Thursday, December 25, 2008

Waves Upon a Tropical Shore R

Disclaimer: Paramount owns these characters in real life. Gratitude to Frank Loesser for the lyrics.

All of the dialogue are (is? never get that right) the lyrics to the song "Baby It's Cold Outside", with just a couple of changes. No beta. All fubars belong to me.


~~Waves Upon A Tropical Shore

Summary: Baby, it's cold outside.

Uhura cursed Captain Kirk for spending his shore leave in a brownstone located in an Old Chicago historical district that prohibited transporter activity. She had had to beam down a long block away and slip and slide her way down the icy sidewalk to his building, getting buffeted by the freezing wind and strafed by sheets of sleet, dressed only in her Starfleet uniform and a short jacket. She tugged on the ridiculous woolen cap that was last year's holiday present from Chekhov. For once, she was happy for his knack for impractical gifts. The cap was useless to her in Africa but she was grateful of it here—and lucky that she shoved it into the pocket of her jacket a year ago. The giant pom pom on the cap's peak bobbled in the wind. Uhura pulled down the ear flaps and tied the string tightly at her chin.

She sighed. She'd be in Africa had she not volunteered for the last shift before space dock. Then she got stuck with the subspace packet that she now had to hand-deliver to the captain. Her family was expecting her and she was already late. Her mother was probably waiting in the east wing gallery with a glass of iced red tea.

Damn these historical districts! When Kirk said that he wanted to be incommunicado on his shore leave, he really meant it. Starship Captains were allowed only twenty-four hours of total privacy per shore leave. How Kirk swung seventy-two, Uhura would never know.

As she approached the brownstone, she heard the muffled sounds of music and laughter over the noise of her chattering teeth. She'd forgotten about Kirk's legendary Holiday Bash.

Uhura frowned. She wasn't sure if she was in the mood to deal with a party. She planned to drop off the packet and go. Her family was expecting her and she was late. Her father would be beside himself—mainly because he would be left to deal with his fat, fussy sister without Nyota's gentle and humorous mediation. Her sister, already baiting her about the young captain with the vid star looks, would listen to her excuses with a raised brow and a wicked grin. And her brother—she hadn't seen him for nearly three years and she would only have a day or two with him as it was.

She carefully picked her way up the stairs to the entry of Kirk's building. A blast of wind nearly sent her tumbling back down. Of course, the door buzzer didn't work when she pressed it—not that Kirk could hear it or his communicator signal over the party going on in his flat.

She peered into the vestibule and beat against the thick old glass with her hands. There was another door between her and the hallway that led to the flat. It would be impossible for anyone to hear her out here. She sighed again, hugged herself and danced from foot to foot. She had to wait on the stoop until someone came through the door. Sleet spit a bull's eye right up her nose.


Why didn't she think this through? At the very least, she should have checked the weather. She considered calling for a flitter just to have someplace warm to wait.

Damn, again!

She longed briefly for the good old days of global weather control—without all the crashing of the Earth's ecosystem and the nearly killing of all of the fish and the--.

Uhura leaped out of the way as a laughing couple tumbled out of the vestibule. She caught the door before it could close again then turned to see who almost knocked her off the stoop and sent her skidding out into the traffic.

It was Dr. McCoy with a woman.

McCoy's eyes were bright and his mouth smeared with lipstick. The woman wore impossibly high heels that matched the red silk that peeked from the hem of her cloak. Thick chocolate hair shimmered in a Rita Hayworth wave that obscured her face.

They stopped at the curb and a flittercab appeared out of nowhere. McCoy gripped the woman's hair in both of his hands, pulled her head back and kissed her deeply. He gazed at Uhura from beneath his lashes as his lips moved against the other woman's mouth. Uhura shivered, feeling the kiss from ten feet away. The woman shoved McCoy into the flitter. With one long, bare leg in the cab and the other braced against the curb, the woman turned to Uhura. She tossed her hair back and winked.

It was Admiral Nogura.

Uhura picked her chin up off the ground and stood at attention.

Nogura ducked into the flitter with a throaty laugh and the vehicle whisked away into the driving sleet.

Uhura entered the building, still not quite believing her eyes. Ellington's "Arabesque Cookie" thrummed sumptuously in her ears as she headed down the hall. As she raised her fist to knock, the door opened. Startled, Uhura stared with wide eyes at a woman who could be her twin—if she were Deltan.

And Spock's date.

The Deltan gave Uhura a heavy-lidded once over--twice. She spoke to Uhura in the soft susurrus of the Deltan language. It took Uhura a moment to mentally translate what she heard. A barely audible click at the end may have turned a polite greeting into a complex proposal involving Spock and the Deltan and activities that the three of them might enjoy if Uhura cared to join them. Uhura stared at Spock. She wasn't sure if he understood what the Deltan asked. He watched her intently as he carefully buttoned his heavy cashmere coat.

Maybe he did understand.

A flush started somewhere around Uhura's ankles, traveled up her legs, lingered in her belly, then rushed suddenly to her face. She gave a tiny negative shake of her head. The Deltan shrugged elegantly and stepped past her into the hallway. After a moment, Spock inclined his head and followed.

Or maybe she was wrong and it was just a polite greeting.

Uhura blew out a breath to clear her head. First McCoy, now Spock. She needed to deliver this packet to the captain and get the hell out of here.

The scent of alcohol, burning snythcedar and warm bodies enveloped her as Uhura entered the flat. The place was brightly lit and packed with people. A swing band replaced Ellington on a dented gramophone and the partygoers surged into every available empty space to dance. She stood on her toes saw Kirk behind a bar pouring drinks. He glanced her way and she waved. He held her eyes briefly but he continued to splash tequila into three shot glasses lined in front of him. Scotty and Ambassador Shras were belly up to the bar. By the fireplace, Admiral Morrow stared into the eyes of his wife, then leaned forward and kissed her gently on the forehead. On a vid screen above the mantle, Dean Martin silently played a grand piano with a cigarette between two fingers. A blond in a tight dress leaned backwards with her elbows on the piano.

It seemed that everybody who was anybody was at Kirk's party.

As Uhura tried to push her way through the crowd, someone thrust a drink into her hand. She saw the back of Sulu as he weaved sinuously through the crowd, holding a tray high above his head with one hand and snapping his fingers to the beat with the other.

"I really can't stay," Uhura shouted after him.

"But baby, its cold outside," he said over his shoulder. He blew her a kiss before being swallowed by the crowd.

She sighed and cautiously sniffed her drink. She took a sip. It was warm and sweet and spiced with enough real rum and cinnamon to make her eyes water. Chekhov bounced by, pausing long enough to plant a kiss soundly on her lips. She slapped at him and he pointed above her head. She looked up. Mistletoe still hung from a fixture above her. She tried to move but the crowd held her fast. She dodged kisses from Riley, DeSalle and another from Chekhov. Riley laughed at her hat.

The bodies parted again and she saw the captain heading in her direction. He wore a lush, brown v-neck sweater that deepened the color of his eyes. He glanced up at the mistletoe but only grinned, and with his fingertips, brushed his forelock from his forehead, his gesture reminding her that she still wore the garish woolen cap. She pulled it off, instantly regretting her decision. Her hair probably looked better hidden under the hat. She ducked her head and tugged the hat back on, tying the sting again. She reached into her pocket for the data wafer. When she looked up again, the captain was gone.

"I've got to go away!" she pleaded, but no one heard. Uhura sighed in frustration and actually stamped her foot. The cap's pom pom wobbled in sympathy.

Admiral Morrow and his wife shrugged into their coats. They stopped by the door. Morrow protested his wife's winding his muffler up to his nose.

"But baby it cold outside," she laughed, kissing him through three layers of wool.

Morrow rolled his eyes in indulgent exasperation. His wife turned and smiled over Uhura's shoulder. "This evening has been—"

"I was hoping that you'd drop in," said Kirk, his lips close to Uhura's ear.

She jumped and nearly dropped her drink. She hadn't felt him standing behind her. He smiled, head bent toward her, his breath a warm feather on the side of her neck.

"So very nice," continued Mrs. Morrow, watching Kirk and Uhura, a matchmaker's gleam in her eye.

Uhura opened her mouth then closed it. She took a tiny step away from Kirk's body. The conga line came back around and pushed her back into him. She stared at Admiral Morrow. She held up the data wafer. Kirk cupped her hand in both of his.

"I'll hold your hands. They're just like ice," he said.

Uhura gulped. "My mother will start to worry," she said.

Morrow's wife laughed and began to unbutton Uhura's jacket. "Beautiful, what's your hurry," she said, cutting her eyes at Kirk. She smiled politely at Uhura's hat.

Uhura stood helpless as Mrs. Morrow wrestled her out of her jacket. Kirk still held her hand captive.

"My father will be pacing the floor," pleaded Uhura.

"Listen to that fireplace roar," Mrs. Morrow said sweetly.

"Really, I'd better scurry," whispered Uhura.

She stood, trapped between Kirk and the Morrows, half in and half out of her jacket. Kirk brought her hand to his lips and blew his warm breath across her cold fingers. She didn't realize it until Mrs. Morrow took the glass from her that she'd finished her drink.

