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I Grieve With Thee

U.S.S. Enterprise, NCC-1701-F

Stardate 66158.57 (27 February 2389)

When the comm system in our quarters chimes at six minutes past nine in the ship's 'night,' I know it's an emergency, because my husband's crew knows that the time from twenty-one to twenty-one-thirty is sacred to him, and that unless there's a hostile ship about to fire, or we're in danger of the warp core blowing up, or in imminent danger of losing life support, Captain Data is not to be bothered.

I'm surprised when the signal repeats, so I do what any captain's wife would: I respond for him. "This is Zoe. The captain is occupied; is there something I can relay, or do you really need him?"

"This is Lt. Jjael, ma'am. I'm sorry to disturb you, but actually there's a subspace communication for you, tagged urgent." There's a pause and then the Akkallan-accented voice continues. "It's from State."

'State' is the Federation Office of State Affairs, the formal name for the diplomatic corps. I've been a member for two years now, but even though President Bacco has seen fit to commission me as an Ambassador-at-Large, my position is more about sharing Federation arts and culture than anything really political. Well, most of the time.

"Put it through, please, Lieutenant," I say.

"Yes ma'am."

Unseen by either the lieutenant or my husband, I roll my eyes. Once upon a time I was just 'Zoe,' or 'Ms. Harris' when people were being ultra-polite. Now? I was married to the captain of the most famous ship in all of Starfleet, and I had a title of my own. I wasn't sure I would ever get used to being called 'ma'am' or 'Madam Ambassador.'

I sit down in front of the comm-system and let the imaging system scan my retina, confirming my identity before decrypting the signal. I'm surprised to find it's a live message. I'm even more surprised when the image on my screen isn't one of the president's aides, or even one of the people from the diplomatic service. Instead, it's Admiral Uhura.

The dark-skinned, white-haired admiral looks older, even, than when I last saw her in person, about six months ago. Now, instead of just showing her age (upwards of a hundred and forty), she looks frail, almost broken.

"Ms. Harris," she begins, and then stops and restarts, "Zoe. This news is going to the diplomatic corps first, and won't be on 'fleet channels until morning. Ambassador Spock…" she falters again, and I can tell how hard she's trying to hold herself together. "Spock is dead."

The words slice through me like a knife, and I don't even know the man all that well. I've sat in on conference calls with him, exchanged correspondence, and once, when I was still acting for a living, we shared a perfunctory dance at some arts benefit, but I would never presume to claim a close association.

"I'm so sorry," I tell the woman on my screen, the one who has taken time to call me personally, but my words ring hollow to my own ears. "He was a great man, and will be missed. Do…do you know how it happened?"

"Saavik says it was natural causes, a heart attack brought on by years of overwork and exhaustion. It wasn't the first."

"Oh, Nyota," I say, because she and I have known each other since I was seventeen, and do have a close association. "I wish I could say I'm surprised, but…" I don't finish the sentence. I don't have to. Instead, I pull up the ancient Vulcan phrase I've been fortunate to have to use only once before: "Tushah nash-veh k'odu." I grieve with thee.

Her response comes in the form of a faint smile, the hint of a nod, and the remark, "I'd forgotten you speak Vulcan," although we both know she's forgotten very little, despite her advancing years.

"I'm pretty rusty," I say, flashing a rueful grin, even though I can feel tears threatening. What was that line about laughter through tears? My husband will remember. "What do you need from us?"

"There's an info packet coming," she tells me, "…with new orders…a milk run back to Vulcan picking up several dignitaries along the way." This will likely include one former Enterprise captain, with whom both my husband and I are more than a little familiar. "You have plenipotentiary authority," she reminds me, "so you can give the course change, but a few more minutes won't affect things, if you want to wait to share the news with Data. I know it's story time."

That elicits a fond smile from me, one she catches and returns. "They're almost done. It's Charlotte's Web this time."

"A classic," she says. "But isn't Elizabeth getting a little old for bedtime stories?"

"She'll be eleven this year," I say, "but yes, she's old for it. I'm never sure if they continue because he's humoring her, or because she's humoring him."

"A little of both, I think," is her appraisal, and we share a knowing look. "I will leave you now, Zoe. Call my office with an updated schedule, and if Enterprise can afford the time, come for a visit. It's been too long since we've made music together. Bring Elizabeth."

"It's up to the captain," I say, even though it will likely be a joint decision.

"Keep telling him that," she laughs. "Uhura out."

The symbol of the Federation government replaces her image on my screen, the info packet arrives, and I immediately copy it to my padd and to my husband's inbox, and then even that is gone. I check the time again: twenty-one twenty-nine.

When Data emerges from our daughter's room precisely a minute later, I'm tucked into my favorite corner of our couch, and my hands are wrapped around a mug filled with steaming mint tea. "Is she going to sleep any time soon?" I ask him. Like me, our daughter is more than a little nocturnal.

"If you were to check on her in thirty minutes you would likely find her just awake enough to realize it when you kiss her goodnight," he tells me. "I heard the comm-signal, but as you did not interrupt us, I can only conclude that it was not an emergency."

