Summer of Love

By

Pat Foley

Chapter 7

Spock walked out of his StarFleet Academy dormitory on a beautiful summer morning, yet one so different from his Vulcan home, he still found himself amazed at his adaptation to this alien world. The blue sky was clear even of clouds, a welcome change. A fresh breeze brought the sea air, the scent of salt water and brine, but for once the air was not laden with heavy fog and suspended water. The yellow sun sparkled off of dark, white tipped waves in San Francisco bay. But even the anemic rays from that pale star registered a hint of warmth in Spock. After a long, cold and wet autumn, winter and spring, he welcomed the coming summer with all its promises of warmth.

Spock still kept wary eye on the ocean, never sanguine about that huge body of water being so close. In spite of the name, the restless Pacific with its moon driven tides did not seem peaceful to him. But after nearly a year of residence in San Francisco, and on such a day as today, he could almost regard even that dauntingly formidable, near horrifically huge body of water with as close to impunity as a desert bred Vulcan could manage.

Thousands of students surrounded him, carrying bags and trunks full of personal belongings out of dorms. Glad cries and farewells were being exchanged between friends and dorm mates, particularly the freshmen, who had survived a long and hazing-filled first year and would be returning triumphant as sophomores free from that concern. As Spock walked through the hall and down the stairs, through the lobby, he came in for farewells from some of his own classmates. In his dorm in particular, his presence had eliminated much of the hazing the rest of the freshman class had suffered. By virtue of his excellent hearing and his unwillingness to suffer bullying from humans such as he had once been plagued with from Vulcans, he had handily dispatched such hazers as had come to his room, his floor and finally his entire dorm.

Spock had no close friends among his classmates, and among so many he had encountered some prejudice, but he also had many who regarded him with appreciation and even some gratitude. On the floor of his dorm were those whom he had often helped with problems in hyperspace physics and even mathematics which would not have troubled a pre Kahs Wan Vulcan child. Classmates called out farewells to him as he walked by their rooms carrying his belongings. A few husky perennially hungry cadets, to whom he routinely turned over his desserts at table, not having taste buds that favored sweets, came over and forgetting his Vulcan reserve, grasped his hand or arm in leave-taking. On the first floor, as he walked to the lobby, Garrison and Tyler, who had often assisted him in routing groups of senior hazers at the door of their dorm, came out to wish him good-bye, thanking him for his efforts and spoke of their happiness in seeing him return the next year when they would no longer have 'night patrol'. 1

He nodded politely to all this, acknowledging the sincerity and appreciating the good wishes, even if he eschewed the sentiment. Even the frustrated hazing seniors ignored him rather than glowered at him, taken up with graduation and ship assignments. The few instructors he encountered with whom he had taken classes nodded politely and sometimes smiled or offered good wishes. He had not conquered all prejudice in his first year at the Terran dominated Academy, nor convinced all, instructor or student, that Vulcans belonged in Fleet. But he had succeeded, and he had made a place here, with more than a few whose lives he had impacted in a positive way. He had done well for himself.

And he was now perhaps as unencumbered as he had ever been in his short life. In the past week, he'd aced his finals. He'd placed high in both the Command and Sciences track at the Academy, virtually ensuring that if he continued on as he had begun, he'd get Starship placement. He'd received his confirmation for continuation in his sophomore year, with an allotted stipend that even without extracurricular income, would more than cover his expenses. Whatever errors that had placed it below his tuition, room, board and incidentals during his freshman year, that had so worried him as he had watched his balance of funds dip toward zero, that had now been corrected. He would not be required to work next year. His stipend would even have that slight surplus Starfleet routinely allotted for recreation and incidentals above bare maintenance. That would allow him an occasional non-reconstituted meal, funds for a minor recreational activity, or for non-regulation clothing. Something sadly missing during his first year, due to his advanced schedule. But regardless of that, he fully intended to keep his session musician job as well as work as a computer specialist in defense industries. And with his credit balance in the black now, due to his session musician work, and prospect of earning more this summer, and with dual incomes as well as his Starfleet stipend covering his essentials next year, he believed his past anxious concerns about adequate funding for his Starfleet endeavors were at last entirely over.

And with Pike now as a mentor, he had an internship on the Starship Enterprise promised for the second semester of his sophomore year. There had also been no further repercussions from the dean regarding his extracurricular session musician activities. His fear of losing his good standing because of it had never come to pass, due to Spock's casual mention of the Civilian Liaison Office's involvement in his activities. With that, he'd had his first lesson in how civilian politics could impact Fleet policies and Fleet Command.

He'd confirmed his mother was fast recovering – she was already back teaching her own classes at the Vulcan Science Academy. The situation with his father was essentially unchanged. Still, he couldn't fail to remember Sarek, standing in the doorway, listening as he spoke to his mother on his last subspace call home.2 So there was some slight improvement there. He had spoken to his grandmother, notifying her of his successful completion of his first year at the Academy and his prospects for the future. She seemed pleased. And she had not only spoken of his mother, but for the first time to him, done so glowingly, referring to her as Honored Daughter. That had been a long time in coming, he reflected ruefully. He might have wished she had taken that stance when he had been on Vulcan. But he understood his grandmother had her own tactics, and for her own reasons that were not always his to know. He had long trusted her, even when he did not always understand her logic. It troubled him sometimes, that he trusted her more than his father, even though both clearly had their faults and differences. But he was relieved that his situation with his relatives at home on Vulcan was as well as could be expected with even some small improvements.

