Sometimes, you meet a certain person, and think, "I'd love to know what he (or she) was like when they were little."

Here you go.

“Orphans and Strays”

By Joseph Manno

On many occasions, I’ve had people ask me, “Was your childhood difficult?”

I’ve never really known what to tell them. My instinctual response is, “Compared to what?” Children don’t really have a sufficient frame of reference for such analyses; and once we’re adults, we’re often so far removed emotionally from what happened that the immediacy of our feelings has dissipated into simple memory. I suspect many of us don’t really think of our youth in terms of good or bad, but simply as... well, ours.

I’m human, of Sicilian descent... but I was raised on Vulcan, in the outskirts of the planetary capital, Shi’kahr. Many are somewhat familiar with those particulars (that rag Who’s Who in Starfleet has made certain of that), and extrapolate a lot of what my life must have been like. They assume being raised by a Vulcan must have been an experience utterly lacking in wonder and joy, and that my demeanor now is a result of a harshness I was exposed to then.

That couldn’t be further from the truth. If I’m somewhat insular and unfeeling, it’s as a result of nature and not nurture.

Sevek was my guardian. He served as, at various times, father, master, mentor, disciplinarian and friend. He instructed me in everything from saraht kohl to the philosophy of St. Thomas Aquinas—and did so with sagacity that I have yet to see matched by any teacher I’ve ever known.

Whether or not people believe it, though, he didn’t try to make me over into a Vulcan. He knew I had emotions—after all, I’m Sicilian… trust me, I have more than my share—and accepted that I would express them in unfathomable fashions, and at unpredictable times. I was never made to feel ashamed by this. Indeed, I always felt quite comfortable saying what I felt... and feeling it, as well. Rather than the lip service many Vulcans give the concept of IDIC—Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations—Sevek demonstrated his belief in it every day by dealing with me.

I can’t imagine it was always easy for him. I am, at times, as my friend Erika Benteen would say, “a real pill.” And a kid’s personality is often simply an unedited version of the one they have as an adult. I’ll leave it to you as to whether that’s a good thing, in my case.

Thus, I was raised on Vulcan, but not exclusively as Vulcan. I ran around, I yelled, I played and I did the things every human kid does. But I did most of those things alone... Vulcan children aren’t indulged so.

I asked Sevek about this one day; while his answer didn’t surprise me then—I didn’t know any better—when I think back on it, his statements were nothing short of subversive, for a Vulcan.

“Why won’t they pretend with me, Sevek?” I’d inquired.

“They consider it illogical,” he’d replied, even as he’d gently tended his roses. I’d learned later that particular flower grows in only two gardens on Vulcan... but then, I’d just known they had thorns, they needed lots of water... and that I was usually the one who had to provide them with it.

“But why?” I’d pressed. “It’s fun!”

He’d regarded me thoughtfully.

“Indeed. It is because they do not see the benefit in ‘pretending.’ ‘Fun’ is not a real purpose, they believe. It is a waste of time that would be best spent learning, working, or tending to other responsibilities.”

“But you play,” I’d pointed out.

He’d arched a brow.

“I play with you,” he’d emphasized.

I must have already been developing what my crew now evidently calls the “Mantovanni glare”—not that Sevek had been impressed by it, of course.

“What are you thinking, Cicero?”

I’d asked, “Do you play with me because it’s your responsibility, or because it’s fun for you, too?”

By then, I’d learned to tell when Sevek was impressed with one of my questions; he would tilt his head in contemplation, just so... and regard me with a look I knew laid bare my heart.

It had been just then that the door chime had sounded.

“Please bring our guest to the garden, Cicero.”

I’d run to obey.

Many people had come regularly to see Sevek; usually, they were tall, stately-looking men and women whose expressions ranged from inscrutable to genuinely concerned. I hadn’t known it then, but Sevek’s Tower is probably one of the ten most famous buildings on the planet; he’s been a counselor to Vulcan Houses, diplomats and even Matriarchs for over two centuries. Thus, his presence and advice were often sought.

