This story is offered in response to my own question, "What
kind of fan is reluctant to write about *pon farr*?" While
discussing this issue with Mary Ellen and Julie last night, we
agreed that Kirkologists tend not to like to write about *pon
farr.* Mary Ellen attributed this to Kirk's desire to be in
control, to which the PF is an obvious threat. Having re-
read this old story of mind, I see that she may have a point.

In this story, *pon farr* is *not* Kirk's friend.

A follow-up story from Spock's perspective will appear
shortly.

Title: The Body's Treason
Author: Judith Gran (Dunyazad9)
Series: TOS
Pairing: K/S
Rating: R for adult concepts
Parts: 2
Summary: Kirk and Spock are forced to separate because
of Spock's impending *pon farr.*

Disclaimer: Paramount and Viaborg own the Star Trek
universe and all that is therein. I own only my own words.
This story is a noncommercial, transformative use of Star
Trek and thus fall within the fair use exception to the
exclusive rights of the copyright owners. No infringement is
intended. The author's copyright extends only to original
material. 

Acknowledgement: An earlier version of this story was 
published by Tiberius Press in the fanzine *Matter/Anti-Matter,*
copyright 1983 by Sandra Gent. Thanks to Sandra for her
editorial assistance and to Ann, psychologist extraordinaire, 
for help beyond the call of duty. 

Comments both positive and negative welcomed, as well as
criticism, no holds barred. 


           The Body's Treason

Copyright 1983, 2000 by Judith A. Gran

     It's late, and Lori is still at her office. I've finished a
stack of reports, and now would be a good time to call her
and arrange to meet, to go for a walk in the mist, or have a
drink together somewhere overlooking the bay.

     No. I've savored the chance to be alone tonight, to
play your tape over and over again, to watch it by myself.

     You're right, Spock, Lori would not look over my
shoulder. No, she's never been intrusive. Call it an irrational
need for solitude on my part.

     I take the tape from its case slowly, almost
reverently, and place it in the viewer. I take a deep breath
during the pause before the recording begins.

     First I watch the formal Vulcan marriage
announcement, the recital of each partner's ancestry. They
just have listed every forebear since the Reforms. T'Val,
daughter to T'Sen and Soran, of the house of Xcltnr ... an
eminently suitable match, I'm sure half of Vulcan is saying.

     Why wallow in bitterness? Shouldn't I use a little
Vulcan control, try to come to terms with the past? The
*Enterprise* and our mission are behind us. Life goes on.
And we wanted life to go on, wanted each other to go on
living. That's why I'm here, living with Lori, and you're
there, bonded at last to a Vulcan mate.

     On the tape, your tones are calm and measured as
you describe T'Val. "We are telepathically compatible and
share many intellectual interests. A considerable rapport
already exists between us. Of course, it is not yet equal to
the rapport that you and I enjoyed."

     *Not yet equal.* Will it ever be, Spock? Do you
*want* it to be? Shouldn't I want that, too?

     I wonder how T'Val reacts when she sees us
together in your mind. And I wonder, can she understand
what she sees there? Can she read your emotions as well as
your thoughts? Or, being Vulcan, is she emotion-blind, just
as Lori and I are psi-null? Blind spots; blind walls in our
search for communion with something beyond ourselves. I
thought you and I had managed to lift those walls when we
reached out to each other.

     Yes, Spock, I've told Lori everything. I needed to --
needed *her* for my own survival. But words are a
limited tool of communication, as you know. Lucky
Vulcans, not to need them as much as we Humans do.

     She brought it up herself, early in our relationship,
before we decided to live together. We had taken a long
lunch hour together, and we'd walked up the hill
overlooking Starfleet headquarters and the bay. We were
leaning against a tree trunk, when I said something about
you as "my former First Officer," and I felt her suddenly
tense as I said your name.

     "They say you and your Vulcan first officer were
lovers," she said with an effort.

     "They say correctly." I tried to keep my voice light,
knowing we were on difficult ground.

     "I was ... surprised to hear about it, considering
what a reputation you have as a .. as a womanizer." Her
statement was a question -- a whole series of questions,
They'd been asked before, and I'd come to expect them.