At the end of classes, he had participated in a major Academy event, the StarFleet All Stars baseball series. He had pitched the last game with a no hit shut-out, the spectators murmuring and then cheering in the bleachers as they counted every strike. He was pleased at that occurrence largely because his team seemed to regard it as a remarkable accomplishment. To him, it required only a basic physical skill and fortuitous circumstances, but he had refrained from saying such. One of the returning officers on the opposing team whom he had struck out, a Commander Matt Decker, had been briefly churlish and uncivil at the end of the game, making veiled comments about alien advantages and suggesting in an undertone that Vulcans had no business, if not in Fleet than on Fleet baseball teams.

Spock had come to understand that some humans, like some Vulcans, had these prejudices against aliens. So far, he tried not only not to take offense – such acceptance would take time, as he well knew within his own family – but to stay out of their way. He resolved in future to stay out of Decker's way, if at all possible. But the majority of the opposing team had taken his superior skill with what he had learned was considered 'good sportsmanship', thumping him on the back or punching him on the shoulder – he'd come to understand that sometimes these tacit blows were signs of approbation and affection rather than attacks or affronts– and congratulated him on his eye and arm. 3

Regarding the summer activities to which he was now hastening, while he had been concerned over rebuffing his mentor, Captain Pike, lest he take offense over his invitation for summer work, the captain had taken his assertion that he had other plans with a sage nod. Characteristically introverted himself, the starship captain had neither pressed him for details nor seemed offended.

So he left the Academy grounds on a basis of success far beyond his father's and even his own expectations. For the summer, he was fully unencumbered of academic, Fleet, family or clan obligations. Thanks to his session musician gigs, he had a credit balance in a major Federation bank sufficient to his maintenance through the summer months, even if he did not have this prospect of earning more. For the first time in his life, he was quite free to do exactly as he pleased. And not just for an hour or an afternoon but for months.

Spock carried a backpack with a few changes of clothes and necessary personal items, along with his lyre and guitar cases. He was ready for a new adventure. He was not anxious. Rather, he expected an interesting, perhaps even pleasurable experience. He knew his associates had a regard for him and he for them. He had every expectation that he could execute his assigned tasks, with no concerns there.

If it were not so very unVulcan, he would say he was happy.

The closest he had come to this state of mind, in his limited past, was when he had set off for the Forge. But that had been only for a respite of an evening, or a few days. Now a whole summer of new experiences stretched before him.

Spock boarded the magtrain thinking of the first uneasy time he had made this trip, and how comfortable he was now in this alien environment. On Vulcan he had so often been outcast, at some level dreading every new encounter, waiting for the predictable judgment and censure for his human heritage. But on Earth, though he occasionally got startled glances for his Vulcan one – and in winter he had been careful to wear a hat or hood, not entirely due to cold, while he was feeling his way in the general Terran society - once he stepped into a studio, all that mattered was his skill. And the satisfaction in creating music. It was unVulcan of him, and he did have some throbs of conscience about the pleasure he took in this activity. But then he consoled himself, that even Vulcans revered art and music.

Now, he felt a frisson of excitement beyond merely the anticipation and camaraderie of playing with his associates. All of his life, home or boarding school, even in StarFleet, he'd had a set routine, room and board, orders to obey, often being delivered or accompanied by guards or tutors. Only when he'd left his father's house to traverse the Forge and survive by his own wits, was there freedom, uncertainty, the unknown. But he was well trained in Forge skills, had known the area. It had been his own backyard as It were, and he had known what might occur. So that had been a minor uncertainty: only where he would rest, how he would sustain himself. Still, he'd grown to cherish even the limited freedom the Forge granted.

With his huge jump to Starfleet, he had had a prospectus, interviews, regulations to examine. He had essentially known much of what to expect.

But this summer, this would be a far greater unknown, and the first on his own, as an adult. He was eager to explore what the future would reveal. And hopeful it would prove even more engaging.

The magtrain disgorged him at the Greater Los Angeles Station. He took a slidewalk the 9 miles to Beverly Avenue. The pretty girl in reception greeted him as avidly as before, her mouth open in an 'O' of awe, as if he were some celebrity. He'd come to realize it was a specialty of the firm's receptionists to give so openly exuberant a welcome. He was used to it now; it no longer disconcerted him, at least not as much as the first time. She knew him too as just another studio musician, a regular employee, not one of the famed and fabulous clients. Her exaggerated welcome was essentially perfunctory, however it appeared. He nodded to her with frosty Vulcan reserve, and as he walked through to his assigned studio, only his thrumming heart revealed he was still adolescently disconcerted by these apparently blatant advances from females.

Roy's greeting settled him further.

"You've got one new track to record, Spock," the session engineer said, consulting his schedule. "And a few rerecordings that clients want changes on."

Spock bit back any comments on that. He still treasured that Roy considered him efficient and sans temperament. It had been one of the reasons Roy had kept him on after he had fulfilled his first lyre work, rescuing him from near poverty. So even though he had privately come to regard these continual changes by artists in much the same annoyed way his band mates took them, he accepted the score flimsies with deference. And after all, however miniscule and ridiculous the changes were, it was more money. After nearly two decades of never thinking twice about funds, living in a castle with an unlimited garden bursting with produce, tacit heir to huge tracts of Vulcan farm and wild lands, he'd had a rude introduction to poverty, and developed a real appreciation for how funds and employment could keep hunger away. Not that he'd ever been really hungry, in the sense of never having some sort of food available. But his first year at the Academy had taught him more than he had expected in that sense.

