Chapter Text
Sybok sat on the curb between the parking lot and the Martian plain, beer in hand, eyes to the sky. He didn’t even like this particular draft, but it was the cheapest one on tap.
He sighed and threw his head back so he could stare up at the great swath of stars across the night sky. There was a place he wanted to go, right at the center of all of those stars. All he needed was a ship with multiple warp cores, an extended plasma power delivery system, and probably, a Starfleet-grade sensor apparatus.
He looked over his shoulder to the shipyards, back to the sky, and took another sip.
When he walked back into the worker’s bar some guys were yelling at the vid screen about their Velocity tournament being interrupted, so Sybok meandered towards the guys playing pool instead. The last thing he needed with a cheap draft was negative emotions.
“An unidentified ship has come into orbit above Earth,” The reporter on the vid screen said above the crowd, and when the guys at the table looked over, Sybok bothered a glance, too. “It’s lowered what appears to be a chain into the sky above San Francisco, and—eye witnesses describe a beam shooting in the waters of the bay—”
Conversation around the bar dwindled with each passing minute until the room was quite save for breathed words and the clink of glass against counters and tables. As the beam bore deeper into the Earth’s crust, some of the patrons even left, muttering something about family and emergency calls.
Sybok watched as people moved in and out of the bar, but he took a seat in the corner; he had no one to call. Yet when the drill was shot down by some lone and mysterious space ship, he shared in their raucous elation, clinking beers together, grinning and laughing. It was nothing more than a fluke of activity in an otherwise boring sector, a modicum of excitement to spice up the day and make you realize what you had to lose…
And then—Vulcan. Gone.
He could feel the eyes of the other patrons on his face, being the lone Vulcan in the crowd, until the last bits of information is also announced: the death of the seven ships, most of them born right in the shipyards the others worked in.
Everyone trickled out from the bar after that.
Back at his own room on the east side of an old barracks complex, Sybok sat heavily on the edge of his bed and let his face fall into his hands. He didn’t cry, but the grief still tightened his throat and consumed his thoughts. Sybok didn’t even know half the reason why: the planet may have given him all his gifts but it had almost destroyed him when he hadn’t fallen into their prescribed mold.
He hunched over more, bending towards his knees with his palms pressing against his eyes. Maybe it was for his father—or Amanda—or Spock.
--
Shortly after the news of this destruction permeated through the Sol system, Starfleet announced two things: first, they need more ships, and the yards in both Riverside and Utopia were going to hire and train like they might have a war on their hands. Sybok had studied enough interplanetary history to suspect it himself. This would be the perfect time to strike.
Second, Starfleet broadcasted that they needed more people to man these future-ships, both enlisted and commissioned. Neither of these options looked spectacularly attractive: too much authority, too many people breathing down his neck, and too much questionably-important training in a cold, damp environment. The offer would be a contrast to what he was doing now—wandering between dry planets, looking for cheap quarters and something interesting to occupy his time in—but the prospect of tying himself down to a dominantly-human organization to be flung out into space on their daily errands didn’t sound appealing in the least. Yet he kept the enlistment brochure saved on his padd.
Two weeks later, when he was sitting down with his morning tea and reviewing the brochure once again (because it was the only thing on his padd that didn't inspire guilt or sorrow), news came in that a lone vessel had managed to limp back to the safety of Sol’s light. The reported state of the ship—cracked, damaged, without its warp cores—made the experts on news feed look uneasy, as if they were expecting it to burst apart in orbit.
Then they announced who led this Enterprise from Earth to oblivion and back again: Christopher Pike, James T. Kirk, and Spock of Vulcan.
The grief that had been gnawing at his insides finally eased, soothed by a spreading warmth of relief. If they mentioned him here, without words for death, he should be alive. He should be on Earth.
His room was within walking distance of the shuttle port.
Sybok began packing his few belongings before his tea had begun to cool and called his manager right after.
--
Wherever he went—the Mars-Earth shuttle, the train from the shuttleport to the shelter, down the street to the café and back—he got the same pitying looks, people who wanted to apologize for a planet Sybok hadn’t associated with for over a decade. He wanted to yell, It’s not my planet!, so they could stuff their “understanding,” but instead he focused on finding Spock.
Starfleet wouldn’t give him so much as a phone number, but the media knew where the heroes were, so Sybok hopped on a train towards Starfleet Academy.
He walked ten yards from the train stop before he saw a black uniform coming in from his left side, falling into step beside him before stepping in front of his path. Sybok looked down at the woman, glancing over her defined curves and her stern expression accentuated by a frown. “Sir,” the woman said, looking up at him from under the brim of her hat. “May I ask what business you have at the Academy?”
A smile pulled at the edge of his mouth, and he side-stepped around her neatly while replying, “It’s personal, if you don’t mind.”
“Sir.” One more step and she blocked his path again, blatantly glaring at him now. “In the aftermath of the Vulcan incident I have been authorized to remove—”
“That’s awful, isn’t it?”
The sudden change in subject has the woman stopping mid-sentence, flustered. “What?”
“The Vulcan incident.” Sybok replied. His gaze hadn’t wavered from hers since she stopped him. “What is your name, madam?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Zhao. Listen, I’ve been given authority to remove anyone who looks susp—”
“Did you lose anyone on those ships, Miss Zhao?” Sybok’s concentration focused to this single woman, scenery and passers-by blacking out from his awareness. “Friends? Siblings?” His mind pressed forward, right up against the pain that has begun to bubble forward. Now, time for the guess: “A sister, maybe?”
Zhao bit her lip, and while she maintained an admirably brave front with her fists at her side, Sybok could see the tears beginning to well in her eyes. He found the soft spot. “That’s none of your business.”
“It could consume you.” His voice lowered to make sure that nobody else can hear them, and at this point he couldn’t even see anyone else besides her eyes, wide with fear, frustration, and denial. A strong mind—he expected nothing less from Starfleet—but weakened by tragedy. “Let me help.”
“What—?” Human curiosity piqued, flickering behind her grief, and it gave Sybok the avenue he needed. Within a few moments, it was all over: he became aware of the light and sounds around them, and the tension in Zhao’s shoulders relaxed. She looked lighter, unburdened. He still had his gift; that was comforting.
Sybok waited a moment, allowing the glossy-eyed look on her face to fade and be replaced by an unfocused confusion before broaching his question. “I need to know where Spock of Vulcan lives.” Zhao looked at him, brow furrowing and lips parting—“It’s personal,” He repeated. “We’re family.”
Her first glance flickered to his ears, and then back to his face, fitfully trying to analyze his soft, warm smile. Zhao shifted her weight, looking away, and then she jerked her head to the south. “…that way. Faculty housing. I don’t know which one.”
“That’s all right.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you, Miss Zhao. I know you’ll honour your sister someday.” After a gentle squeeze, he walked past her, following the sidewalk south towards the inconspicuous apartment-like buildings off in the distance.
He stopped before the front steps of the nearest building and looked up at its front. Large, reflective windows and small balconies covered the front of it, ideal for the secretive yet romantic. Sybok didn’t have the knowledge to determine whether Spock was one or the other, but if he truly was an instructor as Zhao had implied, then. After bringing his attention back down to the ground, he gingerly stepped up to the front door and turned his attention to the list of names with their respective communication access.
‘CMDR SPOCK’ stood out amongst two and three part names. Sybok reached out to press the button with that name, and spoke towards the circular receiver embedded into the wall. “Spock.”
The light next to the receiver remained dark for several long seconds before it lit up green. Yet for almost a minute there was still no reply from anyone, and the light went dark again. “…Spock,” he tried again, “I’d like to talk to you.”
More seconds passed, and then the light blinked green. “Who are you?”
“Do I really sound that different?”
