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Uhura’s companions excused themselves with Denobulan efficiency as soon as their plates were clean. She understood, but was in no mood to hide her disappointment. Round and round, Uhura shifted lukewarm oven-roasted vegetables on her plate until she had made a hoard of the precious few sweet potatoes. They were neatly separated from the Andorian tuber roots, the Tellarite mushroom stems, and the carrots and parsnips in the reject pile, where her untouched English sausage was already waiting in a puddle of grease. Uhura remembered nana’s tall tales of plasma barbecues during her time in Starfleet with less scepticism now. Messing with an EPS vent seemed a fair price if there was a chance for a meal less bland than what the San Francisco engineers had dumped onto their synthesizer cards. She smiled despite herself. What a start to her Engineering rotation that would be!
The mess hall was full and quiet, and that was as unsettling and out of place as the square lump that sat in her pocket. She traced the jewellery case with her fingers. Uhura did not know what to feel about the little pin Chief Kyle had handed her with professional sympathy. She knew it would say USS Gallant, like the one entry in her personnel file. Not ACPT-00542 Enkare Nyorobi .
She wondered if nana would wear her pin tomorrow. If she even had one. The biggest threat Ngendo Uhura had faced during her Starfleet years had been overloading consoles. Probably because of how she had misused the EPS grid.
Uhura straightened up when she noticed another presence next to her.
“Good evening, Cadet. May I join you?”
Lieutenant Spock. Uhura wondered if she was in trouble. Her hand was drawn to the square outline of her pin case again.
“Seeing as these are the only seats currently unoccupied?”
Not in trouble yet. Every time she remembered their talk after Captain Pike’s welcome dinner, her ears burned with shame. She nodded and gestured to the chair opposite hers.
“Yokul sanosh, Lieutenant.”
He inclined his head. “Bon appétit, Cadet.”
He spread a napkin across his lap, placed his cutlery just so, picked up a spoon, and started eating with precise movements of his arm. Otherwise he sat perfectly still. He didn’t look at Uhura again. She squirmed in the awkward silence and rearranged her roast sweet potato on the plate.
“Busy tonight, isn’t it, sir?” she burst out.
He raised an eyebrow. “Quite. It appears the crew are favouring quiet contemplation over bowling or chess this evening.”
She got the hint. Blushing she lowered her eyes and stared at her sausage.
The silence dragged on.
Uhura let her eyes wander back up, via Spock’s dinner.
“Is tonight’s menu not to your liking, Cadet Uhura?”
“Oh, uh, no, sir. It’s good,” she lied, glad that it had been Lieutenant Spock who started speaking.
Uhura proved her statement by spearing a cube of carrot. She took the small talk distraction gratefully and focussed on what was in front of her. Spock had opted for plomeek soup. The dish was a staple in vegan diets around the quadrant—Uhura liked the Indian version that substituted chickpeas for its namesake ingredient—but the Enterprise’s synthesizers served the traditional Vulcan recipe.
She didn’t know what the small, unlabelled bottle was that sat on the lieutenant’s tray. She tilted her head to stare at it.
“What. Is that?”
“It is plomeek soup, Cadet. A Vulcan-”
She waved at him and kept staring. “Nonononono, I mean that.”
Uhura reached across the table to pick up the small bottle of clear liquid, turning it over in her free hand to look for a label. She didn’t find one. Odd. The drinks were served in open glasses. This one looked like it could have come from sickbay.
Spock dabbed his mouth and replaced the napkin across his lap with very precise motions. It couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than irritation.
“Cadet, it is improper to take items off of your superiors’ trays without permission. This is not the Academy’s refectory.”
Uhura placed the bottle back in front of Spock with wide eyes.
“Sorry, sir. Just curious.”
He raised his eyebrows, inclined his head, and went back to his soup in dignified silence. Uhura noticed he carefully avoided the anwoa sprouts floating on the surface. She chewed through her vegetables with renewed determination.
“Are you trying to steal my cadet again, Spock?”
