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The dancer moved slowly, face in shadow, back in light. Braceletted limbs flashed when the spotlight caught bronze. She sang with her body, weaving about him, passing through shadows and squares of brilliance, trailing hair and chiffon. When he reached out to touch the hem of a sleeve, she winked out, like a spotlike, or a holo, or a dream. He was left in darkness. Alone.
"Krill!"
Tuvok woke with a start. Dreaming. He had been dreaming. Again. This was absurd. "Kaiidth," he muttered, just to remind himself, and got up to fetch a glass of water.
Vulcans dreamed. It was the mind's way of sorting through the past, and Tuvok looked on dreams as a normal subconscious function for sentient beings. But Vulcans did not shout out in their sleep. That pointed to a level of psychological disturbance which should have been taken care of in meditation. He finished his water, then knelt in front of his firepot and lit the focus-flame in its center, cleared his mind and slipped into First Level. She'oth, the All, was not restricted to the alpha quadrant. It lay within him.
First Level came; Second Level came. Third Level slipped and twisted away from him like a disobedient child, like Challa at three when she had had her mind made up and would not accept "No."
He stood abruptly. This was getting him nowhere.
Going over to his desk, he did an illogical thing. He took out the picture cube of his family. Krill and the twins, his mother, Krill's father before Sejan had succumbed to lung-lock disease, Krill after the m'Kasha performance three years ago still in costume, the twins as infants, the twins when they had graduated from Secondaries last year: Challa standing behind T'Gaylin.
"What is the point," he said to himself, "in twisting the knife?" He put the cube back. 70 years. His shorter-lived, human crewmates had made it known in small ways that they did not consider his position as drastic as theirs. They did not know. In three years, he—and Krill—would be dead. Well, he would be at least. If Krill did the logical thing, she would seek out a priestess and have their bond dissolved so that she might marry again. Part of him hoped she did. Part of him, a small selfish part, resented the
thought of another man in his place.
Tuvok loved his wife. It was not something he would have admitted aloud, and not something he needed to admit to her. She knew. What he feared even more than his own death was the thought that she might not, when the time came, free herself. As much as he would resent another man in his place, he could not bear the thought that she might die.
"Our children should not be orphans, Krill."
The intercom beeped. It startled him, though he maintained enough control not to react. "Tuvok here," he said.
"Tuvok, this is Janeway. I apologize for interrupting your rest...."
"I was not asleep, captain."
"Good. Would you come to the bridge? There's something here I'd like your opinion of."
"On my way."
Tuvok was grateful for the distraction. It would provide something to engage his mind and avoid this ridiculous lapse into self-absorbed nostalgia which served no useful purpose.
But his memories had been engaged. In the lift on the way to the bridge, he remembered his first meeting with Janeway four years ago. He had been new to Starfleet, a second-career officer, though an experienced security chief. He had served the diplomatic corps sixty years before deciding to enter the Academy. Janeway had been somewhat nonplussed at being assigned a chief of security who was nearly fifty years her senior—and Vulcan. She had called him into her ready room, offered him a seat, then paced around her desk—a trait he had come to realize indicated a state of emotional distress among humans.
"Ensign Tuvok," she had said, "permit me to ask one question, and if it's rude, I ask your forgiveness beforehand. But tell me—will you have trouble serving under a female captain?"
His first reaction had been confusion. "Captain?"
"I know a little about Vulcan; I spent three years in ShiKahr at the science academy. Vulcan is a patriarchy. Will you have a problem serving under a female captain?"
Tuvok had stood and faced her. "Captain, if you spent three years at the science academy, then you must surely have been in classes with female professors. Did any male student object to learning from her?"
"No," she said, shaking her head. "But outside class, I saw those same women professors walking two steps behind their husbands."
"Captain, permission to speak freely?"
"Permission granted."
"For the Vulcan, in the public sphere, competence is what matters, not gender. But the private sphere is subject to custom and Tradition. Do not confuse custom with a lack of respect. Too many humans do. If you prove to be a competent captain, I will have no objection to serving under your command." He did not spell out the corollary; he did not need to. She had looked rather nonplussed at his frankness, despite the permission she had granted. No doubt, she had expected to be reassured, not to be given notice that he would be judging her performance just as she would be judging his. Yet he was not a twenty-four-year-old ensign.
Abruptly, her face cleared. "Mr. Tuvok—thank you. You just gave me the bluntest answer I think I've ever had from a new crewmember. I'll expect it to continue." She had grinned wryly. He had nodded in acknowledgement. "You're dismissed," she said. "I'll see you a oh-eight-hundred for duty."
"Thank you, captain." He had turned to go, but at the door, paused.
"Yes, Mr. Tuvok?"
He looked back. "Captain, about being commanded by a woman—I have spent the greater part of my life now in a house ruled by four of them."
Her mouth had dropped open. "Why, Mr. Tuvok—is that a joke?"