Nothing. Had he scared him off? “Enter.” The door clicked. “Ascend to the fourth floor, turn left at the lobby, and proceed to the door at the end of the hall.”
Sybok opened the door and followed the instructions to the letter. The carpeted corridors muffled his footsteps and everything felt strange, quiet, and eerie. The elevator made little noise as it rose to the fourth floor, even the ding of the door sounded soft and plaintive. It took him another dozen strides, down a corridor that sounded quieter than the first, to realize why the building felt so devoid of life—probably because it was. The solemn realization settled over his thoughts as he stopped in front of the door at the end of the hall. He reached over to press the small buzzer beside the door, and waited with his hands in the pockets of his coat.
The hallway was just silent enough that he could just barely pick up the soft footsteps on the other side of the door, a nervous and uneven gait, before he could tell that someone was directly on the other side of the steel. He gave a neutral look to the peep hole on the left side of the pocket door. After waiting another beat, the door slid open with a hiss.
Spock stood in front of him, no more than an arm’s length away. Sybok gave him a look up and down, taking in the full appearance of him: black trousers, a red shirt not hastily tucked in, just-combed hair cut in a typical Vulcan bowl, and those human eyes, still as wide and vulnerable as he had ever remembered them.
“…You’re so tall.” Sybok said quietly, and offered Spock a small smile. His brother looked back at him with an uncertain gaze, standing still for several moments until he stepped aside. Sybok walked into the apartment, looking around at the sparse furniture and neurotic organization: everything had its proper place . However, looking back at his brother as the doors hissed shut, it didn't seem like Spock mirrored his surroundings. His joy at seeing his brother turned to worry, just like when they were young.
Sybok sat down in one corner of the small couch in the living room and Spock sat in the adjacent love seat. Spock looked to the coffee table and his hands rested on his knees, and while his back was straight his skin was pale, paler than it should have been, and all of it intensified Sybok's concern. He leaned forward in his seat, elbows on his thighs and attention focused solely on the younger man in front of him. “Spock…”
The glance was brief, barely a flicker, up from the coffee table to him and back down again. “I suppose you have decided to reveal yourself…in the aftermath of the incident. With Vulcan.” Spock’s fingers curled, bunching the material of the trousers. “And you would like intimate details of my involvement in it.”
“No.” Sybok shook his head. Spock’s eyes grew a little wider, his brow furrowed: the very picture of naïve confusion. “I wanted to see you, and the Defense Force isn’t standing in my way anymore.”
Perhaps not the best comment. Spock looked away from and actually turned in his seat, giving Sybok a better view of Spock’s shoulder than he cared to have. Vulcan hadn’t been his home planet for over fifteen years, so it hurt less to refer to organizations that hardly existed to him, but the tragedy was still fresh here.
“…Apologies.” Sybok offered quietly, and leaned back against the couch, giving Spock some room to breathe and pull his control back from whatever state it was in. “If you’ll tell me, I’d like to hear it, especially from you. But if you don’t want to…I’ll still be here, if you don’t want me to leave right now.”
Spock took a breath, took another one, and swallowed once. His eyes closed—another obvious and fitful attempt to regain emotional control—and then opened, staring straight at the opposite wall. “It is impossible to accurately describe the most relevant events and consequences.” A more level tone this time, with only the slightest waver.
“Then describe it inaccurately.” Sybok suggested, his hand sweeping out in an inviting gesture. The movement drew Spock’s attention. “Tell me what you want me to know. I won’t hold it against you—I’m your brother, Spock.”
“You are my half-brother.” Spock corrected, though his voice lacked conviction, and he closed his eyes as he slumped back in his seat. “And I do not desire that anyone know of my experience. It is the entire reason why I am here, instead of working at more productive locations on campus—”
“Working won’t make the grief you feel for Vulc—”
“Do not address my grief, Sybok." Spock glared at him. All that emotion, all that pain so vivid and hot, flashed over his face and eyes. "And do not attempt to alleviate it through your methods. You will not succeed.” All of the emotions he saw disappeared again, receding back behind a fragile veneer of control. Sybok would let him have it; he held up his hands.
“I won’t try. But there has to be something I can do for you.” He looked around the apartment and all of its neat-and-tidy corners, valiantly resisting against the universe’s tendency towards disorder, just like his brother. A small electric kettle sat on the counter. “Do you still drink tea?”
Spock gave him an uncertain look, followed his gaze to the kitchen, and then looked back at him. “…yes.”
“Will you let me make a pot for you?” Spock let out a slow breath through his nose, and then nodded. Sybok went into the kitchen to begin the usual preparations: boiling the water, finding the teabags, and digging out two mug and saucer pairs from the cabinet. As he waited for the water to boil, Sybok leaned against the edge of the kitchen counter, and Spock stayed where he was. His shoulders were slumped, and he had a hollow look as he continued to stare listlessly at the coffee table.
Sybok knew he wasn’t really staring. He also knew that the longer he retreated into his own mind like that the more difficult it would be to snap back into the real world. The water began to boil, and the fact Sybok could hear it bubbling softly in the kettle told him it was too quiet.
“Tell me about your schedule.” He asked as he primed the teapot, swirling the boiling water before dumping it, and then filling it again before adding the teabag.
“I sit, I eat, and I meditate.”
“What about sleeping?”
“On occasion.”
Sybok looked over again as he let the tea sit and brew. Spock had yet to move and he wasn’t going to bother him about it, so he decided to bring the mugs and the pot over to the coffee table.
Spock shifted in his seat, and his gaze finally moved—back to the present and the now, instead of whatever he was dwelling on. “…my tea is usually accompanied by sugar.”
At this, Sybok gave a small, soft smile; it seemed he hadn't grown out of that sweet tooth. For an instant, he could see Spock sitting there in front of him now and Spock munching on a frozen popsicle then, barely five and letting it melt all over the outdoor patio. A simpler time, though if he could bring an ounce of that carefree era back to his brother, then his visit would be a success. “Where is it?”
Spock pointed over to the kitchenette once more. “The left cupboard.” Sybok retrieved the sugar cup without another word, grabbed another spoon to serve it with, and then returned to the couch. Spock silently added two teaspoons and swirled it into the hot liquid before putting the spoon aside and watching the steam curl up from the tea.
They said nothing, and Sybok was content to let him have the thoughtful silence, until Spock took the mug in his hands and sipped once.
“…Mother died.”
The grief of losing Amanda, as wonderful a mother as his own, hit him deep in the gut, but he held himself calm for Spock’s sake. Once Spock began to talk about it, starting with the cliffs and the Katric Ark, he didn’t stop talking until late that night. Sybok didn't try to stop him. When the topic would get difficult (and Sybok could see Spock struggling to articulate it objectively), Spock would rise from his chair and pace, as if the act of moving could help him force out the details.
Spock jumped around in time when it sounded pertinent, but in the end Sybok understood the important facts, knew more than the communiqués Starfleet gave would ever reveal. Captain Christopher Pike had led and lost the Enterprise, as well as possibly any further deep-space opportunities for his career, a guilt that Spock expressed in no few words. James T. Kirk, a rebel but a leader, charismatic and stubborn with an intelligent and tactical mind to rival Spock’s own; he would gain the most accolades from this event. Leonard McCoy was the arbiter of Kirk’s success on the Enterprise, a close friend of the man but a somewhat ambiguous ally to Spock as well, if one took into account his kindness in the adrenaline-crash following the end of combat (soft touches—that was all Spock said about that). Nyota Uhura was Spock’s student, friend, confidante, and lover, too skilled for her rank and too kind for what Spock gave her in return.