"Darling, please don't hurry," said Mrs. Morrow. She deftly plucked a drink from Sulu's tray as he whizzed by and thrust it into Uhura's hand.

Adelia Morrow raised matchmaking to the level of an Olympic sport.

Uhura glanced at the glass then looked back at Kirk. He released her hand and slipped the wafer into his pocket. He shrugged with a slight tilt of his head, leaving it up to her. His eyes were the darkest she'd ever seen them.

"Well, maybe just a half a drink more," she said weakly.

"Put some records on while I pour," said Kirk, heading back to the bar.

Mrs. Morrow grinned and sailed out the door, blissfully ignoring her frowning husband.

Uhura pulled her other arm out of her jacket and placed it carefully on a chair near the door. She fought her way to the gramophone and thumbed through the stack of 78's. It was quite a collection and many of them weren't replicas. Kirk was a brave man to trust a fortune in old records to this wild party. She pulled out a Cannonball Adderly and set it carefully on the turntable. A trumpet blared and the conga line thundered by.

Uhura slapped a hand over her ear.

"The neighbors might think--!" she shouted.

Riley hopped out of the line and looked out the window. "Baby, it's bad out there," he laughed.

The guests crowded at the window, marveling and the swirling snow. Chekhov bragged that this was a spring rain compared to the winter storms in Moscow. This was shorts and sandals weather in Leningrad. And one time, in Latvia, he--. Sulu groaned and bonked him on the head with the tray. Ambassador Shras chuckled darkly.

Riley stood in the middle of the room holding a sprig of mistletoe over his head. He closed his eyes, puckered up and invited all comers. Chekhov headed toward him with a big sloppy grin on his face. Sulu shouted a warning and the chase was on. Uhura despaired of getting out of here anytime soon.

Everyone was so…happy.

De Salle slid an arm around her shoulders and dipped her into a kiss. He held a glass to her lips. She took a sip and her eyes nearly crossed.

"Hey, what's in this drink?" she coughed.

Scotty shouted a reminder about crashing the Lexington's engineering crew party and the crowd surged toward the door, laughing, playing tug-of-war with coats and scarves.

The door slammed, there was a moment of silence then Nat Cole began to sing. The room was empty. The lights were low. The fire snapped in the fireplace.

"Uh—," said Uhura.

Suddenly, the captain stood before her. She stared at him with wide eyes. She could see his pulse beating slowly in the golden hollow of his throat. She could smell his skin. He leaned a hand against the windowsill. Uhura backed against the wall. He reached over her and parted the blinds with a finger.

"No cabs to be had out there," he said softly.

This was the last place she wanted to be: alone, with Kirk, inches from his body. His breath was warm with mulled rum. She couldn't move.

"I wish I knew how…" she said.

He tilted his head back slightly and gazed at her face. "Your eyes are like starlight now," he murmured.

"…to break this spell."

He wound his finger around the yarn tie of her cap and tugged gently. "I'll take your…hat?" he said, grinning.

She slipped under his arm and backed away. The cap came off and dangled from his finger.

"Your hair looks swell." Grinning.

Uhura ran a hand over her mussed locks. Kirk chuckled. She snatched the silly hat from him and clutched it to her breasts. He was standing too close to her again, gazing at her silently. She prayed that he couldn't hear the pounding of her heart. A log tumbled in the fireplace. He brushed by her to go poke up the fire.

She watched him, the golden reflection of the fire on his face, the tender skin on the back of his bent neck, the soft sweater stretched across his shoulders. Oh god! Why was she still here? She should've run out the door while his back was turned. She clutched the wool cap more tightly to her.

He brushed against her again as he headed for the sofa. He sat down and leaned back, clasping his hands between his knees. He said nothing, did nothing, only watched her with his head cocked curiously.

The wind threw sleet violently against the window. Uhura jumped and walked quickly to the sofa. She perched hesitantly on the edge. After a moment, she turned to the captain.

"I ought to say no no no, sir." To what, she didn't know.

Kirk sat up, pressed his palms against the couch and shifted carefully over until their bodies were a hairsbreadth apart. He clasped his hands between his knees again, resting his elbows on his thighs.

"You mind if I move in closer," he asked quietly.

Uhura swallowed and shook her head slowly, left then right. He gently pulled the cap from her hands. He smoothed down the ear flaps and fluffed the pom pom with his fingers. He set it beside him on the sofa. Mr. Cole sang softly.

Kirk rose and held out his hand. Behind him Uhura could see Dean Martin and the blonde in a passionate embrace. In the back for her mind she heard her sister snicker.

"At least I'm going to say that I tried," she said.

"Then what's the sense in hurting my pride?"

She took his hand and he pulled her to her feet. He slipped an arm around her waist and drew her to him.

"I really can't stay," she whispered, leaning her forehead against his chin.

"Oh baby, don't hold out."

"Oh, but—." She pulled back and looked up at him.

"It's cold outside," he said.

He began to move his feet but it took her a moment to realize that they were dancing. She laid her head on his chest. His arm was heavy around her waist. She could feel his thumb caressing the small of her back.

"I simply must go," she sighed.

"But baby, it's cold outside."

"The answer is no."

He huffed warm laughter into her ear. "Baby, it's cold outside," he said again.

She stepped out of his arms.

"Your welcome has been—."

"So lucky that you dropped in."

He circled around her, trailing his fingers across the fabric of her tunic to the exposed flesh on her collarbone.

"So nice. And. Warm," she said.

With his hands on her shoulders, he turned her toward the window. The storm raged white and black and wet. Kirk's breath was hot against the back of her neck. He pressed the flat of his hand against her belly. The fingers of his other hand toyed with the zipper at her shoulder.

"Look out the window. Look at that storm," he said.

"My sister will be suspicious."

"Gosh your lips look delicious," he said. He dipped his head and kissed her, just the barest brush of his lips on hers.

"My brother will be there at the door."

"Waves upon a tropical shore," he said, lightly nuzzling across her cheek and down her neck.

"My maiden aunt's mind is just vicious." The light scratch of his chin on her neck made her shiver.

He tightened his arms around her. Her tunic hiked up high on her thighs.

"Yes, your lips are delicious," he said.

He kissed her, deeply, long enough for her knees to go weak.

"Well, maybe just a little while more," she said.

"I never saw such a blizzard before," said Kirk, the Iowa farm boy.


Uhura lay back on the couch and tried to catch her breath. Kirk had freed her breasts from her tunic. He held them between his hands and tongued from nipple to nipple. His fingers were wet. How he managed to get beneath her briefs and her tights without removing them, she still hadn't figured out. His sweater was in a bundle on the floor, the fastener on his pants undone. A breath of pubic hair peeked above the waistband of his black briefs. She pushed gently at his shoulders.

"I simply must go," she whispered.

"But baby, you'd freeze out there," he said. He sat back on his hunches and looked out the window.

She propped herself on her elbows. "Say, lend me a comb."

"It's up to your knees out there," he said, bending to kiss her knee.

"You've really been—."

She gripped the hand that he slid from her knee to the inside of her thigh.

"I thrill when you touch my…hand," he said.

He brought her fingers to his lips. He stretched out on top of her again.

"But don't you see."

She leaned up and caught his lower lip between her teeth.

"How can you do. This thing. To me," murmured.

He shifted his hips and pressed his sex against hers.

"There's bound to be talk tomorrow," she breathed into his ear.

"Will you think of my life-long sorrow?"

He tugged her tunic off her shoulders and down around her hips.

"At least there will be plenty implied."

She toed off her boots.

"If you caught pneumonia and died," he agreed.

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants.

"I really can't stay," she said, shimmying out of her tights and briefs. "Oh but it's--."

"Cold," said Kirk, kicking his shorts off his ankle.

"Out--," she sighed.

"Side," he gasped.


Sunday, December 14, 2008

Prodigal Soul-- Chapter 5

Finally another chapter! You can read the first part here and chapter four here.

Disclaimer: Paramount owns the characters. All creative content, plot, original characters belong to me.

The Prodigal Soul

Author's note: Plak`matya is derived from the Vulcan words plak, meaning blood and matya, meaning feral animal. Vulcans do not claim what Terrans would call a ‘vampire’ in their mythology. Vulcans do not admit to much of a mythology at all.

Summary: Brotherhood, friendship, love and a vampire.


When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul
Lends the tongue vows.


I have shot mine arrow o'er the house,
And hurt my brother.

--William Shakespeare “Hamlet”


~In the Walls

Vulcan engineering was a both a blessing and a curse to Suvan. Even after two millennia, the stones that built the castle’s interior walls were still joined seamlessly, admitting no light and very little air into the maze of passageways behind them. Secret doors remained secret, perfectly balanced, disappearing into the walls and floors, completely invisible if one did not know of their existence. There were chambers and chutes, stairs and trapdoors; and in the old nursery, a cradle hidden behind the wall was attached to rails and counterbalances that could whisk a child up five stories to the keep or drop him quickly down into the depths beneath the castle. There were also blind alleys and traps that could leave an enemy searching for an exit until he either starved or fell to his death down shafts dug deep into the mountain.

Maps detailing this intricate system were meticulously filed away in the castle library, deep in the clan archives, seen only by one set of Vulcan eyes in a thousand years.

