Characters: AOS Spock, Spock Prime
Word Count: 5400
Warnings/Spoilers: Probably not warning-necessary at this point, but major spoilers for the finale scenes of Star Trek: Into Darkness. Thereby, warning for off-screen character death and speculation for missing scenes. Story has now been moved to the TOS/AOS Crossover section, since it technically crosses those boundaries now.
Summary: Five times through the centuries that Spock of Vulcan was surprised by Jim Kirk's human selflessness, and one time he was not at all surprised.
A/N: This is the chapter which I actually had completed and waiting to post, on my hard drive which crashed months ago – most of the original content of which I unfortunately haven't been able to recall. What I have reproduced here, now very slightly influenced by Beyond, will have to suffice instead. My apologies for the slight melancholy at the end; feel free to go read my fic Second-Best Destiny if you want an AOS/TOS universe fix-it.
It has been many decades since Spock remembered such quaint human phrases so readily, beloved human voices long since vanished over space and time. The one blessing, and simultaneously the one curse, of an eidetic memory, is that of precise memory and sensory recall – and while no Vulcan of his acquaintance now, or any Romulan of his acquaintance in decades gone by, has ever used the phrase, he well remembers more than once, his human shipmates and cadets using it on occasion, so many years ago.
Déjà vu, the humans call it – the sudden feeling that one has already lived this particular moment, or experienced this particular sensation.
For a Vulcan, who does not believe in such things as fate or karma as humans do, it is a most disquieting feeling – but for one who has already become victim of a severely distorted timestream, that disconcerting unease is multiplied tenfold. Tampering with the universal constants is not a sin easily forgiven by Destiny, this he well knows; and he suspects he has long ago fallen out of favor with the Universe and is now being punished for his crimes. Unfortunate indeed, that so many of the beings he knows from another lifetime, have been pulled down with him into this terribly dark, warped version of what should be the reality he remembers with nostalgic fondness. While he could not have acted differently, the fact remains that blame must rest with someone; and that someone, must be he.
Guilt is a familiar friend now, a burden he will bear until the day he dies: alone, unknown and unremembered, in this twisted timestream.
But those are melancholy thoughts for another day. For now, he has a far more worrisome one to occupy his attention. Since the hurried transmission from the Enterprise earlier today, there has been no further word, from Spock or from anyone else – and his attempts to contact the ship have failed. More concerning, is the fact that they are not simply being ignored; they have not been received, as if communications have been cut off completely from the ship. He well knows, the few possibilities which could produce a complete communications blackout, at this short range and on a starship with such capable backup systems – and none of the scenarios, are anything less than terrifying.
As soon as his younger self – he still cannot quite believe he was ever so young, at the helm of a starship when his captain left him in command – had cut the transmission upon gaining the information he sought, he had immediately left his quarters on New Vulcan and commandeered a transport to Terra. Instinct told him the debacle would end where it began, and the crew might need an ally with knowledge of Khan's mentality if they succeeded in chasing him back toward Earth. At the least, should matters go awry, they might need a Vulcan intermediary with the Federation Council, and he had built a small reputation as an ambassador borrowing the name of a distant relative of this Sarek's, one who had died on Vulcan.
But now? His small transport ship is mere moments out from Terra, and he still has been unable to raise the Enterprise, either on official channels or on any private one, including the ones he uses to communicate with both his younger self and this young, impetuous James Kirk. In fact, his transport's communications officer is having difficulty even raising Starfleet Command, something which should be impossible – but as they drop out of warp near the orbiting dry-dock, he sees the reason why.
A mushroom cloud is already forming over New San Francisco, a firestorm of epic proportions raging through the downtown area. For a moment his heart actually stops – this is not the first indication of possible hereditary cardiac trouble, he really should have that checked with the healers when he returns to New Vulcan – because the unmistakably massive shape of a starship juts like a deadly skyscraper out of the ground, tipped on its nose in the middle of the city, a swathe of destruction from the Bay showing where it had literally dropped out of the sky.
But no, he can breathe a moment later: for it is far too large, and the nacelles are the wrong shape – it is not the Enterprise.
They have already been hailed by now by the blockade which has been put up around the planet courtesy of a Starfleet on Red Alert status, and it is some time before he is able to beam down to the city; and that, thanks only to his diplomatic clearance. Said clearance, is not enough for him to gain any information, however, as to the fate of the Enterprise; no one will tell him any news, classified or otherwise, and no one seems to even know where the ship is, much less her crew. Surely, if that ship half-buried in the foundations of the city itself is Khan's, then the Enterprise could not have been far behind, and surely, she is the reason that Khan's ship has been brought down – but then, why the secrecy, and why has Spock not contacted him once more?