Usually, on those occasions, I’d been told that he and his guest required privacy, and been sent on some errand or other. This time, though, Sadok, the Vulcan elder I’d led into the rose garden, made no such request. Instead, after nodding to my master, he’d addressed me.

“You are of an age to participate in the kahs’wan ritual,” he’d informed me gravely. “Are you aware of what this entails?”

I’d glanced at my mentor, who had continued to tend the roses. He’d given a slight inclination of his head, and I’d answered.

“Honored Sevek has explained it to me.”

“You are aware of the dangers?” It had been clear that Sadok disapproved; his tone had acquired a condemnatory edge.

I've never liked being condescended to, and hadn’t been pleased at his implied disrespect for Sevek, either.

“Do you ask Vulcan children to answer the same question twice?” My anger had been obvious to the two men, though I doubt a fellow human would have even noticed the change. “I told you that the Honored One had explained it. Don’t insult his ability to do so... or mine to understand.”

Even then, I wasn’t exactly hesitant about crossing the border between precocity and obnoxiousness.

To my surprise, the gray-haired elder had merely nodded.

“No insult was intended. I accept your assurance.

“Will you participate?”

Then, Sevek had pointedly avoided my gaze; we had discussed the matter at length, and he’d expressed both his preference that I not take part in the ritual, and his assurance that the final decision was mine.

“I shall undertake the kahs’wan.”

Sadok's reaction was one of slight startlement, but he recovered nicely... and managed to surprise me in turn.

“Then,” he told me, “you will do so tomorrow.”

***

It’s not difficult to induce that the Federation Standard name for my home world is of human origin. Vulcan, in Greco-Roman mythology, was the god of blacksmiths and the forge. As a matter of fact, one of the first humans to set foot there, a starship captain by the name of Jared Collins, called the planet, “A subsidiary of Hell, with well-mannered demons.”

Even natives don’t brave the desert called Vulcan’s Forge lightly. Travelers, especially those from off-world, are advised to carry: Plenty of water and emergency rations; a reliable pair of communications devices (one two-way and one distress transponder for emergency beam-outs); a low-powered but effectual energy weapon, such as a stunner; and, of course, plenty of sunscreen if you’re planning on traveling by day.

A Vulcan youth undergoing the kahs’wan, though, is given none of these... and is still expected to survive for ten days alone on the Forge.

I’ve read the efforts of various poets—Vulcan, human, and other—to describe the incredible oppressiveness of T’Khut, our daystar. One declared, “Her brutal force seems an omnipresent reminder of this world’s savage, merciless past.” It’s a little melodramatic, and I don’t recall who wrote it... but it’s not inappropriate.

And yet, I love Vulcan’s sun. When I was a boy, I’d stand in it, almost naked, and bask. When Sevek would ask me why I was doing it, I’d tell him that I was “absorbing energy.”

I watched a holovid once, a dramatization of the life and exploits of T. E. Lawrence, a famed military commander during Earth’s First World War. There’s a scene therein I never forgot: Lawrence, a British national, is telling a native prince about how beautiful he thinks Arabia is. The Arab looks at him knowingly, and says something to the effect of, “I think you are one of these desert-loving fools. Arabs don’t love the desert. We love water and green grass.” Clearly, the man thought Lawrence a little crazed… with some justification.

Vulcans and Arabs are both wise peoples.

Sevek had warned me about indulging this noteworthy and illogical habit of mine during the kahs’wan.

“It is one thing to stand in T’Khut’s baleful gaze when water and shade are only moments away,” he’d told me with an emphatic quietude. “It is entirely another to do so when you must rely only on yourself.”

For the most part, I’d listened. Sevek was always right—or so it seemed to me when I was a boy—and so I’d done what any native desert dweller does: Sought shelter during the hours of T’Khut’s relentless regard, and traveled back towards Shi’kahr at night. For seven days, I followed this advice scrupulously, and had been rewarded with what I’d known was a steady journey towards the city.