Giving his best "offended" look, he had replied, "It was a statement of fact. I live with a wife, two daughters, and my mother." And he had walked out.
Of course it had been a joke.
Now, four years and 70 thousand miles away, he stepped out onto her bridge. "Captain, Tuvok reporting for duty."
***
Kathryn Janeway turned at the sound of Tuvok's voice, grinned. Wake him up in the middle of the night and he still managed to arrive on the bridge looking as if it was oh-eight-hundred, not oh-two-hundred. Chakotay had been scrubbing sleep out of his eyes and Paris was still yawning.
"Mr. Tuvok," she said, and indicated the front viewscreen, but his attention had already been caught by it. Vulcan curiosity. They loved a good puzzle.
Tuvok went to his station, ran some analyses and—she was sure—came up with the same blank she had drawn. He frowned. He looked back at the screen. "Report, captain?" he asked.
"Those"—she motioned to the viewscreen—"showed up on our port bow about twenty minutes ago. They've been doing the same thing ever since they arrived."
Three balls of energy, roughly two hundred feet in diameter each, were bobbing and twirling and circling in some crazy pattern which continued to elude her. "They've made no threatening moves," she added. "They just keep doing...that."
Up went the eyebrow. "Intriguing." He crossed his arms over his chest and studied the pattern a moment. "There are some creatures which, before they attack, attempt to hypnotize their prey by a repetitive pattern of movement."
"I thought of that," she said, "which is why I called you out of bed."
Abruptly, he shook his head. "This pattern is too complex, captain. Any hypnotic effect would be lost." He bent again and looked at his readings. "They are alive."
"Yes," she said. "They are. The Federation has met energy creatures before; we're just not usually very adept at talking to them."
He did not reply. Instead he stepped out from behind his station and moved down to join she and Chakotay on the central deck. "You know what they remind me of, captain?" Chakotay said. "Dolphins—playing around the bow of a ship."
"An interesting analogy, commander," Tuvok said, "but I believe the nature of their...display...would rule that out. It indicates a complexity of movement which would suggest"—he paused, finished softly—"choreography."
Janeway turned to gape. "You mean they're dancing."
"Yes, captain. I believe they are."
Half the bridge was staring at him. "What is this?" Paris asked. "Swan Lake?"
Tuvok did not reply. Janeway eyed him a moment more. "Well, I suppose you'd know." Then she grinned. "What do you think we should do? They're following us."
"They want a bouquet and a brava," Paris muttered.
"Mr. Paris," Tuvok said, "despite the flippant phrasing, may have a point. Perhaps if we gave them some...indication of appreciation...for their performance, they would be satisfied and depart."
"Such as?" Janeway asked. She was skeptical, but the idea of a deep space ballet performance had a certain charm. "I'm not sure clapping would work."
Tuvok straightened slightly. "Even among humanoids, captain, not all peoples count applause as appropriate."
Janeway laughed, remembering a few performances she had been to in ShiKahr. "Touché, Tuvok. So what would you suggest?"
"Well, as these are energy creatures, logic would dictate that perhaps a nonthreatening energy display of our own would suffice. The ship's shields have the capacity to run the spectrum of lightwaves...."
"We'll give them a rainbow!" she interrupted.
"Captain, I doubt their sensory intake is even remotely similar to our own; a rainbow would...."
"I get the idea, Tuvok. Do it. The shields are already up."
"I noticed," he replied, and did as ordered. A rather spectacular show of racing light fluttered over the viewscreen, interspersed with invisible bands. (He was running a full spectrum and human eyes could only detect a small portion of it.)
The dancing lights had stopped their dancing. This is it, she thought. Either they get our message, or they think we're attacking them. She held her breath. Then, to her delight, the three energy beings repeated Tuvok's display back to him (taking a bow?), swirled around each other a moment, then flashed away. On the upper deck, one of the ensigns clapped. A few others joined her. They were grinning.
"Well, I'll be jigger-jaggered," Chakotay muttered.
She glanced at him. "Jigger-jaggered, commander?"
"Never mind," he replied, rubbed at his eyes. "Permission to return to my quarters, captain?"
She grinned. "Permission granted." She turned to the rest of the bridge. "It looks like the performance is over, folks. As you were. Dayshift is relieved." She caught one of the nightshift sigh and return to her board, looking a little bored herself.
"Mr. Tuvok," Janeway said. Tuvok was halfway to the lift. "Meet me in my ready room. It'll just take a minute."
"Aye, captain." He turned smartly on his heel and disappeared through the side door.
Janeway walked over to the ensign and patted her on the shoulder. "Liked the ballet, Kapainnen?"
The ensign smiled slightly but kept her eyes on her instruments. "It was a nice change, Captain. Though it's kind of funny to think that energy creatures have art. Or whatever that was."
"Ensign," Janeway said, "all sentient beings seem to share an appreciation for beauty. Definitions of beauty may vary, but art is in some form is a function of culture. And every performer I know likes a bit of applause."