Uhura jumped. She had not noticed her other boss approach. Lieutenant Hemmer moved with unearthly quiet when he wanted to. He swept into view behind her left shoulder and took the seat next to her without question.
“Cadet Uhura, don’t let him woo you into a blue shirt over…” a pair of dark grey antennae briefly swept the table before slowly turning between Uhura and Spock again “... some dry plants.”
“Dry? Lieutenant, he’s eating soup!”
“And neither do I recall Cadet Uhura’s rotation in Engineering being made a permanent assignment.”
Hemmer waved their objections away, with only the slightest creases around his eyes. Uhura observed his antennae for the heart-shaped curl of amusement or the flicks of irritation, but had no luck there either. She had noticed that Lieutenant Hemmer hardly used any body language at all. It made sense, she guessed, since all Aenar were blind, but she still found the total lack of conversational clues unnerving.
Uhura squinted when she saw him swipe a small bottle full of clear liquid from his own tray, unscrew the cap, and offer it to Spock in a toast.
“Prosperous Memorial Day, half-breed,” he said in badly accented Vulcan.
Uhura sucked in a sharp breath. She had not misheard, she knew that was what he had said.
Spock raised his bottle to Hemmer in an overly meticulous gesture.
“May you bring warmth to your clan through your experience of Memorial Day, ghost,” Spock toasted, tripping on the clicks and hisses of Andorian.
The term was generally used to insult Andorians rendered incapable of military service, but also as a racial epithet against the Aenar. Uhura was shocked the Enterprise’s universal translator let it slip in the first place.
What had happened? She hardly dared to breathe. The Vulcan and the Aenar were facing each other with perfectly neutral expressions—and who knew what was going on behind those? She tried making herself smaller in her chair. Running was out of the question. Her legs were frozen in shock.
She actually flinched when Hemmer addressed her. “Cadet, if you don’t close your mouth an ice bore will fall in.”
She closed her mouth, but still looked between the unnervingly tranquil lieutenants. Uhura decided that asking was free.
“Oooo-kay. Ok. So, you’re both doing a bit, right? You’re good? Sir? Sir?” she addressed them in turn.
Lieutenant Spock didn’t smile, but his posture was uncharacteristically relaxed. “There is no need for worry, Cadet.”
“Aw, come on, Spock. We could have caused a security alert today. Things are getting too quiet around here.”
Uhura took a deep breath. She picked up Lieutenant Hemmer’s empty bottle and unconsciously rolled it between her fingers. Knocked it on the table. Spun it in her hand. She sniffed it.
“What’s your verdict, Cadet?”
She turned her head; Lieutenant Hemmer was slouching over his tray and laying out his meal, which came pre-arranged in separate dishes. It was as close to Andorian style as you would get with single servings.
Uhura thought for a moment. “You toasted, but it’s not alcohol. But they’re clearly from the same place. Sickbay? Is that medicine?”
Spock quirked an eyebrow. She seemed to have struck a nerve.
“Close,” said Hemmer.
Uhura studied them both, squinted again, bit her lip. Yes, that would make sense... She hummed.
“Alright. Not medicine, but close. I’m going to go with... nutritional supplements.”
“What makes you say that?”
Lieutenant Spock sounded irritated. That’s how Uhura knew she was right.
“Well,” she started, and couldn’t keep a note of pride out of her voice, “Lieutenant Hemmer is the only Aenar—in Starfleet, as far as I’m aware.”
The chief looked smug and straightened his shoulders.
“So he needs extra nutrients he wouldn’t be able to pick up from the Andorian food we synthesise.”
She tapped her chin as she focussed Spock in her investigative look.
“I would advise you not to speculate about my nutritional needs, Cadet.”
Uhura’s lips shifted from a smirk to the ‘o’ of realisation. Ensign Kirk had told her that Spock was the subject of multiple theses. “It’s because you’re half Human.”
“I am Vulcan,” he asserted.
There was a tightness around his lips that made her regret voicing the suspicion.