And why, this horrible, sinking feeling of dread which seems to be seeping into his very heart, a sensation which he has only felt perhaps twice before in his very long life? Like a fist of ice deep within, he cannot shake the feeling that something is very, very wrong.
The feeling of déjà vu, as the humans say. He has been here before, felt this terrible loss before, and the finality of it, the horrible pain of that void was what sent him back to Romulus for good so many decades ago, to bury himself in the unification efforts, never to return to Terra. If what he suspects has truly happened, then he knows the reasons why he has heard nothing from the Enterprise – and nothing from her two senior officers.
Spock for many years did not believe in Destiny, for the concept contradicts Vulcan philosophy; but he has since been forced to rethink that philosophy, and this is one of the reasons for that reconsideration. The inexplicable ties which bind certain beings together across space and time cannot be simply explained away, through science or any other logical means – and to deny that which exists, when the feelings are only too real, only too painful, is foolishness.
He barely realizes he has been sitting, all alone, in the ambassadorial quarters of the Vulcan Embassy, for almost six hours, dreading the communique which he is now almost certain will come – when the door-chime sounds, startlingly and horrifyingly cheerful in the deathly silence.
Schooling his features back to an appropriately Vulcan expression of nothingness, for it could easily be the pilot of his transport or a representative of Starfleet, he opens the door – and his heart sinks like a stone in water.
He finds himself looking into a face so many years younger, and yet now seeming so much older, than his own. Eyes dark with blatantly unhidden grief and pain, nu'ri-Spock looks as if he just stumbled off the Bridge in the middle of a firefight. A horrible charred stench of radiation hangs about him, and it is that more than anything else which clenches that icy fist of dread tighter in his chest.
"Please," the young officer whispers helplessly, as if not even knowing himself what he is asking for, and in that moment Spock knows -feels – exactly what has happened.
Oh, Jim. What have you done?
Were he not certain that this world's Leonard McCoy is likely in an even worse state, he might be furious with the human for permitting his young self to stumble out of a Starfleet Medical facility still in obvious shock, for it is a full eighteen-point-seven minutes before he can even get more than a few words out of Spock, and that is only after forcing a change of clothing and two cups of Vulcan spice tea, heavily laced with an anti-nausea medication and enough alcohol to affect even a Vulcan, upon his young tomasu.
He listens in silence, allowing the only half-intelligible, rambling story to take its course, firmly refusing to permit himself the liberty of impatient questions. This is not his world, and this is not his Jim Kirk; the pain is not his to reveal before he is ready.
But he is unprepared for the sudden swing from grief to bitter accusation, when upon finishing what is a tale disturbingly sparse of details, he finds himself pinned under the suddenly horrified look of a man whose shock-slowed mind has only just made a set of crucial mental connections.
"You knew, not only what Khan was capable of, but what scenarios were the most probable to result, based upon their parallel events in your own universe," nu'ri-Spock says flatly, eyes burning with a sudden flare of what looks like entirely human anger – so uncontrolled and so very unstable that it is actually alarming. "We spoke, not an hour be-before the core fell from alignment. And you said nothing?"
He sighs, and finally allows himself the human gesture of briefly covering his eyes with one shaking hand – it will look to the sa-kan as if he is merely staving off a headache, not ridding his expression of tears.
"I have already altered your destiny enough, young one," he finally manages to speak, the words shattering the quiet with almost painful finality. "I cannot continue to do so. This, we both know."
Spock fairly rockets to his feet in a gesture that is almost threatening, and turns away for a moment, clearly fighting to regain control – a futile gesture, as they both know this day has produced events, one event in particular, which have spiraled far out of their control, emotional and physical. "I believe," his young counterpart finally enunciates through a clenched jaw, "that this would qualify as a permissible exception."
"Pi'shal, do you really suppose that had I known what would happen, I would not have warned you?"
Spock half-turns at the endearment, but says nothing.
"In my universe, it was I who saved the Enterprise in precisely that fashion, though many decades later – not my captain. I was not about to implant the suggestion in your mind while you were in command of the Bridge under battle conditions, Spock. Unfortunately," he adds, with a grief-filled fondness, "I apparently made the same mistake as Khan Noonien Singh – in underestimating James Kirk."