The Narada, the ship that had taken everything from him, had been captained by a mad man with a vendetta and originated from legend and nightmare. The imagery of hundreds of scaly metal tentacles curling out from the center towards him, surrounding a gaping maw of past and present death, perpetuated into the fabric of Spock’s subconscious: he couldn’t sleep, meditation helped little, and so he was haunted. An arm stretched out to grasp at particles of light, and a monster of a ship expanding before his eyes to swallow him whole.
Somehow, Spock finished his explanation on the couch, sitting next to Sybok with his hands folded in his lap and shoulders slouching forward. By the end of the story Spock was victorious—he was alive and Nero and his ship were destroyed—but he looked defeated and drained. Sybok recalled what Amanda had done when they were distressed, and what he had learned to do in her absence.
He wrapped an arm around Spock’s shoulders. At first there was tension, but it eventually melted away to leave Spock calmer than before. Now he just looked exhausted, right on the precipice of passing out. “You should try to sleep,” He murmured, squeezing gently at his shoulder. “I’ll let you be.” Sybok stood from his seat.
Spock looked up at him with half-lidded eyes, but said nothing. Sybok walked for the door, and just as the front doors parted for him, he heard a soft sound from behind him. “…Sybok.”
He looked over his shoulder towards Spock. “Yes?”
“Will you—” Hesitation, then in Vulcan, “You will visit tomorrow?”
Sybok grinned. “If you want.”
"I do."
--
Sybok went to visit the next morning, arriving an hour earlier according to the train schedule, and kept Spock company the entire day. They didn’t touch the subject that had consumed their first visit. Instead, they talked about Starfleet, the Academy, how exactly some becomes a Commander within six years of graduation, and why Spock had joined this organization in the first place.
Save for one video call that Spock received in the afternoon, it was only the two of them until after dinner. They talked little over a filling meal of fusion Sino-French dishes, every one vegetarian except for the chicken box Sybok saved for himself. Spock watched him eat that with some uncertainty, temporarily distracted from his own noodles, but said nothing.
Then, after Sybok had helped his brother clean up the table and they were just about to settle in the living room again, Sybok slid his hands into his pockets. “I should go.” It was late again, and he could see the fatigue etched into Spock’s expression.
“Where are you residing?” The non-sequitur surprised him, and he had to think for a moment.
“The shelter on Bell, in the city.”
Spock folded his hands together in his lap and looked from one end of the coffee table to the other. “Would you object to staying here instead?”
Little things like this reminded Sybok that his brother was still partially human: he had given no logical sign that he needed a new place to stay, and yet here Spock was offering it. It could have been only to have some company—but whatever Spock’s reasons, he was grateful for it. “No, I wouldn’t object to it.” Sybok grinned. “Let me get my bag and check out.”
About two hours later, Sybok lay on the couch in Spock’s living room along with a couple of blankets and a extra pillow. Spock was asleep in the other room and the entire apartment was dark except for the dim light that glowed through the tinted windows.
He had been in worse situations than this: hungrier, colder, and lonelier than he was now. Yet his heart still pulled for that spot in the sky, that nearly unreachable star his mother had told him about so many years ago. Maybe Spock could help him get there.
--
When Sybok woke up it was half past ten and Spock was working on something at the breakfast table in full Starfleet regalia. His black uniform was crisp and pressed, his hair was immaculate, and the edge of unease and fear was conspicuously absent. Curious, though still groggy, Sybok rolled onto his side and asked, “Going somewhere?”
“I have an appointment with an acquaintance at the Embassy building.” Spock took another sip from his mug and then looked up from his padd to look towards Sybok. “Would you like to join me?”
“Do you want me to join you?” Sybok asked, sitting up slowly. He breathed through a tight pull over his ribs, then lounged back against the cushions while he rubbed at his side.
Spock watched with that silent, intense stare, apparently scrutinizing his bed-hair, wrinkled t-shirt, and sleepy eyes. “…I believe that he would be interested in meeting you, when you are in a more respectable state.”
Sybok chuckled as he ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll get ready, then.”
They took the train.
Around them he could hear whispers that didn’t mesh with the hum of the engines: pitiful things about the destruction of their home planet stirred up by the appearance of two Vulcans sitting shoulder-to-shoulder. Sybok leaned back in his seat and looked around to meet stares, while Spock stared at his knees deep in thought.
“So, this man,” Sybok started, speaking in Vulcan for some small privacy. “How do you know him?”
“We met in the aftermath of the…incident.”
“Benevolent?”
“I am uncertain.”
“Oh.” Sybok gave Spock an uncertain look. Why would they trek all the way across the city to have lunch with an unknown quantity? “Then I hope he offers a good lunch.”
“Are you entirely focused on food?” Spock glanced over, unimpressed.
“Simple needs are simply met," he said wisely, to which Spock didn't respond.
The Embassy building, a pillar of reflective glass reaching up towards the clouds, was the central location for Earth’s major embassies with little pet embassies of the lesser-known planets, just three or four stories tall, attached to its sides. Sybok paused on the street to look up at it and compare it to his childhood memories, but Spock kept walking despite his reminiscing, and he had to catch up with a short jog back to his side.
Inside, their footsteps echoed off a white marble floor, the sound mingling with conversation that filled the hall right up to the tall ceiling. Sybok turned to get a look at the entire place with its flags, pennants, lights, and—“Sybok, the elevator is arriving.” And he stepped again, turning until he came back to Spock’s side.
They stepped in to occupy the elevator box by themselves, and after five seconds of quiet humming they stepped out into an open hall with plush red carpet and open windows that showed a looming view of the city. The heat was dry and familiar. The silence—not the lack of voices but the lack of thoughts—disturbed Sybok the most, more than the eyes he could see looking at him from behind cubicle half-walls.
“Where is Elder Selek?” Spock asked the young man behind a high desk while Sybok continued to look around. Half-curious, half-worried that he may have to face his father here.
“He is expecting you in office three.” That pulled Sybok’s attention forward, looking at the impassive secretary who only glanced between the two of them and said nothing more.
“Thank you,” Spock said and began striding off down a smaller corridor. Sybok continued to follow, his hands in his pockets and hoping some outward nonchalance wouldn't tempt fate.
They emerged into a quiet room that was a combined office and lounge, homely enough to have a couch and a small round table but official enough to host a long desk complete with a fancier communication console than Spock had in his apartment. At the table was a place setting for two with a delicious, orange-red curry taking up most of the center space, but also their host. An old Vulcan dressed in a practical black suit rather than flowing formal robes rose slowly from one of the chairs, and he smiled at them.
It wasn’t a smile or a grin like Sybok gave in turn, but something that came straight from the eyes with the faintest quirk that wrinkled at the edge of the mouth. As the old man stepped nearer to them, he carried a calm, confident aura that mimicked one Sybok hadn't seen for a while. It was almost indistinguishable from how he remembered his father—but this wasn’t cold, unemotional, brick-wall-of-a-man Sarek.
“Spock,” The old man said fondly, and then looked to Sybok. His brows rose in surprise, and he stepped closer as if to get a better look at him. “And…Sybok?”
Sybok’s eyes widened as he stepped back. “How do you know my name?” No one had picked up his name or identity without his knowledge. Nobody knew his name that he didn’t want to know his name. Yet here this old man was looking up at him, eyes soft with a knowing sadness (pity?), and Sybok had never seen him in his known life. Sure, there were blank spots in his memory, but normally he would still have at least some feeling about whether he had ever met a person before. This man was a threat.
The old man ignored his question and looked back to Spock, who simply inclined his head. “I will order another place setting.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Sybok stepped up as the old man fell back towards the communication console. “Answer my question.”
“Sybok.” Spock said sternly, grabbing Sybok by the arm to hold him back. “Do not be impolite.”
“This isn’t about manners.” He wrenched his arm back from Spock’s grip, and focused his sharp glare at the elder Vulcan once more. “I can be impolite if the situation calls for it.”