Underscored because now in the news, and even the halls of Starfleet Academy, word of the famine at Tarsus IV4. The terrible unnecessary loss of life had galvanized much of the student body and many of the faculty. The Chief Admiral had addressed an assembly of the entire Academy, students and instructors, promising to petition for increased ships, patrols and communications, to prevent any future such disasters from occurring to Federation citizens.

Spock had suffered nothing like a Taursis IV, but he had been anxious over his own nutritional concerns, and the engineer had been largely responsible for delivering him from them this semester. And for giving him this opportunity by introducing him to his friends and now band mates, and now these new experiences. So he took the flimsies with gratitude, even if it meant rerecordings to no logical purpose, and said, "Yes, sir."

"Sir, yet." Roy gave him a tired grin. "I'm not one of your military types. Go on and lay your tracks down."

Spock finished them in one take each, anxious to get on to the new phase of his life. But Roy listened to them both singly and in mix, regardless that both the nanny board and Spock's assertion that he had played them correctly indicated there was no need for this delay. Then he suffered, inwardly impatient, outwardly impassive, through Roy's insistence that he record several unscheduled impromptu variations.

"Just in case, Spock. After all, you're going to be on tour if clients want any further changes." Roy gave him a look. "You don't want me to have to hunt up some other Vulcan lyrist, do you?"

"No, sir!" Spock said, forgetting his control enough that Roy laughed at his fervent disclaimer. Spock quickly made suggestions as to what variations the clients might want, and laid them down in one take. Roy wrangled over some of the alterations. The engineer openly worried that he didn't have enough in the memory banks, or 'can' as he put it. But as Spock sipped an orange juice watching Roy listen to the last play back and counting seconds till it was completed, the engineer finally let him go.

"Have a good summer, Spock. And be careful!"

Shouldering his two guitar cases, acoustic and electronic, the latter a relatively new and treasured purchase, necessary since he wouldn't have a studio instrument to play on tour, plus his lyre case, Spock turned, still walking backwards to get on his way that much faster. "Careful, sir?"

"First summer on tour, and you are still pretty green. Don't do every damn fool thing offered. Particularly if Richard offers it!"

"Yes, sir," Spock said and turning, hastened on his way before some other delay or warning could manifest itself, chewing over Roy's warning. He was of course, green in two respects. But he rather thought it was his inexperience the engineer was referring to, and not the color of his blood.

He met up with the band as they wrangled in semi-organized chaos loading the vehicle. He had been due here at 11 am, and it was not half past ten. He helped Richard get his drum set hoisted up and strapped onto the roof. Drew settled into the pilot's seat, with Finn at his side. Chad and Richard took comfortable chair seats behind. Spock hunkered in the third row, squeezed in on a bench seat with most of the space taken up by a large amp.

"Where are we heading?" Richard asked.

"Didn't you read the schedule?" Chad complained.

"I leave all that to Drew," Richard said.

"Till you start grousing about it," Chad returned.

Spock settled back content at this predictable squabbling. He had reviewed the schedule. But lacking reference points at to the significance of the names, apart from bare locations, he was eager to hear the band's evaluation of it.

"Starting easy," Drew said. "Local fairs and festivals in the area down here, then we'll head up north as far as Calveras on the fair circuit there, before heading east and then down to Vegas. When we hit the opposite coast, we'll head down through the south and then hit the southwest."

"County fairs," Richard said, making a face.

"State fairs, too," Chad commented. "Fairground audiences can be big, more than some of the clubs we'll play."

"I like a fair," Finn said, in his slow drawl. Everyone in the group shifted their attention, given Finn rarely spoke. "We'll play enough smoky clubs."

"We'll start hitting clubs once we make the turn east. We'll hit the California and west coast clubs on the way back," Drew said, after a moment to register his respect for Finn's opinion. "But I prefer starting off the summer tour with fairs. Low pressure, non-critical performances let us get our act in gear and iron out any wrinkles."

"You ever been to a fair, Junior?" Chad asked.

"Negative," Spock responded.

"Hope you like cotton candy," Richard said.

"What is cotton candy?" Spock asked.

"Oh, baby," Chad said. "You haven't lived!"

Spock raised a brow but forbore to counter that with the obvious fact of his existence.

"All right, everyone. Let's get this show on the road." Drew lifted off. Given their first venue was not long out of LA, they arrived just as the fair was opening. The crowds were still sparse and consisted at this hour, mostly of vendors and exhibitors like themselves. They were not due to check in until noon, and their first gig was not until 3 pm.

Spock soon discovered that he did not like cotton candy.

He became aware of this almost immediately as he strolled alongside the band up to the dusty fairways of his first fair. Above the sky was blue as a bruise. A fresh breeze from the ocean threatened to be chilly but was negated by Sol at its zenith and the beginning press of a collected crowd. Around their little group was the natter of hundreds of attendees already present and thousands more arriving and gathering behind them, together with the lowing, cackling and baaing of animals, the sizzling of dozens of grills as the food alley geared up for business, the calls of barkers, the sound of shooting rifles and ringing bells in the games arcades, the screams from humans riding the roller coasters and other rides, the shrieks from a venue set up as a haunted house, and overlaying all of it, the faint fairground music of a calliope.