     "My bisexuality quotient has always been very low,
if that's what you mean," I said, still struggling for lightness.
"Of course, that assumes Starfleet's tests are accurate."

     She smiled, relaxing a little. The sexual profiles in
Starfleet's personnel files are notorious. 

     As her tension subsided, I tried to answer her
questions in earnest. "It wasn't a relationship based on
sexual attraction, although ultimately, that become part of
it. The connection between us, the closeness, was more --
spiritual. I'm sorry, I don't have a better word for it," I
finished awkwardly.

     Her expression was blank, as though she didn't
understand. "When people work together closely, out in
space, it's normal for them to become involved sexually,"
she said, probably trying to fit what's I'd just said into the
categories of some ridiculous Starfleet statistical study.

     I shook my head, trying to make her understand.
"Lori, of course we had a close working relationship, but it
was more than that. Since Spock's a Vulcan, I'm not sure I
can describe it in Human terms. We admired each other, we
were fascinated by each other, by the complementary
qualities we found in each other. We came to love each
other deeply, so deeply that eventually we both wanted to
*make* love. Maybe it never would have happened if we
hadn't served together on the *Enterprise,* but it was
something unique, something very individual to Spock and
me. It didn't change the way I respond to men, or women."

     She sat quietly for a while, trying to digest this,
while I readied myself for the next inevitable question.

     "If you loved each other, why did you separate?"

     I tried to answer truthfully, carefully. I recounted the
facts as neutrally as I could. It was the first of many
conversations she and I had about you. Funny, I don't think
she ever gave the women in my past a second thought, just
as I never asked about the men in hers. But you ... I think
she felt instinctively that I must have shared something with
you that I never could share with her.

     I've been honest with Lori. I haven't belittled her
doubts. I've tried to explain how you captivated me, how
our friendship deepened, how we approached the bridge
between affection and passion, and how easily we crossed
that bridge in the end. The empathy we shared. The beauty I
found in you, beauty of mind and body. How my heart
would lift whenever I saw you, so straight and spare and
elegant in your science blue. How everything on the
*Enterprise* was suffused in that joy for a few short months.

     And how it was shattered abruptly.

                *********

     I hadn't told Bones at first, not out of secretiveness,
but because our relationship still felt too intimate to share.
Maybe I wasn't ready to face the concern I knew he would
feel about how it might affect me as ship's commander.
Maybe I just needed time to adjust myself. 

     So I was a little embarrassed and caught off-guard
when Bones called me into his office one day and asked if
I'd heard the news that the *pon farr* counteragent
research program on Vulcan had been terminated.

     I'd followed the news of the program, of course,
mainly because of its relevant to you, but not with a sense of
urgency. I suppose I felt rather pleased with myself,
assuming as I did that our relationship had solved your *pon
farr* problem. We'd never discussed it openly, but I knew
*I* was willing to serve as your partner in the *pon farr,*
and it had never occurred to me that you wouldn't want that
too. 

     Yes, I recognized that you and other Vulcans
deserved a choice in the matter, but ... it's painful now to
realize how arrogant I was, but deep down, I think I was
rather satisfied with the idea that the breakthrough wouldn't
come in time for your next *pon farr.* So I could pat myself
on the back for being indispensable to you? Perhaps. 

     If I'd stopped to admit it, I may even have had a few
secret fantasies about the *pon farr* itself, about what
you'd be like in the grip of the mating fever. You were still
much more inhibited erotically than I.

     In any case, Bones' news wasn't much of a surprise.
The *pon farr* counteragent research was primarily a
political rather than a medical issue. Some Vulcan leaders,
including T'Pau herself, were convinced that a *pon farr*
counteragent would have socially disruptive consequences,
that it would weaken, irreparably, the whole social
institution of bonding. 

     In the past, the program had been funded because it
seemed a relatively harmless scientific diversion. The
complex interconnections between the Vulcan involuntary
nervous system and the higher centers of the brain made it
incredibly difficult to develop a formula that would
neutralize the hormonal changes of *pon farr* without
affecting thought or personality. The *pon farr* research
had generated a lot of useful byproducts in endocrinology
and neurology, while coming no closer to an effective
counteragent. 