However, the man continued to ignore him, tapping a button on the console and ordering, “Please provide another lunch setting to room three,” leaving Sybok standing there in the middle of the room, equidistant from the lunch table, the office, and the door. His hand was tight at his side, not ready to fight but ready to defend himself from the unexpected. Slowly, the other Vulcan turned around and stepped back up to him. “It would be easier to explain to you if you would join us for lunch.”
Sybok wasn’t in the habit of refusing a good meal, especially if he knew the food was safe, so his fist relaxed, barely. Spock and the elder Vulcan sat at the place settings while Sybok took the empty seat, where he could see the faux steel of the table reflecting up at him. He looked between them, trying to decide what exactly was the reasoning behind his identity leaking out, but there was something—nagging at him—
“Sybok,” Spock leaned back in his chair his hands folded together. “Do you recall the paradoxes you used to give me as a child? The time puzzles?”
“Yes." Of course he could remember teasing Spock until his head spun, and then watching him go scampering off to Sarek to find a definite answer to an indefinite problem. Amanda would just shake her head. "Why?”
“This, may seem to be one of that series, and you will have to believe me despite a lack of proof, but, Elder Selek is…”
“I am also Spock.” The elder Vulcan chimed in, and Sybok’s gaze snapped over to the other side of the table, eyes wide, brow furrowed, and mouth parting to voice some sort of sane objection. Spock had mentioned Nero coming out of a different time, but he didn’t mention anything else that came from such wild (and unbelievable) circumstances, and at the time he did believe that it might be some creative license born out of how distraught he had been at the time, but…
There were some similarities between them, if he looked closer: the round humanity of the eyes, the knowing gaze that masked over any ignorance and only becoming more knowing with age, and now, the identical body language..
Sybok closed his mouth and took a breath, wondering what would be the least stupid question to ask either of them. It wasn’t often he would think that he would meet a time-copy of someone he knew, let alone his half-brother…but perhaps validity was in order. “What was I doing, when you found me in the garden in 2238?” Sybok asked, suddenly; no one else had been there and he had told no one and Spock had likely kept his silence about it as well. He didn’t know how similar their pasts would be (was there even a copy of himself, a brother to this Spock?), but if they did share similar pasts, that incident would stand out.
“You were crying.” The elder Spock said solemnly, looking elsewhere as he reflected on the memory. “I recall you mentioned your mother, and the anniversary of her passing. I was curious why you were displaying such an obvious show of emotion…and your subsequent words influenced the decisions I would take later in life.”
“What?” Sybok gave the elder a strange look again, and Spock was also leaning forward in his seat. “Which decisions?”
“My—our,” The elder inclined his head in Spock’s direction. “Decision to join Starfleet in lieu of following our father’s footsteps to be an Ambassador after the Vulcan Science Academy. You had postulated the idea of not following the road set out in front of us, but rather to make our own decisions concerning the progression of our career and our lives.”
At last, Sybok smiled fondly; he had wondered if that conversation had ever gotten through at the time, but had subsequently forgotten about it. He had felt glad (next to the grief) that Spock had chosen a career outside of the Science Academy – for one, it explained his continued survival instead of suffering the same fate as billions of others on the planet. “I guess you are Spock, then,” Sybok laughed off his other insecurities with a chuckle, and finally looked back at his brother, who looked a little uncomfortable as he glanced out the window. “You actually listened to me?”
“I always listen to you, Sybok,” Spock pointed out as if it were obvious, glancing at him with that half-annoyed set of his jaw that came and went with his moods. “Whether I adhere to your advice is another matter entirely. I have not given up logic as you have, and I still converse with our father.”
The reminder that their father was probably close by, that he might have to meet him, sent a cold thrill down his spine and into his stomach. There wasn’t anything his father could do—he couldn’t exile him from a planet that wasn’t his—but to face that man, to answer his questions about what he had been doing—that would always seem unattractive. Therefore, Sybok endeavored to change the subject, looking back at the elder version of his half-brother again. “So, you also had a brother,” He began with the obvious, thoughtful. “Did he leave as well?”
“He did.” And Sybok heard sadness in his tone that almost struck a chord with his own emotions, that sense of missing something close that should be there but wasn’t. “He was exiled.”
“It seems your universe isn’t too different from ours.”
“On the contrary, there are a few significant differences.” The doors hissed open and the young secretary came in and handed Sybok a plate and silverware, and then left.
Throughout the dinner they compared notes about their lives, where the universes met and where they deviated, likes and differences between people and places and institutions. Overall, it was the most intellectually stimulating lunch he had had in years, ever since he dropped by (crashed) that conference on Betazed
“Sybok,” The elder then said at the end of their meal, setting down his glass of Altair water. “May I ask you a few questions?”
“Of course.” Sybok was already feeling comfortable with the old man, and if he was indeed his brother, then there was nothing about his past life that this man didn’t already know.
“I have found a suitable planet for Vulcan colonization, which our Father and the other survivors of the high council plan to settle; we are leaving in two months. Do you intend to join the colonization efforts?”
Sybok was silent for a long few moments, looking from the elder to the younger, staring down at his plate where a few smears of curry circled around the edge of the plate. “No. They exiled me from their home planet, wherever that will be. I doubt they’ll let me back in just because their population has been cut. I would be the last thing they want in their gene pool.”
“And if you were forgiven?”
The idea was something he had considered before, but now it seemed further and more unlikely than when any time before. “Still, no,” Sybok finally said, and shook his head. “I know where I’m not welcome. They would try to impose their logic on me more than before. No thanks.”
“Then where do you intend to go?” Sybok shrugged, and gave no answer to the elder Vulcan. “If you have no alternative planned, might I suggest joining Starfleet?”
The first thing that came out of Sybok’s mouth was a laugh, and then another. Crazy old man. “I’m trying to avoid the rigidity of my father land, and yet you suggest I join a military organization like Starfleet? Did my other self join Starfleet?”
“No, he did not.” And there was that grave sadness in the elder’s tone again, the origin of which he couldn’t pinpoint in his ignorance of the future (but he wouldn’t ask, since he had read too much literature relating about knowing the future of one’s life). “But, at times, I wish that he had. My brother was a brilliant scholar, and you are likely of the same caliber.”
“Flattering.” Sybok deadpanned. “But there’s nothing Starfleet can give me that I want, and I’m not about to go through their curriculum to stagnate in their ranks—”
“You want a starship.”
The air thickened between the three of them again, this other-knowledge coming out of the blue. Spock looked bewildered, but Sybok openly scowled; omniscience had its uses, but uncovering his deepest desires in front of more impressionable minds was not one of them. “…I don’t want a starship,” He finally said, looking more to Spock as he said it. “There are places that I want to go that require it. Again, I’m not going to go through the rigors of order and authority in order to get there.”
“And how else will you manage to transport yourself where you want to go?”
Sybok paused, frowned, and then looked to the side, out the window and towards the bright, gleaming skyline of San Francisco. “I don’t know.”
“Then consider the alternative.” The elder Vulcan gave him one of those subtle and faint smiles again, and then pushed back his chair and slowly stood. Sybok and Spock stood with him. “I must attend to another appointment. I thank you both for joining me for lunch. Spock—I hope you will reach your own decisions with sound judgment and confidence.”
“Thank you,” Spock inclined his head. “Good afternoon.”
“Afternoon,” Sybok parroted with a polite nod as well.
“Live long and prosper,” The elder held up his hand in a traditional salute, mirrored by the younger Vulcans (“Peace and long life,” Spock reciprocated on behalf of them), and they left the room with a quiet buzz of thoughts between the two of them that didn't break until they had reached the safety of Spock’s living room.
“I have a class to monitor,” Spock said, beginning to gather up two padds and stuffing them into a bag. “You will be here?”
