live in the settlement.

There are things replicators cannot account for, Molly knows only too well. She learns more every day about exactly how much they cannot replace. And though the Vulcans are making do with them as they must, everyone hopes that soon some of their destroyed world's own flora will settle in and take root, with the least possible genetic tweaking necessary for it to adapt to this new world. These plants they nurture contain many nutrients essential to the survival of their children and much of the fauna that was not wiped out when Vulcan was destroyed. It is imperative to ensure that they will be able to keep receiving these nutrients. All of them work, carefully and intently, knowing what hangs in the balance.

At night, Molly works on a secret project. She is careful not to change anything to the earth she is working with. It is important that the seeds can grow in this environment without any changes at all. That was how the creator of this strain of flower meant for them to be grown. The plant adapts to the environment. Not the other way around.

There are small and large successes for the team of botanists, over weeks and months. They rejoice at each and every one.

Seven months since she first set foot on alien soil and after many failed attempts, Molly is victorious in her own, private project.

~*~

"I did it! I did it!" She races into the compound and for the administrator's office, hands covered in reddish dirt, shouting excitedly and loudly for all to hear. Molly has always been quiet and unobtrusive around her hosts, easily intimidated their solemnity. But this time she is all brilliant smiles and exultant laughter as she rounds a corner and bursts into Solak's office.

"You have to come see! I did-" Molly stops in mid-word and claps a hand to her mouth, horrified. "Oh! I'm so sorry!" Something deep within is still dancing merrily and even though she is mortified at interrupting a visit from someone who is obviously a highly ranked official within Vulcan society, Molly can't help bouncing in place, just a little bit. The motion causes two sets of eyebrows to rise just a little bit higher in perfect tandem and the sight is enough to nearly tear a giggle from her. It comes out as a short sound instead: a sharp and triumphant squeak.

"I believe your young botanist has something important to show us, Solak." The older Vulcan's voice is just as calm and controlled as anyone else's in the settlement, but Molly can't help but like it somehow. She's not sure if it's in the way he immediately rises to his feet and then gestures towards the door courteously, allowing her to lead the way, or in how he obviously isn't bothered at all by her interruption or her dirt smeared hands – but this Vulcan has been around humans a lot. (And there is also dirt on her face, she realizes, blushing beet–red as she leads them on.)

She bursts outs of the office and trots alone the path as quickly as she thinks they'll follow, her pace increasing with every passing moment. She is running by the time they make it into the first of the nurseries and then races right by all the others, drawing startled exclamations from the ones who are non-Vulcan and a few raised eyebrows from those who are. The woman who has been taking care of the volunteers all this time smoothly rises to her feet and follows from a distance, calm and serene. Molly could swear there is an air of anticipation about the austere woman, as though she believes something incredibly important is about to occur. She is so thrilled about her achievement that she dismisses the thought, instead focusing on a patch of brambles and greenery not too far away behind the edge of the settlement. As they near, brilliant, piercing colors break through the ragged leaves of green and the dusty, carefully maintained earth.

"They bloomed! See? They're from an amateur botanist who lived on Vulcan. But she was human, I mean, not a Vulcan. And she was a genius with roses. Everyone in the professional community agrees to this, the woman worked miracles. She created this new strain there, before - that's why…" Molly pauses again then forges on. Somehow this is right and good, despite her blundering. It's all right to tell this to them both, but mostly to the one who is now leaning over the bloom. It's almost as though he were memorizing every petal, every curve and shade of red and gold. "She shipped them off to Earth about a month before..." Even though every Vulcan in the colony easily speaks the words, Molly still can't. They don't mind, she hopes, as she rushes along to make her point clear. "Every single botanist that leaves Earth always brings a packet of these seeds along now. Because they can grow anywhere. I... just can't say the name of this strain, I'm sorry." She shows the older Vulcan the seed container she's kept in her pockets the entire time she has lived on the planet, the faded Vulcan script elegantly embossed upon it gleaming softly in the sunlight. "It's in Vulcan. She never gave it a Terran version of the name. So most of us, we just call this particular variety Grayson's Rose."

Solak takes a step back, looking serious but not unhappy. After a moment the older Vulcan speaks.

"_Na'k'diwa_."

He moves forward slowly and then leans down, hands cupping yet not touching the bloom. The word is harsh and foreign, but the way he says it is not. His fingertips hover over the gilt edge of one petal, tracing its shape gently. Gold melts into the deepest of reds. There is something indefinable about him, which she can't decipher but that makes Molly want to smile and cry at the same time.