     But a couple of spectacular discoveries in the past
few years had brought the program to the edge of a
probable breakthrough and completely changed its political
significance. And meanwhile, the latest reshuffle of the
Vulcan Council had placed the conservative faction firmly in
control.

     I knew Bones' main concern was how the news
would affect you, Spock, so I fished for a way to tell him
that it didn't matter any more.

     So you can imagine how astonished I was at Bones'
next words. "Jim, what worries me is how *Spock* took
the news."

     "You mean he accepted it calmly?" I replied
complacently, convinced that's what you would do. You
had a mate now, after all. Ah, Kirk, you could have used a
little Vulcan logic.

     "No, he most certainly did not accept it calmly. In
fact, he practically begged me to help him find other
scientists who might be able to continue the research off-
Vulcan."

     I suppose the surprise registered on my face, but I
was too stunned to answer.

     "Jim, that was awfully uncharacteristic of Spock. He
know there isn't a prayer of follow up the Vulcan
program's leads without the facilities and the funding and
the Vulcan scientists and research subjects their program
had. Spock has to recognize that. I can understand why he
wouldn't want to face another *pon farr,* not after what he
went through the last time. But he's had a few years to get
used to the idea, and still has another few left to do
something about it. Why is he so worried all of a sudden?"

     I didn't know what to say. So much for my fantasies
of indispensability and erotic abandon. Apparently, that
wasn't what you wanted. *Be sensible,* I told myself,
forcing my feelings of wounded pride to the back of my
mind. *There has to be a logical reason for this.*

     "Maybe he's worried about the effect on his duties
on this ship," I answered as evenly as I could, trying to
convince myself as much as Bones.

     Bones shook his head firmly. "You know that's not
the problem it used to be. We've learned how to tell,
through hormone assays, when the *pon farr* is on its way.
In the last few months before onset, we can pinpoint its
arrival almost to the hour. We'd have plenty of advance
warning." 

     My Chief Medical Office stared at me seriously,
concern etched into the lines of his face. "Jim, Vulcans have
been going through *pon farr* for thousands of years. It
seems ... I don't know, *illogical* somehow for Spock to
be so hell-bent on finding an antidote just so *he* can avoid
it. I've kind of wondered if ... well, if he had some other
reason to avoid it, like maybe someone he wanted to
protect, a non-Vulcan ...."

     Bones' blue eyes were sharp as a rapier, cutting
through my defenses. How much had he guessed? It didn't
matter. He saw it all in my face then. As I gazed back at him
and whispered, "He has," his face softened into lines of
compassion.

     "Oh, Jim. No wonder Spock was so desperate. He
must have assumed the counteragent would be available by
the time he went into *pon farr* when he ..."

     "It's my fault he's so worried. I should have brought
it up myself. He's so reticent. He must think I want to avoid
it. I'll just tell him I accept it, that the irrationality doesn't
bother me ..."

     I was rattling on, half-wanting to get away from
Bones so that I could go and talk with you, half-wanting to
stay and talk it out with Bones as a way of regaining my
equilibrium. I tried to sound confident, but a deep
uneasiness had begun to stir inside me, a suspicion that
much more than reticence was involved.

     As if to confirm that feeling, Bones' expression
deepened from compassion to gravity.

     "Jim, do you know what *happens* in *pon farr*?

     I wasn't in the mood for a talk about the birds and
the bees. I'd hoped that when I told Bones about us, it
would be an occasion for joy, not a clinical discussion. And
I really didn't relish discussing the medical aspects of *pon
farr* with an outsider. But this was no time to be fastidious.
Bones was my ship's chief surgeon, and he had the right to
know what I was doing.

     "I know *pon farr* involves repeated intercourse
together with an intense mind link. Spock and I do that
already, Bones." I wanted him to realize that I didn't shy
away from the telepathic contact Vulcans practice during
lovemaking. "It wouldn't be anything radically new for us.
Just unusually intense, perhaps."