"I should have known," Spock says suddenly, the anger wilting from his posture like a dying flower. He collapses more than sits back into his chair, staring at the floor. "Had I known the full situation, I would have foreseen it. Nothing is more important – was, more important, to him than his ship."
"And had you foreseen the situation, you would have done exactly what I did, in another lifetime," he replies. "I can assure you, that Jim would not have preferred that state of affairs."
A bitter, slightly choked sound of vague dissent.
"It is true, young one. Granted, it is vastly unfair, being the one left behind. An unfortunate effect of humanity, loneliness. One never quite grows accustomed to the feeling."
Spock's eyes flicker briefly in sympathetic – empathetic, now – understanding. "How…" he stops, as if attempting to marshal his thoughts. "Death is nothing new to us – to me," he finally continues, hands clasped before him, staring at the interlocked fingers. "And yet I find myself far more compromised than I was even at the death of my mother, two years ago."
"And?" he prompts gently, when it is obvious that more is forthcoming, but only reluctantly.
"And this fact was so evident, that the entire alpha shift crew realized what had happened before the news reached the Bridge from Sickbay after I had beamed down to Terra. I destroyed any command image I might have had prior to this day in behaving in a manner most unVulcan."
"One might say the cause was sufficient, pi'shal."
"My own…possible future bond-mate, is afraid of me, Ambassador. That is how far I have crossed that line today."
"Unfortunately for us, child, I have found that this particular human has an uncanny ability to cross all lines and break all boundaries, including those which are self-imposed by our own wills," he answers gently. "This should not surprise you, Spock."
His young counterpart shakes his head, still staring at the ground.
"You cannot quantify and explain emotions as if they were mathematical equations, Spock," he adds after a silent moment. "And as to your crew – "
"They are not my crew!"
It is too sharp and too desperate to be anything but a painful reminder of the well-loved chair that now sits forever empty on a starship bridge; he should have been more careful. But he must be stronger than he feels like being, right now; for this grieving sa-kan is attempting for the first time since the Battle of Vulcan, to assimilate a loss almost incomprehensible, and equally unexpected.
"As to the Enterprise crew," he continues, as if he has not been interrupted, "you do them a disservice. Have more faith in them, and in their regard for both you and your captain." He glances up in some surprise as his intra-city network comm chimes. "Speaking of; I daresay one of them has managed to trace your presence here."
"Unlikely. My communicator in not in my possession at the moment and I told no one of my intended whereabouts. I did not wish to be located."
Spock refrains from rolling his eyes, an appalling human habit that is still oddly satisfying, and moves to the small office area in the next room to answer the call. The view-screen flickers to life mid-chime.
"Dif-tor heh smusma, Ambassador. I apologize for disturbing you so late in the evening."
"Lieutenant, you are no disturbance, I assure you." This woman's relationship with Spock had been one of the more puzzling differences between their universes; but after many months of viewing their interactions, and hearing how Spock spoke of her, he has begun to understand what a remarkable woman Nyota Uhura is. And he has wondered, many times, about what might have been.
But now, she does not look the competent communications chief of the Enterprise; her beautiful features are drawn and her eyes betray the fact that she has obviously been crying. While still in a somewhat bedraggled uniform, she has apparently been relieved of duty, because she is calling from a small room which looks to be a standard Starfleet dormitory, most likely set up in haste for a displaced Enterprise crew somewhere in the city.
"He is here, Lieutenant," he interrupts with kind finesse, and he sees the tension in her brow lessen immediately. "May I apologize on behalf of myself, in a fashion, for alarming you."
A half-hysterical laugh which sounds suspiciously like a sob filters through the channel. "I can't even, with this tonight," she murmurs. "Please, just…can you help him?"
"I do not know," he replies honestly, and sees her face fall. "I will do what I can."
"You have my gratitude." She looks up for a moment, eyes glinting with unshed tears. "McCoy thinks he may have a breakthrough tonight, but don't tell him, okay? We don't want to get anyone's hopes up yet."
Though considerably in the dark as to what exactly she is referencing, he only nods; she looks absolutely exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and he is not about to keep her on the line speaking of painful events. Besides, they will tell him all if and when they are ready. While he is on speaking terms with the senior members of this crew, and while these all-important four know his true identity, he is yet an outsider; and he will not force his way into being more than that to them.