“Oh, give it up, Spock.” Hemmer actually clapped Spock on the shoulder. Uhura drew in a sharp breath. Vulcans are not to be touched. Because of the telepathy, she reminded herself. Maybe another telepath can touch Vulcans? Or maybe Lieutenant Spock and Lieutenant Hemmer were more entertained by shocking innocent bystanders than they were by observing social protocols.
“You’re a space oddity, just like the rest of us.”
Lieutenant Spock didn’t even grace him with a Look and instead focussed back on his soup. Hemmer grumbled something and picked pieces of a soft, rubber-like sheet out of his dish of shaysha beetles and salt crystals.
“Don’t care much for the seaweed the synthesizers mix in this,” he groused. “If my ensigns were half as clever as your personnel file, Uhura, I’d already have fixed the crimes on this menu.”
Uhura perked up, curiosity triumphing over her instinct to make herself invisible. “Crimes, Lieutenant? I see tuber root, fried blubber and salt shaysha. It’s...” she trailed off and narrowed her eyes, “... comfort food.” She eyed Spock’s soup next. Tomorrow’s Memorial Day. They both served during the war. All of a sudden she felt very silly for worrying about goats and pins. Real Starfleet crew had a reason for being sad.
Luckily Hemmer derailed her from the track her thoughts had started on. “Maybe for the blueskins! All this fish,” he held up a piece of fried blubber before delicately putting it back into its dish, “is an affront to nature itself.”
She cocked her head. “Oh, that’s right! The large cities on Andoria are along the coast.”
The Aenar scoffed. “Don’t be fooled, Cadet. The important ones are inland. We know better than to try and turn beetles into fish.”
He carefully picked through his next handful of shaysha, avoiding the seaweed.
She shook her head, not in denial. “I don’t understand. There’s so much in the synthesizer banks that you could try instead. All the different pork belly—”
“A helpful suggestion, Cadet,” Spock interrupted with a significant quirk of his eyebrows, “provided the lieutenant is not blind to solutions.”
Hemmer scoffed. “Where’s the logic in that? Your synthesizers are incapable of producing flavour anyway.”
Uhura had suspected as much, but still raised her eyebrow. “What?”
“Aenar use various moulds as flavourings,” Lieutenant Spock answered. “Because of the significant danger to most sentient species except Denobulans, Andorians and of course the Aenar themselves, Starfleet synthesizers will not replicate recreational fungal strains.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, because how had she never realised? “Is that why we can’t get Camembert?”
Hemmer smacked his lips. “You have some good cheeses on Earth. I like that,” he waved his fork as if he could catch the right word with it, “that blue one, Roquefort.”
He made a start on his tuber and let his antennae point to Uhura. She shifted uncomfortably under the attention and pretended to engage with her vegetables again.
“You’re making a face like a redbat stole your spice bread, Cadet.”
“Huh?”
Uhura hadn’t come across the expression and gave the engineer a questioning look. What she did notice was that every time he stunned her into confusion, Hemmer raised his head and just barely lifted his slouching shoulders. So that’s how you say smug in Hemmer, she decoded.
“Lieutenant Hemmer was observing your dissatisfaction with your meal,” Spock translated.
“Yes. I don’t see what you have to complain about.” Hemmer indicated her plate with his fork. “Every other recipe we have is from Earth.”
“Every other recipe is American, sir,” Uhura explained. Then she remembered that the food synthesizers were technically Hemmer’s department, and how precious engineers could get over their handiwork. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I just miss...” She swallowed an unexpected lump. “I miss my grandmother’s barbecues.”
Uhura didn’t know if you could call what the two men were doing exchanging a look, because Spock’s eyes only flicked to the Aenar for the split-second it took him to remember that he wouldn’t see it anyway, and Hemmer turned his antennae on the Vulcan. They were pitying her. Great. She consoled herself with a piece of sweet potato. It was cold and tasted of too much thyme, but tonight it still took her closer to Simbi Village than the warp drive would.