     Bones stared back at me. "'Intense'?" It's not just
intense, it's *violent.* You'd certainly be injured severely.
The Human rectum isn't built to take that kind of strain."
And he underscored the point by giving me a lecture that
was about as graphic in medical detail as any I'd ever heard.
When I tried to interject that the Human vagina seemed
perfect capable of taking the strain, Bones pointed out,
"The Human vagina, in case no one ever told you, is
constructed to allow the passage of a child's head
measuring twelve centimeters or more in diameter. The
rectum isn't You'd be torn to shreds."

     "Then you can put me back together!" I shouted
angrily, unable to accept these unwelcome facts, still
looking at the information hypothetically, impersonally.
Seeing the shock on Bones' face, I hurried on, determined
to convince him. "I could take painkillers. I could take
antibiotics beforehand to avoid infection. With any
reasonable medical facilities available, I could have surgical
repair -- "

     "Surgical repair?" Bones was incredulous. "You're
talking about the *relationship*!"

     "Yes, a relationship I damned well intend to keep!"

     "I understand that, Jim. But how the hell do you
think Spock must feel about all of this? Can you really face
this again after the last time, when he almost killed you?
Can he? How to you expect to accept that no matter what
he does, he's bound to hurt you severely?"

     I was confused and upset, struggling to digest too
much at once. "He wouldn't be responsible. No one could
blame him. The last time, when he went into the *plak tow*
and almost killed me in the fight over T'Pring, we both
understood that that was Vulcan biology, not Spock. Our
friendship survived that, didn't it?"

          Bones sighed grimly. "Jim, obviously I can't speak
for Spock. And I can't even give you all the medical
answers. Vulcans don't like to talk about it to outsiders. But
I can think of some pretty thorny questions I'd want to ask
before I contemplated going through *pon farr* with a
Vulcan male."

     *What else,* I wondered, *does Bones know that I
don't?* "Such as?"

     "Jim, I've done research on male to male bondings
among Vulcans, or tried to."

     I could feel my face redden as I wondered how long
it had taken Bones to figure out where my relationship with
Spock was heading. 

     "To come right to the point, so few men have
bonded in the last four thousand years of Vulcan history
that the percentage is hardly worth mentioning."

     "*What?*" I stared back at him, astonished. "How
can that be?"

     "I'm not sure, Jim, but I know it's not cultural.
Vulcans have no particular taboo on same-sex relationships. Men
just don't bond, that's all. Hasn't Spock ever discussed this
with you?"

     "No ...." I took a deep breath, recognizing more of
the unknowns we hadn't faced. We'd never really discussed
the Vulcan ritual bonding for ourselves. I knew it somehow
played a role in the *pon farr* -- the experience with
T'Pring made that obvious enough -- and I'd just
assumed we'd marry, or bond, eventually. "Spock has never
told me that men could not bond."

     "I didn't say 'can't,' I said 'don't,'" Bones corrected
me soberly. "I don't know of any reason why they can't.
Unlike other species with estrus cycles, Vulcans form
permanent mating bonds. But they do it through an
imprinting of one partner's mind on the other, which has
nothing to do with gender." 

     I nodded. But a cold feeling had begun to settle in
the pit of my stomach. *Why hadn't you ever mentioned
this, Spock? Are you afraid I wouldn't want such a bond with
you? Have I made you feel that insecure?* The idea was
gut-wrenching, and still worse was the fear that you might
not want to bond with *me.*

     I turned to leave, needing to talk to you. I caught
the look of anguish on Bones' face. "Jim, I'm sorry. I'll
to do everything I can, but I don't see any way out of this."

Part 2 

    I headed for your quarters and found you there.
"Spock, McCoy told me the news," I said as quickly as I
could get the words out. "And I want you to know that ..."
I trailed off as I saw your face, rigid and grim and guarded.

     You got up from your desk and walked toward me,
very slowly, the tension apparent in every line of your body.

     "Jim, the implications of the research program's
cancellation are devastating for me. If a counteragent to the
*pon farr* is not developed soon, I shall be forced to leave
the *Enterprise* and take a bondmate."

