It had been a long day, for both of them.

Human rituals, by definition, were already half-alien to Spock. Their curious predilection for self-intoxication as a means of stimulating interpersonal communication only enhanced Spock’s sense of having little in common with the majority of his shipmates on the Enterprise, even after being aboard for more than twelve years.

The retirement party for Dr. Piper was to be, Spock had heard chief engineer Scott proclaim, “a ripping good send-off.” That, too, confused Spock. Piper was scheduled to remain with the crew until they returned to Earth roughly ten weeks from now, at which time Starfleet Medical and Starfleet Command would assign the Enterprise a new ship’s surgeon. Celebrating the end of Piper’s service while it was still in progress seemed premature, and Spock had said as much to Captain Kirk earlier in the evening, when the ship’s senior officers had congregated here in Manón’s, a cabaret lounge in Stars Landing.

“Just kick back and enjoy yourself, Mr. Spock,” Kirk had said to him. “It’s a party. He’s earned it…. We all have.”

Spock was uncertain what, precisely, constituted the value of a party, or against what standard one could be said to have “earned” it as a reward. It was “an intangible fringe benefit of socializing with humans,” his former commanding officer, Captain Christopher Pike, had once explained to him. Tonight, however, lacking Mr. Scott’s interest in imbibing alcohol, Dr. Piper’s yen for telling ribald stories, or the captain’s penchant for making impetuous advances toward unfamiliar women, the half-Vulcan officer concluded that “benefit” was not necessarily the word he would have selected for this category of experience. Astrophysicist Sulu and communications officer Uhura, at least, displayed a greater sense of decorum as they sipped at their juice drinks and held themselves at a slight remove from the senior officers’ increasingly unfettered revelry.

Clutching his empty glass, Spock got up from his chair. No one else in the group seemed to notice. After moving even a few meters away, he could tell immediately that the Enterprise group was currently the loudest one in the nightclub. There was a fairly substantial clamor of overlapping voices, but Piper’s and Scott’s guffawing laughs pierced the din. Other tables of Starfleet officers and civilian residents were casting furtive, irritated glances in his shipmates’ direction.

There was a line of people three layers deep at the bar. Spock waited his turn, and used the delay to examine the details of the spacious, softly lit club. High ceilings gave it good acoustics, but the dim illumination concealed the room’s height, creating a more intimate impression. Squat, movable chairs, ottomans, and tables, combined with oversized floor cushions, permitted the patrons to group themselves comfortably in both small and large numbers. Most of the clientele appeared to be well-to-do civilians or commissioned Starfleet officers. A group of Bombay personnel whom Mr. Scott had asked for directions had indicated that Manón’s, despite being a privately owned establishment, served as the de facto officers’ club on Vanguard. There was a real officers’ club on level sixteen, one of them had said, “but no one ever goes there.”

He placed his glass gently on the polished stone bartop, just past an imaginary midpoint dividing line. The bartender snatched up the glass as he darted over from one side. Eyeing Spock, he deposited the glass—with a dexterity that bordered on sleight-of-hand—into a sanitizer. “Another ice water, friend?”

“Yes, please.”

A pleasant, soft purr of a voice turned Spock’s head. “Ice water?” An elegantly dressed woman stood beside him with her back to the bar. “I do love a big spender,” she added. To the best of his recollection, he had never seen her species before. She was pale and, by most humanoid species’ standards, quite aesthetically pleasing. The irises of her large, almond-shaped eyes were vaguely feline and shimmered emerald-green. Her nose was tiny almost to the point of being imperceptible. She wore her multihued hair in an ornately coiffed swirl, like a breaking wave. Her off-the-shoulder dress could at first be mistaken for black, but a closer inspection revealed that it was an intensely saturated purple, like that of the ripest plums. In a very literal sense, she radiated warmth.

“I was not aware that there was any charge for water,” he said, resisting the pull his human half felt for the woman.

“Every day I learn something new,” the woman said. “I had no idea Vulcans were ignorant of sarcasm.”

“Not ignorant, madam. Unfazed.”

“Touché,” she said. Lifting her chin toward the bartender, she instructed the young man, “Put his water on my tab, Roy.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the bartender said with a grin.

The lady extended her hand to Spock. He clutched it gingerly between his fingertips, hesitant to grasp it fully because of the potential for unwanted telepathic contact…and because of the length and apparent sharpness of her curved fingernails. She shot him an unflinchingly provocative stare and introduced herself. “Manón.”

“Spock.” He released her hand. “I do not believe I have ever met one of your species before.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “Only a few Silgov have traveled this far from the homeworld. Exploration is not what one might call a ‘cultural imperative’ for my people.”

Intrigued, Spock said, “And yourself?”

“Call it wanderlust,” she said with a seductive grin.

An excited buzz of discussion rippled through the crowd. Spock turned to see the cause of the sudden hubbub. Crossing the room, from the front entrance to the slightly elevated main stage at the rear of the room, was a tall, young Vulcan woman. He noted that her crimson uniform was of the new miniskirt variety, and that its sleeve cuffs bore the stripes of a lieutenant commander. She ascended the stairs to the stage and seated herself in front of the baby grand piano.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Manón nod to someone. A moment later, a soft spotlight affixed itself to the woman onstage. She sat patiently—waiting, Spock surmised, for the silence that spread quickly across the room. A few dozen people shushed his shipmates at their table. Seconds later the room fell quiet with anticipation.

Manón leaned over and whispered confidentially to Spock, “You’re in for a treat. T’Prynn doesn’t do this often.”

After the briefest hesitation, T’Prynn’s fingers danced in a flurry across the keys, building into a classical crescendo that just as quickly melted away into a few slow, melancholy notes that fell like rain. As she segued into a gently flowing jazz measure, Spock marveled at the fluidity of her performance style, which was riddled with breaks, tiny flourishes and hints of influence as disparate as Terran blues and gospel. Even simple measures took on unexpected complexity as she counterpoised mellow bass lines with up-tempo melodies, demonstrating a pianist’s natural gift for harboring and reconciling two seemingly contradictory musical ideas at once. Around the room, her audience bobbed in unison, tapped their feet, and seemed to surrender themselves to the unmistakable passion that infused T’Prynn’s music.

The tempo increased as she played, subtly at first, then with greater assertiveness after she crossed a musical bridge into a more robust passage of the tune. Then, like turning a corner, she doubled back into quieter territory—only to reverse herself again, leading her performance and the audience into a decidedly muscular, bluesy barnstorm of a run that shook the tables, chairs, and even the bar itself with its simple ferocity. It was several seconds before Spock was able to divert his attention to realize that almost everyone in the room was clapping in tempo with T’Prynn’s music, providing her with joyous and completely spontaneous percussion.