Harbinger

A sudden break from the surging of major chords and she was into a series of rapid, virtuoso solos across the right side of the keyboard, each separated by a majestic thumping of the baby grand’s lower-register keys. Nearly seven minutes after she began, she prolonged the inevitable with a brazen parade of chords punctuated by witty solo asides, and then sailed to a finish with a few graceful—if theatrical—sweepings of her hand across all the white keys from right to left, and a final proud slam of a note.

The room erupted with applause, a standing ovation that was deafening in its exultation. T’Pry

As she neared the bar, the low undercurrent of conversation returned to the nightclub. A handful of patrons stepped away from the counter, ostensibly as a gesture of respect for T’Pry

“I should be thanking you for the free entertainment.” With a small gesture in Spock’s direction, she added, “T’Pry

T’Pry

“Your performance was impressive,” Spock said.

She seemed unmoved by his praise. “Most kind.” Lifting her hand, she summoned the bartender. “Green tea, please.”

“Where did you study?”

She seemed reluctant to answer, then saw that Manón had already moved away. Looking back at Spock, she said, “Earth.”

He hazarded a guess. “At the Academy?”

“During those years, yes. But not at the Academy proper.”

“Your interpretation of Gershwin’s ‘Summertime’ was most…emphatic.”

“It was not my interpretation.” The bartender delivered her drink, and she nodded her thanks. “The arrangement was by a twentieth-century jazz pianist named Gene Harris. I merely emulated his approach.”

“Regardless, the result was profoundly affecting.”

“Are you saying that you felt an emotional response to my music, Mr. Spock?”

“Not at all,” he said. “But many in the audience clearly did. Indeed, the profusion of raw emotion in your performance—”

“I permitted myself no such indulgence.”

Spock realized that he had misspoken. “Forgive me. I meant no offense. Perhaps it would be more correct for me to speak of the emotional impact of your music.”

“Such is in the ear of the listener,” T’Pry

His right eyebrow arched with suspicion. “As a fellow-musician, I ca

“Perhaps because the majority of them play only for Vulcan listeners,” she said. “I doubt that a recital audience in Vulcana Regar would respond to the music I performed tonight with the same approval I received here.” She sipped her tea, then added, “Always know your audience.”

“There is another possible explanation.” He waited until she resumed eye contact with him before he continued. “Perhaps you have found a way to use music as a clever circumvention of the Dictums of Logic.”

Now it was her turn to lift an eyebrow at him. “A peculiar notion, Spock. Why would a Vulcan do such a thing?”

He met her stare. “That is an interesting question.”

“One that I am certain you will ponder in exhaustive detail,” she said. “Please share your eventual conclusions with me. I will be most curious to see where your speculations lead.” Standing and facing him, she lifted her hand in the Vulcan salute. “Peace and long life, Spock.”

Returning the gesture, he said, “Live long and prosper, T’Pry

Picking up his ice water and feeling the cool drops of condensation on its exterior trickle over his fingers, he considered that perhaps he had been away from home for too long. Then he thought of his father, Sarek…and banished all thought of a homecoming from his mind.

He looked across the room at his laughing, illogical, inscrutably human friends and knew that, as alien as it might once have seemed—and likely would feel again, from time to time—the Enterprise was his home.

Though he had nothing to add to their conversation, he returned to the table with his shipmates. Kirk slapped his shoulder. “I saw you chatting up that piano player, Spock. I also saw her leave alone. No sparks?”

“If you are referring to a romantic attraction, Captain, then no. Our conversation was…professional in nature.”

Kirk didn’t look convinced. He smiled at Sulu and Scotty, then said to Spock, “So you’re not interested in her, then?”

“Quite the contrary,” Spock said. “I found her—and her music—extremely interesting.”

8

Tim Pe

He felt melancholy. The Bombay’s early departure—and the continued presence of the Enterprise—had prevented him from bidding farewell to Oriana. She had spent what little free time had remained to her with her husband, Robert.

Adding insult to injury, Robert D’Amato stood only a few meters to Pe

The ship’s primary hull cleared the spacedock doors. Now under its own power, it initiated a graceful pivot-and-roll maneuver away from Vanguard, the domes of its warp nacelles glowing brightly. As it slowly accelerated away, the spacedock doors drifted gradually toward each other. A vibration on Pe

It was from his editor—a simple heads-up to say that the story Pe

Outside the spacedock doors, the Bombay was little more now than a distant speck of shimmering silver-white against the stars. Godspeed, Oriana. Be safe until we say hello again.

When he turned to walk away, D’Amato was standing right next to him. “My wife’s on the Bombay,” the officer said. “First time I’ve seen her in almost a year, and we got less than six hours together.”