Suvan watched the Enterprise party carefully as they walked to the Great Hall. Interestingly, there was a Vulcan youth with them. He blinked in surprise at the formality with which Stonn greeted the Vulcan. Was this the son of Sarek? Surely this boy was far too young to be an officer in the Starfleet, let alone old enough to leave the house of his father. Sarek would never allow it. But upon closer inspection, the boy’s resemblance to T’Pau was unmistakable and his accent held the refined lilt of L’langon Mountain clan nobility. Suvan heard the blue-eyed human call him “Spock”. Grief tightened Suvan’s heart. This was the son of his brother’s son. Yet another child named, grown and gone while Suvan slept in his exile. Well, half-grown at any rate.

Suvan returned his attention to the humans. They were fascinating. Aside from his brief glimpses of she who was Sarek’s wife, Suvan had no opportunity to observe them. And Amanda was so self-contained to be as nearly Vulcan in her bearing. There was one book about Terrans in the palace library, a slim volume with perfunctory descriptions of human physiology, culture and history and that, hardly enough information to warrant publication as a journal article. There were no details about their technology except one sentence on the last page about a person called Zephram Cochrane that, were it not written by a Vulcan, Suvan would have thought it condescending. There was however, some detail about a contemporary of Cochrane, an engineer named Lily Sloane. Surprisingly, there was also a long paragraph about a comestible called “chocolate”.

The Starfleet party entered the Great Hall. Suvan did not dare to linger. He was confident that he would not be discovered--these passages were built to conceal--but he had taken too many risks, and the intelligent and empathic Golan was already uneasy. At any rate, Suvan was tired, still weakened from the effects of his Awakening. He sought succor in what small animals he could capture during his short forays to the other side of the mountain, but they provided meager sustenance. He needed to feed on much larger prey tonight and that meant hunting in the open desert.

The very thought of the hunt wearied him. Even the smallest of prey animals on Vulcan were difficult to catch. The night before, he saw a small herd of jarel picking delicately up the mountain side. At only twenty kilos they were fast and still dangerous, their small sharp horns and spurred hooves, deadly. But he needed blood before his hunger grew beyond the tenuous control with which he held it in check.

The need. The hunger. It would burn in him hot as the molten rivers of T’Khut--the blind madness of pon farr a trifling, childhood fever in comparison.

Suvan rose to his feet in the passageway. The dog


looked back at him one last time before disappearing into the Great Hall with the others. Suvan inspected the scrape on his elbow. He caught a tiny drop of blood on a fingertip and brought it to his mouth. It burned his lips and tongue. His breath hitched in his chest. His penis hardened. His eyes flared amber in the darkness.

“My heart is flame,” he whispered.


Sunday, December 07, 2008

Banana 1996-2008

My champion. My best friend.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Damn You, Jeremy!

You big tease! Best. Cast. Ever.

Tuesday, November 04, 2008


In your face, Flanders!!

Saturday, November 01, 2008

Sunday, October 26, 2008

I Always Imagine...

...George Jefferson dancing when I hear this song.

I also remember my mother playing the 45 of this on a child's record player--the only thing she could afford in 1968. She'd dance with one hand on the edge of the door, swinging, spinning, slippered feet scuffing lightly on the worn green linoleum, chin up, lips pursed, eyes sparkling. I'd jump in, all knees and elbows and 4 year-old rhythm. She'd laugh and clap and say, "Get it, baby. Get it."

Thursday, October 16, 2008

Sing a Song...'ll make you dance!

Tuesday, October 07, 2008


Palin video.

I debated posting any Republican imagery on this blog but this was just too frightening and ulgy not to share.

And all of these people sit in the front pew in church every Sunday.

Saturday, September 27, 2008

Plastic Jesus

You wild, beautiful thing...

Saturday, September 20, 2008


So there's this news story over at Fark about this huge spider skin found at an oil refinery that's got all the workers there up in arms. Considering that the spider skin is the size of a salad plate and some spiders shed their skin when they get bigger, I'd say they have good cause for concern.

The best thing about Fark is the reader comments. They were particularly eloquent today.

valor_morghulis says:

--"That makes me want to crawl inside myself and weep."


demanton helpfully offers:

--"There's always a spider within ten feet of you. Always."

Heebies. And I'd like some extra jeebies on the side, please.

UnrepentantApostate rejoins:

--"This spider is what I consider one of the most gratuitous creatures in Nature. Twelve inches wide, that's big enough to sit on your face. On top of this, they have hairs on their legs they can shoot at you to irritate your skin, eyes, and mucous membranes.

It's not their venom that's truly worrisome, it's the giant fangs they have. Those hurt.

But what's truly over-the-top grotesque about these things is that they can force air out of their carapace to shriek at you.

Yes, that's right, it's a screaming, dinner-plate-sized, face-spanning spider. That's just gratuitous. "

Because you know, I really needed to visualize that. Thanks, man. I hate you.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

David Foster Wallace 1962-2008

I learned of David Foster Wallace's suicide a few days ago when I saw his photo under the column heading "Memorable Deaths of 2008". It was in some online magazine, I don't remember which.

"Memorable" deaths.

I read "Brief Interviews With Hideous Men" and came away apalled and giddy--and thinking that DFW was one wonderfully, brilliantly fucked up dude. His writing is manic and plodding, smart, generous and self-indulgent, funny and humane and dizzy with annotations and footnotes, zoozoos, wham whams and arcane allusions like Tourette's outbursts that totally grooved my ADD brain.

But beauty is a burden that some people just cannot bear. The gift is too much. The psyche short circuits and you go crazy or die.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

This Is the Vulcan Heart PG

Sorry, Adams. This is not “Prodigal Soul”, but I needed to write something short and quick that would get me back into the Trek universe. Who knows, I may incorporate this into “PS”. It does beg for some fleshing out.

Disclaimer: Paramount owns the characters. But all the creative content, plot and original characters belong to me.

Archiving: THFFF, ASCEML. All others ask permission, please.

Summary: Sarek falls in love.


“Thee has prided thyself on thy Vulcan heritage.”

Sarek looked up from his padd with a start. He carefully placed the padd on his desk top, using the movement to reset his expression. He stood, glancing at his assistant who hovered in the doorway, his eyes huge, practically wringing his hands.

“That will be all, Xonek,” said Sarek.

Xonek inclined his head. “Yes, Ambassador,” he said, recovering his composure somewhat but still stepping quickly away.

Sarek gazed at his mother. T’Pau never came to his office in Shir’Kahr and rarely addressed him in High Vulcan unless the matter was very, very serious.

“Greetings, T’Pau,” he said.

“Thee has prided thyself on thy Vulcan heritage,” she repeated.

Her expression was severe, her words the Vulcan equivalent of a slap across the face.

Sarek raised his chin. “I do not understand,” he said.

“This…office does not absolve thee of thy duties.”

Sarek stifled a sigh. “Mother, you do not understand that it is different with humans. Amanda and I---.”

Kroyka!” T’Pau’s eyes flashed.

Sarek blinked then bowed his head.

“Thee are my child.”

Ah, pid-kom,” he said, his voice low.

“Know thy place.”

“I ask forgiveness, T’Pau.”

T’Pau relaxed her stance but still spoke in High Vulcan. “It is not my forgiveness thee should seek, my son. He who is my grandson grows quickly and he is Vulcan. Thy wife is not.”


Sarek walked down the corridor that led to the suite of rooms he shared with his wife. A part of his mind noted the absence of the low bustle of the palace staff. The rest of his mind was occupied with the memory of his encounter with T’Pau that afternoon.

He had not been chastised so severely--and so publicly--in his adult life.

T’Pau accused him of taking advantage of his status as the heir of the House, informed him that his sense of entitlement was sorely misplaced and told him that he did not receive special dispensation because he was her son. She also reminded him that Ambassador or not, as her son, he was still subject to her command.

Then she sent his disobedient ass home to take care of his wife and child like every other Vulcan male.

“Humph”, he huffed, his face hot with embarrassment. He glanced around, realizing more fully that he had not encountered a single attendant. Frowning, he entered the small anteroom of his suite. He knew


that Amanda was napping in the sleeping chamber. There should be an attendant stationed in the anteroom. He crossed the small room quickly and looked into the next chamber. Amanda lay on her back in the middle of their large bed. He walked over and gazed down at her. The long waves of her blonde hair spread across the pillows, glowing in the low light. Her thin shift clung to her heavy breasts and the sweet, coppery scent of breast milk rose from her body. The flame that warmed his blood flared briefly. He saw for the first time the dark rings of exhaustion under her eyes and understood, finally, why the harshness of T’Pau’s reprimand. Spock was half Vulcan. He required less sleep and more feeding than human babies. Even with supplements and consuming thousands of extra calories per day, Amanda could barely keep up. Sarek had not thought to hire a wet nurse and Amanda had not asked.

Sarek’s shoulders sagged. “Oh, my beloved,” he whispered. “I should have known.” She was pale and her arms, already thin, looked spindly. His gold and porcelain Amanda. He lightly brushed a stray hair from her face. She did not move.