Drew asked directions of a roustabout to the management office, which turned out to be a prefab shack just off the fairway. Waiting for the manager to attend to them, Spock noted the people exiting the roller coaster were the same as those who had just entered it, only moments before.

"What sort of conveyance is that?" Spock curiously asked Richard, who was scowling at nothing in particular, which included the general area of the coaster. "It seems to only travel in a limited circumference, and without stops, returning those who utilize it to their departure point. And the vertical rises and falls of the course seem to serve no purpose, given the elevation doesn't create a significant gravitational change to seriously test human endurance. And this is not a venue for such testing."

"It's a ride, man," Richard said. "For fun."

Spock eyed the screaming riders, comparing their responses to the Starfleet G-force tests he had taken with his human classmates, many of whom had exhibited similar reactions, though not in appreciation and not necessarily voluntarily. "If they are having 'fun' as you say, why are they crying out in fear and distress?"

"Because it's fun," Richard said, rolling his eyes.

Spock raised both brows.

"But-"

"Chad would you babysit Junior here?" Richard groused. "Maybe you should take him on the coaster. And while you are at it, deep six him at the summit."

"Not me, man," Chad said. "You won't find me on that thing. I keep my feet on the ground."

"I'll take you later, Spock," Finn said, glancing over at the Vulcan. "I like a coaster."

As usual, when Finn spoke, everyone deferred to him. Even Richard shut up.

Spock wasn't sure he saw the point of the ride, but he was willing to let Finn demonstrate it at a more appropriate time.

But as the crowd surrounded them and grew, he winced at the decibel level of the fairgrounds. Used to sound-proofed stages where every noise was calibrated to the ultimate degree of human perception, or at worst, concert venues with at least some semblance of acoustics, Spock wondered how they would perform, how their music would sound, in this audibly competitive environment.

Directed to the management office, they collected the performer badges that gave them free admittance and the assignment of their stage venue. Following the other's actions, Spock curiously hung the lanyard around his neck.

"Just going in and out, Junior," Chad said. "Don't wear that turkey thing when we're performing."

Credentials in hand, they found the venue that they were to play in. Basically, it was a slightly raised platform not unlike many of the others in the midway, but with a motley collection of folding chairs in front of it. Except for a larger seating area, it was little different than the chairs outside booths selling fried dough and corn dogs. Spock remembered the last performance he'd attended, in a venue that seated two hundred thousand. Not only had it been replete with luxury boxes complete with private human waiters, it had had people standing in the aisles, breaking fire department rules to see the performers. He raised a brow at this comparative downgrade.

"I told you, Junior. This ain't no first class tour," Chad said.

Spock hastily blanked his face into Vulcan impassivity, worrying that after two semesters surrounded solely by non-Vulcans, he was losing his control. He had stayed well out of the way of Vulcans on Terra. Not that he was convinced Sarek might find some way to whisk him back to Vulcan – he did not really think abduction was in his father's character. Sarek was more subtle in his methods. But he had been reluctant to test that hypothesis. Spock had not even responded to invitations from Vulcan embassy events or Vulcan clan members on Terra, regardless of whether it was considered unmannered and uncivil. He had used a Federation passport to enter Terra, not a Vulcan one. He did not see how any Vulcan knew he was here, as he had applied, and been granted, dual Terran citizenship as well as Vulcan, by virtue of his mother's citizenship. He had entered Terra as such. Unless T'Pau herself gave him an order, he was staying as far away from all Vulcan citizens as he could until he was a Starfleet officer under commission. But he worried that without Vulcan mentors, his control would deteriorate.

But this was not the time for such concerns. This was, he promised himself, his summer off. A reward for his year of effort at the Academy and even more years of planning to reach Starfleet and succeed. If his control suffered a little, he would address that when the summer was over and he returned to school.

They were allowed to bring in their van to unload their gear. After driving carefully in, mindful of the flowing crowds of pedestrians that barely moved out of the way to their slow crawl, they all pitched in to set up the instruments. Drew fixed him with a stern gaze and said, "Watch carefully, Spock. This is going to be your job after today."

Spock catalogued the instructions as everyone set up their equipment, telling him how they wanted it in future. Whatever the venue, wherever the city, fair or club, the setup would be the same, barring any irresolvable physical limitations. Spock was somewhat used to the arrangements, from previous gigs on the road, but he listened and consigned specifications to memory. Afterwards, Drew led them through a practice set, to make sure the instruments survived the trip and were undamaged and could be properly tuned. By this time, it was well after noon. They weren't due to play their first set until later, so Drew let them go.

"Ok, everyone meets up here at 2:45," he clicked on the security screen around the instruments and set the code, dropping the control in his pocket. "Until then, enjoy the fair."

"Come on, Junior, time for some fair food!" Chad said and headed for a sign offering cotton candy. Spock could smell the boiling sugar even yards away from the booth, but he dutifully followed in Chad's footsteps, and just as dutifully – was he not here to experience Terran life? – pinched a scant finger-full of the noxiously colored substance from the paper cone Chad held out to him. He gave it a tentative taste and shuddered. "This is pure sucrose," he accused, as close to indignation as Vulcan control would countenance.

"Baby, this is manna from heaven," Chad said, taking a blissful bite. "Got to love the first cotton candy of the season."

"No, I do not," Spock said.

"Not?" Chad asked, offering the cone again.

Spock shook his head in violent negation. "Absolutely not."

They got fried Twinkies over there," Chad pointed out helpfully.