I'd avoided thirst, for the most part: The plants and tubers I’d found protected their moisture and flesh with thorn and thistle (and, if you tried with the wrong plant, countered with an attempt to eat you), but a little patience and a sharply fashioned rock were enough to take from the less predatory ones what I’d needed. In addition, unlike many who journey the desert plains, I’d been—and probably still am—a decent shot with a thrown rock. Not one, but three small ga’riidh lizards had found their early morning torpor had made them a shade slow. Their meat had been stringy and not exactly gourmet cuisine, but after three days of gnawing on nutritious but unappetizing roots, and sucking the bitter moisture from the pulp of plants reluctant to share what little they had, I’d been happy I'd had such a good eye... and, let’s be honest, such amazing luck.

My good fortune had continued: I’d even taken down my second ga'riidh the morning of the eighth day, and, as with the first, had consumed it as quickly as I could manage: Dead flesh on Vulcan’s Forge attracts interested predators far too quickly for one to savor a meal.

Despite this, I had, at that point, been having fun: No studies; no strictures; no real struggles in my progress back towards Sevek's Tower.

I’d told myself, This is easy.

Then, despite the fact that I’d been warned by Sevek and others not to travel by day, the allure of the sun—and the fact that I could, with luck, arrive at Shi’kahr’s walls a day early—seduced me into a decision that any adult would have recognized as a child’s determination to do it his way.

Even as T’Khut had made her appearance, I’d decided to continue. To me, it had seemed eminently logical. I’d be able to enjoy the sun for at least a portion of the next three days, reach the city before expected, and prove to Sadok that his cautionary tone had been unnecessary.

Of course, if my “logic” had been a little less... willful, I would have avoided what came next.

***

By midday, I’d been sunburned, near-exhausted, thirstier than I’d ever been... and had still been telling myself I was fine.

Why had I been so stubborn and foolish? To this day, I’m uncertain. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that I’d wanted to show I could do something as well as, or better than, Vulcan children. Despite the fact that I spent much time alone in my youth, I'd had some companions near my own age. All of them, even the girls, had been stronger, faster and—I’d thought then, obviously with some justification—smarter than me (and, yes… despite the fact that I grew up in the “enlightened” 23rd century, such had still been bruising to a young man’s ego). Sevek had, on innumerable occasions, told me that humans matured at a different rate than Vulcans, and that I would eventually make up the difference. He was correct, of course...

...but I’d gotten pretty damned tired of waiting for it to happen.

So there I’d been, stumbling along, when only six hours previous I’d been making the trek seem like a walk in one of Shi’kahr’s public parks. And, of course, once you’re thirsty, hungry and tired, your senses stop responding as readily as they need to on Vulcan’s Forge. I’d topped a rise...

...and had been there confronted with the most surprising and frightening sight of my short life.

This is as good a place as any to describe Vulcan’s most formidable predator, the le’matya. They have no exacting Terran analogue, but if I were to try and give you an impression without showing a holovid, I might say, “85% puma, 10% velociraptor and 5% king cobra.” They’re quadrupeds, but, like Terran bears, can fight effectively on two feet as well. Swift in bursts, impressively strong, and wielding envenomed claws that can kill a grown Vulcan male in minutes or hours, depending on the severity of the strike, they probably claimed more lives in the days before force fields and stunners than all other predators combined—including other Vulcans.

They vary greatly in size, as well; the smaller mature specimens were a little larger than the aforementioned pumas.

The two before me had not been smaller specimens.

The further one had drawn my awed attention: I’d never seen a bigger le’matya, even at the husbandry facilities in Shi’Kahr. He was as long and well-muscled as a Terran Bengal tiger, and dwarfed even the impressive female specimen he was faced off against.

I hadn’t heard a thing; they must have been staring each other down for quite some time. Who knows what would have happened had I not appeared? Perhaps they would have respectfully parted ways, without leaping to do battle.

The male, I’m certain, had noticed me—I was in his direct line of sight, after all—but had evidently realized I was of no concern compared to the challenge before him. The female, of a size with a Terran lioness, never even spared a backward glance.