"Okay, I'm going to crash for a while then. Thank you, Ambassador. I…I didn't know how to help him, he was starting to scare me a little." Dark eyes look sadly to the side for a moment. "I think he scared himself, too."
"I have always found Jim Kirk to be a…polarizing influence, Lieutenant."
She snorts, but he receives a faint smile. "He is…was, that, Ambassador. He was that."
"I will not keep you further, Lieutenant. Rest assured, I will see to Spock."
"Th'i-oxalra, Ambassador. Tushah nash-veh k'odu."
He almost smiles at the perfectly enunciated High Vulcan; such a remarkable human, this woman. Worthy of the grieving young officer currently slumped half-dozing on his couch.
Spock blinks slowly when he returns. He appears listless now, almost bonelessly slumped on the sofa and staring into space at nothing in particular until finally an eyebrow inches upward in barely-polite inquiry.
"Your…girlfriend? Is that the proper human term, in these days? Is concerned for you."
Spock's ears flush a light green. "She should be resting. It has been a trying day, for all of us."
"Sound advice, which you should heed as well, young one. No, do not get up; you are in no condition to be navigating chaotic San Francisco streets, distracted as you are. I will not explain to Lieutenant Uhura tomorrow why I permitted her future bond-mate to be struck by a hoverbus on his way back to Starfleet Headquarters."
Were the sa-kan any less exhausted, Spock suspects he might have put up more of a fight; but he does not, only slumps back, looking far older than his few decades.
"I must return to Headquarters. I have not yet filed the final damage reports for the Enterprise's initial structural assessment, nor have I given my statements to the Admiralty. Mr. Scott and I have yet to ensure that the ship is even capable of maintaining orbit after sustaining such damage to Main Engineering, specifically the plasma ventilation systems and the – the warp core. If she is unable to remain in orbit, then we must make arrangements with Starfleet Command to be placed in orbital dry-dock for the remainder of our grounding. And I must make certain the entirety of the crew complement has been seen to sufficiently regarding lodgings and immediate medical and psychological attention, that the death toll has been tallied and the family members notified…"
Spock sees the moment the sheer enormity of the command burden the First Officer has inherited actually hits, because the young man's eyes widen under what looks like a deluge of pure, unadulterated human panic.
"Spock, calm yourself. I am certain Doctor McCoy will by now have placed you on medical leave due to emotional compromise; during which you not only are not required to, but not permitted to, do any of those things. They will keep until tomorrow, pi'shal. For now, you must rest."
"You have done enough, Spock. And you will do Jim Kirk's crew no good, by destroying yourself in an effort to fill his shoes when that is impossible."
He sees the shuddering breath which follows his gentle proclamation, before Spock's eyes close in what looks like silent, lonely grief. After a few moments, his breathing evens, and it is evident that exhaustion has succeeded in at least temporarily overpowering an emotionally turbulent mind.
Then, and only then, does he retreat to his own chambers, and permit himself to feel the heart-wrenching agony of a second loss, almost as terrible as the first time such a thing has happened – as if the multiverse itself is mocking his pain, and the life he will never see again.
No amount of meditation will ever return the dead, and miracles come but once a lifetime. Unfortunately for his poor younger counterpart, he has seen far more than his share already.
It is well into Terran nightfall when a small crash alerts him from an only vaguely successful attempt at meditation, and he hurries from the sleeping chamber to see that Spock has apparently knocked over a potted plant in his half-asleep efforts to reach the intra-city comm. Now, the young one scrambles up with an impressive dexterity, obviously trying to allow his elder to sleep, and leans over the kitchen counter to press the button for reception.
The pale, exhausted features of the Enterprise's Chief Medical Officer fill the screen, and Spock feels the ghost of fond nostalgia hovering nearby, well-hidden in the doorway as he is. Sterile, white walls frame the doctor's head and shoulders, and there is a distant noise of voices, machinery, and various electronic sounds which clearly indicate he is in a medical facility – most likely, the wing at Starfleet Headquarters.
"Spock, y'look like hell," McCoy says bluntly, as nu'ri-Spock leans on the counter and turns the screen slightly.
The fact that his young counterpart does not summon the energy for repartee seems to indicate to both of them far more than anything else, the gravity of the situation, for the physician does not waste further words in verbal volleying.