"It means, 'For my Beloved'."


	4. Ripples

**Ripples**

~*~

_**Pergium**__: a radioactive element used for power in 23rd century nuclear reactors. Pergium is used by thousands of worlds as a source of energy. Many types of environmental control systems cannot function without the use of pergium. One such system was traditionally used to power the control systems of every Vulcan structure before the planet's destruction._

~*~

"If we put in double shifts, we can reach a production level that should meet every essential requirement they have, sir." The man leans forward, eyes alight with determination and hope. "Everyone is in on this, we're all in agreement. Doc says we just gotta report in for physicals more often and that bastard geologist," there is laughter in the room and someone reaches out to swat playfully at the shoulder of the man in question, "says we're tripling all the security measures. But… that's it. All we need now is for you to approve the new schedules and every single ounce of pergium we mine above our required quota will be reserved for the rebuilding of the-" he pauses, having forgotten the name in the midst of all the excitement. "Um, the sacred hall thingies."

A snicker breaks the silence that follows, and the culprit pounced on by his neighbors who press their hands to his mouth, attempting to muffle the sound of his helpless laughter.

Chief Vanderberg looks at the men and women gathered about him, each and every one of them waiting expectantly. He shakes his head ruefully; they'll probably all faint from holding their breaths if he doesn't answer soon, so he smiles at them crookedly and picks up the datapad they've set on his desk.

"Honestly, look at the lot of you." He pointedly doesn't allow himself to glance at the window of his office, where the entirety of the Accounting staff is gathered, holding a contest to see which one of them can direct the best pair of puppy dog eyes at him. "It's cheating, that's what it is. How's a guy supposed to say no?"

Vanderberg looks over the data carefully and sees no flaws. The Vulcan settlements would receive all the pergium they need, should they get the new production schedule underway. Somehow, the months and years of hard work ahead seem unimportant, compared to that.

Cheers of joy drown out anything else he may have said as he thumbs the datapad decisively, signing off on the new work schedule for the mining colony of Janus VI.

~*~

"How did we get this pergium?" The question is sharp and unusually focused for Solak's interlocutor, and though he is mildly taken aback by the reaction, the settlement's administrator offers an explanation in even tones. There are many whispers surrounding the old Vulcan standing before him, though all treat him with great respect. Sarek treats him as one would a kinsman and that is all anyone needs to know.

"The mining colony on Janus VI changed its production schedule months ago in order to provide us with the pergium we need, most notably for the environmental control systems which we will have to install when the new Halls of Ancient Thoughts are rebuilt. It was a most generous act, on their part." It is but one of many, a fact which Solak leaves unspoken. He is one of the least surprised by the outpouring of support from so many members of the Federation. But this, even he did not expect. Pergium mining is a dangerous occupation and the refining of the ore to a safe energy source even moreso. He hopes no lives will be lost during the heightened production schedule, despite the assurances of the mining colony administrator that everything is proceeding under optimal conditions.

His guest's next words, however, do nothing to ease his concern.

"No! It is imperative that they cease all mining operations immediately. Contact them at once!"

"We cannot. Communications with them broke down after we received this latest quota assessment. This does occur at times due to the radiation levels inherent to a mining operation of that nature..."

Solak trails off as the older Vulcan leaves the room with unseemly haste, practically already at a run before he is through the doorway. The administrator's concern blossom into outright worry though none of this shows through his controlled façade. After a moment's reflection, he thumbs the comm unit on his desk swiftly and requests for the other's ship to be readied for departure post-haste.

~*~

The Vulcan who has just arrived on Janus VI is old, and Sam wonders if the man's presence when he was younger was anything like it is now. He feels practically bowled over the instant all that imperious and focused attention settles on him, though he does his best to not show it.

His puzzlement is clear to see however – of that he has no doubt.

"I'm sorry sir, were you here to check in on the pergium mining quotas? We're well above our original estimates, we should have more than enough for you to start rebuilding the Halls along with the powering systems they require... soon..." He trails off under the Vulcan's piercing gaze.

"The Halls of Ancient Thought." The miner nods gravely at the elder Vulcan's correction and waits, holding his breath a bit, in case there is another question. "Has nothing out of the ordinary occurred since you doubled the mining colony's output?"

