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Far Away From Home	By : mancer Category: S through Z > Star Trek (2009) > Star Trek (2009) Views: 2090 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Star Trek is owned by Gene Roddenberry/Paramount Studios/JJ Abrams. I own none but this writing and the non-canon characters within. Work published for shared fun, not profit.

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Vuron spent an hour sweeping for any feed to Vulcan. He kept his face blank while the Ambassador stared at him.

“Can you get nothing, Mr. Vuron? Have you attempted sending a signal?”

“Yes, sir. There is static. Noisy static.”

Sranak pinched the bridge of his nose. Exhaustion wore him down. For once, he looked all of his one hundred and seventy-five years.

He'd shed his official robes after dismissing the rest of his staff. Not that he would censor any information available, but Vuron felt certain that the older man would try to soften the blow, somehow.

“You are young, Mr. Vuron.”

The young officer felt his cheeks warm. He could think of no proper response to that.

“How long were you bonded with your mate?”

“Sixteen years.”

The older man nodded sagely.

“I was married one hundred, thirty-three years, seven months, two days.”

“Children?”

The Ambassador's eyes tightened a little. Nearly a smile.

“My second granddaughter was born just before I left for this mission.”

Vuron nodded, understanding. More reason to find some connection.

“I think part of the problem is that there are multiple signals using the same frequency. Given enough time, I could filter out specific messages-”

Sranak made a cutting gesture with his hand. “There is little possibility that a single signal will give us the data we need. It would be a waste of resources.”

Vuron grit his teeth again.

The next logical thing to do would be to sweep all the star bases and outposts in the area, but he knew there would be no hope of contact there either, considering how scrambled all the signals were.

With the flip of his fingers, he switched his target to Starfleet. Sranak made no secret of his opinion of the organization. “Destined to be as short-lived as the humans that started it,” would perhaps be the kindest thing that could be said.

To the humans credit, however, he quickly got an official on the comms. The little screen on his personal computer flicked rapidly from black sweeps to the picture of a woman in a gold uniform. He could see several rows of similarly garbed individuals behind her, each with their comm units in ears, talking rapidly.

“Commander Smith,” answered the young looking woman. Beleaguered. Hair astray. Eyes wide. Skin ashen, even under the smoky brown of her natural color. “How can I be of assistance?”

Vuron blinked at the question. Not “Who are you?” or, “How may I direct your communiqué?” but “How can I help?” Their assumption of a disaster, rather than a targeted attack on Sranak's people, gained purchase.

“We can't get in contact with Vulcan,” he found himself answering plainly. “Is there-”

“Are you safe?”

Ambassador Sranak watched him. He couldn't hear the other side of the conversation whispering through the bud in Vuron's ear, but he knew well enough to whom he spoke. There would be no one else he would use Earth Standard with.

“I am an officer with Ambassador Sranak. He and his staff are on Qo'noS for a treaty mission.”

The woman offered him a weak smile. “Thank god for that. Stay where you are. Do not return to Vulcan space. I am going to redirect you to non-emergency services.”

“Commander-”

“You have my condolences, sir.”

With that the screen flicked to black, an even tone of music tinkling through his earpiece. Put on hold. He found human's need for music while waiting to be equal parts irritating and soothing. In the past he would spend this time wondering if a separate selection of music would make the practice more tolerable. Of course, this would mean a separate selection based on species, and that would become quite cumbersome as-

“Ambassador Sranak,” an even younger man faced him now.

“No, I am his security officer.” It felt petty introducing himself, under the circumstances. “What has happened to Vulcan.”

The man covered his wavering blue eyes with a hand.

“I'm... I'm so sorry. I thought they would have told you. Everyone... You are in a secure location, yes?”

Vuron nodded. “Yes.”

“I will queue up files for you then, so you can see.”

“See?”

Before he could ask more, several file transfer requests blocked the man's face. He quickly approved them. Progress bars minimized so the small screen was once again filled with the man's concerned face.

“Everything is pretty much... settled now. Refugees are coming in, so don't give up hope yet, okay? Starfleet is doing everything we can to get... everyone back safe and sound. I'm sure we'll... find....”

That ragged hole in his chest tugged at him once again.

Meaningless platitudes. How often had this man, and the nearly hundred in the room around him, been offering some version of the same today?

Hope. Nearly more painful that someone tried to offer that small “olive branch,” as the humans put it. Especially when most likely every person this man had spoken with already knew the truth in their minds.

“How many?”

“How many?”

“How many refugees?”

Sranak stiffened visibly.

The human swallowed audibly. “Early estimates are between ten and a hundred thousand.”

“Quite the variation in estimations.”

He pinkened. “I'm sorry. That's as accurate as we can get right now. Everything is up in the air.”

“'Up in the air,'” Vuron quoted. What a strange phrase.

“Wow, I'm sorry, that was... I just... we're all having trouble just absorbing what's happened.”

Shock. Of course. An entire race in shock.

Vuron nearly felt laughter bubbling up.

“We are working to keep communication open,” the human unsubtly hinted. “Is there anything we can do for the Ambassador for now?”

Vuron glanced at the older Vulcan. “No. I will share the data you've sent. I assume we can call back if there are further questions?”

“Of course. We are working to locate all offworld Vulcans and keep them appraised of what's going on. Starfleet will contact you on this frequency the moment we know anything more.”

“Thank you.”

In a strangely touching move, the man lifted his hand, with his fingers awkwardly split. Offering the traditional “Live Long and Prosper,” stammered out in a halting Vulcan dialect, he signed off.
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Far Away From Home