The ensign grinned. Janeway patted her shoulder again and went into the ready room to talk to Tuvok about a bit of art.
***
Tuvok examined the decor while he waited. He knew the room perfectly well, but waiting was not his strongest virtue. He preferred to do, not wait. When he had been the age of his daughters, his mother had reprimanded him often enough for impetuosity. Age had taught him to conceal impatience, but it had not changed his fundamental preference for action rather than contemplation.
The doors slid open; Janeway entered. "Have a seat," she said. "You're off-duty, Tuvok. I won't keep you long."
Once, he would have been uncomfortable sitting in the presence of his captain, even off duty. Now, he pulled around a chair and sat down. She seated herself on the edge of her desk and grinned at him. "Do you still have the holofilms of Krill's m'Kasha performance? You brought them back for me to see. Did you flush them or do you still have them?"
"I still have them." He still had ALL of them: one copy of every single public performance she had given in fifty-seven years.
"Would you be willing to run it for any of the crew who wishes to attend?"
"Your reasons for asking, captain?" It was not that he was reluctant, quite.
She waved back towards the bridge. "I was watching faces, out there. They liked the show. And while we all have our own hobbies, there is something unifying about attending a performance. Art is...a mark of civilization. I would like to think we are not yet so reduced to worrying about where our next meal is coming from that we can't stop now and then and enjoy the gift of someone else's talent."
She stood up, waved expansively. "Krill is an...extraordinary dancer. I—who can't dance my way out of a paper bag—very much appreciated your bringing back holos of Krill's m'Kasha performance so I could see it. And I figure if someone as ignorant as myself can enjoy watching her, how much more might others?" She sat back down. "So, if you're willing to share your wife's dancing, I would like to arrange a viewing open to the public."
Tuvok shifted in his seat. On the one hand, he had no problem whatsoever with Janeway's request. Krill performed so that others might appreciate. But a part of him did not want to release the tapes. There was nothing rational in that, nothing logical. It was a matter of possession. She was his wife and those tapes were all he had of her, might be all he would ever have again. He wanted to keep them to himself.
And yet, Krill would be appalled. For all that her realm was art, she had always had the more logical mind. "You pursue your tactics and martial arts," she had told him not long after they had married, "because you have yet to master peace within yourself." They had not made a good pair, at first. He had had little interest in dance and even less native ability, and she had been a pacifist by conviction. He had often wondered, in the early years, why their parents had chosen them for one another. But their parents had been wiser than they. He and Krill shared a commonality of outlook, rather than shared interests. More, he had learned to appreciate dance even if his aptitude had never improved; and, after their daughters had been born, she had confessed to him that she had finally discovered something for which she would fight, if driven to it.
"Tuvok?"
He blinked. "My apologies, captain. My mind was...momentarily elsewhere." There were not many people to whom he would admit that.
"Tuvok, if it would be too difficult for you...."
"Difficult?"
"Friend, don't pretend with me. I have seen you with Challa and T'Gaylin, and Krill. You love them. A Vulcan is allowed to love his children—and his wife."
Tuvok breathed out and pressed his lips together. He had no wish for her to continue pursuing that. "And the point, captain?"
"If it would be too difficult for you to watch Krill dance when you...can't have her here...I understand." She looked off, out the ready room viewport. "I put Mark's picture in a drawer. I couldn't stand it out any longer."
He blinked, at a loss. Something should be said, but he had no idea what. Vulcans prized privacy, and kept their grief to themselves. Humans had a need to share it, and diffuse it thereby. "I have also...put away my pictures. But now and then, I take them out—to remind myself." He paused. "As regards Krill's performances, I have all of them. She would, I believe, wish me to share them. It is why she performs."
Janeway stared at him a moment, then smiled. "Thank-you, Tuvok."
That had more than one meaning.
He stood, nodded to her. "Good-night, Kate."
****
Back in his quarters, Tuvok approached his holopad, selected a program and ran it. On the raised, round surface, Krill appeared in minature, caught in a cross of spotlights, head down, waiting to begin her movement. "Computer, freeze." He sat down on the carpet beside the holopad, face level with the projector plane. "Computer, run program."
He would release the m'Kasha performance; it was her masterpiece—or the best of them to date. There were others which he would select and make available. But this one.... This one was his and he would keep it for himself. It was not a great performance, nor a brilliant example of her choreography. She would be shamed to know he still had it at all.
The point came. "Computer, freeze program."
He stared then for a very long time at the tiny Krill, arms thrown out and face lifted, eyes closed, body poised in extremis and balanced perfectly. In the next moment, he knew, she would lose that balance and fall—the only time she had ever made such a spectacular error before an audience.
He would not reserve this tape because of the misstep. He would reserve it because, in that instant before she fell, she had reaching something beyond herself, some ecstasy of soul touchable only through the body. And logical, patient, perfectionist Krill was smiling.
"Ka'vesh-nata, Krill. Ka'vesh-nata."