It took Spock all his Vulcan control not to retch at the thought. "Do they have….vegetables here?" he asked hopefully.

Chad wrinkled his nose. "Vegetables? Like spinach? Okra? Aren't you jolly green enough, little giant?"

"I don't think my complexion requires comment," Spock said, narrowing his eyes.

"Okay, okay, don't get your knickers in a twist over a little teasing. Baby, over there, by the farm tent – see? They got all the veggies you could ever want to see." Chad pointed out a barn board building with a flag over it. "But you had better get something real to eat before show time."

Spock nodded. But as Chad headed to a corn dog venue, he went for the flag.

The farm tent – it was actually a building - did hold wooden counters full vegetables. Unlike the booths outside, there were no prices marked. They seemed to be available for the taking. Spock wandered down the aisles, sampling beans and peas, tiny sweet carrots, and other vegetables. Apparently these items were being judged; judging sheets were stapled to the bins, with comments on them. Spock had no stylus, so he ate without leaving any judgments.

He had made himself very nearly an adequate meal when Chad caught up with him, grabbed Spock in mid chew and hustled him behind his big shoulders.

"Baby what are you doing?!"

"As you directed, I am-"

"These are exhibits!" Chad hissed. "You aren't supposed to eat the exhibits! Do you see me chowing down on some prize pig?"

"What else is the purpose of –"

"Let's get out of here," Chad said. "There're plenty of food booths outside –"

"You expect me to survive on fried dough and whipped sucrose?" Spock asked, as outraged as he could allow himself.

"We'll find you something," Chad said. "But you can't steal the exhibits."

"Steal?" Spock said. "You told me to go to the flag tent -"

"Never mind," Chad said, pausing before a likely booth. "Look, how about some roasted buttered corn? Mmmm-good! A bit early in the season, probably shipped in, or forced, but-"

"Must it be buttered?" Spock asked.

"Oh, baby, you are going to try me this summer," Chad said.

Spock ate the roasted corn, unbuttered. Later, he discovered the fair was featuring a strawberry festival. Spock much preferred raspberries or blackberries. But any fruit was nutritionally preferable to cotton candy and fried dough. Chad condescended to sit next to him in the festival hall and eat strawberry shortcake topped with whipped cream and more sugar, while Spock, shuddering as Chad sprinkled raw granulated sucrose over his own dish, ate a bowl of plain strawberries.

"Baby, this is a fair," Chad said, regarding Spock's unadorned, unadulterated fruit. "You are violating the spirit of fair food."

"Better that, than to violate my metabolism with sucrose," Spock said.

"How do you expect to grow, baby, without a little sugar for energy?"

Spock didn't dignify that with a reply.

They opened to a light crowd. Coming out of their small curtained "green room", they ran onto the makeshift stage and slammed into their first song without a beat, beginning the season with a bang, as Richard said, or at least with the opening salvo of the drummer's percussion. That gratifyingly turned heads on the fairway and drew some people over to their stage.

Spock saw there was a difference playing here from the venues he had performed at before. They were very close, mere feet from their audience and virtually on the same level. Not removed from the listeners by security and a high stage, as had been the case when Spock had played backup for celebrities in huge venues. The listeners were almost close enough to touch. Spock could sense their reactions, even without hearing them, or seeing their faces. But the listeners didn't require him to use any psionic skills to know that. He could easily hear their comments.

"Hey, they're good," someone said, and people slipped into seats before the stage to listen.

Spock's eyes cut to his bandmates as Drew and Chad played the opening bridge to their second song. Chad gave him a reassuring wink. Spock had never sung much before a live audience. Only in rehearsal, in a 'behind closed doors' studio, or very much removed from the audience, an almost invisible member of a huge entourage on some celebrity's stage. But he quashed his internal Vulcan censor, kept his head down, concentrated on his playing, and sang, not very loud, as arranged. He had, of course, perfect pitch, Vulcan lungs and breath control, and a nice voice.

He sang by rote, without expression, telling himself there was nothing scandalous about singing. But well aware that he had never heard his father sing. He couldn't conceive him ever doing so. He could imagine what Sarek of Vulcan would say, at the thought of his son and clan heir – but you are not his heir any longer, Spock told himself - dressed in Terran clothes, singing for a mere pittance, essentially for his supper, before a crowd of humans. But pittances add up, Spock told himself, as his fingers played and he sang regardless of his internal censor. And if it wasn't for playing, I would have been hungry last semester. And at least part of this summer, until my defense work paychecks began to arrive. Mother says any honest work is honorable.

But the Vulcan censor in his head continued to raise a disparaging brow. His mother had sung constantly as she performed household chores. So it did seem very human behavior, quite an exposure of his hidden humanity, to sing in public. And what would even humans think of an apparent Vulcan doing so? He completely forgot that most humans not only had never seen a Vulcan, that they had little idea how Vulcans should behave. After a couple of minutes, he sneaked a peak up at the crowd and was relieved to see that no one seemed to be paying him any undue attention. He was seemingly indistinguishable among the other band members. Indeed, the audience was nodding their heads, tapping their feet, even clapping, as humans did when they appreciated a performance. At that, he relaxed and sang as if he were in the studio with only his bandmates for listeners.