"Sorry to wake you up, but I got something for you, Commander," the human says, and his keener hearing picks up the hint of cautious excitement which threads through the tone. Curious, he would have thought grief to be the primary emotion from McCoy right now. Perhaps he and this Jim Kirk had not been as close as he had first supposed.
Spock's eyes are still dull, void of interest in either this conversation or its continuance. "And what is that, Doctor."
"Just this." The physician reaches over and smacks a button on something out of sight of the vid-screen, and an amplified sound suddenly filters over the connection – steady, slow, and rhythmic, strangely familiar, almost musically soothing. For a moment he cannot quite place the noise, and wonders where he has heard it before – and then it occurs to him.
It is the sound of a bio-bed monitor, specifically the sensor which monitors a heartbeat.
Spock's dark eyes fly fully open, looking equal parts desperate and hopeful.
McCoy grins crookedly at the screen, though he looks about to fall over from exhaustion. "I dunno how, and I ain't makin' any promises, but he's a stubborn bastard," he says, with almost reverent tenderness.
"Doctor," the word is almost shaking in its hesitance. "Are you quite certain –"
"He's alive, Spock. Heartbeat, breathing, brainwaves, the big three all check out. Now they're all really, really low, but they're there. And that's a sight more than there was twelve hours ago."
"Sit down before you fall down, Spock. And tell the old man to stop lurking in the background, 's creepy as hell."
Spock cannot help but feel human amusement, as he moves from the shadows and pushes a kitchen chair in the younger man's general direction. "Doctor McCoy, you are as charming as ever."
"Back atcha," is the slurred retort, accent thick with exhaustion, though the physician gives him a companionable nod over a perfectly enormous yawn. "You been caught up on the situation, I'm guessing?"
"Somewhat, though this new development is a total surprise to me," he replies, his mind still whirling with the revelation, not quite yet grasping its enormous universal implications. "Not an unwelcome one, by any means."
Something beeps to one side, and McCoy leans over, obviously reading something, then returns to the screen, looking pained but resolute. "I need you to pull it together, Spock – my Spock, no offense – 'cause there's no way in hell I can fend off the entire Admiralty and still destroy all the evidence without a trace before the debriefings tomorrow. You got to suck it up, and get your ass over here and help me, or we are all gonna be somewhere in a 'Fleet work colony when Jim actually wakes up. I am not relyin' on an eighteen-year-old kid with a cute accent to talk our way out of this. I can alter a medical report to say you didn't really break every bone in Khan's face before I refroze him but there's only so much of the ship's logs I can get a crack at."
Spock raises an eyebrow at the blunt words, as his younger self nods slowly. The change in the young officer is quite astounding; he can fairly see life seeping back into the younger man's demeanor, now that hope has returned and with it, purpose. Obviously, these two have already mastered that quasi-professional love/hate relationship which had taken he and his Doctor McCoy several years to perfect.
"I take it Section 31 has already attempted inquiries as to your…alternative medicine?"
"Attempted, but I've been able to keep 'em away until now under cover of medical quarantine. I won't be able to keep them out much longer and if they find out that Jim was ever actually dead instead of just gravely injured –"
"I will contact Mr. Chekov immediately and have him start altering the ship's logs to hold only indirect references to the…Engineering incident. Mr. Scott will be able to give him appropriate direction should he have questions but it will need to be his signature on reports as he was technically in command when the situations occurred."
"Good. We – we can't let them get hold of this stuff."
"I am aware, Doctor." Spock's features show regret clearly. "Beneficial as it might be to science, the risks are too great of this knowledge falling into hands such as that of Admiral Marcus."
"No kidding. We got real damn lucky, Spock. No telling what the next person will do who tries to play God with this. I'm still not convinced I'm not gonna upset some universal karmic balance with – hang tight a second." Beside him, the monitor has suddenly begun beeping insistently. McCoy glances over at it, then stands. "I gotta go, his blood pressure just spiked and you know he's a special snowflake when it comes to medication. Kid's gonna need constant monitoring for the next couple weeks until he comes out of it. No, you do not need to come by the ward, he won't be aware enough to hear anything in the coma for at least another three days, that's how long it'll take for his sensory cortex's pathways to regenerate completely. So you chill, eat something, and then get with Scotty up at HQ and save our asses while I save his, you got me?"