     I took your hands gently, trying to project all the
conviction I could into the gesture. "I'd hoped that I would
be your bondmate."

     The rigid lines of your face shattered into pain. You
shook your head. "No."

     *All right,* I thought. *He doesn't want to hurt me.
Maybe he doesn't want to bind me. We'll work this
through. I'll convince him I do want the bond, the madness,
everything.*

     But I was so worried it hurt to breath, as though a
heavy weight were pressing against my chest. I went right
to the point.

     "Bones has filled me in on the medical details,
Spock. I know *pon farr* is violent, and I can understand
your revulsion at the thought of inflicting that violence on
me, but I accept it. I accept all the consequences. You know
I wouldn't consider you responsible. Think of all the times
you've placed yourself in danger for me, suffered for me.
Surely you'll let me do this for you, in the same spirit. For
*us.*" 

     I paused to let this sink in, prepared to launch
another stream of arguments, when I saw you stiffen, and I
realized my approach wasn't working.

     "It is not that, Jim," you said tightly. "It is not what
you assume."

     I stared at you, mystified. "What is it, then? Is there
some reason men can't become bondmates?" 

     You looked down, your face clouded, your voice
rough, as it always was when you struggled with strong
emotion. "It is ... theoretically possible for men to become
bondmates."

     "'Theoretically'?" Don't you want to?" Even as the
words came out and I saw the answering anguish on your
face, I knew it was a stupid thing to say. 

     "Of course I want to. That has been my deepest
wish for ... for longer than I can state with precision."

     Emotional words, for a Vulcan. "Then I don't
understand the problem."

     You gripped my hands tightly, your eyes
uncharacteristically intense. "Jim, it would not be safe for me
to be alone with you during the *pon farr.* In the *plak
tow,* the Vulcan male ... if he is denied access to a female
... will regard another male with whom he is placed in
contact as a potential rival. He has an overwhelming
hormonally induced instinct to eliminate that rival. You
must remember what happened at the *koon-ut-kalifee* on
Vulcan. I tried to kill you then. I have no wish to repeat that
attempt."

     I was stunned. I'd never considered this, although I
knew the fever of the *plak tow* was a legacy of the days
when Vulcans had killed for their mates. "But I would be
your *partner,* not your rival! If we were bonded, wouldn't
the bond draw us together sexually? Wouldn't it counteract
the instinct to kill?"

     You paused, and I realized you had done your
homework with your usual thoroughness. "That is logical,
and a distinct possibility, although the probability of its
happening is very small."

      My heart sank as I realized you spoke from
knowledge. I waited silently for you to support your
conclusion with data, as you always did.

     "Some male to male bondings have been formed
among Vulcans ... not many, but enough to provide some
pertinent data. In only 6.95 percent of the cases did the
bonding successfully counteract the aggressive drive. In
76.53% of the cases, one partner did his best to kill the
other. In the remaining 16.52% of the cases, the violently
contradictory impulses experienced by the partner in *pon
farr* resulted in severe physiological and psychological
trauma, mental instability, or actual brain damage." 

     *Damn Vulcan precision,* I thought to myself.

     "I do not consider those to be acceptable odds," you
added. Your voice was even, betraying no trace of irony or
bitterness.

     "You've always said we have an unusual telepathic
compatibility," I persisted. "Wouldn't that place us in the
six-point-whatever percent? Isn't there some way we could
find out?"

     "The previous cases provide little data which could
guide us on that point. And there are certainly no
precedents involving a half-Vulcan male and a Human male.
There is also that fact that, even if we were successful in
avoiding the worst effects, I would inevitably injure you
severely, no matter what else should happen."

     "I don't care," I insisted stubbornly. "There must be
some way of predicting how our minds would react to the
*pon farr* if we were bondmates: telemetry, brain wave
analysis. We could have a simulation program run to predict
the effects of the hormonal imbalance on our nervous
systems ..."

     "It would extremely unreliable, Jim, as surely you
know. Any attempt to estimate the state of my endocrine
system in the *pon farr* would be highly inaccurate. It
would be necessary to use averages for certain categories of
Vulcan males, and because of my half-Human ancestry, no
such figures are applicable to me."