Very soon he adjusted to the difference between playing in an isolation booth in Westlake Studios, and playing before crowds. In concert with the group, hearing his bandmates voices chorus in unison, fingers dancing on strings in a counter-weave of melody, with Chad's eyes crinkled in pleasure and even Richard pounding out drum-beats with a huge grin, that Vulcan censor at the back of his mind, while always present and critical, was drowned out by the music, the camaraderie, and the crowds' enthusiastic response. It seemed not impossible to let it - and him – go along with it. Take the summer off, and consign it and Vulcan control to the next semester at Starfleet Academy and to his other, Vulcan, life.

Except there an odd thing occurred that brought out the Vulcan in him with a vengeance. Even if it was a slightly pre-Reform Vulcan.

The first time the band played before the fair crowd, Spock could hardly countenance the listeners' behavior. This wasn't anything like a Vulcan concert, where the attendees paid strict and serious attention to the performance. It wasn't even like a human concert, where the audience might be dancing or clapping, adding their own impromptu response to the performance, but still engrossed and attending, having paid for the performance. This crowd had not. They seemed for the most part to enjoy the music. Some even cheered and clapped. But …they came and went. They'd stop before the bandstand for a while, just as for any other exhibit or booth at the fair, perhaps listen for ten minutes to half an hour, and then move on.

Spock couldn't help but feel oddly offended when they did so. Vulcan censor in absentia or not.

"It's a fair, Spock," Drew said, when he ventured his confusion. "This isn't a club. People want to see the sights and enjoy the attractions."

"We are an attraction," Spock pointed out.

"But at a fair there's lots going on. They want to move and look see all of them. It's normal."

"It's why we always start the season with a few fairs, baby," Chad explained to him. "We can flub, tweak and adjust. No one notices or cares. We get our act in gear before taking it to the clubs. Don't stress."

"I am not," Spock said, marginally offended at being caught out.

"Right." Chad shook his head. "This isn't a studio session where Roy's got his eagle eye on the monitors to make sure we're in the black on every note and measure. Just enjoy it."

Spock puzzled over that order, and tried.

In the days that followed he discovered some delights to county fairs. Mornings were free for him, and the crowds fewer. He spent those wandering booths full of prized farm animals and handicrafts, wide eyed before things he had rarely or never seen, like a child at a zoo. And later tasting honey laden biscuits, fresh picked corn and fruit with the morning's dew still on it.

When he wasn't evaluating hand-made quilts and prize pigs with a judicious and sometimes scandalized Vulcan eye, he learned to set up and tear down their instruments and staging under Finn and Richard's rigorous specifications and in record time. For all Richard's lackadaisical attitudes, the drummer was an exacting taskmaster when it came to his ensemble. Any deviation had him howling. In contrast, Finn was nearly Vulcan in his ability to communicate in few words and by example. Where Richard complained, Finn set him right by patient, generally wordless example.

Spock learned to set up the band's instruments in what seemed like millimeter caliber precision to satisfy them, until he was trusted to largely due it on his own. As part of his duties, Spock checked and tuned instruments, replaced strings and made other minor repairs as needed. Usually just after noon, the rest of the band arrived, checked his work and did a brief run-through of the act as it stood. Though the act changed nearly every day as they tried out new songs or arrangements. They might rehearse, or adjust their playlist, testing those changes before each new crowd. By early afternoon they began performing, continuing though the late evening.

But he discovered he must be more Vulcan than human, because he found it difficult to accept the aspect of distracted audience members moving on. With his compartmentalized mind, regardless of his playing and singing, he also found himself concentrating on individuals whose attention flagged in the hurly-burly of the fair, projecting a little harder, willing them to listen. And found himself often successful. It was an interesting exercise. Almost a game. He could scan and catch faltering interest. With a little judicious intent on his part, he could then turn that faltering attention back toward his group just long enough for the listener to become re-engaged. Their crowds grew larger. They tended to stay longer. The audiences seemed more appreciative. The rest of the band members, all unaware of what he was doing, appeared pleased at their success in this distraction filled venue.

The Vulcan censor at the back of his mind utterly condemned this. But Spock was rather too fascinated and caught up in the experiment to pay it much mind. He shoved that thought away, to be considered later. Much later.

One day, the band went off-stage to cheering applause for a mid-afternoon break. The sun was fierce by human standards. The group was sucking down cold drinks while Spock sipped some lemonade from which he had fastidiously removed the ice. Even ignoring his Vulcan censor to a certain extent, he had his limits.

"I think we're fine tuning this set well," Drew said, cracking ice cubes after draining a cup of the near frozen liquid, to Spock's wincing discomfort.

Richard tossed a glass of ice water over his shaggy head, to Spock's barely controlled shiver. "Definitely we're getting in our groove. Usually at fairs, it's hard to keep an audience for more than a few songs. But here-"

Spock opened his mouth to explain, and then belatedly realized that what he'd been doing on his own part to ensure the groups' success, outside of playing and singing, was inhuman.

In fact, if he thought about it in terms of strict Vulcan mores, he wasn't sure if he hadn't crossed a very serious line for Vulcans. Belatedly he finally acknowledged the Vulcan censor in his mind that had been telling him that he had, and had been doing so for days. And that he'd been ignoring.

Subtle psionic enhancement, a meeting of minds or auras, was not unVulcan, if somewhat limited to the more rare and gifted telepaths and special situations. But Vulcans were all trained in their telepathic gifts. And in shielding. A Vulcan audience would have more resources to choose whether to receive such influences. Beyond those limitations, the usage was somewhat pre-Reform. Spock knew that he had crossed an ethical line in his usage of his gifts, from a Vulcan perspective. He'd been given to understand by his tutors that he had more latent skill than many if not most Vulcans. He had been warned accordingly.