Hemmer scoffed.
“If you want some advice, Cadet: Unless you grew up with them, don’t turn to the synthesizers for comfort food. Here.” He took Spock’s tray without so much as turning his head and slid it over to Uhura, not a drop of soup out of place.
Spock fully turned his head, eyebrows up and lips tight.
“Lieutenant—”
“Oh, don’t lieutenant me, Spock. Here. Eat your Earth tubers. Your American tubers,” he corrected himself and showed Uhura sharp teeth in an expression that was definitely practised and still the most unsettling grin she had ever seen.
Uhura’s tray was removed seamlessly. Hemmer swiped the grease-dripping sausage off her plate before passing the vegetables on to Spock. The Vulcan swapped his spoon for the unused fork in his cutlery set and picked up the carrots, but he also spoke with a tight note of anger.
“As a fellow officer and your friend, I suggest you deal with your emotional issues in a more appropriate manner.”
“And you’d know all about dealing with emotional issues, wouldn’t you? Or was it avoiding?”
She should stay out of it. If she managed to piss off two department heads in one evening, even her record-setting sprinting skills wouldn’t save her.
While Uhura’s brain came to that conclusion, her mouth said: “What is this about?”
Lieutenant Spock took a long breath. “Memorial Day is a strenuous time, Cadet. I apologise for our uncharacteristic outbursts.”
Hemmer echoed Spock with a sigh. “You’ll understand soon enough, Uhura. Enjoy your youthful exuberance while they’re not pinning a damn badge on you.”
“I have a badge, sir” she said and stuck her chin out. “USS Gallant.”
Hemmer scoffed. “For your orientation tour, right?”
Uhura felt a blush prickle in her cheeks and went on the defensive. “Yeah. So?”
“It’s not right, giving pins to cadets.”
“Hemmer. We were at war,” Spock reminded him. “Even a cadet has the right to mourn her crewmates.”
Hemmer actually leaned between her and Spock at that. His right hand rested on her arm. She opened her mouth to protest, but was silenced by a fierce feeling of protectiveness.
“That isn’t what I mean. She’s barely grown into her shell, she had four weeks on the Gallant. She has no business being a veteran.”
Ouch. The same thought had sat with her like that leaden weight of the pin sat in her pocket. So why did it sting now?
“You’re right,” she admitted and felt her shoulders sag. “There weren’t any casualties when I was on board. I shouldn’t be wearing one.”
Spock put down his fork and held each of them in an intense gaze before he spoke with far more emotion than was proper for a Vulcan.
“Memorial Day is not about having witnessed death, Cadet. It is a connection to your fellow members of Starfleet. You honour the ones that came before you and remind yourself of your legacy to be forged in the future. It is an opportunity to reflect on who we choose to become, since the chance is denied to those who are no longer with us.”
Uhura shifted uncomfortably. She had already honoured nana by joining up. It began to dawn on her that honouring nana would be an ongoing commitment.
Hemmer turned back to his plate with a dismissive hiss.
“How’s that going for you, keth of Burnham?”
By the time Uhura had come aboard the Gallant, the Starfleet mutineer—couldn’t happen, Starfleet would never, they’re just not the types—had been old news because the Klingons had been occupying a full fifth of the Federation, and were preparing to strike at Earth itself. She remembered that both the Federation’s first Vulcan-Human hybrid and her first traitor hailed from the same family. She studied Spock with wide eyes. That was a Vulcan who was convincing himself he was in full control over his emotions.
To her surprise Hemmer actually slouched further into his seat under his searing gaze. “Sorry,” he murmured.
Spock cleared his throat and inclined his head.
Uhura decided she would rather die from a fork to the throat than the awkward silence that wasn’t so much descending as setting up camp.
“Can I ask what happened to Burnham, Lieutenant Spock?”
Spock fixed her in his tight-mouthed gaze. Whatever he was searching for, he decided to answer her.
“Michael Burnham was killed in action when her ship was lost with all hands.”