     "Dammit, Spock! There must be something we can
*do*!"

     "Jim, your instinct is always to struggle, to beat the
odds. You must what would will happen if we choose this
course and are defeated by those odds."

     I looked back at you stubbornly. "Spock, my
commitment to you is to do whatever it takes for us to be
together."

     "Then you must understand why, for me, the same
commitment dictates a single conclusion. As long as *pon
farr* is inevitable in Vulcans, my sexuality could kill you or
injure you. I wish to preserve your life and our friendship,
even at the cost of this dimension of it. Can you not see the
logic in that?"

     I clenched my fists in frustration. No, I could never
deny your logic. Neither was I foolhardy enough to risk
short-circuiting your reflexes and burning your brain out
through in the contradictory messages of bonding and *plak
tow.* No matter how heroic a posture I might strike for
myself, there was no way around the terrible danger to you.

     "I admit your logic is as flawless as ever, Spock," I
sighed in resignation.

     Then, just as I've always done in a crisis, I
concentrated on the only sliver of hope available. "That
means we've got to have the anti-*pon farr* agent. The
odds of developing it in time may be slim, but they're not
hopeless. How long do you think we have before it's too
late?"

     You relaxed, grateful that I was no longer beating
my head against the wall, and gave me a deadline that would
give you enough time to return to Vulcan and take a
bondmate if we failed.

     I seized the straw of hope eagerly. We had time -- 
at least a couple of years. A few scientists on Vulcan were
still doing their own research on the *pon farr*
counteragent, with funds they'd managed to scrape together
themselves. The Federation ministries of health and 
sciences had refused to fund any of it, considering it an
internal Vulcan matter. The massive research program on
Vulcan itself had depended entirely on government funding
that had now disappeared. 

     But we had your genius, and Bones' --  I
couldn't ask anyone on my ship to work on this project, but
Bones volunteered to take it on in his off-duty time. So did
a rather large number of crew members from the science
and medical sections   I've always suspected that Bones
was behind that. He also used his connections in the
Surgeon General's office to finagle permission to use the
*Enterprise* facilities for his off-duty research. Ultimately,
Bones wound up coordinating the *Enterprise* volunteers
with the privately funded research projects on Vulcan.

     I knew how heavy the odds were against success,
but we'd worked against impossible odds before. I knew
you were constantly recalculating those odds, although you
were gentle enough to spare me the actual figures.

     Eventually, I began to realize that the odds were
steadily improving in your favor as you started spending
more and more time in your lab ... because I knew you'd
also, with your typical precision, weighed the benefits of
spending more time on your research against the benefits of
spending that time with me in case we should have to
separate. 

     Finally, you announced that the probability of
developing a successful counteragent in advance of our
deadline was approximately seventy-eight point sixty-five
percent. I was elated. And you, in your quiet Vulcan fashion
were even happier.

     Then, three weeks later, you'd gone to McCoy for a
periodic hormone assay, and had come to me, your face pale
and grim.

     "Jim, the *pon farr* is approaching much more
rapidly than I had anticipated. It appears the onset will
occur nearly two and one half years earlier than normal. It
will definitely begin within ten months. Even if we already
had the counteragent, it would be too late for me to take it.
Significant changes in my endocrine balance already have
begun to take place. I must return to Vulcan immediately
and make the arrangements I feared would be necessary."

     Whenever I recall that moment, I can still feel the
shock of grief all over again. I didn't handle it very well. I
loved you for your Vulcan control, but I couldn't emulate it.
There were nights when I was too bitter even to see you,
and nursed my anger with a brandy bottle instead. Or went
to the gym and pounded a punching bag into a pulp. 

     It didn't help. The ship had no room for my despair.
If I'd been alone on a world of mountains and forests, I
could have ranted and shouted out my rage and grief until I
had no more voice. There, on the *Enterprise,* the black
impersonality of space was a mocking reminder that I had
tilted not at personal fate but random chance.

