Chapter Text
Peter knows that Sarek’s job can be very dangerous. He knows that sometimes, his trips are classified, secret to all but a select few. Sometimes, Sarek will not even tell him where he is going, cannot tell him when he will return. It happens, and Peter accepts this, even if he does not like it.
This trip is no different.
It is clear Sarek can sense his distress. It is clear in the way he meets Peter’s eyes before he goes, the way he reaches out to squeeze his shoulder comfortingly in silent promise. I will return, he says without saying, and maybe Peter isn’t telepathic like Sarek is, but he understands what he’s being told just the same.
Sarek is unusually tactile for a Vulcan, even for a parent. Perhaps it is something he picked up from Lady Amanda, when she still lived, perhaps it is just a way to comfort Peter specifically, a Human on a Vulcan planet, a Kirk without the Kirkish quirks that make his uncle a living legend of the Federation. Regardless, Peter appreciates it, even if it doesn’t alleviate the odd sense of dread heavy in the pit of his stomach.
He has a bad feeling about this.
“I will call you when we leave port,” he says. “Communications once we leave orbit will be impossible, so Spock will call to check on you in the evening.”
“I understand.” Peter offers a ta’al. “Live long, Uncle Sarek.”
Sarek’s hand slides from his shoulder and returns the salute. Then he picks up his bag, and he leaves.
The door snicks shut behind Sarek, and Peter is alone. Sighing, he slumps against the table, crossing his arms under the billowing sleeves of his robes. He doesn’t feel right. Uncle Jim would call it a gut instinct, but that’s stupid. There’s no logical reason for his discomfort with Sarek’s departure. He has left on such missions before, and yet…
It should take Sarek an hour and fourteen minutes to reach port, and another eighteen minutes for the ship to take off. It will be a small, private vessel, primarily used for civilian interstellar travel. It will take six minutes for the ship to leave orbit at average speed, and that will be when he calls Peter.
He has to wait an hour and a half, give or take a few minutes.
Peter can do that.
*.*
It’s been three hours, and Sarek has not called.
Outwardly, Peter is perfectly placid. He is twenty-two, nearly an adult in the eyes of his people— Vulcan people. He can handle being alone, has been handling it since he was thirteen and considered mature enough in his Vulcan godfather’s eyes to be left home alone (not including T’Shir) during diplomatic meetings.
Inside, he is panicking. Sarek has not called, and he always calls when promises, and that horrible feeling in his stomach is getting worse, and, and…
And Peter has a motorcycle.
He didn’t buy it, obviously, and neither did Sarek. No, this was Uncle Jim’s contribution to his upbringing— a heavy, loud, vintage motorcycle, complete with a reinforced synthetic leather jacket (“Have you ever seen a guy skinned via concrete, Pete? It’s not pretty.”), a pair of goggles, and riding lessons.
His robes come off in exchange for a pair of sturdy jeans and a short sleeved t-shirt left behind by his uncle long before Peter came to New Vulcan. The clothing is uncomfortable; Peter is used to Vulcan robes, used to the loose fabric and the freedom of movement they afford. The jeans are too tight, the shirt oddly cut and of poor quality, but right now? Peter doesn’t care. Peter needs to be able to ride a motorcycle, and this is what a person wears when riding such a machine.
His comm is tucked in his inner breast pocket in case it rings while he rides. The wind whips at his hair as he roars through the desert, cutting across the valley in an effort to quicken his arrival. Forty minutes later, he pulls into port, careless of the eyes his appearance draws. He is Human. For all his respect for Vulcan culture, he is Human. He is afforded leniency in ways no Vulcan would ever be allowed.
Peter doesn’t know which ship Sarek meant to take, but it would not be a Vulcan vessel. So, he walks the port until he finds a ship under an Andorian name.
The captain is clearly irritated when Peter approaches him, green eyes narrowing when he catches sight of the blond.
“What’chu want?” he demands.
“Apologies, sir,” Peter says carefully. “I am looking for a Vulcan.”
The Andorian snorts.
“Well,” he says. “There’s plenty of Vulcans around, if you care to take a look.”
“I know,” Peter says, the picture of patience. “But I am looking for a specific Vulcan. Did an older male by the name of Shvai—” That is one of Sarek’s aliases, not that Peter knows anything about that. “— pass by this way?”
“Shvai… nope. Otherwise he’d be on my ship and I’d be halfway to Risa by now,” the captain says. “Bastard booked passage and never showed. A waste of my blessed time, let me tell you.”
Peter suddenly feels very, very cold.
“I apologize if he has inconvenienced you,” Peter says, swallowing. “Thank you, sir.”
Peter turns away, heart beating wildly in his chest.
Sarek did not make it to his ship. He left the house at the scheduled time, but he never arrived to board the ship. This is bad. This is wrong. Peter’s silly, illogical gut feeling was correct.
He should call Uncle Jim— no, he can’t. Uncle Jim is one for drastic measures, and this simply might be a matter of an accident on the road, or a different ship, or a different alias. Plus, if Uncle Jim knows, so will Spock, and there’s no need to worry Spock if it turns out to be nothing.
The wrongness only gets stronger on the ride back. It slides like oil through Peter’s veins, cold and slick. He needs to call someone. This could be dangerous.
Except he can’t. Sarek’s mission was secret, classified, likely off-the-books. To involve anyone in Starfleet in an official capacity (or even in an unofficial capacity) might put his mission in jeopardy, might put his life in jeopardy.
Peter can’t stand the thought.
It hits him as he’s wheeling the motorcycle into the small structure built for its containment— Jo .
Jo has a ship. Jo isn’t an active member of Starfleet, though Peter is under the impression she may still be registered as an Academy student. She can help him figure out where Sarek has gone, he is sure of it. All he needs is access to Sarek’s data files— nothing too difficult, if he’s being honest. Sarek uses the same encryption code for everything.
Tugging his comm free from his pocket, he pulls up the contact information of one Joanna McCoy.
He presses call.