Sarek heard a muffled sound from the darkness beyond the bed. He looked up and saw Spock standing in his crib staring solemnly at him over the rail. His hair grew in a thick dark thatch that stood straight up from his round baby head. At 3.8 Earth months old, Spock was already pulling up and trying to toddle.

Sarek went to the crib and peered down at the baby. Spock looked up at Sarek and lost his grip on the crib rail. He plopped down and corked his thumb in his mouth, sucking thoughtfully, gazing up at his father. He took his thumb out of his mouth and waved a wet, chubby fist at Sarek.

“Ta ta ta ta,” Spock said softly.

Sarek raised a brow. “Not you, too?” The faint scent of urine bloomed in Sarek’s face. "You require changing," he said.

“Ba,” answered Spock. A dimple blinked in his left cheek.

Sarek crept past Amanda and into the anteroom. He clicked on the com and called for an attendant. To his surprise, Golan’s face appeared on the screen.

“Why are you answering for T’Aylen, Golan?” asked Sarek.

“Greetings, S'haile.” There was a minute crinkle in the corner of Golan’s eye. Was he grinning?

“Answer my question, Captain.”

“T’Pau granted the entire staff the evening off.” Golan was indeed grinning.

“She what?” exclaimed Sarek.

“T’Pau granted the--.”

“I heard you, Golan. My wife is resting and I do not wish to disturb her. The child’s diaper is wet and needs to be changed.”

Golan coughed lightly into his fist. “Well,” he said. It seems you have a problem that needs to be solved.”

Sarek glared at the screen. “I suggest some time spent studying the Disciplines this evening, Golan.”

“As you wish, S'haile,” said Golan. “And take care when you remove--.”

Sarek snapped off the com. He turned back to the sleep chamber. He could hear Spock starting to fuss. The thought to wait to see if Amanda awakened was fleeting. He sighed. “I will obey, T’Pau,” he said. But he did not move as quietly as he could have when he went to retrieve his son from the crib. He glanced at Amanda. She did not stir.

He carried the baby at arm's length into the room that used to be his dressing room. Spock blew bubbles around his fists as he tried to shove them both into his mouth.

“That is illogical,” whispered Sarek. “It is not possible to fit both hands into your mouth at the same time. Especially hands as large as yours.”

Spock removed one hand and grabbed at Sarek’s nose.

Sarek laid him on the changing table. Spock pulled his feet up to his face and began to play with his toes.

“There are five toes on each foot,” said Sarek. Spock gazed intently at him. “Permit me to illustrate.” Spock watched as Sarek counted each toe twice, gently pinching them between his fingers. “There now. Do you see?” Sarek asked.

Spock looked at his toes, looked at Sarek, opened his mouth and vomited a great gout of curdled breast milk all over the front of Sarek’s tunic. Sarek gasped loudly. Spock’s face crumpled.

“Shh. Shh,” said Sarek. He awkwardly patted Spock on the belly. “It is of no consequence.”

Spock let out an alarming belch. Sarek leapt back. This time there was no projectile breast milk.

“You seem to have emptied yourself. And all onto me. Not a single drop on you. Fascinating. Well, no matter. I shall exchange your wet diaper for a dry one once I change my tunic--. Shh, shh. I shall change you but I must remove this first. No, no. Do not fret. I am still here,” said Sarek, quickly pulling his tunic over his head. “You see? There. Just like the game you play with your mother. Peek-a-boo, is it?”

“Chug,” said Spock.

“Perhaps not. Then where does your mother keep the diapers? Ah, there. The arrangement of your current diaper appears easily duplicated. It should not prove to be a difficult exchange. Allow me to first remove the soiled one. You see--. Ahh!” A strong, hot stream of urine shot a bulls-eye to Sarek’s chin. In a panic, he pressed the clean diaper between his sons legs. Spock chortled and kicked. Sarek grabbed the nearest thing with which to wipe his face. Unfortunately, it was his ruined tunic. He succeeded in smearing a mixture of urine and partially digested milk all over his chest and neck.

“Ahh!” he said again.

He turned and took a step towards the bed chamber. He stopped and straightened, taking a deep breath. "I will not be defeated by one soiled diaper", he said. He deposited his tunic in the cycler and returned to the changing table.

Spock wrinkled his nose. “Gak,” he said. “Mumm muu num.”

“You do not smell like a Grayson Beauty, yourself. And if you wish to see your mother, that is out of the question at the moment. You must make do with your father. Now, perhaps I was too hasty in dismissing Captain Golan’s advice.” Sarek cautiously lifted the edge of the diaper between Spock’s legs. “It appears you are finished but now you require cleaning,” he said.

Sarek lifted Spock and held him at arm's length--facing away. Spock looked back at him with a frown. “Just a precaution,” explained Sarek. He sat the boy on the floor of the sonic shower. Spock looked up and smiled.

“The sonic shower is quite efficient. You will find it quite a bit more pleasant than being subjected to the wet baths on which your mother insists. Yes, that is your navel—“bellybutton”, I believe your mother calls it,” said Sarek. He answered in the affirmative the computer’s polite inquiry.

As soon as the low hum of the sonic wave generators began, Spock wailed and tugged on his ear.

“Off!” said Sarek, his heart pounding. He bent and picked up his son. “Forgive me, Spock. I did not know that the sonic generators hurt your ears.”

Spock sniffled and laid his head on Sarek’s chest. Sarek held him and stroked his back. Spock rubbed his nose on his father’s skin and put his thumb back into his mouth. One small hand lay warmly on Sarek’s hard bicep.

Without conscious thought, Sarek began to rock gently from side to side. He breathed in the odor of sour milk and urine and the dry cinnamon scent from the top of his son’s head.

And beneath his palm, under the soft skin, the thin baby ribs, he felt the rapid beat of his son’s heart. He


a flame, a ferocious protectiveness.

It burned in his blood with an intensity that was both different and deeper than the plak tow; but if Amanda saw the dark and feral expression on his face, she would not recognize her husband. His chest swelled, every muscle filled with blood and his heart slowed in time with the beat of the ancient drums of Vulcan battle. Sarek bared his teeth. His hands tightened on his son’s small body. Spock did not complain. He relaxed against his father’s chest.

Sarek blinked and the green veil that covered his vision slowly cleared. He shifted Spock in his arms and looked down into his face. This is the Vulcan heart, he thought. He pressed his lips to Spock’s forehead.

“With my life, my son,” he whispered.


Amanda awakened, feeling well-rested for the first time in months. She blinked in the dark then sat up quickly. Spock was not in his crib. She heard a splash come from the bath. She scrambled off the bed and dashed across the room. A low, warm sound stopped her in her tracks.

It was Sarek, laughing.

Amanda tiptoed to the doorway of the bath and peered in. Sarek and Spock sat facing each other in the tub. Mountains of foam rose around them; the previously half-full bottle of her favorite bubble bath stood empty. She could feel the heat of the water from the door but apparently Spock didn’t mind. He splashed his hands in the water out of time to the tune of the song his father softly sang.

“Now you,” said Sarek.

“La la lo la,” sang Spock.

“Very good,” said Sarek. “Spock-kam, I believe you will have a lovely singing voice.”

“Ahh thuup,” said Spock, throwing his arms above his head.

“Thank you,” chuckled Sarek.

Amanda crept away. She lay back on the bed. She recalled T’Pau’s sharp-eyed assessment of her and Spock when she visited the palace unannounced just that morning.

“Thank you, T’Pau,” she said.



Wednesday, September 03, 2008


When are they ever going to learn that like a gun, a microphone that looks off, might still be loaded?

Dumbasses. But thanks for that...

Tuesday, September 02, 2008


Frak! Frak! Frak! Frak! Frak!

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Monday, August 25, 2008

The F-word.

Stonn scolded me for using the word 'fuck' too much in my writing. He also didn't agree with my politics but if you'll notice, I mostly drop f-bombs in my political rants.

But he's right.

It takes skill as a writer to create the same uh, whatever that simply using the word fuck would accomplish. It also takes skill to write a sex scene without including any actual fucking. I mean...

BTW--I stopped by Lawrence "Stonn" Montaigne's table at the Las Vegas Star Trek convention and gave him one of my cards last year. He remembered me this year and after chastising me for saying that word too much, he heaped upon me great praise for my talent as a writer. It was unexpected and very, very kind of him.

More "Prodigal Soul" this weekend. I swear. Or not.

*Ha! I love when the word verification actually means something. It is apropos of this post : FuMofo*

But What If It's Funny...

James Hannaham rings his hands over at Salon about why there is no outrage at Robert Downey, Jr.'s playing a black man in "Tropic Thunder".

Black folks can take a joke. Seriously, we can. African-Americans have a sense of humor, an ability to think critically--and a vast capacity for forgivness. I'm all down for the cause and everything but I can laugh at a racist joke, if the shit is funny.

It's all about context and delivery and source.

I sat in a theater full of black people watching "Tropic Thunder" and we laughed our asses off every time RDJ opened his mouth. Because he isn't playing a black man. He's a dude playing a dude disguised as another dude.

I just spit out my coffee thinking about "It ain't nuthin' but a thang." For the rest of the year, my friends and I will be waiting for opportuinties to use that as a ridiculous non-sequitur in work meetings.