Except that he wasn't playing for Vulcans but for humans. And with humans – well, did it really matter so, if their listening experience was thus enhanced?

He knew the answer to that, however unwelcome. What he had been doing was wrong.

"Spock, what is it? What's wrong?" His band mates were asking, in response to what must be his visible confusion and alarm.

"Yeah, Junior, you look like a guppy fish," Chad said.

"Watch out, you'll swallow a fly," Richard sniped.

Spock closed his mouth, and went from loss of countenance to neutral Vulcan expressionlessness and then to meek innocence. He knew now that he'd been behaving in a manner in which his mother might consider incorrigible. And given he'd practiced Vulcan methods on unsuspecting humans, he suspected that his father, his psi tutors, all of Vulcan would regard it as far worse. What he'd done might almost be considered criminal, certainly pre-Reform. He swallowed hard and sat up just thinking about what his father and his psi tutors would have to say about any of this. "I realized I misplayed a phrase in the second bridge," he said smoothly. It was true that he had, but he had realized it before he'd actually done so, making a variation that appealed more to his own aesthetic senses.

"I didn't notice it," Drew said, frowning. Finn eyed Spock thoughtfully.

Spock disciplined his face and aura into Vulcan impenetrability. He had the impression Finn didn't talk much because on some level, he didn't need to.

Behind the other's notice, Finn gave him a half wink.

"Break's over," Drew said, and Spock slung his lyre over his shoulder, picked up his guitar and followed the others on-stage.

Starting with fairs did provide a gentler lead in for Spock in terms of schedules. The group began to play in the early afternoon and the fair generally closed by midnight or one am. Then the group either packed up to move or caught some sleep if they were laying over a few days.

They moved north then east, catching strawberry festivals, then blackberry and finally raspberry, festivals. No engagement seemed to last longer than three days. They arrived in a town, found a cheap hotel, played for a few days and left for the next town on the tour. Sometimes, knowing he had to set up upon arriving, and play late, Spock slept in the van on the way into a town. Or on the stage, hidden behind the instruments between morning setup and the first afternoon set. Switching towns so frequently, he didn't always know where he was before they picked up and moved again for another fair, another gig, another town. He came to realize it hardly mattered. Food was fair food or fast food. Sleep was a brief respite in an often dingy room outside a flickering hotel sign, but more often in a bedroll hidden behind the stage or curled in a corner of the van between towns. Nothing really seemed to matter until they stepped on stage, and then, it all came together and made up for all the strange uncertainty of the rest of it.

There were few rehearsals since they had gone on the road, since they had no rehearsal space. They might meet for lunch before going on that afternoon, to decide their song set. Often they made last minute alterations, moved or added songs, tried new arrangements. Essentially they did their rehearsals in the early afternoons in front of the least discriminating crowds. Spock came to appreciate the automatic unguarded, emotional feedback Terran listeners gave. It was certainly useful, now that he wasn't using Vulcan telepathic methods to influence their attention.

And even when they had fine tuned their arrangements and playlists, there were inevitable alterations. When it rained and the flimsy rain cover over the stage leaked or failed, if there even was a cover, the band had to abandon and unplug their amplified instruments until the rain stopped and the stage was swept clear of standing water. This became more of an issue when they swung up from California to the upper northwest tier. Sometimes in these blank periods, when crowds could not go on the rides in the rain, and gathered before the stage hoping for diversion, Spock played his acoustic guitar or lyre. At first, just instrumentals. But then, as he became used to performing solo, and the crowds wanted more diversion, he accompanied his playing with his voice.

At first he felt some unease. Nothing like what unease he had experienced facing the Vulcan High Council, or before an Academy or StarFleet examining board, but still, some unease. Eventually, he became inured to performing solo. He even came to like it. He sang ballads he had heard his mother sing. He even tried short pre-Reform Vulcan songs in his own language, which the listeners were mystified at but seemed willing to accept, particularly if he followed a ballad with a song in Standard. Invariably young girls were his most fervent audiences during this time. He developed something of a groupie following along the northwest coast of North America, young girls hanging at the front of the first row of seats. He had unguardedly given his name to a group of them when they had asked, and now they called to him during his performances. They haunted the venue for a few weeks, tracking him and the bands' schedule through social media and showing up at each venue, with larger and larger groups. They called out song requests for him. These girls were not like the avid, open mouthed receptionists at Westlake. Even a Vulcan youth couldn't be blinded to that. They were very young and seemed, well, silly to his mind. Childish. Perhaps many were what his mother would call sweet. They were not mature. But it was hard to ignore the adulation they offered. And regardless, he couldn't do much but keep playing during these dead periods when the electronics were down and it was just his acoustic guitar or lyre and voice to amuse the crowd.

After the first initial discomfort of performing live and solo, he found it freeing and oddly addictive. He was, after all, anonymous here for the first time in his life. No one knew who he really was. In spite of their knowing and calling his name, it meant nothing really to them. Nothing he did impacted his real life. That alone was a heady and novel experience for him.

Richard, of course, groused over his solo performances. "The Commodore here is wrapping up the teeny-bopper crowd," he said, perforced to watch on the edge of the stage as Spock played his acoustic guitar and lyre for an hour while the band waited for a persistent shower to stop.

"Jealous, Richard?" Drew asked.