     You contacted your parents and told them the news,
so that they could begin conducting discreet inquiries
among potentially eligible women. You prepared to leave
Starfleet for Vulcan. Your parents accepted the situation
calmly, as Vulcan parents do. One does not fault biology.
They probably attributed your delay to a reluctance to
discontinue your career in Starfleet, though I'm sure they
realized later what the real reason was. 

     Certainly, the rumors were all over Starfleet by then.
Everyone must have guessed the reason why certain
scientists on the *Enterprise* were spending so much of
their off-duty time in the *pon farr* counteragent research.

     I didn't care. But I still hoped, irrationally, that you
might change your mind as the eleventh hour, and your
departure from the *Enterprise,* approached.

     As we made love in my cabin for the last time, I felt
as though my heart were being ripped from my body.
"Spock, we can still decide to go through this together," I
whispered as we lay together afterwards. "I still want to."

     "Jim, we both wish to preserve our lives, our sanity
and our friendship. The steps I am taking are the only
acceptable course."

     "It seems a strange way to keep our friendship, in
my opinion," I replied, struggling to keep down the despair
that welled up in  my throat. "God knows when we'll ever
see each other again, and we can never ... we can never
make love ..."

     "We will see each other. I promise you, I will find
ways. We were friends for many years before we were
lovers. That was not without its satisfactions."

     "Yes. Yes, I know you're right, but ..." The lump of
despair threatened to burst, and before I could say any
more, I had to turn over and bury my face in the pillow.
You leaned over me, gentle and concerned, your hand on
my shoulder. 

     "You know ..." I said when I had regained some
control. "I wonder about those Vulcan men who became
bondmates, in spite of the terrible risk. They must have
loved each other ...."

     "And behaved most illogically."

     "Most illogically. Is that why Vulcans decided to
eliminate emotion, Spock? Because love is so deadly when
it contradicts Vulcan biology?"

     "Does it not seem sensible to eliminate a cause of
suffering?"

     "It depends on what you have to give up in return."

              *************

     You left then, on a transport to Vulcan. That was
nearly a year ago, a year of unwelcome transitions; the
termination of the *Enterprise's* mission, mountains of red
tape, my promotion to the Admiralty and appointment as
head of Starfleet Operations.

     We've corresponded regularly. Your marriage to
T'Val was arranged. I met Lori, and we decided to live the
basic year together. A week ago your tape arrived, with a
formal announcement of the final stage of a Vulcan
marriage bonding, its consummation in the *pon farr.* An
announcement that sealed us off from each other forever.

     I want to be happy for you. Your future is secure
now. Marriage, children, the Science Academy. You'll have
a lot you never could've had with me.

     I know you'd like me to give you some such
reassurance. Lori? We haven't discussed a more permanent
relationship, though I suspect she'd agree to it if I asked
her. She's said she wants children. Years ago, in the
loneliness of space, I used to dream of a wife and family to
come home to. Yes, I know it's illogical to have an ideal
marriage within my reach and not be ready to accept it. But
I know myself too well to base my decisions on logic alone.

     Lori's helped me come to life again .. perhaps she's
saved my sanity. Still, it's not enough. Maybe nothing ever
will be again.

     Maybe it's just as well that Lori and I don't join
minds ...

     What has T'Val seen in the depths of *your* mind,
Spock? Has she seen regret for the path we didn't take, the
path away from home and security and children, away from
all the joys we never could have know with each other? Do
you ever consider what would have happened if we'd
braved the odds and stayed together, even to the death?

     I never could refute your logic. Sometimes, though,
in the small hours of the night, I have a dream in which we
go through the *pon farr* together and pass that ordeal by
fire. Often, the dream is so powerful that I lie awake and
relive it in the dark afterward, oblivious of the woman at my
side.

     The tape ends and I take it out of the viewer,. I think
about how to reply, how to phrase my hollow
congratulations, what small news to pass on in exchange. 

     I hear Lori's footsteps at the door and rise to meet
her, my heart contracting with love and guilt. For I know
that when I lie in her arms tonight, my soul will still be
searching for yours, still denying the reality of the flesh in
my hopeless search for that impossible communion. 

End of story.