Critics nervously over-praised the execution of the blackface while black people just shrugged and laughed. We got the joke. We don't need anyone to be outraged on our behalf. Not this time.

Is it confusing for white people what will offend? Maybe. Sometimes you people get it right, mostly you people don't.

"What do you mean by "you people"?"


It's a black thing. You can't understand.

Sunday, July 20, 2008

My Favorite Song of All Time

I like the later versions with Animal but this original from 1969 is better. I just love that little nappy-headed creature in his striped turtle neck. I think I had a sweater like that in7th grade.

And this is kind of cool, in a WTF way.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008


I hate it when everything sucks.

You ever wake up in a foul mood, knowing that you're going to have one of those grinding your back teeth, crappy, "I wish a muthafucker would" days? That was me, today.

Some guy smiled at me this morning and I was all like, "What the fuck you looking at?!".

On the inside.

It must've shown on my face because he blinked at me with wide eyes then frowned and walked away with his head down. Normally I would feel kinda bad but today I was all like, "Good. Fuck you, nice innocent stranger guy. Go spread the love."

I skipped out on a meeting this afternoon so that I could take a walk through downtown, get some fresh air and blow off some steam. I stomped down the busy sidewalk with my fists clenched at my sides, grumbling internally about the fact that we have a president who thinks it's funny to joke about lowering the price of gas. On top of that, there's a big ghetto ass gap where the shitty vinyl floor in our bathroom meets the hardwood at the door because Husband laid it down wrong in our stupid house that we couldn't flip because the goddamn market tanked! Husband is Buddhist and from a third world country so he was all like, "We can live with this."

Stupid zen calm man who knows what true poverty looks like!



I was actually having a nice walk. The sky was overcast but the air was warm. I got to yell "Fuck You!" at some asshole in an SUV who honked his horn at an old woman in the crosswalk. I stopped and pretended to shake a rock out of my shoe and he had to wait through another light. A homeless man on the corner pointed at the driver of the SUV and laughed, Ha! Ha!, like the kid from the Simpsons.

That made me feel better.

I stopped at Peet's to get a green tea. A baby in a stroller took his pacifier out of his mouth, sneezed then put his pacifier back. "You're ruining my bad mood," I told him. He took his pacifier out and grinned with his four teeth.

I walked slowly back to my building sipping my green tea frappathingie and saw Innocent Stranger Guy from this morning. He was sitting by a fountain eating a sandwich half-wrapped in tinfoil. He sat with his knees together with an orange holding down a wrinkled brown paper bag in his lap. He had long eyelashes and smooth cheeks and lots of shiny dark hair that parted in the breeze. He wore tan socks and the knobs of his ankles protruded over the sides of his big brown shoes.

I stopped in front of him. He gazed up at me, chewing. I pointed at his foot.

"Tie your shoe, sweetheart," I said.

He swallowed and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "I will," he said, smiling. "Thank you very much."

Monday, July 14, 2008

Well, shit...

Ok. Yeah. I see what you did there. I get it. Hard-hitting political satire. Great. What I want to know is, what took you so long?

For 8 years we've had to put up with a bitchass media that stood around pulling its pud and wringing its hands while the Bush administration gambooled and pissed all over, well, pretty much everything.

Man, back in the day, the Washington Post would've been all like, "Wait, what? The president just flipped our civil liberties the bird? That's a bitch slappin'. And the Vice President is engaged in war profiteering? Whaaa? That's a fist fuckin' and a dismantling of the entire administration! Fuck you. Get on your crooked asses on that helicopter and get the fuck out the White House. "

But noooo. The media waited until dude is 6 months lame duck to finally be all like, "Bush sucks and Cheney's a scaly, festering, hunched and shuffling thing that crawled out of Lucifer's ass. Look at all the bad shit they did."

Fuck that. Punkass bitches.

Thursday, July 03, 2008

USA! USA! We're #1!

Read Daniel Henninger's opinion piece over at WSJ about WTF is going on with the WTC project and you'll find "the greatest political and bureaucratic fiasco in the history of the world". And by greatest political fiasco in the history of the world, he means the election of George Jr.

Seven years after the destruction of the World Trade Center Towers we have this,

a $15, 000,000,000 motherfucking hole in the ground to show for all that sound and fury and red, white and blue bullshit. Henninger writes, "Remember the line about how if we don't rebuild the towers "the terrorists will win"? The terrorists will be dead of old age before this project is finished."

Oh, snap.

Seven years.

Metaphor throws up its hands and is all like, "My work is done here." Irony is all like, "I'm right behind you, dude." Obvious is all like, "These muthafuckkas don't know they ass from a hole in the ground."

And by ass, I mean George Jr. And by $15, 000,000,000 hole in the ground, I mean George Jr.'s administration.

That's 15 billion, monkies. How many schools and community clinics could that fund? On the other hand, $15, 000,000,000 is only 4.3 weeks of war costs.

China's all like, "We got ya covered. "

Sunday, June 29, 2008

Mumps, Mother Love and "Catlow"

Mumps, Mother Love and Catlow

I grew up understanding that I was not my mother’s favorite child. She loved me, but it was an exasperated love, distracted, what was leftover at the end of every exhausting day.

I learned early not to ask for much, to eat hominy and beef liver without a fuss, to play quietly on the floor on her side of my parents’ bed while she lay reading, one of her hands straying occasionally to stroke my hair. “You had so much hair when you were born," she would say. "You were so small. Thirteen inches. I could hold you in one hand. You were so dark with a great big head the size of a grapefruit. But you were beautiful. Just perfect. Your hands. You wouldn’t uncurl those toes. I looked at your little face and I couldn’t give you away.”

It was okay. I took what I could get.

When I was in second grade, I caught the mumps from a girl down the street whose father used to kiss her on the mouth. I came in complaining of a sore neck and my mother took one look at me and said, “Oh, shit. You have the mumps.” She was so angry, that I thought I’d done something wrong, but her hand was cool and soft when she laid it against my swollen jaw. She made my little brother sleep in the bed with me that night in the hopes that he would be infected and quickly get his bout over with. It didn’t work--at least not the way she hoped. He came home with a swollen face a week later, setting the pattern for my other siblings, each falling ill, one after the other, one week after the last was declared well enough to return to school.

I didn’t mind the mumps. It didn’t hurt after the first day and I got to have cream of wheat for dinner. Even better, I had my mother to myself for several days. She fed me soup and baby aspirin and held hot, folded washcloths to my jaw while we watched Japanese soap operas. We visited the library and went to the park. She read a book at a concrete picnic table and I lay spread-eagled in the tall, wind whipped grass, staring at the blue and white sky, imagining that I could feel the Earth spin beneath me.

One morning we drove to the naval base to look at the ships. My mother wore white pedal pushers, a lime-colored sleeveless top and a shoulder-length wig that parted down the middle and flipped up at the ends. She held my hand and laughed at the sailors from behind her large, round sunglasses. We raced home and cooked chili for dinner like we’d been there all day.

On my last day home, my mother sat at the table reading the newspaper. I could already feel her pulling away from me and I clenched my jaw against the ache in my heart. I felt a twinge in the glands beneath my ears.

Just then, my mother looked up from the paper and grinned. “A movie with Yul Brenner and Leonard Nimoy. My favorites,” she said. “And it’s a western, too. We’ll go to the matinee.”

We stopped at the Base Exchange on the way to buy a Baby Ruth for her and a Butterfinger for me. I don’t remember much about the movie other than how menacing Nimoy’s character was and how my mother and I giggled and peeked through our fingers at the naked fight scene.

I do remember, that as the lights went down, my mother squeezed my hand and kissed each of my knuckles with a loud smacking sound. I laughed and shivered with glee. She smiled and took another bite from her Baby Ruth.

Saturday, June 28, 2008

Monday, June 23, 2008

Damn, George...

Our last best defense against pre-packaged, trademarked, singularly banal douchebags like Dane Cook.

This is hella funny!

Thanks Adams. Y'all are getting way too down on Lake St.!

Wednesday, June 11, 2008


Yes! Yes! I'm writing! "Prodigal Soul" coming soon.

Truth is, monkies, I got caught up in season 4 of "Mission: Impossible" and how cool and hot Peter Graves was. He's all strapping Minnesota farm boy sexy in his cool-ass apartment with his silver hair and black turtlenecks and pointy ankle boots.

He looks like he has a lot of...stamina.

Anyway, while you're waiting for me to actually post a Star Trek story about Spock, groove to Gnarls Barkley.

Sunday, June 08, 2008

Dig Sesame Street

This is why I donate to public television. Can you believe it? Stevie Wonder jamming on "Superstition", live, for almost seven minutes on Sesame Street. Put that in your reality show and suck it.

Check out the kid on the landing. She (he?) is feeling the music.

*thanks amorphous*

Wednesday, June 04, 2008

The Most Romantic Song Ever

"I See Your Face Before Me", sung by the great Johnny Hartman.

My Grandmother Watches From Heaven...

My granny Mudea watches from heaven, eyes narrowed, her hands on her hips.

Shirley Chisholm laughs and dances. "Do you see?" she asks, pointing down at America.