“Did they give you one for Discovery?”
There was an unusual softness to Hemmer’s voice. Uhura got the impression this wasn’t the first time they had this talk.
This was when Spock started sorting the vegetables by colour. Uhura wondered if there was a more well travelled dish in the mess hall.
“Spock?”
“USS Kongo,” he replied calmly without looking up. “It does not matter. The pins are merely symbolic.”
Hemmer reached over and laid his hand around Spock’s shoulders. Uhura was surprised again that Spock let him. His stoicism bordered on fondness.
“You don’t have to like how San Francisco tells us to mourn, you know.”
At that Spock broke away and frowned.
“Come on, Spock. There’s something else going on here.”
Scowled.
“I have no idea what you are talking about, Lieutenant,” he lied.
Even Uhura could tell Hemmer was getting angry. He didn’t raise his voice, but the clicks in his speech turned sharp.
“Oh, come on. Discovery is the only ship from that battle that’s classified. You were there; so were Captain Pike and Number One. What the hell happened?”
“Discovery was lost with all hands,” Spock growled, and Uhura heard the shut up .
“What, like the Glenn?”
Not a question, Uhura noted, but a dare. Time to defuse.
“I read a dissertation on the Glenn.”
Both aliens broke their figurative death glares when they remembered Uhura was still at the table. She looked nervously between them, but blazed onwards.
“It said they were working on an upgrade to the warp core.”
Hemmer barked a laugh. “It said that a few simple adjustments to the power grid on Crossfield-class starships could mitigate the energy translation issues between the warp core and the impulse engines.” He paused dramatically. “The Crossfields had the most inefficient wiring I’ve ever encountered. Could have fit an entire spare power grid in there.”
Uhura sensed her chance and took it. “You sound like you’re talking from experience.”
Despite Hemmer’s rigid lack of expression she had the sense of being scrutinised. Was she being examined telepathically? Most telepaths said that they wouldn’t pry. Lacking the extra sense she had no idea what it felt like anyway. Thoughtfully she focussed on the white of Lieutenant Hemmer’s blind eyes.
I’ll just have to trust him.
Hemmer winced before he mumbled: “I did most of my cadet cruise on the Glenn. Then we had a fault with the inertial dampeners while I was handling an experimental battery pack. Next I know it’s a spontaneous transfer to a hospital ship with a fungal infection. By the time they fixed my lungs—”, he mimicked an explosion with his free hand, “—the Glenn was gone. Discovery found her in the wrong quadrant, and the crew was...”
He flinched. Uhura had heard a bump under the table. Above it, Spock was calmly eating his cold vegetables. Her sweet potatoes, she noted with regret.
“Well. Anyway, you can compliment me for my luck now, Uhura.”
“Do you think you were lucky?”
If she hadn’t stayed with her nana to see the baby goats that night...
He was silent for as long as it took to count to ten. “Yes. And so are you. I’ll get to teach you Lieutenant Straal’s hydroponics set-up. The man was a genius. As long as Starfleet exploratory vessels are serving these quantities of fresh—” he gestured around the table, “—sweet potatoes, plomeek and tubers, he’s not entirely gone. They’re part of his legacy to us.”
Uhura looked at the piece of plomeek that sat on her spoon. Fed by a ghost. She remembered Lieutenant Spock’s insult—fed by two ghosts. She ate it and thought of an ancient, very carefully stored PADD in her room. It contained the multilingual edition of Thiong'o’s plays in the Bantu languages. She hadn’t deleted it or even transferred it to a newer PADD ever since her mother had gifted that one to her on her sixteenth birthday.
“That’s a... It’s a nice thought, Lieutenant.” She cleared her throat. “How did you get a fungal infection?”
“What?” That got her a twitch from his antennae.
Surprise, she translated. Which meant she was on the right track. So she dug in.
“You said you were handling a battery pack. How did you manage to get a fungal infection from that?”
“Since battery packs contain no fungi, Lieutenant Hemmer is simply misremembering a traumatic event.”