“I might go out,” Sybok sat back on the couch with a sigh, closing his eyes. His mind was still circling with thoughts. “But I’ll be back.”
Spock nodded, and then slung the bag strap over one shoulder. “Very well. Rom-halan.”
Without someone to focus his thoughts on, they bunched together and became twice as loud, so Sybok draped himself over the couch and took a short nap.
--
That afternoon, and subsequent days after when Spock went off to “work,” Sybok stood in the window and watched the students cross the campus out in the distance. The activity wasn’t exactly meditation, but it was close as he was ever going to allow himself to get.
He could never be one of them, going through the motions of study to emerge as a cookie-cutter officer. Not that Spock filled any mold—but that was what their family tended to do: set themselves outside of the norm and then create spectacular things (what had he done so far?) within the confines of everyday life.
When he couldn’t stand to stare at grass and fog any longer, he settled down with one of numerous PADDs in Spock’s lounge and read: the news, unsealed documents and reports, and the new and ever-changing Federation maps that were updated daily through Starfleet. The farthest reaches of the Federation still stretched at least fifteen thousand light years from the center of the galaxy, with only the borders of the Romulan Empire reaching closer to that far-off region of space.
--
One Friday afternoon, more than a week after the lunch with the Elder Spock, the communication console set off to one side of the living room chirped, and the screen flashed with relevant information. “MESSAGE : JAMES T. KIRK.” Spock didn’t say anything about expecting messages, and he hadn’t said anything about messages not to take, so Sybok felt it was at least his duty to take down a message. He slid into the chair in front of the console and pressed “accept.”
A blond-haired man (that he recognized from the news reports) wearing a red cadet jacket with the front open appeared on screen, at first looking off-screen and then directly at the camera. “Hey, Mr. Spock—” And then he saw who was actually on screen and smiled sheepishly. “Oh, sorry. Is Spock around?” The man looked over his shoulder towards the empty living room behind him.
“He’s at work.” Sybok leaned back in his chair, taking in the sight of this cadet (assuming, from the uniform). “Did you want to leave a message?”
“Uh, yeah,” Kirk looked away again, hand coming up to press his fist to his chin, contemplating. “Just tell him that I’d like to talk to him about something important, and I’d like if he called me back.”
“I’ll tell him that.”
Kirk smiled. “Thanks, mister…?”
“Sybok.” He returned the smile. At first, it looked like Kirk was disarmed by the sight of it, and then he grinned wider.
“Sybok. Thanks again.” Kirk reached over to the side of the screen and the video blanked out, and the console returned to its default menu screen.
The issue didn’t come up until they were having some post-dinner tea, the two of them sitting across the breakfast table as Spock poured into the earthen mugs.
“James Kirk called.”
Spock didn’t say anything until he set the teapot down again and added two spoonfuls of sugar to his own tea. His spoon turned quietly around, stirring it in. “…What did he require?”
“He didn’t say, but he wanted you to call back, and I said I’d tell you.” Sybok let his own tea cool slowly on the saucer, and focused instead on his brother’s motions. Every little move was suddenly calculated and hesitant; with the spoon tucked neatly to the side of the cup, Spock seemed unsure where to put his hands, and finally settled on folded them near the edge of the table. “…Should I have told him otherwise?”
Spock didn’t look up from where he stared down at his hands. “No, that was an appropriate answer.”
“Then what are you so uncertain about?”
“I am not uncertain.” Spock looked sideways at the refrigeration unit. “I am only predicting his possible requests and my responses.”
“I don’t think he’s the type of man you need to meet with so much…predetermination.” Sybok nudged the sugar bowl in Spock’s direction, encouraging. “Call him back.”
Spock glanced up at him, silent, and then began to add a couple generous spoonfuls of white sugar to his tea.
Later, Sybok pulled Spock into an impromptu game of kal-toh, which stretched on past midnight until they both decided to leave it for tomorrow evening.
Spock didn’t call.
--
The next Friday, Sybok slept in, dozing from ten o’clock until nearly noon. Spock wouldn’t mind; he’d be up and presentable by the time his brother came back from “work” and errands. They planned to go down to the wharf, Spock for the potato chowder and gelato shops and Sybok because he had a taste for seafood that was hardly ever satiated.
Through his haze, he could hear the video console chirping again. Sybok rolled onto his other side, yawned, and continued thinking about the intricacies of warp theory that he had discussed with Spock the previous night. Finally, it let out a long beep, and the message echoed throughout the lounge room.
“Spock—hi.” A familiar voice. Mister Kirk. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry, for the trial today and the testimony and everything. I didn’t mean—I didn’t try to blame you for anything, even what you did on the bridge...I know why you did it—hell, I made you do it—and I don’t hold it against you, and…hopefully you won’t hold it against me.” A sigh. “There’s a ceremony on Tuesday, and I think you deserve to be there as much as me. I know you do…I’ll see you there.”
By the end of the message, Sybok sat up mostly awake, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and wondering what was happening across campus, and what his brother was doing there. He stumbled into the bathroom for a sonic shower, as the questions formed slowly in his thoughts.
Spock gave his platter of crab, mussels, and shrimp and accompanying bread bowl of clam chowder a fairly disgusted look, as far as Vulcans were concerned. Sybok grinned, ignored it, and began with the mussels, scraping them from their shells with a fork.
They were so buttery. Delicious and buttery.
“Supposition,” Sybok began, while hunting for another mussel among the mass of seafood. “You don’t come here very often.”
“I do not.”
“Do those fried artichokes taste good?”
“They are acceptable.”
“And the garlic fries?”
“More than satisfactory.”
“That’s good.” His hand darted out to take one and just missed. Spock had scooted them out of the reach of his hand across the table. Sybok laughed. “Nice defense.”
They talked of the pier and the wharf for a few minutes more, the salt scent of the water and the touristy feel of the boardwalk, but a brief glimpse of golden hair of a woman at the far end of the restaurant reminded him what he wanted to ask Spock
“He called again this morning,” Sybok said, prying open a crab leg. “Mister Kirk.”
Spock stiffened, and his motions to dip a fry into ranch dressing slowed, cautious. “Yes?”
Sybok buttered the meat and savored the taste before he replied. “He started apologizing about what he said during a trial, which had me thinking—what trial is he talking about?”
The garlic fry stirred round and round in the bowl of ranch dressing multiple times before Spock finally ate it. Sybok waited patiently until his brother decided to tell him what this entire mess was about. “In the aftermath of the incident, it has been necessary for Starfleet to…conduct internal investigations into the conduct of its crew. Under my distress I—violated several ethical codes of conduct, enough to warrant a court martial.”
“…and?” Sybok hadn’t exactly been expecting them to forgive what Spock said he had done, kicking people off the ship and onto wayward planets and then strangling them in front of a crowd when said people returned.
“Mister Kirk testified earlier today about the altercation we shared on the bridge.” Spock reached for his glass of water and drank, not a sip but a hearty swallow, and then set the glass back on its coaster. “The verdict will be released on Monday.”
“Will it matter?” Spock looked up, brows narrowed in slight confusion. Sybok elaborated, “Do you want to continue in Starfleet? The older you—”
“Selek.”
“—yes, Selek—he mentioned the colony. Did you want to go there, instead?”
Spock speared another fry with his fork and stirred the ranch sauce again. “I have not yet decided which option would be more beneficial. Logically, any contribution to accelerate the establishment of a new colony would supersede my obligations to Starfleet…”
“Why would you say that?” Sybok frowned, cracking open another crab leg.
“Are you questioning my conclusion?”
“Well, yes. Let’s assume that you go to assist in their reconstruction. What will they have you do? Build houses? Tally supplies? Donate sperm?” Spock gave him a sharp look at the last item, looking the closest to ‘aghast’ as a Vulcan would allow himself. “Okay, maybe not the last part, but in all sincerity—what will they have you do that can’t be done by someone else less gifted?”