Mudea purses her lips. "Hmm. We'll see," she says.

"Yes! But do you see?"

Monday, June 02, 2008


So, the Myanmar junta keeps refusing aid from Outworlders, the US in particular. They're all like, "Fuck you, United States. We don't want shit from you because you gonna come all up in our koolaid, handing shit out, and being all big-ass American savior and shit, like you do--even though we've endured cyclones for years without your help (back when we used to ask for it)--,and all the while what you really want is to gank our oil. Thanks. No thanks. Ok, we'll take a little bit of that rice and some bandaids but you need to keep the fuck steppin'. We don't need your help to crush the souls of our people, fuck you very much."

Seriously. That's what they said. Just like that.

And another thing: Hillary, go home. It's o-ver, honey. I called the whole RFK assignation thing two weeks before it got out and now I'm calling the Clinton Divorce Within Six Months After the Convention thing. Mark my words.

Oh, and send your pannies to Burma. Who knew?

Sunday, June 01, 2008

Obama/Spock '08

Dr. Henry Jenkins of MIT and Aca/Fan has this to say about Spock and Obama:

"In that sense Star Trek looks ahead to the society we live in today, where so many people are mixed race, mixed cultural background,. And I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, looking at Barack Obama. There’s something in the [Obama] mythology that seems to echo our assumption about Spock — that he’s someone able to bridge worlds. And he’s indebted to Vulcan philosophy of IDIC, the Vulcan philosophy of infinite diversity and infinite combination. Someone who is of mixed race is seen as being capable of understanding both races."

Obama '08 and prosper.

Robert Justman 1926-2008

I'm so sad. Bob Justman, a producer on TOS, died from complications due to Parkinson's.

Thursday, May 29, 2008


Ganked from Martha Plimpton's myspace.

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

Alexander Courage 1919-2008

Alexander Courage, the composer of the Star Trek original series theme song, died May 15 at his home in Pacific Palisades.

It’s hard to imagine Trek without those first eight notes--the part of a musical piece that composers name the fanfare. It is particularly fitting in this case, given that its call has summoned fans for over forty years. It is the seminal geek hymn, the march for the true believer. Those eight perfect notes, noble, grand and heroic, that still, these many years later, have the power to fill my heart with wonder and hope for the possibilities of the future of humankind.

Thank you, Alexander Courage for deciding that day to compose the music that speaks your name.

So say we all.

Sunday, May 11, 2008

Thursday, May 08, 2008

Needs No Caption

girl6 FAQs

Thank you all for all the great feedback. I'd like to be able to respond to all of your emails but I'd spend more time doing that than writing the stuff you really want to read. And try to leave your comments on the site. I publish all comments, good and bad.


I usually am asked three questions when I receive emails from readers. Here are the answers:

1. Yes, I do write other fiction and am currently nearing completion of one of two novels. I do not publish that writing on the internet. No, I won't tell you what it's about....unless you work for Simon & Schuster.

2. A summer fling with a couple of water polo players when I was an undergrad.

3. If you'll look to the right, you'll see a link list of "Favorite Posts". And in the archives, any post with a rating(R, G, NC-17, etc.) in the title is a story. I hope that makes it easier to find them.

Thanks for Spock jonesing, monkies!

Oh and, no, I would not like to go back in time because I'm too uppity. They call it "elitist" these days...

*that's not out of the blue. i've been asked the "time machine question" a few times.

Sunday, May 04, 2008


The villian I'd like to fuck.

Saturday, May 03, 2008

Needs No Caption

*ganked from field

Thursday, May 01, 2008

Sickbay PG

Disclaimer: Paramount owns the characters.


Archiving: ACSEM, THFFF. All others ask permission, please.

Another late-night musing, written after an appointment with my hot ENT at the allergy clinic. No beta. All fubars are mine.

AFM--An Atomic Force Microscope-a scanning probe microscope used to image and manipulate matter at the nanoscale.

Summary: Uhura needs ear molds or…something…


“Excuse me, Dr. McCoy?”

“Almost done,” he murmured.

His head was bent over the viewer of an AFM. The blue light from the viewer diffused his features and filled in the crevices on his face. His long lashes cast shadows on his cheeks and the muscles in his forearm flexed as he delicately manipulated the cantilever with his strong fingers.

A corner of his mouth turned down and he winced with one eye.

“Shit,” he said softly. “Ok. One more time.”

Uhura leaned against the wall and folded her arms. “I guess I’ve been stood up,” she said. “And in favor of a piece of lab equipment, no less.”

“Huh? What?” He looked up. “Oh, I’m sorry, lieutenant. Were we supposed to do something?”

You called me,” she said.

“I did? Oh yeah, I did,” he said. “I need to do the molds for your new ear piece. Just let me finish this and I’ll be right with you.” He bent back to his viewer.

Uhura yawned. “Can’t one of the techs do it?” she asked.

“I don’t trust those kids with precious cargo.”

“I was talking about my ears.”

“The best ears in the fleet,” he murmured, engrossed in his work.

She raised both brows and grinned. “Ok,” she said. “You’re the doctor.”

She sat down on a stool and let her mind drift while she waited. She gazed at the doctor. McCoy really was a good looking man, one of that kind you didn’t notice--unless he wanted you to. She watched the expressions play across his face as he worked the AFM: frustration, curiosity, surprise, wonder, satisfaction. He twisted his body, reaching for an instrument on the table behind him. His tunic stretched across his lean torso, outlining the hard curve of a muscle in his chest and clinging briefly to a tiny, erect nipple. Uhura looked quickly away when he glanced at her as he turned back to the AFM.

She laughed to herself and shivered a bit, blowing air out of her pursed lips. “I need to get a life…or something,” she thought.

“Dr. McCoy. I am here for my ear molds.”

Uhura jumped at the sound of the deep voice behind her. She turned and saw Spock standing in the doorway to the lab, her eyes widening in surprise at his appearance. Loose, black pants tied with a drawstring hung low on his hips and a workout jacket was open on his bare chest. His hair was slightly mussed and there was a tiny dark green scrape on his jaw.

McCoy looked up from his microscope and frowned at Spock. “Is Jim going to come in here all banged to hell?”

“When last I saw the captain, he was walking towards his quarters,” said Spock.

“I don’t know why you two insist on beating each other up.”

“We were sparring, doctor. There is a difference.”

McCoy shook his head and returned to the AFM. “One of you needs a girlfriend,” he grumbled.

Spock glanced uncomfortably at Uhura. She hoped that she’d shifted her gaze in time for him not to catch her staring the gap in his jacket. She smiled shyly.

“Wait over there. I’ll be with you in a minute,” said McCoy.

“Very well,” said Spock. He folded his hands behind is back, causing his jacket to open wider.

Uhura gazed at his chest and the straight, dark hair that lay flat against his olive skin. His muscles were pumped from exertion and a thick green vein pulsed in his neck. Her eyes followed the trail of hair below his navel to where it disappeared into his pants. She was three feet away and could feel the heat from his body.


Uhura started. “Huh?” she stammered, suddenly realizing that her mouth was open. She closed her mouth and swallowed hard. “I mean, yes, sir.”

“I asked, are you damaged?” said Spock.

“Ahem. No, sir. Um, my ears. Molds,” she said.

“Ok. I’m ready. Come with me,” said McCoy. He looked at Uhura. “What’s the matter with you?”

“No I’m not—nothing. I’m fine,” she said.

“All right,” said McCoy, skeptically. He glanced at Spock then did a double take, looking him over with narrowed eyes. “You’re in pain,” he said.

Spock stiffened, barely covering a wince. “Pain is a thing of the mind.”

“God damn it, Spock,” yelled McCoy. He strode over to the com and slammed his palm against the button. “McCoy to Captain Kirk.” The doctor waited, frowning at Spock. “Like I have time for this crap,” he said. He raised his hand to the com again.

“Kirk here.” Kirk’s voice was low and tight when he finally answered.

McCoy clenched his fists and took a deep breath. “Report to sickbay on the double,” he said.

“Why? What is it, Bones?”

“Get your ass over here, now,” roared McCoy.

There was silence for a long moment. Uhura thought she heard a softly uttered, “Shit.” from the com.

“On my way,” said Kirk.

McCoy turned and glared at Spock. Spock lifted his chin and attempted to stare him down. McCoy pointed sternly to the next room.

“Get in there and lie down,” commanded McCoy.

“Really, Dr. McCoy. It is not necessary—.”

“We can do this here or in the brig.”

Spock pressed his lips together, turned and walked stiffly into the exam room. McCoy turned back to Uhura.

“Lieutenant, this may take a while. You can wait or come back tomorrow,” said McCoy. He looked over his shoulder. “And take off that jacket, Spock.”

“Uh, I’ll stay,” Uhura answered quickly.

“Suit yourself.”

Uhura had never seen McCoy so angry. He strode into the other room. She trotted behind him, trying to see over his shoulder. Spock was laying on a biobed with his hands folded across his chest, following McCoy’s movements with his eyes. An orderly clicked on the bio scanner and stepped out of the doctor’s way.