"Hell, I'm not interested in jailbait."

"Spock does very well," Finn said seriously. "It's good experience. And it guarantees we have a crowd when the rain stops."

"And then they run right off to ride the coasters."

"It takes a while for the rides to be cleared off, after the rain. And it's nice for the crowds to have somewhere to go when the generators are down. Otherwise they'd leave the fair."

"They can always look at the other prize pigs," Richard said.

"That's enough!" Drew said, raising his head at that comment. "Richard, one more word and you're fined a week's pay."

"Hey, the Commodore is so busy out there, he doesn't even catch my drift."

"I do, and I won't stand for it," Drew said.

"Me, neither," Chad said. "Lay off Junior."

"Or what?"

"I'll sit on you," Chad said ominously. "And you won't be getting up."

"Hey, I've got nothing against the kid," Richard said uneasily, looking from one to the other of his scowling bandmates. "I grouse at everyone." He looked guilty. "The kid's got a nice sound."

On stage, Spock never missed a beat or a phrase but he heard every word and wondered at the band's anger. He had experienced a lot of animosity in his young life. He could have told them Richard had never really been part of it. As they had worked on set up together, one on one, Richard had never been unkind. Spock found his hostile pose a puzzling one, but he was telepath enough to recognize it for what it was, an act. Once, when they had been man-handling Richard's drum set up out of the van to a new stage, a stranger had come up behind them, howling something about aliens. Richard had decked the man before Spock, his arms around a drum, could even turn to do a neck pinch. And then, before Spock's astonished eyes, Richard kicked the unconscious belligerent now downed on the ground. Then Richard had called the peace forcers to have him thrown out of the fair. Never in Spock's life had he ever seen anyone throw a blow in his defense. Afterwards, swearing and near shaking with fury, Richard had insisted on buying him breakfast. And then complained bitterly about the "fruit swill" Spock had chosen to eat – might as well steal the slop from the pigs was how Richard put it – and ate Spock's eggs himself. Later, after they had walked back to the stage and done a sound check, Richard had given him a lesson on his drums. And Spock knew how Richard felt about anyone laying a hand on his drums.

Spock had never really had friends before. Grousing or not, he considered Richard one of them.

His old life seemed far more distant than the distance between Seattle and Los Angeles or even Vulcan. And this new one began to take precedence. Sleeping behind the instruments after a late night driving and a hard mornings' setting up, waiting for a performance, his head pillowed on a jacket and his lyre at his feet, he began to dream of disappearing behind faceless crowds in unknown towns, playing music. Leaving his past life of hereditary demands and constant scrutiny and criticism behind.

It was a vagabond life, one entirely unlike his first eighteen years of study, drill and ordered discipline.

Of course, he still had his duties as a roadie. After those first few times with the crew all helping to set up, largely to impress on Spock how they wanted the instruments arranged, Spock was trusted to manage it, with a single band member assisting on a rotating basis, just to handle the items that required four hands to move.

Spock got more familiar with the band members with this one on one interaction. Each had their own pet notions of how the setup should be and how their instruments should be cared for, and Spock learned them all. Each also had their way of dealing with him. But it was not substantially different than how they did as a group. Finn was largely silent; Drew instructive and commanding, Chad easy going and friendly and Richard groused and complained but was also millimeter precise and perfectionistic.

When they played a major town, Finn took him under his wing and into instrument stores. This had apparently always been Finn's task, before Spock's assuming the duty. They purchased strings, picks and parts as needed, until Finn felt comfortable Spock understood the necessary basic turnover. Then he was given a budget for such sundries and told to do it on his own, checking with band members for anything unusual they needed, finding local stores and driving the van to do the shopping.

And there were their performances. But they were hardly duties, but pleasure. And an emotional as well as intellectual pleasure. He had never considered a career in performing arts, never could really consider one even now. But the life agreed with him.

After he'd done the setup for the latest venue, the subsequent sun filled mornings were his, once he had performed an instrument and sound check. True he was tied to whatever venue they were attending, huge state fairs, little county fairs or farm festivals. But his time was his own, to explore the exhibits, eat fresh produce at every meal, and examine prize Terran livestock still with the wide eyes of a Vulcan near child who had never really seen most of these alien animals before, or the few he had outside of a zoo. The sterile Starfleet commissary became a distant memory as he sated himself with fresh food. The classroom was forgone for a different type of education. He learned new songs in afternoon sessions. Tentatively, sitting on the stage, leaning against an amp in the early afternoons before a performance, he began to write some of his own.

But just as Spock adjusted and became comfortable with this new life, enjoying the fairs, living largely outdoors in the yellow Terran sunshine and eating farm fresh food, some of the band members began to rebel.

"When are we getting off the hayseed circuit?" Richard complained during a fair on the tip of one of the Northwest states. "I'm sick of farm girls and fruit pies. If I have to eat one more corn dog-"

"You don't have to eat any," Chad countered. "I'll eat yours for you."

"Never mind. Next week we move east, working our way down to Vegas," Drew said. "And we start playing clubs."

Richard smiled. "Oh, ho, ho. Junior here better get his sleep now. Time to move from teeny boppers to grown ups."

Spock looked across at Richard, and raised a quizzical brow.

To be continued…

Review, review, review

1 See The Tiger for the story of Spock's dealings with hazers at Starfleet Academy.

2 Holography 3, As a Reminder and a Promise

3 See The Academy Letters

4 TOS The Conscience of the King