Smart girl.

Combat had been imminent; she should clearly have just fled, but had been, for some reason, refusing to do so…

...and the male was not taking it well.

The moment of portentous silence had passed. With a growl, the male had leapt down from the rise upon which he'd stood. She'd given way... but then, as he'd landed, dashed to the attack.

For a long moment, I’d been paralyzed, watching as the two beasts dueled. My only thought at first had been, Why doesn’t she run?

Your question is probably, Why didn’t I?

As a matter of fact, I’d turned to do so, just then... and nearly stumbled over the bundle of fur at my feet.

Suddenly, the female’s determination not to give way had made perfect sense.

Formidable as they are fully grown, le’matya cubs are essentially helpless for the first few months of their lives. This particular one had been perhaps three weeks old: His eyes had been barely open, and the claws that would be able in the span of but a season to deal such deadly blows had still been nestled away in soft pads, developing.

“Mrraeww!” he’d declared, and looked up at me, unafraid.

The two had suffered abominable luck. On what must have been the little guy's first trip away from their den, they’d stumbled across this monster. Le’matya males are some of the most competitive in the galaxy, and they cannot abide a rival’s cub. They’ll often greatly exert themselves to kill another’s offspring... and the females are even more ferocious about protecting their children.

It had only been a few moments, but his mother’s battle had nearly been done. She’d exerted herself to her limits and beyond, screaming in fury and fighting with all the force and agility of which she was capable... but she just hadn’t been in the male’s league. Her greatest weapon, the toxin, hadn’t much helped—le’matya are immune to their own poison, and those of their brethren—so she’d had to make do with tooth and talon, sinew and speed.

It hadn’t been enough. Even as I’d watched, in anguish, the male had finally struck her the telling blow: A slash of his fore claw near her neck had severed some critical artery, and she’d begun spilling her life’s blood onto the ground. Still, she’d refused to surrender, and had thrown herself at him again.

The cub had finally realized something was very wrong, and had begun to mew pitifully: The moment the male was done with his mother, and had spent some cautious moments confirming she was dead, he'd turn and kill the cub.

It had been my perfect opportunity to escape.

Instead, with a final glance back at the brave le’matya in her last moments, I scooped up the cub and ran.

It had saddened and nauseated me to even wish what next came into my thoughts, but I hadn’t been able help it.

Maybe he’ll start to eat her, I’d thought, and we can get away.

Nothing on Vulcan’s Forge, though, is ever that easy.

***

Le matya are, for the most part, cunning but not overly intelligent. The males are, customarily, strong but not particularly determined... no doubt women the galaxy over would recognize those last two traits.

I, of course, had happened across a fairly smart and dogged one.

It must have set out after us only minutes after I’d picked up the cub and fled. The first scream I’d heard could have had only one meaning: The male was announcing his triumph over the mother. The second, too, had been abundantly clear: He was furious that the little one seemed to have evaded him.

The ensuing silence had scared me far more than either outcry.

Despite my recent foolishness, I hadn’t been quite stupid enough to think I was going to outrun a le’matya male who’d scented us both. I’d immediately known that some place we could go and he couldn’t was our only chance... and that I’d had only minutes to find it.

At least I’d not had this encounter on the open plains I’d been traversing for the last week: The great beast would have been able to pick up our trail with a mere glance around. Here, at least, the terrain provided cover.

The foothills surrounding the city of Shi’kahr, fortunately, are rife with caverns, crevasses and various other indentations. In these, I’d known, lay our only chance for survival.

Again, fortune had turned in our favor: One of the first bolt-holes I’d examined seemed almost ideal. The entrance was narrow, but the cave widened within. Vaguely, I’d considered the possibility that this particular nook might be some other animal’s den, but some part of me had known that my options were extremely few, and lessening by the second.

I tossed the cub through the threshold, and then crawled in after him.