Uhura gave up trying not to stare at Spock’s lean body on the biobed. She picked an out-of-the-way spot and leaned against the wall. Spock crossed his longs legs at the ankle. His feet were like his hands, the toes straight and long and perfect. She watched as McCoy carefully examined Spock, murmuring orders to the attendant and ignoring the readout above the biobed. His jaw was set in a severe line but his hands were gentle as they palpitated Spock’s midsection. Uhura gazed at the strong fingers as they played up and down the smooth, olive skin, and saw the involuntary tremor of the muscles in Spock’s belly when McCoy pressed the area around his navel with the flat of his fingers. The lines around the doctor’s mouth softened briefly.

Uhura blinked. Spock was ticklish. She ducked her head to hide her smile.

McCoy grasped Spock’s arm and rotated his shoulder in its socket. The skin beneath Spock’s upper arm was very fair and looked as tender as an infant’s. She marveled at the dark thatch of hair in his armpit. He was always so clean-shaven that she’d always imagined that the hair on his body ended at the crisp line at the back of his smooth, long neck and that if he did have hair on his body, that it would be as scant and as fine as that on the back of his hands—the only other part of him she’d ever seen uncovered. She never thought him sexless but she did think of him as chaste, sweet and untouched. Spock was young by Vulcan standards—a boy really. But this soft, thick hair was a testament to his manhood and she shivered at the wonder of what it would be like to comb her fingers through it or to feel it against her breasts.

Her eyes traveled back to his face. His dark eyes were half hidden under his thick lashes and his full, pink mouth parted with a soft gasp as the doctor manipulated his arm. He was watching her watch him. Uhura felt her face suffuse with heat.

“God damn it, Spock. Even you aren’t stupid enough to believe that you could put that shoulder back into place with a healing trance,” said McCoy.

The doors to sickbay swished open and Captain Kirk walked in. He was moving rather gingerly and when he stopped at the entrance to the exam room, he winced and gently pressed a palm to his ribs. He was wearing a faded Academy sweatshirt, gym pants cut off at mid-thigh and flip flops. His hair was damp and the sweatshirt was stippled with moisture where it lay across his broad shoulders, as if he’d pulled it on without taking the time to dry after bathing. He took in the sight of McCoy easing Spock to a sitting position and decided to bluff it out.

“Bones, I’m a busy man,” said Kirk.

“Go sit on that bed and shut up, Jim” said McCoy.

“Look, doctor--.”

McCoy spun around. “In sickbay, I rank you so don’t try to give me any of that “I’m Captain Kirk” bullshit here. I ordered you to that biobed, mister. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Kirk opened his mouth then thought the better of it. He shuffled carefully over to the bed and leaned against it.

“On the bed,” ground out McCoy.

Kirk stared at the biobed with a frown. He tried to hike a hip up on the edge and back into it but his face went white and he clenched his forearm against his side. The attendant hurried over and half-lifted him onto the bed.

“I’m fine. I can do it. I don’t need any help,” said Kirk. His protestations ended with a grunt like the wind had been knocked out of him.

“Right,” said McCoy.

“I’m fine. Just give me an analgesic hypo and let me sleep it off.”

“You can’t sleep off busted ribs.”

“What? You can’t tell that just by looking at me,” said Kirk.

“Nice outfit,” said McCoy. “Couldn’t manage more than flip flops?”

Kirk looked away.

“That’s what I thought. Now just lay there and be happy I don’t kick your ass myself.”

“Nobody kicked my ass,” mumbled Kirk.

Spock raised a brow.

Kirk noticed Uhura for the first time. He tried to puff out his chest. His breath caught in his throat. “Ow,” he breathed, blinking at the ceiling.

“How are you, Captain?” asked Uhura.

He turned his head toward her. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face. “Are you injured, lieutenant?” he asked.

Uhura pointed to her ear. “Ear molds,” she said. “Just waiting my turn.”

“I see.”

As with Spock, Uhura gave up trying not to stare at the captain. The soft fleece gym pants draped the bulge of his sex. His penis was flaccid but looked thick and heavy as it lay curved against his pelvis.

She heard McCoy say, “Ready, Spock?” and she dragged her eyes from Kirk.

The doctor stood between Spock’s knees and held his forearm firmly beneath his elbow. He placed his other hand flat against Spock’s shoulder. Spock nodded, and McCoy simultaneously gave his arm a sharp tug and his shoulder a hard push. Uhura heard a muffled pop and let out an involuntary little shriek.

“You all right?” asked McCoy.

“I’m fine,” she said.

McCoy glanced at her with a grin. “I was talking to Spock.” He turned back to Spock and studied his face for a moment. “Ok, once more,” he said quietly. He yanked and pushed again and this time the only sound was a soft grunt from Spock. McCoy folded Spock’s arm carefully across his body and instructed Spock to hold it there with his other hand. Spock made a move to get down.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asked McCoy.

“I am in no further need of your assistance,” said Spock.

“I’m not finished with you yet.”

“Can I not return tomorrow for the ear molds?”

“No,” snapped McCoy. “Dutton, bind his shoulder for me, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” said the orderly.

McCoy turned his attention to Kirk.

Kirk eyed him warily. Since the bluff didn’t work, he tried for charm. “Hey, Bones,” he grinned.

“Don’t you bat your eyelashes at me, Jim.”

“What? I’m not--.”

“Shut up,” said McCoy. He read the biobed panel and cursed under his breath. He tugged at Kirk’s sweatshirt, exposing his torso. A massive red and blue bruise wrapped around Kirk’s left ribcage. The doctor gently rolled Kirk unto his side. “Not only did you fracture two ribs, you have some minute tears of your intercostal muscles.”

“Is that bad?” ask Kirk.

“Bad enough,” answered McCoy. “Hurts more and takes longer to heal than just fractured ribs.”

“Come on, Bones. I’ll be alright.” Kirk’s voice came out in a wheeze.

“You could’ve punctured a lung. Spock, how many times have I told you that you need to pull your punches, no matter what this knucklehead says?”

“Four,” said Spock.

“Don’t be a smartass, Spock,” shouted McCoy. “As a matter of fact, just be quiet over there.”

Dutton the orderly snickered and received a deep frown from Spock.

“And you,” said McCoy, carefully settling Kirk back onto his back. “You’re not Vulcan. You’re human. Humans break when they get hit by Vulcans. What if you’d turned at the last moment? He would’ve fractured your spine.”

Kirk nodded contritely.

“Shut up. You’re not allowed to talk either.”

“I didn’t say anything,” said Kirk.

“I don’t know why I bother. I should just let him crack open your damn fool head,” said McCoy. He ran a Feinberger over Kirk’s midsection and frowned at the readings. He walked around the bed and pulled an old-fashioned stethoscope out of a drawer.

Uhura gazed at the doctor’s face as he listened to the captain’s lungs with his eyes closed. He pulled the stethoscope from his ears and pressed lightly with his fingertips all around Kirk’s ribs, working his way down. Kirk hissed when the doctor pressed into the flesh just above his hips.

“That hurt?” asked McCoy.

Kirk opened his mouth, closed it then said, “Yes.”

McCoy shook his head and moved his fingers under the waistband of Kirk’s shorts. The movement of his hands pushed them even lower on Jim’s hips. The skin on his lower belly looked soft, unblemished, a pale light gold, like a peach. McCoy plucked at the drawstring and lifted the waistband, revealing a line of coarse, russet pubic hair. Fascinated, Uhura saw that Kirk had no tan line. He had returned from their leave at SB80 tanned the color of light toffee. Apparently, he’d spent some time in the sun, sans clothing.

“What’s the diagnosis, doctor?” asked Kirk.

“You two are beat to shit!”

“Is that the clinical term?” asked Spock.

McCoy glared at them. “This is the last time I patch you idiots up after one of your play dates. You’re both on the ground for two days.” He finished wrapping Kirk’s ribs.

“Really, doctor--.”


“Are you arguing with me? In my sickbay?”

The captain and first officer exchanged a glance. McCoy could do more than just order them off duty for two days. He could put them on report, confine them to quarters or even have them thrown in the brig for disobeying his direct order not to engage in dangerous practices. They’d been here before.

“No, doctor,” said Kirk.

“Compliance does not present a problem,” said Spock.

“That’s better,” said McCoy. “I don’t want to see either of you do anything more strenuous than moving a chess piece. Jim, pick up your prescription from Burns on your way out. I want you flat on your back for the next twelve hours. Get your ass back to sickbay if your lungs start to feel tight. Spock, how long will you be?”

“Approximately four hours in a healing trance should be sufficient.”

“Make it six and you can remove the binding.”

“Very well,” said Spock.

“I’ll get your ear molds tomorrow. Now, both of you, get out of my sight. I can’t believe it! Two grown men acting like a couple of bone head teenagers. One of these days—.”

Kirk and Spock walked slowly out of sickbay as the doctor continued his tirade.

Uhura waited patiently until McCoy ran out of wind. He sighed heavily and shook his head. He gazed at Uhura for a long moment. He snapped his fingers.

“That’s right. Ear molds.” McCoy patted a biobed. “Over here. Let me get a look in there.”

Uhura walked over and gasped out a laugh when he wrapped his hands around her waist and hoisted her unto the bed.

“Up you go, little one,” he said.