“I could assist in the generation of power and its distribution.”
“You could…but our father can do that. Every other physicist on this planet could do the same thing. Electric fields and material power delivery are for children.” Spock looked away from him, and Sybok leaned forward to speak softer to him. “Spock. Reconstruction efforts don’t look for creativity and imagination. They already know what they want to build, and it will probably be close to identical to Shi’Kahr." Personally, Sybok preferred if they emulated the beach-side city of Regar, but they didn't exactly value his opinion. "From what I’ve read of your reports—and don’t look at me like that, what else do you expect me to read while you’re gone?—I think you’d be…what’s the word? Bored. You create; you experiment; you solve chess puzzles in your free time. Starfleet…it will give you something spontaneous to react to.”
“I do not believe the working environment will be as welcoming as you envision it to be.”
“Why? Is there something that is making it unwelcoming?”
“Kirk.”
Sybok quirked an eyebrow. “One man, Spock? You can be on another ship that doesn’t have him.”
“It is not that simple.” Sybok heard a new, darker edge in Spock’s voice, hinting at anger and annoyance, the same tone he had used when describing how he strangled Kirk to within a breath of his life.
“Then explain it.”
“I contributed to the construction of the Enterprise,” Spock said in a low tone. “Therefore no other individual would be able to take advantage of its capabilities to the same extent as I would, as a science officer.”
Sybok smirked. “It’s a matter of pride.”
“This cannot involve something that does not exist—”
“Don’t give me that propaganda, Spock,” Sybok cracked another leg. “Every sentient being has pride, especially Vulcans. It pushes us forward so that we strive to be superior to every other race. If you didn’t have pride, you would have stayed on Vulcan under their microscope.”
“Regardless, the problem remains.” Spock stuffed two fries in his mouth, and looked at Sybok as if expecting a solution.
“Are you sure that it will actually be a problem? If he’s just on the ship…”
“…They told me they are awarding him the Enterprise. He will be my captain, my superior, and afforded the direct opportunity to exact revenge for my previous treatment of him.”
Sybok remembered what Kirk had said in the message left, and the hint of sorrow and hopefulness that ran through his tone. From what he had read of the young man, more than what he had heard from Spock, gut feeling and instincts told him that Kirk wouldn’t be so childish as to carry over a grudge from their first acquaintance. On the other hand, the very possibility that Kirk could have the power to do that awoke a powerful, protective urge in his chest that he hadn’t felt in years. As a brother, he had been absent for the worst parts of Spock's ostracization , too wrapped up in his own business and politics, but here lay another opportunity to redeem himself. "What if I joined you?”
Spock blinked. “Excuse me?”
“If I could work on the same ship as you, would that make you feel more secure? Would you stay with Starfleet then? I’m sure they’re still hiring.”
Spock looked aside again, thinking. Sybok could almost see his thoughts clicking together, analyzing the benefits of having a brother, an ally, and a fellow Vulcan on a ship out in the middle of deep space. He wasn’t foreign to the feelings of cultural alienation himself; for three years out wandering between colonies Sybok only saw one other Vulcan, and that was the man he saw in the mirror. He doubted that Spock would be immune to it, years spent on Earth aside.
“You said that you rejected Starfleet’s ideals and authoritarian hierarchy.” Spock pointed out, looking at him with reluctance and skepticism.
“I’ve gone through worse.” Sybok smiled, reassuring.
The smile made Spock look away, as if he had seen something that he shouldn’t have. Still uncomfortable with Vulcan emotional displays, clearly. “I would not deny your support, though I suggest that you review your commitment more thoroughly.”
“I promise I’ll sleep on it, and then in the morning you can get me the literature I need, yes? Forms and waivers?”
Spock looked at him silently, searching his face, and then inclined his head while looking down at the table. There was a bright glint he was trying to hide, but Sybok could see it clear as day.
--
First, Spock gave him a few forms to fill out straight from the public Starfleet network. Once he submitted those to the appropriate office, they gave him more forms. Sybok scrolled through pages and pages of square boxes, scratching at the padd to fill out his information.
He was sitting on the couch filling out his educational qualifications when Spock returned on Monday to announce that he had cleared the criminal court martial, but that Starfleet was conducting a separate, private investigation into his ability to command. That had been a sullen evening.
Sybok was stretching his legs out on the floor that Friday detailing his previous employment when Spock came in, grabbed a coat, and began walking back out.
“Where are you going?” Sybok called out, not looking up from the padd.
“Dinner.” Spock said from in front of the hall mirror, meticulously smoothing out his bangs against his forehead.
“With?” Not that he cared either way; his little brother was free to have a meal with anyone he wanted.
“Doctor McCoy.” One of the men mentioned once during Spock’s recall of the Narada incident. When had that been arranged?
“Oh.” Sybok watched Spock fix and crease the collar of his coat. “You’ll keep your communicator on? Not that I’ll disturb you.”
“Of course.” Spock looked over his shoulder towards Sybok. “I shall return later tonight.”
“Have a good meal.”
Spock nodded once to him then left, the doors hissing behind him.
--
Training to be an enlisted crewman in Starfleet wasn’t the most difficult thing he had gone through in his life, but the constraint of it was unfamiliar (and just as he expected). An early-morning schedule, a black-emblem uniform, and the constant feel of being ordered became a part of his everyday life. The order and restraint made him antsy, which could (and did) bother Spock, until finally he’d excuse himself in the early evening for a free, uncharted walk around the city, where he could at least breathe a little easier without always feeling like he had to keep himself in check.
In lieu of more challenging materials, he tapped into (with permission from one of their science professors, of course) the Starfleet officer curriculum, not limited to a refresher course on Warp Theory and Warp Core construction. Except now he was feeling something—entirely unfamiliar, at least in a long while.
“How does this…?” Sybok said under his breath. He balanced a stylus between two fingers by his ear, twirling it back and forth, and frowned.
“Is something wrong, Sybok?” Spock called from the desk across the room, paused in his own reports or grading. He had turned in his chair to face Sybok, head tilted to the side.
“This formula,” He gestured vaguely over the padd. “I can’t see how these variables relate, how this…”
Spock had made his way over to the couch and sat next to him to see what he was studying. “This is not very complex; velocity is only a third order function of thrust and core power—”
“I know, but what about…”
“There are not that many components in this formula, Sybok.”
“I know!” Sybok stood from the couch, running a hand through his hair. “This should be simple. I’ve seen it before; I’ve seen more! You remember the calculations I showed you from the Shi’Oren? My astrophysics work?” Sybok looked over, and Spock nodded mutely. “I’ve done this all, I can do it, but it’s just—not—” His hand flapped through the air uselessly, trying to explain himself and failing. Frustrated, his hand clenched into a fist.
“…perhaps you should rest.” Spock suggested from the couch.
Sybok looked over, tempted to hold him in contempt for trying to redirect his anger, but what else could Spock ask him to do? He was only angry at himself, and it was nothing foreign. This wasn’t the first time he had been frustrated with his own mind, grasping for something that wasn’t there, but it had been a while. Time should have healed it, he had hoped it would heal it, but now it seemed only due diligence would bring his knowledge back to him.
“No,” Sybok stepped back towards the couch, sinking into his old seat and taking the padd back into his lap. “I’ll just look at it a little longer. You’re right. It’s not difficult; I just need to refresh myself on parametric surfaces. Any suggestions?”
--
One evening in late April, Sybok noticed that Spock was being more meticulous than usual. He ironed civilian shorts and trousers, took up time in the bathroom like he was about to meet the president of the Federation, and checked something on his communicator every ten minutes. Yet, above all, Sybok noticed when Spock splayed out tape, scissors, ribbon, and wrapping paper on the ground, and devoted his entire attention to what looked like a shoebox.