"Tripled, actually, sir." Sam smiles at Spock's sharpened focus, a little proud even if he's still entirely intimidated by the old Vulcan looking at him so intently. "And um." The question 'How did you know?' is probably glowing above his head like a neon sign, but instead of asking he just offers Spock a wide grin and nods. "Weeell, mebbe. Kinda. I guess you could call it out of the ordinary." Trying not to look too cheerful and probably failing miserably, Sam steps to the side slightly. "I think you need to head to level 22 and see for yourself, sir. Why don't I show you to the Geolabs?"

After a moment of hesitation – and Sam could swear the Vulcan actually looks… worried somehow – the man nods and follows him into the depth of the mining colony.

~*~

The doors swoosh open smoothly and the first thing Sam notices in the room is the smell. Acrid and sharp, the scent of melting and corroded metal fills the entire area despite the aeration systems working to clear it. It's the same smell that's inhabited the lab for the last two days, though, so he's starting to get used to it.

"Hey, Sam. Chief Vanderberg just commed me to let me know we had a visitor." The man within the room looks over his shoulder and smiles in a friendly manner at Sam's rather sloppy salute. It's traditional by now, that salute - an insult turned friendly jest as the two men became friends over time. The man's gaze shifts to the Vulcan standing next to Sam and he nods politely. "Sorry if I can't get up yet sir, but the samples you'll need are over there. I'm assuming you're here for the pergium we've been purifying for the new Vulcan settlement?"

"Doctor M'Benga?" Sam turns to stare at the Vulcan and is utterly shocked to see an expression of utter surprise on his face. He turns to give his friend a wondering look, and both men immediately decide, without needing anything more than that shared glance, that it's best not to ask.

"Doctor? No sir." Jabilo M'Benga tries to smile, though the expression is more cautious than usual – it reminds Sam of when the man first arrived at the mining colony, standing apart from the others as he went about his duties. He had been a veritable iceberg, back then. "I'm not a doctor, I'm a geologist. Biogeochemistry is my specialty."

Sam watches the scene and waits impatiently, until Jabilo gives him a mildly exasperated look and shifts, finally revealing what is keeping him seated. As essential as the pergium is to the rebuilding of the most sacred and ancient of Vulcan monuments, it is the sight of what the man holds cradled in his arms that holds the Vulcan's attention locked in place. Sam remains quiet, though he can tell from Jabilo's chiding expression that it's far too obvious how amused he is at the Vulcan's reaction.

"Fascinating." Pergium samples entirely forgotten, the old man glides towards Jabilo and the thing he is holding in his arms. "How did you find… it?"

The nearly undetectable note of glee in the Vulcan's bearing is enough to break the ice. Jabilo laughs lowly, a warm and rich sound.

"We broke a new level trying to get to a new vein a couple of days ago, and the miners found these odd round shells all over some old, pre-existing shaft system." Jabilo pats the stone-like thing he is holding carefully and is rewarded with a quiet, grinding sound. "I had some extra security measures set in place when I first arrived here a few years ago. They sure paid off…" He gives Sam a sardonic look. "Remember how you and the others complained about that for months?"

Sam has the good grace to look contrite, however so briefly. He'd led the charge against the new security measures, back then – he is among the first to admit how grateful he is for them, now. The Vulcan studies the both of them with a pensive air before focusing on the creature once more.

"The spheres were eggs."

"Yessir. And because of the security measures, they only broke the one. And brought it right back to me in a containment field after sealing up the level." There is something fragile in Jabilo's voice as he goes on, and he holds the small creature a touch closer to himself, tickling its cilia lightly with gloved fingers, chuckling at its indignant reaction. Sam remembers the frantic, terrifying hours that followed after they brought the sphere to the geologist only to be told it was an egg – their concern had turned to near despair when he'd performed his preliminary scans and told them the creature was sentient. Jabilo gives Sam a sympathetic look and speaks up once more, concealing Sam's reaction from the Vulcan, something for which the miner is thoroughly grateful.

"It was a close call. This little guy would have died if they hadn't used the containment field. Even so I nearly lost him a few times until he stabilized. Thankfully, the field kept some of the essential nutrients in the shell from degrading long enough that he could survive on the elements it contained and enough traces of it were still left for analysis when they got him to my lab for me to deduce an acceptable blend of alloys and minerals to feed him with. Whipped up the most disgusting blend you've ever seen after patching it up with some thermo-concrete and voila!" Jabilo shrugs a touch sheepishly and hides a scorched sleeve under the suddenly wriggling creature. "One squirmy, slightly undersized silicon-based infant life form with a tripartite exoskeleton made of… rock!"