He stood between her knees as he changed the head on a small viewing device, unaware of the effect he was having on her. He pooched out his lower lip in concentration, making her want to take it gently between her teeth. He turned her head sideways with a hand on her chin and leaned in close with the device to his eye. She brought her knees together. He didn’t seem to notice that she held his slender hips lightly captive with her thighs.

“This thing has a camera lens on the end. I’m just going to take a few pictures of the inside of your ears then we’ll be done,” he said softly. His breath feathered warmly against her cheek. She shifted her hips, moving closer to the edge of the biobed.

“Ok. Other ear,” he murmured.

Their faces were so close that they almost brushed lips when she turned her head. She used the movement as an excuse shift even closer.

“Be still,” he said.

Uhura froze, her heart pounding.

“How is that you can smell so good at the end of a long day?” he asked. He reached up and tugged gently on her ear, steadily clicking holostills.

“I, uh—.”

“Alrighty,” said McCoy, stepping back and turning away. “We’re done here. Come back tomorrow after your shift and we’ll make sure the new molds are comfortable,” he said over his shoulder.

Uhura hopped off the biobed. “Ok,” she said. She lingered by the door. “Is there anything else, doctor?” she asked his back.

“Nope. See you tomorrow, dollface.”

She watched him for a moment longer but he was busy entering information into a padd. She left with a tiny sigh of regret.

When McCoy heard the door swish closed, he dropped the padd on a side table and leaned forward with both palms pressed against the biobed.

“Whew!” he said. He glanced down at his erection and chuckled. He ran a hand through his hair and barked out a laugh. “Never had that happen before.”


Thursday, April 24, 2008

The Prodigal Soul Chapter 4

Yes, finally! Another chapter up. Read the previous chapters here.

Disclaimer: Paramount owns the characters. I own them in my dreams. But all the creative content, plot, original characters, etc. belong to me.

The Prodigal Soul

Author's note: Plak`matya is derived from the Vulcan words plak, meaning blood and matya, meaning feral animal. Vulcans do not claim what Terrans would call a ‘vampire’ in their mythology. Vulcans do not admit to much of a mythology at all.

Summary: Brotherhood, friendship, love and a vampire.


When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul
Lends the tongue vows.


I have shot mine arrow o'er the house,
And hurt my brother.

--William Shakespeare “Hamlet”


~Chapter 4


Kevin Riley skidded into the transporter room with Motley hot on his heels, their wild race through the ship the cause of a twenty-minute delay of the Starfleet delegation’s beam down to Vulcan. Komack frowned severely and opened his mouth to speak. Nogura glanced at him and his mouth snapped shut.

“Motley, come,” commanded Nogura. Motley leaped unto the transporter dais and delicately placed all four paws on Nogura’s pad, looking up at her with a grin.

“Energize,” said Kirk, also grinning.


The Enterprise picked up the Admirals Nogura and Komack at Star Base 7 two days before and Kirk had given Motley free reign of the ship. The crew took to Motley instantly and he quickly adopted Riley as his puppy playmate. They careened around the corridors chasing balls, each other and sometimes Chekhov. The dog was intensely curious about engineering but stayed away after one stern look from the chief engineer. Nothing McCoy did could lure him into sickbay but second to the mess hall, the bridge was his favorite place to be. He curled his big body next to Spock’s chair and lay quietly for hours, staring up at Spock with adoring eyes and watching the bridge crew go about their business.

“I have no idea what he sees in you, Spock,” said McCoy.

“Dogs are very perceptive creatures, doctor,” Spock said smoothly.

“I’ve known him since he was a puppy and he never liked me that much.”

“I knew it,” said Kirk, grinning into his cup of coffee.

McCoy shifted uncomfortably. “You don’t know anything. And what you think you know has been over for years. Mostly.” McCoy frowned down at Motley. “What I want to know is why the dog was scratching at Uhura’s door last night? If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was looking for you, Spock.”

Jim snorted coffee up his nose. McCoy pounded him on his back.

“You all right there, Jim?”

“I’m fine, Bones. Just—wrong pipe,” he wheezed.

“It is true that I was in Miss Uhura’s quarters last night,” said Spock.

Kirk stared at Spock, openmouthed.

“I knew it,” said McCoy.

“I was teaching a music lesson, doctor.”

McCoy searched Spock’s face with narrowed eyes. “Liar,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?” said Spock. Kirk flushed dark red.

“Lyre, harp, whatever you call it,” said McCoy.

“Ah, yes. Lyre,” said Spock.

Jim tried to hide the relief on his face. “Don’t change the subject, Bones,” he quickly interjected. “Since we picked up the Admirals things have been…interesting.”

“Indeed,” said Spock.

“I have nothing to hide,” McCoy said stiffly. “When I met Nogura, she was out of uniform. Oh, stop it, Jim. You know what I mean. She was still a captain and I wasn’t even in Starfleet yet. Over the years, we sort of kept running into each other. Now, we’re just friends. Mostly.” He ran a finger under his collar. “Emony, however, is another matter.”

“You know Emony Dax?” asked Spock.

“We uh, met when I was in medical school.”

“Bones, I do believe you have a secret history,” said Kirk.

McCoy shrugged and dropped his eyes. He gazed briefly at the two men from beneath his lashes before turning to leave. As he passed Uhura’s station, he dipped his head and murmured something that caused her to flush and to giggle with a hand covering her mouth.

“Perhaps not so secret,” said Spock.

“Maybe not,” said Kirk.

Uhura saw them watching. She smiled sweetly and returned her attention to her console.


When the Enterprise party beamed down to Vulcan, they were met by Stonn and his lieutenants.

S’haile,” said Stonn, inclining his head.

“Colonel Stonn,” said Spock. He turned to the others. “Admiral Nogura. Komack. Lieutenant Uhura, Captain Kirk and Dr. McCoy. The dog is called Motley.”

Stonn nodded to each politely—even the dog, though he noted Spock’s omission of Komack’s title. “Greetings. And from all of Vulcan, welcome. Your presence honors us”

“We are here to serve,” replied Spock

“They await you in the Great Hall, S’haile,” said Stonn, leading the way. His lieutenants lined up behind him and they proceeded from the courtyard.

Aside from the Admirals, only Uhura acted in any official capacity, tasked during this conference to run interference between the abysmally culturally incompetent Komack and the rest of the delegates. McCoy was on stand-by as the Starfleet medic. Kirk and Spock were there per diplomatic protocol, as honor guard, relegated on this trip to the role of glorified red shirts. Once they dispensed with the formalities, Kirk and Spock were essentially on shore leave. Admiral Nogura listened with growing alarm as they talked quietly about para gliding out on the Forge.

“—the large male raptors will not typically--.”

Nogura stopped and spun around. “No. No, goddamn it.” She leveled a finger at them, eyes flashing. “You two will not engage in any dangerous activities for the duration. Do I make myself clear?”

Spock and Kirk stared at her, astonished. They glanced at their companions. Uhura kept her eyes front. One look at McCoy’s stony expression and they realized no help was forthcoming from him. Stonn and his lieutenants paused a discreet distance ahead. Komack walked past them, completely unaware. They turned back to the Admiral.

“Is. That. Clear?” she repeated through clenched teeth.

“Yes, sir,” they said.

“I’ve got enough to worry about without you two running around in the desert doing your best to get yourselves killed. You--.”

“Admiral—.” said Kirk.

“I do not recall giving you permission to speak, mister.”

Kirk stiffened into attention. “Sir, no sir,” he said.

Nogura gave them each a hard look. “I have half a mind to confine you to the castle and the compound. There’s plenty to keep you occupied here.”

“I assure you that we will not engage in any dangerous activities, Admiral,” said Spock.

“Good.” She resumed walking. After a few feet, she stopped and glared at Spock, stepping into his personal space. “And don’t think you’re getting away with any Vulcan twists on the semantics of what constitutes “dangerous activities”. I don’t care who your father is. I will kick your ass, Mr. Spock.”

“Sir, yes sir,” said Spock, blinking.

“Do you have any idea how much the two of you cost?” she grumbled.

“Three—,” Spock began.

“Spock,” murmured McCoy.

Up ahead, Komack turned and huffed impatiently, already sweating profusely. “Is there a problem?” he asked loudly.

Nogura sighed heavily. They continued on to the Great Hall.

Motley lingered, sniffing around the base of a huge warrior statue carved bas-relief in an alcove of the castle wall. McCoy whistled softly and the dog loped after them. When he reached the humans, Motley looked back and whined softly, deep in his chest.


whispered gently into his doggy consciousness.


In the darkness behind the alcove, minute holes drilled long ago into the thick stone walls filtered the barest pins of dusty light at intervals along a narrow passageway that dead ended, mid-room, inside the walls of the Great Hall. Suvan moved from pin light to pin light, ears flexing to catch the muffled words of the Starfleet party as they walked to the hall. He knelt and lightly placed tapered fingertips against the wall. He cocked his head curiously at McCoy’s whistle. An instant later, Suvan felt

(i am motley!)

as the dog trotted away. Suvan fell back with a gasp, scraping his elbow on the rough wall behind him.

“Greetings, Motley,” chuckled Suvan.


End Chapter 4