"No, not as such," I say, using a phrase I'd picked up from him over the years. "Sit down a minute, Data. I need to tell you something."

He sits, but in the seconds it takes him to assume a comfortable position, I watch him take in the glimmer of tears in my eyes, the way my hands are trembling holding the mug, and the fact that I've left a warming-mug of the same tea for him. "What is wrong?"

"The call was for me," I said. "Somewhat ironically, I'm getting this news before you, though it'll be on 'fleet channels in the morning." I take a breath, meet his golden-eyed gaze, and find strength there. "Admiral Uhura was calling to inform us that Ambassador Spock is dead."

The news rocks him as much – or more – as it did me, and he immediately sets down the mug he had only just picked up. "It is curious," he says seconds later. "I have long expected to outlive most of the people I know – certain aberrations notwithstanding – but somehow, I cannot envision a future in which I exist, and the ambassador does not."

The 'aberrations' he refers to are his own death, ten years ago, and the somewhat circuitous details of his subsequent return four years later, and we don't speak of them very often.

"You and me both," I say. "If there was anyone other than you I expected to live forever, it was Ambassador Spock. He's just so…" I can't find the word I want, but it doesn't matter. We both know what I mean.

He lifts his arm and I slide across the couch to snuggle into his embrace. As always, he is warm, solid, and very present. He takes my mug from me and sets it down, and I wrap the arm with my now-empty hand around his middle. He kisses the top of my head, and I close my eyes. We are quiet, existing together in the connection we have always shared.

We stay that way for a length of time that feels like hours, but is really only a few minutes.

Data makes a rare involuntary noise, and when I lift my head to scan his face, I see the tracks of golden tears on his pale gold cheeks.

I've known for some time that he can cry, of course, but I've only see him do it twice before. The first was when I told him I loved him and he realized it was mutual. The second was when our daughter was born. I reach up, and brush away the tears with my thumb, the way he has done for me on so many occasions.

"I know the Ambassador was helpful to you when you…came back…" I say softly. "I know his input is part of what led you to accept command of this ship. I even know you worked with him, back in the days of the Enterprise-D, but I don't know any of the details. If it would help you to talk about it…" I let that sentence trail off, too.

He gives me a slow nod, breathes in the scent of my hair, and then begins to talk. "Do you recall a period in the second semester of your junior year of high school, when I was not aboard the Enterprise for a period of two weeks? It would have been just after a visit from Wesley Crusher."

"The visit when everyone was playing that video game?"

"Yes."

I spend a moment trying to recall the details of my life as a student on that version of the ship. "I remember that it was after my audition for the Martian, even though I'd pretty much decided I didn't want to make music my career, I was anxious to have my results. It was only a few weeks after Lore, and I was terrified I wouldn't be able to cope without you there to hold me at night, and equally terrified that you wouldn't come back." I close my eyes to make the memories more vivid. "I had an appointment in sickbay and stumbled onto Beverly tricking you out like a Romulan."

"She wanted to send you from the room, but I suggested that she let you stay."

"You gave me some story about a symposium on cultural observation and duck blind innovations." I open my eyes and fix him with a glare that is more amused than angry, mostly because the incident in question is decades old. "But I knew it wasn't true. You were a really terrible liar. You still are."

"I believe there has been some improvement."

"Some," I allow. "But you were going to tell me a story."

"I regret that I was unable to tell you the truth of our mission at the time," he said. "I was certain you could be trusted with the information. The captain and the doctor felt it would be unfair to burden you with the knowledge of where we were really going. There was no such symposium."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"I was with Captain Picard on the Romulan homeworld, attempting to ascertain the purpose of Ambassador Spock's presence there, and determine whether intercession was necessary."

"Ambassador Spock was on Romulus that long ago? Wait! Should I be hearing this?"

"It was more than twenty years ago," he reminds me. "As well, your security clearance is more than adequate for this information."

"I'm still not used to having security clearance," I remind him. "I'm not sure I ever will be. But anyway, tell me the rest."

"Upon our arrival in the Romulan capitol, Captain Picard and I made contact with a local government official who was working with Ambassador Spock to promote the cause of Vulcan-Romulan Reunification."

"The Federation could never have approved that sort of an assignment."

"Indeed, they did not. Can you imagine how awkward it was for us, to be in the heart of the Romulan Star Empire expecting to assist a highly regarded Federation citizen with his return home, only to find that he had 'gone rogue' and had no intention to leave?"

"I imagine it must have been pretty tense."

"That is an understatement." He continues his recounting of the event, tells me about a woman named Sela, a blonde Romulan claiming to be the daughter of a former Enterprise officer – his one-time lover, Tasha Yar. "It was during that mission that Spock's father, Ambassador Sarek, died."

"That, I remember," I said. "It was all over the news nets and I remember feeling sadder than I should have. Beverly and Deanna finally figured out that I wasn't feeling my only own sadness, but Tev's – we still had a latent connection from the time we melded. It didn't help that Tev was on the ship at the time, either."