"That is a gross over-simplification of the creature's outer shell." The Vulcan's voice is admonishing, of that Sam has no doubt, yet for some odd reason, he'd swear the man is also... glad.

"Well, yeah. But it's easier on the miners." Jabilo shrugs good-naturedly, giving Sam a mocking look and goes with the flow, as always. "The little guy is a hungry one, I can tell you that much. It's a good thing those digestive acids of his are so weak, or he'd have eaten me out of the lab by now!"

"He?" There is a giggle at the Vulcan's pointed comment, from somewhere in the hallway. Sam straightens up slightly and makes shushing motions behind his back, all the while hoping that whoever is part of the crowd steadily gathering outside the lab manages to stay quiet from now on.

"Eh. Guessing at this point." Jabilo pauses, and pointedly does not look at the still open door of the Geolabs. "I've got the miners running some readings and getting ready to re-open the seal they set on the level where they found the eggs. I figure there's probably an adult in there that's pretty anxious to get this little one back. He'll be good to go soon as he's done with his next snack. His species seem to need a lot of nourishment early on..." There is a wistful quality to his voice and the hand cradling the youngster tightens slightly. "Chief Vanderberg actually mentioned that you had some experience in First Contact situations when he contacted me about your arrival." Sam blinks at that, both surprised and relieved at the same time. That's one more chance to ensure everything goes well once they find more of the creatures to return the infant to. "Think this will go well?"

As though this is something he does every day, the Vulcan nods and takes a small step back, then another. He glances at the doorway and then gives Sam a dry look. Sam just grins and spreads out his hands in a helpless gesture. This is a small company - any news is bound to travel fast. And it helps if one keeps his communicator open, though Sam won't admit to that, even as the old man looks right at the device and raises an eyebrow at him wryly.

Hopefully, he hasn't figured out that means there's most likely some sort of betting pool going on, though Sam prefers not to linger overmuch on what it might be about.

"I shall endeavor to ensure that everything goes as smoothly as possible. I will go offer my assistance to Chief Vanderberg while you see to the child's needs." His voice is kind and Sam feels a rush of gratitude. Even Jabilo offers him a weak smile, and it's obvious for everyone in the room that the geologist is aware that his unwillingness to be parted from the young creature he has saved is only too obvious.

Sam is thankful that Jabilo will get the chance to spend a bit more time with the alien baby. And he thinks that Vulcans really aren't' cold-hearted at all. Not one bit.

The Vulcan gives the small sentient silicon being one last contemplative look and departs, leaving Sam, Jabilo and his charge in the lab.

"And you're still here why?" Sam turns around to give his friend a disarming grin and tiptoes closer, eyeing the small alien as it creaks and squirms in Jabilo's arms.

"So, you give him a name yet?"

"Wha- no! That's not my job, you blithering idiot! I'm not his father!"

"Hey! Watch your language mister, there's a baby in the room!"

"...and I put up with you why again, you maniac?"

Sam laughs and has to admit yet again that he really likes the little guy they found. He's turning out to be the best partner ever when it comes to teasing Jabilo without getting scanners thrown at his head all the time.

~*~

Vanderberg nods at the Vulcan and looks satisfied with himself. Probably too much, but it's been an absolutely incredible few days and he feels perfectly justified in being pleased at how everything is turning out.

"Horta? How did you come up with the name?"

The Vulcan tilts his head to the side just a touch, eyeing Vanderberg with ill-concealed interest.

"Well, it's simple really. Hort means nursery in German. And that's pretty much what this whole level is, right? And I added an a at the end in honor of Mister M'Benga," he adds, looking off to the side. The geologist does not notice the scrutiny, too focused on the egg he is currently holding. He sets it down carefully among the others in the room, nodding in satisfaction before directing the miners to bring him the next batch that need checking. A small lump of rock follows him closely, dogging his every step. Sam is trailing not far behind, eyeing the baby Horta with a fond grin.

"Much approval." The voice is electronic and somewhat fuzzy, but clear nonetheless as the mother Horta rumbles into view. She is impressively large – it gave them all quite a shock the first time they saw her shuffling out of the shadows, following the Vulcan back to the shaft leading to the higher levels. "Saved the first child, he did. In our name, he should be."