"I have you," Spock replies with almost adorable solemnity. "And, Doctor…"
"Uh-huh. Y'all can thank me when he's cussin' me out for not letting him out of my sight for the next, oh, decade or so. Talk to you tomorrow, Spock. Spocks? Whatever, I need a drink…"
His lips twitch at the quaint human's abrupt departure, feeling a nostalgic longing for days gone by. His young counterpart stays still for a moment, staring at the blank screen as if he cannot quite believe he is really awake. Finally he turns, and his eyes fairly light up the apartment.
"As you said earlier, Ambassador," he ventures with what looks like entirely human wonder, "we have an unfortunate habit of underestimating James Kirk."
He permits himself a small shrug. "I believe he always called it a strategic advantage, young one."
He raises an eyebrow when a quite human snort accompanies Spock's move toward the door. "Another fanciful term for cheating."
"Perhaps. But then again, pi'shal…are you really so annoyed that he has cheated one more time?"
Spock pauses, in the act of tripping the door sensor, and favors him with an incredulous look he had once heard the younger Kirk refer to under influence of both blood loss and partial sedation as a 'spectacular Vulcan bitch-face.'
He carefully hides his amusement. "Ah. I take it you will be informing him of his error at the earliest possible opportunity, then."
"Naturally." Also, of his incredibly stupid self-sacrificing idiocy, goes loudly unspoken between them.
"Then I wish you the best of luck, Spock. Have pity on an old man's heart, and take care in crossing the city this time of evening while distracted?"
Spock's dark eyes soften, and he nods. "I shall contact you tomorrow if there is further news."
"That would be appreciated, young one. I would not willingly intrude, but I will admit to…unease, regarding the situation."
Strangely enough, Spock really thinks he is, now, understood – for shared grief makes friends of enemies, family of rivals, and while they have never been on bad terms, he and this fiery young version of himself…nor have they been the best of companions either. Their possessiveness of this strangely compelling version of James Kirk has served as a point of contention between them, and Jim had hated it, which of necessity had forced them to work apart more than together out of respect for peace – but now? Now they share a common pain, a common grief, and a budding common hope. The universe, and Spock himself, are not yet ready to do without James Kirk.
He watches, half-smiling, as Spock nearly bounces off an automated hovercab in the street before it registers his presence and stops, the door sliding open automatically. Once the young officer is safely inside, he closes the curtains and turns off the lights, one by one, until he is in companionable darkness once more.
Destiny is rarely so generous a second time. They are fortunate indeed – the humans call it lucky, and he is not inclined to disagree – to have been given a miracle.
Perhaps someday, not too far in the future if what he suspects of his failing health is correct, he may hope for his own kind of miracle. Not just yet, for he is needed still – but he can sense that something has changed, now. This event, will have brought this crew together like never before, and they will go on to bigger things than they ever could dream.
Now, his Destiny lies elsewhere.
A starship bridge, warm and bright and awash in almost blinding color, blues and golds and scarlets and light silvery grays. A planet disappearing off the port edge of their viewscreen, the hiss of machinery and hum of engines far beneath them. The sensations of life, teeming everywhere aboard, thriving and growing and exploring.
Eyes glinting mischief tinged with affection up at him – hazel, not that shocking, startlingly icy blue – and a familiar smile that ghosts the edges of his dreams still, even decades later.
This simple feeling, of coming home.
"Sometimes a feeling, Mr. Spock, is all we humans have to go on."
"Captain, you almost make me believe in luck."
"Why, Mr. Spock. You almost make me believe in miracles." (1)
(1) Last three lines are the closing lines from the episode A Taste of Armageddon
Vulcan Translations, for my fellow language nerds (all taken from the online VLD):
Nu'ri – a prefix simply meaning young, or in an early period of life. I found it difficult to write a chapter involving both Spocks without it becoming very confusing due to pronouns and names, and so needed a distinguisher; besides, I would assume TOS Spock would refer to AOS Spock in some distinguishing way at least in his own private thoughts.
Tomasu – general term for a male kinsman or relative
Sa-kan – a male child, or young man
Pi'shal – my own culling together of the prefix pi', meaning small or young, and the root word shal, meaning own or self – literally, little self
Dif-tor heh smusma – Live long and prosper (though usually used as a farewell, it's actually a greeting as well, similar to the Hawaiian word aloha and technically the correct Vulcan greeting, so Uhura would use it)
Th'i-oxalra – You have my gratitude.
Tushah nash-veh k'odu – I grieve with thee, the traditional words of sympathy for loss. The last word varies slightly depending upon the recipient; k'odu signifies respect or honor.