A sudden break from the surging of major chords and she was into a series of rapid, virtuoso solos across the right side of the keyboard, each separated by a majestic thumping of the baby grand’s lower-register keys. Nearly seven minutes after she began, she prolonged the inevitable with a brazen parade of chords punctuated by witty solo asides, and then sailed to a finish with a few graceful—if theatrical—sweepings of her hand across all the white keys from right to left, and a final proud slam of a note.

The room erupted with applause, a standing ovation that was deafening in its exultation. T’Prynn remained seated for a few moments, then she stood and nodded politely to the audience before demurely stepping down off the stage. Spock watched her approach the bar, and he realized that from the moment she had entered the lounge, and even through the duration of her performance, her facial expression had not seemed to change. If one had not seen her hands, she would have appeared to be the very portrait of calm. Her hands, however, had belied her quiet composure, attacking the keys with an intense, ferocious, and sometimes deftly playful quality that Spock could not remember ever seeing in another Vulcan musician. By almost any standard, she had rendered a remarkable performance, but Spock could think of only one adjective that, in his opinion, best described his impression of T’Prynn’s musical style: human.

As she neared the bar, the low undercurrent of conversation returned to the nightclub. A handful of patrons stepped away from the counter, ostensibly as a gesture of respect for T’Prynn. She took a freshly vacated seat between Manón and Spock. “Thank you,” she said to Manón, “for the use of your piano.”

“I should be thanking you for the free entertainment.” With a small gesture in Spock’s direction, she added, “T’Prynn, this is Mr. Spock.”

T’Prynn turned her head and regarded Spock with a neutral expression. “Commander.”

“Your performance was impressive,” Spock said.

She seemed unmoved by his praise. “Most kind.” Lifting her hand, she summoned the bartender. “Green tea, please.”

“Where did you study?”

She seemed reluctant to answer, then saw that Manón had already moved away. Looking back at Spock, she said, “Earth.”

He hazarded a guess. “At the Academy?”

“During those years, yes. But not at the Academy proper.”

“Your interpretation of Gershwin’s ‘Summertime’ was most…emphatic.”

“It was not my interpretation.” The bartender delivered her drink, and she nodded her thanks. “The arrangement was by a twentieth-century jazz pianist named Gene Harris. I merely emulated his approach.”

“Regardless, the result was profoundly affecting.”

“Are you saying that you felt an emotional response to my music, Mr. Spock?”

“Not at all,” he said. “But many in the audience clearly did. Indeed, the profusion of raw emotion in your performance—”

“I permitted myself no such indulgence.”

Spock realized that he had misspoken. “Forgive me. I meant no offense. Perhaps it would be more correct for me to speak of the emotional impact of your music.”

“Such is in the ear of the listener,” T’Prynn said. “Logic would suggest that music is applied mathematics coupled with digital coordination and acoustic manipulation.”

His right eyebrow arched with suspicion. “As a fellow-musician, I cannot agree with your definition of music.” He noted that she seemed to deliberately break eye contact and turn slightly away from him. He continued, “If your hypothesis is valid, it begs the question, Why have I never heard another Vulcan musician perform in such a style?”

“Perhaps because the majority of them play only for Vulcan listeners,” she said. “I doubt that a recital audience in Vulcana Regar would respond to the music I performed tonight with the same approval I received here.” She sipped her tea, then added, “Always know your audience.”

“There is another possible explanation.” He waited until she resumed eye contact with him before he continued. “Perhaps you have found a way to use music as a clever circumvention of the Dictums of Logic.”

Now it was her turn to lift an eyebrow at him. “A peculiar notion, Spock. Why would a Vulcan do such a thing?”

He met her stare. “That is an interesting question.”

“One that I am certain you will ponder in exhaustive detail,” she said. “Please share your eventual conclusions with me. I will be most curious to see where your speculations lead.” Standing and facing him, she lifted her hand in the Vulcan salute. “Peace and long life, Spock.”

Returning the gesture, he said, “Live long and prosper, T’Prynn.” He watched her walk away, moving through the crowd with the grace of a dancer. Without succumbing to emotion, he savored the irony that, after all his decades serving aside several perplexing individuals of many different species, he should find a fellow-Vulcan so utterly foreign.

Picking up his ice water and feeling the cool drops of condensation on its exterior trickle over his fingers, he considered that perhaps he had been away from home for too long. Then he thought of his father, Sarek…and banished all thought of a homecoming from his mind.

He looked across the room at his laughing, illogical, inscrutably human friends and knew that, as alien as it might once have seemed—and likely would feel again, from time to time—the Enterprise was his home.

Though he had nothing to add to their conversation, he returned to the table with his shipmates. Kirk slapped his shoulder. “I saw you chatting up that piano player, Spock. I also saw her leave alone. No sparks?”

“If you are referring to a romantic attraction, Captain, then no. Our conversation was…professional in nature.”

Kirk didn’t look convinced. He smiled at Sulu and Scotty, then said to Spock, “So you’re not interested in her, then?”

“Quite the contrary,” Spock said. “I found her—and her music—extremely interesting.”

8

Tim Pennington watched from the observation deck above the Bay Two airlock as the Starship Bombay was guided in reverse out the open spacedock doors. It was just after midnight, station time. As he had suspected from the flurry of activity that had surrounded the ship all day long, its three-day shore leave had been canceled, though he did not yet know why.

He felt melancholy. The Bombay’s early departure—and the continued presence of the Enterprise—had prevented him from bidding farewell to Oriana. She had spent what little free time had remained to her with her husband, Robert.

Adding insult to injury, Robert D’Amato stood only a few meters to Pennington’s left, watching the Bombay’s departure with a sad but wistful expression. Pennington worked very hard to avoid making even accidental eye contact.

The ship’s primary hull cleared the spacedock doors. Now under its own power, it initiated a graceful pivot-and-roll maneuver away from Vanguard, the domes of its warp nacelles glowing brightly. As it slowly accelerated away, the spacedock doors drifted gradually toward each other. A vibration on Pennington’s wrist drew his hand to his pager. He pushed back his sleeve and read the incoming message.

It was from his editor—a simple heads-up to say that the story Pennington had filed about the deaths of Enterprise officers Mitchell and Dehner had gone live network-wide. Pennington authorized the message’s return receipt and pulled his sleeve back over the pager. He smiled to himself as he anticipated the response the story might provoke. Nothing to do now but wait for it to hit the fan with Kirk, he mused.

Outside the spacedock doors, the Bombay was little more now than a distant speck of shimmering silver-white against the stars. Godspeed, Oriana. Be safe until we say hello again.

When he turned to walk away, D’Amato was standing right next to him. “My wife’s on the Bombay,” the officer said. “First time I’ve seen her in almost a year, and we got less than six hours together.”