I’ve heard that, occasionally, predators roar at prey in an attempt to paralyze them for the split second it takes to make a kill. Sometimes it works, and the creature’s shock at its own peril leaves it vulnerable. On other occasions, the opposite is true.

When I heard the le’matya behind me, I thrust myself forward with all my strength. Almost, almost I cleared the cave’s mouth.

The sudden fire in my trailing leg, though, had told me—with painful eloquence—that I hadn’t been fast enough.

Desperately, I’d rolled over and scrambled back, further into the small refuge we’d claimed—trying simultaneously to locate the cub, examine my wound, and keep tabs on the creature just outside.

It had been loud in there: The cub had again begun crying piteously, and my own ragged breath was almost drowning him out. The cave was surprisingly well lit; there was a hole above that allowed T’Khut to smile upon me still.

The le’matya, strangely enough, hadn’t followed.

When I’d examined my leg, though, I’d realized why the creature’s pace had suddenly become lackadaisical. The miniscule hope I’d had that I’d simply cut myself on the cave’s entrance vanished, as I examined the source of the pain: Decorating my calf were four claw marks. They were shallow...

...but not shallow enough.

The le’matya hadn’t attempted to follow because he’d known I might still fight back. On some level, the big male had been aware that, in minutes or hours, that wouldn’t be a problem.

He’d killed me... my body just hadn’t accepted it yet.

The cub’s crying was getting on my nerves; it had been bad enough that I was going to die... I hadn’t wanted to have to listen to the little monster wail until I went. Though it had been something of an abuse of the skills Sevek had taught me, I reached over and administered a Vulcan neck pinch.

At last, silence... except for the male breathing heavily, eagerly, just outside the entrance.

I wanted to cry.

For a moment, perhaps I did... but I could hear Sevek’s voice, and imagined what he would say.

“You will die. Nothing can change that now. But you have a few moments. Can you use that time to benefit another in some way?” Of course, my gaze was drawn back to the cub.

Perhaps, I’d thought.

I’d cleared the largest rocks on the cave floor aside, and sat with my back to its rear wall. The poison had been taking longer to really hurt me than I’d heard. I’d felt a certain euphoria, but the discomfort seemed confined to the scratch marks themselves. I’d then set aside that oddity, and begun to think.

What can I do?

In an instant, I’d known. It had been a terrible thing to consider, but I'd had no choice.

Deliberately, I’d picked up the unconscious cub, and placed it nearer to the mouth of the cave... close enough so that a determined effort from the le’matya outside would enable it to seize the little one, and finish what it had started.

Then, I’d gotten to my knees near the back of the cave, and used one of the techniques Sevek had taught me to still my trembling.

My heart had slowed. My thoughts had coalesced. I’d had a purpose.

After almost ten minutes, the male had poked its head in.

I hadn’t moved.

It reached for the cub... too far.

I hadn’t moved.

It had added the second forelimb to its efforts... it had been within a half meter of the helpless little creature.

I hadn’t moved.

Then, it had growled, and begun to shove its bulk into the opening, wriggling. Its outstretched claws had just touched the cub’s tail...

...and then, I did move: I’d leaned back, grabbed the biggest rock I could hold, and thrown it as hard as I might.

Considering how scared I’d been, that was pretty damned hard.

WHAP!

I’d hit him right in the face… and when the stone struck, I'd heard the crunch of bone.

The le’matya screamed, and this time it wasn’t triumphant or furious. It was agonized. In a way, that sounded far worse. Laborious as his effort to wiggle in had been, his attempt to escape had been frenzied and explosive; he’d taken off fur and skin, but in a matter of seconds had disappeared from the cave's mouth.

I’d had to know, and immediately followed him out.

I' d been able to see him: The le’matya, scourge of Vulcan's Forge, was running as fast as his powerful legs would carry him, away from the creatures that had caused him such pain.

I hadn't exactly had a lot of sympathy. After all, he'd eventually recover.

I'd still been, as they'd said in the 20^th century, a "dead man walking."

***

Once again, I'd considered all my options…

…and once again, I'd begun walking.