"Ma'am, you have no idea how glad I am we had those universal translators. It's nice that you can play etch-a-sketch with those acids of yours thanks to that Vulcan mind meld thingamabobber, but it is hell on the floor!"

The Horta shivers in silent laughter, the translator crackling with static and Vanderberg gives in to his amusement and relief as well, only too aware of how different things might have been had they broken through the level without care or consideration.

Today is a day to celebrate life. He holds on to that thought dearly.

~*~

"Mister M'Benga, before I leave." Jabilo pauses in his progress through the cave and waits until the Vulcan has caught up. He's grateful for the other's presence, for a formal First Contact that has been so smooth and simple it might go down in history as the example to follow from now on. Particularly considering how disastrous things might have gone. "Why did you become a biogeochemist?"

Jabilo stares at the old Vulcan for a moment, brown eyes unblinking. He feels a familiar pang of sorrow and pain, but he smiles nonetheless. For within the pain, there is also a deep, abiding contentment.

"My mother was also in the field, though her specialty was different. I always told her I'd become a doctor when I was a boy, but... I decided to go into geology instead after she died. And Starfleet as well – it made sense to just do so, after all. She died when her ship was destroyed, but she was very proud of being a part of Starfleet. So... it was a way to remember her and do her memory honor, I suppose." Jabilo gazes fondly at the small Horta leaning against his boot as it makes a small, scratchy sound.

"Hungry!" The small vocaliser is even fuzzier for the child Horta than it was for the adult, but the underlying expectation comes through loud and clear. "Mama! Hungry!"

"I do love what I do, though I admit I never dreamt I would end up discovering a new life-form here." He chuckles and picks up the Horta, then reaches for a container hooked to his belt, expertly spooning metallic powder from it. "Much less end up a nursemaid to one!"

He knows the Vulcan is observing them but focuses on the small Horta instead, listening to the sound of the mixture as it slowly fizzles and pops while it is ingested. He takes his new duties as caretaker very seriously.

Jabilo never dreamt the mother Horta would insist he help in taking care of the child he'd saved.

"If you may forgive me for inquiring... what was the name of the ship your mother was aboard?"

Jabilo looks up at the other man – the Vulcan, and he always has to remind himself of this with this one, oddly enough – and though his smile fades slightly, his pride and contentment do not. It's a question people don't ask him often enough, he thinks. He is proud of what his mother did and she had a good, fulfilling life. She'd have been thrilled to know what he was a part of now. And she'd be so very proud of him for what he's done.

The Horta creaks, and metal sizzles once more. She might even have envied him this, he thinks, and Jabilo M'Benga smiles gently as he answers.

"She served under Captain Robau, sir. On the USS Kelvin."


	5. Ghost Ship

**Ghost Ship**

They are all mad, Ayel knows.

He does not mean angry when he thinks of this, though he knows it lurks within the madness as well. During the rare moments where he regains control enough Ayel reflects upon the feeling, Earth within him surging to the fore as it is wont to do, steady and strong for the briefest of instants. He understands then that they are all simply driven beyond their means to cope, their inability to find safe haven exacerbated by the fact that their once steady and reliable Heart is no longer there to sustain them.

Lurking in the shadows of the _Narada_, Nero observes them all, lips curled into a demented parody of the proud and gentle smile he once wore for them all. He owns them still, he who once strove only to care for them. And their souls are damned by his decisions.

Ayel knows in those rare moments that they are all adrift, left without center nor anchor. Their Elements have deserted them, or so they believe, and nothing can save them. Nothing can bring back their loved ones, their people, their world. It is easier to dive into what Nero has left to offer them than to think of all the might have beens and the what ifs. What if they had been just a bit faster. What if they had been there in time.

What if.

The guilt is irrational and one they all know others would tell them to release, in their rare moments of lucidity. But it is all they have left that binds them to their world and so they cling to it, lost children set adrift in a sea they no longer know.

Sometimes, Ayel pauses as he walks the hallways of the ship, the smell of earth and living things thick around him. He knows then that the Elements are there, hovering at the edges, biding their time patiently. It is a comforting feeling, though one which never lasts long. He closes his eyes then and prays to them. They answer in gentle, crooning sounds and promises. They wait for when the madness recedes and when they may slip through the cracks of the insanity Nero has woven around them all, driven through their blood in the inks of their grieving tattoos, hammered through their minds by the weight of his words.