Sybok mulled over the possibilities from the couch, snug in the corner of the cushions while he read through The Warp Barrier and Transcendental Theories. “…Birthday?” He ventured.
“Yes.” Spock wrapped the paper around the long sides, cutting a rough estimate of the length he needed.
“Is it for someone I know?”
“No.”
“Are they coming here?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to hide in your bedroom? I don’t have to disparage your name if you don’t want me to.”
Spock looked up, scissors paused as he gave Sybok a stern look. “…that will not be necessary. You will meet Nyota eventually; this may be the most opportune time.”'
“Nyota?” Sybok raised his eyebrows. “Your lady-friend?”
“I have, in fact, many female acquaintances—”
“You know what I mean."
“It is any wonder that I do.” Spock began taping edges together (maybe over-doing it). When the paper-and-tape stage was done, he stuck a bow accompanied by some curled ribbon on top of the package, and then leaned back to examine it. “Do you think this will be adequate?”
“It’s a perfect representation of your everlasting, Vulcan love, Spock,” Sybok smirked. “Predictable dimensions confined by weak adhesives, juxtaposed by flamboyant accessories.”
“…I will attempt to refrain from asking subjective questions of you in the future.”
“We’ll see if your attempts work.” The buzzer dinged from the door, and they both looked towards it. “Should I answer?”
Spock was busy shoving supplies into the storage compartments under the coffee table. “No,” He snapped the cupboard door shut, and then lifted up the package to set on the table’s surface. “I shall.” He stood, smoothing out the front of his button-up shirt, and then looked over at Sybok. A single glance was enough to communicate what he wanted (“Make yourself presentable,”), and then answered the door.
“Nyota.” Sybok was almost struck by the softness in his voice, and stood up to greet this Nyota. As he stepped nearer to the door, he saw a woman wearing a beautiful black dress partly covered by a knee-length coat, holding a red clutch at her side. Her wavy hair fell softly around her face and her shoulders, and she looked…quite radiant. Radiant enough to remind Sybok how long it had been since he had been intimate with a woman (or the nearest alien gender).
“Spock.” She smiled, and stepped in to give him a quick kiss, and then looked over Spock’s shoulder towards Sybok. “Who’s this?”
“Sybok, madam,” Sybok gave a deep, flourishing bow from the waist up; he didn’t even have to look up to know Spock didn’t approve. But he did glance Spock wrapping a protective arm around Nyota’s waist.
“My brother.” Spock supplied to offset her confusion.
“Brother? I didn’t know you had a brother.”
“It’s complicated—” Sybok began.
“—and best discussed in another environment.” Spock finished, and then walked over to grab the package off the coffee table, walking over quickly before Sybok had the chance to strike up an engrossing conversation. “I shall return later.”
Sybok smiled, and gave them both a casual salute off his temple. “Have a good time…and happy birthday, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Nyota waved as she and Spock began to walk out the door. “Nice to meet you, Sybok.”
“Likewise.”
Spock gave him a vaguely protective look, half a glare and half a worried, wide-eyed pout (subtle, but definitely a pout), before the doors shut on their exit.
--
Spock and he met with the elder Spock—Selek—for lunch at least once a month, checking the progress Selek was having with organizing the colony. Every time they stepped into the Embassy Sybok felt that he was being watched, scrutinized, and every time Sybok expected them to turn the corner and come face-to-face with Sarek. His father knowing his present location meant the end of his freedom, regardless of his action (or lack thereof) following it. Someone would be watching.
One Wednesday afternoon in June, Sybok wandered through a park. His engineering class had released early—the exam had been painfully easy. With the sun shining outside with the upcoming summer, he didn’t want to let a good day go to waste, so he steered away from the faculty dorms or the library and made his way towards the park by the shore. Another try at pseudo-meditation wouldn’t hurt, and neither would some idle people watching against the scenery of the bay.
He found a nice bench under a tree surrounded by some grass, stretched out his arm over the back of the bench, and reflected on the stability of his life. He’d been sleeping in the same bed (futon) for the last three months, almost a record, and the food wasn’t bad, either. Everything felt okay, stable; he supposed he could get used to this lifestyle, in time.
A black hovercar sat in the parking lot not far from his seat, and no one got out. Sybok could barely see the numbering of the plate, but he could recognize the colors of the stickers in the corner. Registered to a diplomatic organization. He got up from his seat and began walking to the other end of the park and the second lot and took a seat. After waiting five minutes, the same black hover cruised into a slot on the far side, and rested there.
For a moment, he considered the possibilities. He could ignore it; it would probably follow him. Or he could find out if it was just a mistake, risking a small part of his pride and time. It might be fun, Sybok decided. So he leisurely rose from the park bench, stretched, smiled to a young man walking his dog, and walked over to the driver's side of the car. Sybok tapped on the tinted glass.
When the window rolled down, he saw another Vulcan sitting there, dressed in a simple black uniform with green calligraphy that snaked down the left side. He recognized the layout from what he remembered of his father's uniforms, back when he accompanied him on his ambassadorial tasks. This was an attaché from the Vulcan Embassy. "What do you want?" Pleasantries were for people he actually wanted to talk to.
The man glanced up at him with hard, emotionless eyes, and reached over to the console of the hover to pass his fingers over a button without breaking his gaze. Something switched from red to green. "I want nothing," he answered.
"Forgive my skepticism." Sybok leaned his elbow against the curved top of the door, his posture loose and casual as if they were having an afternoon chat. "Why were you following me?"
"Sarek requested that I monitor your activities." Incapable of lying, Sybok noted to himself wryly, though they must have not thought him too much of a threat if he could get this willingly. However, it still made his stomach clench tight, like it always did before he felt he needed to take the next shuttle and run.
"And why would he want to do that?" His question was met with an unwavering expression and complete silence. Sybok sighed, and looked up, around the park and the hover lot. "I can call Protective Services."
"I have diplomatic immunity." Sybok may have been projecting some smugness into the man's voice, but regardless, he knew it was there.
"They won't know that until you've already lost me," Sybok reminded the attaché, looking down at him again. The man sat as rigid as ever. "Then what are you going to tell my beloved father?"
"That you are avoiding suspicion for ulterior motives," the man answered. Sybok knew what that would mean: a second set of eyes, harder to evade than just one.
"Do you have some paper in there?" Sybok gestured a hand to the interior of the vehicle. "A pen?"
"Why?"
"I want to write something, obviously. Now do you have it or not?"
"Yes."
"Can I have some?" It was like talking to a child with these minions. Sybok knew they really weren't that slow (most of the time), but they made things difficult when they pretended they were. "Thanks," he said as the man gave him a single sheet of paper and a stylus from the middle storage compartment. He flattened it out on the hood of the car and began writing, the electronic ink blossoming under the rounded tip of the stylus.
Curious and feeling strangely social, Sybok ventured, "Where did you study?" Silence. He smirked a little. "From the way you punctuate your v's, you're from one of the Northern clans." Sybok signed all the spirals of his name without lifting the point, the long last stroke flicking off the side of the page. Done, he folded it in half, and bent down to give it back with the stylus. "Don't let your inferiority complex affect your work; you wouldn't be here if my father thought you were just a farmer." Sybok grinned as the attaché plucked the paper from his grasp, and then he turned his back to the hover and walked away.
He walked straight for the apartment. There, he took off his shoes and stretched out on the couch, draping his forearm over his eyes. Hopefully, 'Leave me alone, you fucking patriarch' would convince Sarek to call back his lackey (lackies?).
When Spock came back from his work, Sybok waited. He managed to get through evening updates, dinner, and almost began studying warp theory on the couch again before he finally broached the subject. “Sarek sent a raptor after me.”