This time, though, the decision had been a logical one: It had been clear to me that, since I was going to die anyway, my priority should be getting the cub safely back to Shi'Kahr. After all, I'd thought, it shouldn't have to die just because I would. While waiting for nightfall would normally have been the prudent thing to do, the fact of the le'matya's poison made any delay a foolish one.

So, I'd set out again. I'd known it would be a long day—and certainly my last—but it had been at least conceivable that I'd reach the city's outskirts before dropping from either exhaustion or the effects of the venom.

At first, I'd carried the cub. Eventually he'd awoken, though… and had immediately begun to squirm. My energy level had been so low, I'd not wanted to waste it on fussing with him. I'd put him down and then waited to see what he'd do.

He'd simply looked at me. "Mraaeow."

But when I'd started walking again, he'd followed me faithfully.

Once or twice, he'd stopped to investigate something—as a matter of fact, he'd deserved most of the credit for my last ga'riidh kill. He'd flushed it, and I'd reacted without thinking and struck it down with a throw that was perhaps my best of the last fortnight.

Then again, the big male le'matya with the broken nose would probably have disputed that.

I'd eaten part of the lizard raw, while walking; it wasn't particularly enjoyable that way, but fortunately, my taste buds weren't exactly working optimally by then either. If it gave me a few more minutes or hours, it was worth it.

Of course, the cub had started to cry. He'd been hungry. I'd offered part of the lizard to him, but he'd simply refused it and wailed more even more insistently. He'd been too little to eat the tough flesh, and instinctually known it.

I'd stopped and acquired some pulp from an ulin plant, and then combined it with some of the lizard's flesh in my mouth. Then, I'd begun to chew. Not swallowing it had been one of the most difficult things I'd ever done… finally, after a few moments, I'd taken the rather unattractive wad and offered it to the cub.

He'd sniffed it, had considered for a moment… and then eaten it.

Of course, it had only been a mouthful… and it had motivated him to complain even more loudly for additional morsels.

So much for my meal.

It had taken about a half-hour, but he'd stopped complaining and turned his nose up at the last bit. I'd eaten it myself.

To this day, I'm not certain what kept me going. I don't think it was any form of either heroism or determination. Perhaps simply the rhythm of putting one foot in front of the other was hypnotic enough that I'd forgotten about my discomfort and impending death.

For the next six hours, we'd walked. Occasionally, we'd stop, I'd drink a little and squeeze some pulp into the fussing cub's mouth. My pace had gradually slowed, and my limp had grown more pronounced. Still, we'd pressed on.

It had been near dusk when we'd stood upon a summit, and espied the spires of Shi'Kahr in the distance; I'd been able to see Sevek's Tower clearly. Below us, only 50 meters or so away, was the Jailin Gate, built when Shi'Kahr had been declared the planetary capital in the wake of the peace that had followed Surak's greatest triumph—the conversion of the bloodthirsty warlord T'Marr to logic.

Next to it was a spring that, according to legend, had burst forth from the parched earth in the moment T'Marr accepted Surak's principles.

The cub had smelled the water, and scampered down the hill.

This time, it had been I who'd followed him.

There is always a pair of guards stationed at what is considered the true entrance to the city-state of Shi'Kahr. Vulcans honored tradition greatly, after all. These two had no doubt seen the cub—as well as the child stumbling along behind—and had notified both the authorities, and the healer, of my arrival.

One moved towards me upon seeing my distress.

"Allow me to assist you," she'd said even as I neared the fountain gate. My human (or Sicilian) stubbornness had flared again, though, and I'd angrily shrugged off her arm to keep walking. I'd be damned if I'd accept help 15 meters from my goal.

At last, I'd reached the pool. The cub had been happily lapping up water, our desert sojourn already forgotten, no doubt.

The last things I'd remembered were falling forward...

…and how cool the darkness felt.

***

What I'd hoped—before my ordeal, that is—would be a triumphant confrontation with the Elder Sadok did not unfold in the manner I'd envisioned.