The Elements bide their time around the hidden corners of their minds.

When the time comes, they will not be denied.

~*~

"Cripple it." Nero's voice is broken, the jagged edges with a sick, unrelenting rage driving them all onward with every sound he utters. "Then prepare a boarding party to scavenge it for the materials we need for repairs."

The order is followed, all of them working smoothly as a single unit. The madness that has brought them closer and welded them to Nero in a single perfect unit is reflected in their gestures, in the way they mindlessly cripple the vessel desperately trying to escape them.

Once the vessel no longer moves, the boarding party gathers, Ayel in the lead.

It is not the first time they have done this, he knows.

It is not the last, he believes.

~*~

The ship is nigh deserted, which happens often enough as crews try to find a way to fight back or more rarely escape them that Ayel is unbothered by what would otherwise become a concern.

It is when they find the crew, however, that things change.

Sightless eyes stare upward into absent skies.

Sanity slams into ascendency, harsh and unforgiving. Her grip is fierce, enraged and without mercy. Ayel stares at the small bodies strewn on the deck and keens in numb horror at what they have done. The only thing that keeps him from going straight back into the madness is the Earth avalanching through him, hard and unyielding.

All of them are children. Girls, he notes blankly. Some almost babies still.

_Is this what we have wrought? _

_Is this now all that we are? _

A sound catches his attention, but it is T'sala who moves first, a short, hesitant step. She turns to look at Ayel, eyes wide and uncertain, hands trembling in an echo of the grief bubbling in her throat. The sounds are small and helpless. She is not the only one falling to pieces, another of them crumbling to his knees at the scene before them.

_Elements have mercy upon our souls._

They are all looking at him, Ayel realizes. They have all been dragged back to this world, he realizes, made to face what it is they have been doing since they forsook the Elements' embrace.

Earth's grasp upon him is firm and steady. She will not let him go.

_What have we done?_

"Check for survivors," he murmurs, voice low and unsteady. They need him, he understands. What he never did before, what Nero always was to them, he must become now. The others stagger into motion automatically, moving nearer to him by instinct before spreading out in a smooth flow. The calming influence is from gentle, caring Neda he knows. Water threading through them all, binding their aching souls together gently one by one. Ayel is grateful for the man's presence, the only one among the party able to soothe them so, now that they have regained awareness of who – and what – they are.

Ayel is the first to reach the source of the sound they all heard. Ayel, grieving and shattered, is the first thing the small green-skinned girl sees once the dead body of another child is lifted from hers. The thought nearly breaks his heart all over again. She could be the same age his beloved daughter would have been, had she survived the destruction of their planet. The girl's skin is so grimy he can barely make out the color of it, her hair so tattered and dirty he has no clue as to which element she might be beholden to.

She is not _Rihannsu_.

It does not matter.

They stare at each other for a moment, and finally the child reaches up, knuckles bloodied and stiff, and tries to pat away the tears upon his cheeks, eyes filling with tears of her own.

It is when Ayel realizes she is mourning for him, that the unfathomable sorrow in her eyes is meant for him alone, that he finds himself undone.

The others gather about him slowly and he kneels to gather the whimpering child in his arms gently, weeping uncontrollably as she cries softly and tries to comfort him. Ayel mourns for his people, for hers, and for all the wrongs that have been done since Romulus was destroyed.

Once broken, some things cannot be reforged.

~*~

A forgotten section of the ship is rediscovered for their purpose, its shape determinedly hammered into a suitable living crèche. It is located at the very heart the _Narada_. Though most would consider it an irony, they find it to be a fortuitous symbol instead.

They do not have a world's Air to give her, the small nameless girl whom they rescue and smuggle aboard the _Narada_. They have no real Earth, save for what little that is compressed in the hull that surrounds them. They have no Water, other than that which they can purify through the ship's systems, as worn and tattered as they are becoming.

They give her Fire instead, warm and comforting and cheerful. Duraglass coils to house the Element of her blessing are carefully built, materials scavenged from parts of the ship Nero never ventures to and within a matter of days the girl-child smuggled from one crew member's quarters to another's is brought to her new home.