“For what purpose?" Spock asked from the kitchen, putting away dishes and tea cups.
"I don't know." Sybok tapped the corner of the padd screen, stared blankly at the page, and then glanced up to where Spock was standing. "If you see him, tell him to stop? I'm not doing anything."
"You are completing enlisted officer courses at Starfleet."
"I'm not doing anything criminal, Spock, which is the point here."
Spock came over to sit in the adjacent love seat, grabbing his own padd off the coffee table. "Considering your record—"
"My record doesn't say I'm criminally insane." Spock gave him a skeptical look. "Officially, it doesn't. Expressing emotions doesn't make someone insane."
"You destroyed a man's mind."
Sybok lowered the padd to lay flat in his lap. "I had to."
"Such violence is never necessary, Sybok." Spock brought his legs up to sit cross-legged in the love seat, fingers tapping away at the padd.
The temptation to argue back lingered at the surface. He knew what to say, so you wouldn't be violent for Amanda?, but that sounded distasteful even to his own thoughts. Amanda had always been a point of unity between them, and he didn't want to besmirch her name with something so petty, and so soon after her death. Besides, the question would be rhetorical: Sybok knew what Spock would have done for Amanda. He also knew it would needle Spock's emotions, another discomfort he didn't want to bring him—at least, in this capacity.
Back to his problem, though, if he couldn't get Spock to approach Sarek about this undeserving surveillance, he needed to find someone else. After a few minutes of silence between them, Sybok asked, "How can I contact the older you?"
His older younger brother—the other iteration—Selek and Sybok met for an impromptu lunch five blocks away from the Embassy building at a Thai restaurant. Sybok found out soon enough that they had amazing Tom Kah and cashew chicken. Yet, "Are you certain you don't want something?" Sybok asked Selek sitting in front of him, watching him eat while ordering nothing for himself. "Lunch is usually…cooperative? Social?" He reached over to take a sip of his drink.
"I have come to give you my advice, per your request." Selek had that strange not-smile on his lips again. It eased Sybok's concern about the Vulcan sitting alone at the back corner with a plate of stir-fried morning-glories.
"Do you talk with Sarek at the Embassy?" Sybok asked.
Selek inclined his head. "When it is necessary."
"Four days ago I intercepted one of his subordinates," Sybok explained in between spoonfuls of the Tom Kah. "He was following me according to Sarek's orders, supposedly." He glanced up, and Selek's look told him to continue. "If it would be possible—"
"I shall see if you may be granted your privacy." Selek interrupted.
Sybok blinked for a moment, unfamiliar with Spock (because this man was still technically a Spock) answering questions he hadn't asked. Maybe that was what Spock always felt like. Then he smiled. "Thanks."
After that, he only saw the cronies once every three days—or he thought he saw them; they stood at a distance and disappeared after he stepped into the city proper for his afternoon walks. Sometimes he tried to guess how long they would tail him before giving up, but they occupied his thoughts less and less as the weather warmed into July.
--
“I will be attending a meeting through the evening hours,” Spock had told Sybok during breakfast, while gathering his briefcase together and then pulling on his uniform jacket. “Could you purchase food while I am absent?”
“Sure,” Sybok had answered from the breakfast table, still digging in leisurely to his waffles and giving a blind wave over his shoulder as Spock left through the front door. Grocery shopping. He had done it once and he could do it again, and Spock’s steady income made it all the more enjoyable.
Once he got to the store he took his time, grabbing a couple of pieces of fruit, a cereal box, and the breakfast drink mix that he liked (but Spock didn’t). He perused through the simpler items—sugar, needed that—until he happened to wander by chance to the “baking” shelves. Instant gelatinous desserts. Cups of frosting. Instant cake mix.
Instant cake mix with a rather attractive front cover.
Instant cake mix that only required water.
Sybok picked up one of the boxes that said “Super Moist” and “Strawberry,” checked the ingredients out of habit, and then tossed it into his basket. He kept walking past the boxes, and then grabbed “Spice” off the shelf as well.
The communicator buzzed from the breakfast table, skittering across the smooth surface as it vibrated. He flipped it open, but let it sit on the table. “Yes?”
“Sybok,” Spock’s voice filtered up at him. “I will be returning to the apartment within ten minutes."
Sybok looked down at the bowl nestled in his arm, whipping the batter with a spoon in the other hand. "Okay, I'll be ready with something to eat when you get back."
After Spock arrived and stepped out of his boots by the door, he stepped cautiously towards the kitchen. The counters were clean—Sybok had made sure of that—but twenty strawberry cupcakes were arranged in a neat tower at the center of the table, spiraling up in three haphazard levels. "These are cupcakes," he declared, puzzled.
"I hope you like strawberry," Sybok said as he stood from the couch, walking to stand beside Spock. "It was the first one I picked up." Spock reached out and plucked the highest cupcake off the tower by its red-white striped paper cup, examining it closely. "What are you waiting for? Try it!"
Spock nibbled at it, keeping the cup pinched between two fingers. Drawing away, licking his lips, "It emulates the original flavour rather well."
Sybok grinned and sat at the table. "Great, now tell me about this meeting."
"Starfleet Medical and Command have determined that I am psychologically fit to continue serving in my potential capacity," said Spock as he sat down at the table. He took another nibble of the cupcake, and then continued. "And they do not seek to limit my next posting."
"And?" Sybok leaned forward in his seat. "Have you decided yet?"
Spock looked down at the cupcake, then glanced up at Sybok. "I submitted my request for the Enterprise."
"Just to be there?"
"To be Kirk's first officer," Spock muttered, and then he stuffed half the cupcake into his mouth.
Sybok laughed and swiped a cupcake for himself. "It'll be fun, Spock, with all those humans. And it's only five years."
--
Throughout the last week of June and the first week of July, Sybok helped his brother pack up his belongings into Starfleet-certified transporter boxes. Not all of it would go up to the ship: many of the apartment's furnishings came with the apartment, things like bedding and towels and sentimental little trinkets would go into storage somewhere in Saskatchewan, and the rest would be beamed up to their quarters. Spock had five boxes full and ready by the time July graduation concluded, while Sybok had barely filled one, and he wasn't going to opt for another.
The Friday morning they were scheduled to depart, Sybok woke early to see the dawn. He didn't know when he would next see a natural sunrise, especially this familiar one. Yet when his eyes slowly opened to the dark ceiling, only dimly lit by a faint morning glow, he saw a shadow moving to obstruct it.
"Spock?" he asked, yawning, stretching his arms out.
"Yes, sa-kai?" Spock replied in from the direction of the lounge window, not more than a few feet from the couch.
Sybok smiled a little, that was nice, being called a brother again, and let the blanket fall to his waist as he silently cursed the ache in his ribs. Reluctantly, he stretched through it, and at the ends of his stretch he could see Spock sitting at the far end of the window, mimicking all the right angles of the chair he sat in with his hands folded in his lap. Spock was still in his pajamas: a plain, loose, white t-shirt and pajama pants printed with the Fischer projections of sugar molecules.
Sybok stood, stretching out the muscles of his back. "How can you be so awake already?" he asked, and when Spock gave him a look, "Discipline, right. Of course." After taking a deep breath and releasing it in a slow sigh, he walked over to grab another chair from the breakfast table and brought it over next to Spock, sitting down next to him in front of the window. The chair was cold against his bare skin as he leaned back against it, but the shiver passed quickly enough.
"You'll be there?" Sybok asked, watching the horizon turn bright orange.
"I have given my word to several people, including Mister Kirk."
"Don't make me ask the question again, Spock. You'll make me feel like my staff sergeant."
"When the Enterprise departs its spacedock, I will be on the bridge," Spock finally answered him, glancing over. Their shared a look briefly, and then looked back to the sunrise.
"Good."