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Chris originally turned down the expansive captain’s quarters. “I’m one man,” he said to the lieutenant giving him the tour of the Enterprise’s retrofit. “It’s much more appropriate for VIPs. Tell ASDB to make it a guest suite.”
“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant made a note on his PADD with his proximal hand while the other two opened one of what Chris had thought were storage compartments. “I should mention that the cabin has not yet been fully outfitted. Advanced Starship Design Bureau specifications indicate that the planned utilization of this space was as a food preparation area.”
Chris turned. “A kitchen?”
“Yes, sir. And a food consumption area.”
“A dining room.”
He stepped into the empty space, envisioning high tables, gleaming fabricated oak surfaces, a section of the counter that could slide out of the way to reveal a grill underneath.
“Now you’re talking,” he said approvingly. The lieutenant’s skin faded to yellow, a clear sign that he’d failed to comprehend the idiom, so Chris clarified. “Belay that request to ASDB. These quarters are perfect.”
His vision of hosting dinner parties, rotating in senior staff and new crew members, was fulfilled. When they transported diplomatic delegations or VIPs, Chris more often than not cooked them a meal. Aside from the pleasure he took in cooking, he found it a useful and efficient way to get to know people.
But he was beginning to regret inviting T’Pring to dinner.
*
They had stopped at Vulcan to deliver a few Sulamid geologists to the Science Academy, and Chris suggested inviting Spock’s parents up for dinner. He was pretty sure that Spock took pleasure, as un-Vulcan as it was, in informing him that they were unavailable.
“The ambassador and his wife--”
“Your mom and dad--” Chris interjected, as they walked away from the transporter room.
“--are on Earth for the Federation’s general assembly.”
“What about T’Pring?”
Spock stopped in the middle of the corridor, startling an ensign behind him who had to swerve to avoid a collision. “You wish to invite T’Pring onboard?”
“She’s your girlfriend, Spock,” Chris said.
Spock frowned almost imperceptibly, but Chris had seen that line between his eyebrows before, and he knew what it meant. “Vulcans do not have girlfriends. We are courting.”
“Right,” Chris said. “Much more dignified. Whatever you call her, I’d like to get to know her.”
He hadn’t seen Spock look this uncomfortable since their last visit to Betazed. “Chris, I am not sure this is a good idea. T’Pring’s opinion of non-Vulcan societies is...complicated.”
“Are you saying she’s xenophobic?”
“Xenophobia is illogical.”
“Exactly. Come on, Spock,” Chris said, already mentally planning the menu. “How bad could it be?”
*
T’Pring was slender, conservatively dressed, with delicate features and beautiful dark eyes that Chris would have called expressive on a human. She had politely greeted him, politely accepted the glass of lychee juice, and politely taken her seat at the table. Chris was still waiting for her to be anything other than polite.
“Your replicator’s plomeek soup is acceptable, if unimaginative.”
As far as Chris was concerned, acceptable was a pretty high compliment on the Vulcan scale. Better than adequate, maybe not as good as satisfactory.
T’Pring took a precise sip of water. “Although far less flavorful than a competent chef could accomplish.”
Spock, without betraying any emotion, glanced at T’Pring. When he looked at Chris that way, it was the Vulcan version of Captain, you are about to make an ass out of yourself.
“This is when I mention that I made it.” Chris tried another spoonful. “Tastes pretty good to me.”
T’Pring looked at him. “I see. Considering that you do not have native ingredients, I suppose this is the best you could do.”
“Thank you?” Chris tried. He’d wanted to see past the veneer of civility, but condescension hadn’t been at the top of his list.
Spock interjected, probably to spare himself having to witness any more of the awkward conversation.
“Captain, T’Pring is preparing to join Ankeshtan K'til.”
“And what does Ankeshtan K'til do?” Credit to Spock, job talk was a time-honored way of making small talk. And it hopefully wouldn’t give T’Pring another chance to insult his cooking.
T’Pring laid her spoon next to her bowl at a perfect right angle to the placemat. “As a member of the El-Keshtanktil, I will retrieve and rehabilitate those who have strayed from the path laid out by Surak.”
“Logic, you mean.”
She nodded. “The percentage of serious offenders in Vulcan society is obviously minuscule, but still high enough to provide Ankeshtan K'til with its mission.”
“Sounds like a worthy occupation,” Chris said.
“I agree. It allows me to contribute to Vulcan society in two related ways: practicing and strengthening my own arie'mnu, and helping those who have abandoned it to rediscover the wisdom of Surak’s teachings.”
Chris looked to Spock for clarification of the unfamiliar term. “Arie'mnu?”
Spock steepled his fingers in front of his chest. “It is usually defined as a lack of emotion, though there are those who argue that arie'mnu is a cultural concept that cannot be accurately translated into Federation Standard. My mother among them.”
“How would your mother define it?”
“Mastery of emotion, or perhaps passion,” Spock said. “The nuance is that Vulcans are not completely without emotion, but that we strive to control them and base our actions and beliefs on logic.”
“I imagine your mother has a unique perspective on the issue.”
“Rather an understatement,” T’Pring said, and nothing about the way she spoke had changed, but Chris still felt the edge of scorn on her words. “Do you not agree, Captain Pike, that it is illogical for an emotional being such as a human to marry a Vulcan and live on his home planet?”
“I don’t know about illogical,” Chris said, taking a moment to imagine himself in such a situation. He liked Vulcans and valued their unique perspective in the Federation, as he valued Spock’s presence on his crew. “I think it probably takes a special human.”
“And would the child of that union not be constantly torn between the two halves of his parentage?” T’Pring asked pointedly.
Chris made himself relax and settled back in his seat. Spock was conspicuously silent, considering that T’Pring was insulting his mother. “I don’t think this is a conversation I should be in the middle of. But if you want my opinion?”
“I did ask for it,” T’Pring said.
“I think the child of a Vulcan father and a human mother would have to be adept at navigating complex situations where logic and emotion might come into conflict. And he would be a shining example of the fact that logic and emotion are not mutually exclusive, but can combine to create something greater than either one of them.”
T’Pring tilted her head slightly. “I see. I have not heard this opinion so forcefully expressed before.”
Chris shrugged. “Sometimes I’m less tactful than Spock. It comes in handy when dealing with close-minded people.”
He waited for her to take offense, but she must have been looking for an honest answer, rather than him avoiding the question or diplomatically agreeing with her. Spock, who’d started to look a little green around the gills, exhaled quietly.
“Is that gespar in the kitchen?” T’Pring asked.
“It is,” Chris said. “I got a little experimental with it. It’s in a cobbler with oats and almonds and just a little honey.”
“It smells appetizing, Captain. Perhaps it is time for dessert?”
“Please,” he said, pushing back from the table and reaching to clear her plate, “call me Chris.”