"While you have successfully completed the kahs' wan, in a technical sense," he'd intoned, "you did so in a most unseemly, and un-Vulcan, fashion. When confronted with the three le'matya, you should have taken the opportunity to run as combat began. Your action in attempting to save the cub was utterly illogical. You are a higher life form, and unnecessarily risked yourself to save a creature that will, without its mother's protection, assuredly die in the wilds of the Forge before it can achieve adulthood. It served no purpose other than to put you at greater risk."

Without a further word, he nodded to Sevek, and then took his leave.

Since I'd already been in trouble, I'd figured adding to it wouldn't matter.

"I really don't like him."

Surprisingly, Sevek had not chastised me for the declaration. The old Vulcan, instead, had regarded me with a probing look in the face of which it was difficult not to wither. I'd held my ground as best I could.

"You are aware that your decision to flee with the le'matya cub was an illogical one."

I'd nodded. "I am aware, Master."

His gaze had grown stern. "And given the same situation again...?" he'd asked pointedly.

I’d steeled myself, and answered, "I would run with the cub again.”

His inscrutable expression had then softened infinitesimally… and he'd surprised me with his next words.

"I am pleased that, ultimately, compassion is stronger in you than logic."

Then, even as I’d thought to escape further interrogation or punishment, his searching gaze had returned.

“You mentioned that you ‘came across’ the cub. Le’matya are diurnal creatures. How is it that you encountered not one, but three?”

There had been no avoiding it.

"I was traversing the Forge during the day," I'd finally admitted. Briefly, I'd considered explaining my perspective logically, but the expression on Sevek's face had alerted me that such would be an exercise in futility—especially since the justification for what I'd done hadn't contained a shred of real logic.

Instead, I'd simply kept my mouth shut.

"Considering the severity of your sunburn and dehydration, I'd surmised as much." His tone had been wry.

Only days later—after gaining access to a mirror—had I understood his statement: I'd been redder than T'Khut herself, and subsequently suffered through losing quite a few layers of skin, and the accompanying itching, for the next month.

"But I should be dead! I was poisoned! The le'matya struck me!"

Sevek had arched a brow. "You are Vulcan in name and spirit, Cicero… but the venom has little effect on those with iron-based blood. Humans are essentially immune to their toxin."

Now he tells me, I'd thought.

"What about…?" I'd tried, but the master was having none of it.

"No. You are exhausted; the ordeal has drained you of your strength. You must sleep. We shall speak again on the morrow."

"But…"

Gently, Sevek had touched me on the forehead… and suddenly, I hadn't been able to keep my eyes open.

"On the morrow," he'd repeated…

…and that had been that.

***

It's funny how we can always believe the worst even of the people we love: Of course Sevek had not been so cruel as to turn the cub out. In the days that had followed, the little creature had trailed me incessantly, alternately crying for food and pouncing on my leg. I think I had become a sibling—or even a parent—in its small mind.

No doubt I would have played with him more, if my master hadn't set me to pruning all the roses in the entire garden. Every caress of the leaves on my exposed skin was somewhat painful, and the thorns were everywhere. During this time, the cub would romp around the garden or curl into a ball and sleep, oblivious to my suffering.

That, at least, hadn't bothered me.

Eventually, as you might have guessed, he was donated to a wildlife preserve. On occasion, I'd go to see him… and, silly though it is, I'd fancied (and, to be frank, still do) that he'd remembered me in some fashion.

His descendants (great great great grandchildren, now, if I'm not mistaken) still live there.

But for those weeks that he'd remained with us, we'd been inseparable. Only once had I tried to evade my duty in the garden to spend more time with the cub, though.

When I'd petitioned for parole, Sevek had regarded me mildly.

With incisive eloquence, he'd replied, "Do you not prefer thorns to claws?"

I hadn't made a second attempt.

The roses, he'd later told me, had never looked more beautiful than in the spring I'd first toiled over them: I think both he and I had appreciated them more in the wake of my kahs'wan.

God knows they didn't get too much sun.

I made sure of that.