"I was not aware T'vek knew Sarek."

"More than knew. They're distantly related through his mother's family. But then, I'm told half of Vulcan can make that claim."

"It often seems that way," he agrees. But then he continues his story: "In any case, it was during that mission that the Ambassador and I formed what would become a friendship, of sorts. We were both struck by the irony of someone half-human wishing to repress his emotions, while a machine was striving to find them."

"You have never been just a machine," I can't help but point out.

"And you have never been just an organic life form," he responds, only half-teasing me.

"I'm sorry his dream of reunification won't happen…at least, not any time soon…but thanks to him, at least the Romulans will have a future in which to explore the idea again."

Data's arm tightens around me, pulling me a little bit closer. "That is true. Had he not become familiar with the Empire during his time there, he never would have noticed the potential for the Hobus star to become a supernova, or developed the plan to use Red Matter to stop it."

"I vaguely recall you being more than a little bit involved in that plan," I tease. In fact, he had been decorated by both the Federation and the Romulans for his efforts. "I also recall that for a while, you and Geordi were convinced he'd been pushed into the singularity."

"'Dragged' would be more accurate," he corrects out of habit. "There is something you don't know about those events, two years ago."

I snort. "There are a lot of things I don't know about what happened then. All I remember is being terrified you'd become 'the Captain who lost Ambassador Spock,' or worse, that I would lose you. Again."

"It is possible one of those things actually did occur."

For a moment, I am confused, and then I remember who I'm cuddled up with, and what I know of how quantum singularities work. "You're saying there might have been a version of Ambassador Spock that did get suc – dragged into the…"

He cuts me off. "Not a 'version.' A quantum echo. With enough time, I could possibly determine whether it actually happened, and if so, where or when he went."

"No."

"Zoe?"

"I don't think you should pursue it. Whatever you find, it won't bring our Ambassador Spock back, and if you mention it to anyone else, it will raise too many hopes. Personally, I'd rather live with the secret that there's a possibility that some alternate time or place is benefiting from Spock's wisdom, rather than know for sure it isn't so."

"As you wish," he says, and I know he means it.

We linger on the couch a few minutes more, and then, reluctantly, we release each other and stand up. I expect him to either call the bridge, or just go there, but he follows me to our daughter's bedroom where she's fallen asleep, reading ahead in the same book Data had been reading to her earlier.

While he replaces her empty water glass with a full one, I slide the book from her small hands, and set it on the table. I smooth her hair back from her face, kiss her forehead, and retrieve her favorite stuffed animal – a purple sehlat – from the floor. "Goodnight, sweetie. I love you," I whisper, and her mouth curves into the hint of a smile.

"Computer, reduce room illumination by ninety percent," Data says, and the lights soften to the hint of a glow – just enough to keep her from waking to total darkness.

I join him at the door, and his arm comes around me again, as we watch our daughter sleep.

I know that in a few minutes Data has to call the bridge and order a course change, and I know I really should read through the entire packet that Admiral Uhura sent. I also know that all too soon we will be facing the emotional devastation, not just of our friends and colleagues who knew the ambassador, but of the entire Federation, for whom he has become a symbol of peace and truth and trust and faith.

My husband seems to sense my reluctance to move from this spot, because when he steps out of the doorway, he tugs gently in a wordless reminder for me to move away as well.

The door swishes closed.

I turn to face him, and the tears I've been holding back finally come. "When they give you your commission as an ambassador," I tell him, revealing a trade secret, "they give you a lapel pin with four letters on it: WWSD." I wait a beat for him to ask what the letters mean, but when he doesn't I explain anyway, "'what would Spock do?'"

We both laugh, but my laughter turns to sobs.

His response is to kiss away my tears, to run his fingers through my hair, and to whisper the same phrase I offered the admiral, but not in the formal Vulcan I had used. He chooses the common tongue, used within families: "S'ti th'laktra, Zoe."

I grieve with thee.

Notes: First, the obvious: this is my tribute to Leonard Nimoy, who created the Spock I grew up with, as well as many, many other characters, but was also a brilliant photographer (the Full Body Project is incredible), a poet, a humanitarian, and the honorary grandfather to all of us on Twitter who took him up on the offer. (Seriously, did anyone not?)

Now the not-so-obvious: parts of this story have been noodling around in my brain for months, and other parts are newer. I've used a mix of on-screen canon (TOS, and TNG), expanded universe canon from the Pocket Books novels and the Countdown comics, and Star Trek Online, as well as just making stuff up. The possibility of a quantum echo of Spock going back in time is my nod to Abrams-Trek, and likely the only one you'll see. For those keeping track: This is ten years post-Nemesis. In the CRUSH-verse Data dies and there is a return, but that will be explained elsewhere.

11 November 2015: Tweaked slightly to bring it into line with the main CRUSH story. For the events the two mention, refer to Crush II: Ostinato, chapters 20 & 21.