Spock blinked innocently at her. Uhura raised an eyebrow, but conceded with an ah. She made a mental note that he used titles like a shield. Whether it was for the truth or a lie she couldn’t begin to guess.
“How very logical, my friend,” Hemmer mumbled. “I suppose I must be.”
She looked between the two. “Were you both on the Glenn?”
Spock’s eyebrows shot up. “No.”
Hemmer cut in, more calmly. “No, this is our first assignment together. I was the only cadet on the Glenn. Bunch of people with black badges seemed very keen on recruiting a telepath.”
“Really?” Uhura asked and narrowed her eyes. “Black badges? What are those, Starfleet Intelligence?”
“That”, said Hemmer with a significant turn to Spock, “will forever remain a mystery.”
“You are both being absurd. There is no logic in dwelling on the past.”
Spock’s interruption came so sharply it couldn’t be anything other than a distraction.
One that did not work on Hemmer. “Don’t you ever wonder what really happened to your sister?”
“She died. Does your philosophy not teach blind acceptance of such matters?”
Hemmer had not expected that, Uhura noticed from how his antennae twitched towards Spock. He actually straightened up so much he touched the back of his chair. That did not stop him from issuing a challenge.
“So why didn’t you ask Kyle for a Discovery pin?”
Spock was fishing a piece of sweet potato from the pile on his plate as if he hadn’t heard. He chewed for another moment during which Uhura could see him breathing slowly.
“It would not be appropriate,” was the answer he finally gave. “Besides, considering the classified nature of the Crossfield project, it remains doubtful whether the Enterprise is stocked with Discovery memorial pins at all.”
“She was your sister.”
Uhura didn’t warn the pair of Captain Pike because she hadn’t thought it would be necessary. She regretted her decision when both the Vulcan and the Aenar looked guilty, and she had to suppress a giggle. She would have given her personal time for the week to take their picture.
“Uhura. Hemmer, Spock.”
The captain greeted them with more cheer than the rest of the mess hall combined. Uhura couldn’t help but respond with a smile.
“Not to be entirely tactless,” Pike continued, “but put those long faces away, Lieutenants. You’re scaring the crew. You don’t have to look this sombre for another 12 hours.”
Spock scowled. Actually scowled. Uhura followed his gaze.
Oh.
For the second time tonight she froze in shock.
“Captain,” Spock said, addressing him by title only, “am I understanding correctly that you are seriously wearing...” He actually looked him up and down. Ouch. Uhura could only hope to never be the target of his judgement. “... that?”
Pike’s face fell as he followed Spock’s eyes.
“Well, now I’m feeling self-conscious about it, Spock. Anything wrong with my uniform? You think I should turn up in dress greens tomorrow?”
“He means,” Hemmer said, “your pin, Captain.”
So he is peeking. But Uhura couldn’t exactly fault him for using a sense just because she was lacking it.
“Oh.”
Captain Pike turned the corners of his mouth down along with his face as he adjusted the already perfectly aligned pin.
“My previous assignment, Hemmer. Unfortunately I can’t share war stories with you tonight. It’s classified.”
He winked. He winked at Lieutenant Spock with that expression and lived.
“Anyway,” he said, “informal toast in my quarters at 2030 hours. Won’t be long, but I’d hate letting you go to bed without a nightcap tonight. Cadet Uhura, you’re invited too. Bring Cadet Chia. Oh, and, uh, this time? You can leave the dress uniform.”
She breathed out through her nose in lieu of a smile. “Thank you, Captain.”
The captain rapped his knuckles on their table. “Great. I’ll see you all later. Try and enjoy the meal.”
Spock glared after him.
Hemmer wouldn’t let that stand. “Hey, come on, Spock. The man offered you a drink, he didn’t insult your mother.”
Spock blinked rapidly and took a deep breath. He inclined his head towards Hemmer again.
“You are right, old friend.”
“Of course I am,” their chief engineer said smugly. “Eat up, you two, we have plans for the evening.”