Eyes fill with wonder and after patting Ayel's cheek one last time, she demands to be set down. Limping still, she wanders through the rooms they have built for her. The first sound she makes since they found her and smuggled her back on the ship is a giggle, happy and not at all shy.

She lifts one hand towards the Fire dancing through the shimmering coils winding their way on the ceiling and sways to its crackling, the Element reflected bold and wild in the short curls of her hair. Though they cannot give her a world's sky, they have wrought a starfield of their own devising for her. Another hand goes up as well, and despite her wounded leg, the girl starts to dances gleefully with the Fire overhead, laughter ringing brightly through the room.

They cannot keep her long, they know.

Ayel's lips hover on the edge of a smile, nonetheless. He cannot truly smile – does not know if he will ever be able to – but his expression lightens for a moment. The others gather about them, keeping close. They no longer feel so lost to him. Nero's madness has receded, does not have the same hold upon any of them such as it once had. Though the Elements have forsaken him, they will not leave Nero to die alone of his insanity. He is their brother, and they will follow him – gladly and as sanely as they can manage it – into whatever he leads them. They are broken and still a bit mad, but no longer do they give in to Nero's siren call for forgetfulness. What they do, they do for his sake. And they choose to be aware of their choice, as they set upon a path which will damn their souls.

They do this in the knowledge that their hopes and dreams have a new home. The knowing of this comforts them, in spite of what lies in their own futures.

"Kaevra."

_Heart._

He nods at the name they have chosen for her. All that is good and honorable within them will fly for a brighter future with this girl child. What she will leave behind will be of no consequence.

When Nero falls into one of his darker delusions, locking himself in his quarters for what is likely to be weeks, Ayel inputs new coordinates in the computer's navigation system.

~*~

"Wait. You mean, she just materialized right in the middle of the playroom?"

"Yep. We're not exactly a high security outpost, not like we keep shields up on everything..."

The male (Andorian) and the female (Tellarite) stare at each other then down at the small girl looking up at them, anything but solemn. She bounces in place and smiles widely (and goofily, the Andorian thinks) and the bright red curls of her hair move even more than she do, impossibly so.

She has nothing with her save the clothes she is wearing, and the smile she gives so easily to everyone else at the orphanage, child and adult alike.

"Huh. Well. She's Orion, all right."

"...what gave that away?" The comment's tone is withering and everything the Andorian is used from his administrative co-worker. He gives her a crooked grin and shrug, one antenna bobbing briefly in a meaning she refuses still to admit understanding of. He knows she'll let him off the hook so long as he doesn't rise to the challenge. She grumbles and does not smile back at the child. Quite. "Idiot. Right, let's call it in. Her species is on the list we have to notify Star Fleet about."

"You mean..."

"Yeah. If slavers are about, we need to see if there are more to free."

They do not comment to each other about how she obviously hasn't been mistreated recently. They do not reflect about how unlikely it is that any slavers will be found, or about how she must be a sole survivor, delivered to them by illegals which likely wish to remain unnamed. They go about their business, leaving the clearly unperturbed child to fend for herself.

Kaevra steals her way outside and gazes up at the stars high above.

Their Fire is distant but no less bright and she raises her arms upwards, and dances.

She will not forget, she promises them silently.

She will never forget.

~*~

She is still very young when they give her into the care of the Federation. As children are wont to do, she forgets the faces of her anonymous rescuers within a year and the sound of the name they gave her within two. The new name she chooses for herself years later, upon being granted Federation citizenship isn't quite the same, but it is close enough she hopes.

She never forgets the Fire or how a simple smile can drive even the damned away from the edge from a moment.

And one day, finally, she finds her way to the stars once more.

~*~

What are the odds, Ayel thinks. How slim are the chances that they should meet again like this. That he should pick up her reading among so many others.

A sole Orion female on a Star Fleet ship.

He shares the data to the rest of the crew, all save Nero, brooding darkly in the shadows wrapped around him. Ayel does not need to tell the others what to do.

The shot does not pierce through the ship's core as others have during this fight. Instead, the ship is crippled and left adrift. Nero is easily distracted by more combative prey in the following moments, and they move on deeper into the battlefield.

Ayel does not smile, though his expression lightens for the barest of instants. They continue on their path, and though there is no joy in their hearts, there is no despair either.

Even now, it seems, as they cast their souls to Nero's madness yet again, the Fire of their Heart sneaks back to them and gives them a chance to do one last right amidst all the wrong.


End file.
