Chapter Text
“Sorry, what was your name again?” The chatter of excited artists and academics drowned out all but the most enthusiastic voices. A constant hum and buzz always accompanied the Talas Music Conference, a crackling of raw creative energy in the air. Andor's Academy always took great pains to stage a deeply fulfilling conference for the hundreds of performers and presenters, but this time they had outdone themselves; both the Academy and the conference had completed a long cycle, making fertile ground for a jubilee festival. The likes of an unknown musician getting a performance slot was normally difficult and this time downright impossible. It could make said unknown musician feel reluctant to make decent conversation.
“Oh you.” The Betazoid academic gently patted the musician's shoulder. “It hardly matters.” Flamboyancy never escaped this species, evidence by the flourish of a decorated hand which waved away the question. “Come meet my colleague.”
Through the crowd they wove, deceptively-strong fingers firmly curled around his bicep and tugging him along, bunching up his finest white linen shirt. They skirted dozens of small banquets available for the attendants, a cacophony of smells accosting them. Courtesy was different here and nothing like on Qo’Nos; people drop their culture's mores about personal space. His guide apologized to no one, and not a single attendant took offense.
Out on a domed verandah, the crowd thinned considerably as did the noise. It was only the first day of the conference, as good a time as any to meet new colleagues and new connections. Like every domed balcony, this one served as yet another art installation. The placard nearby declared the dark swirling patterns above an interpretation of a cloudless night based on the artist's dream. Just like stepping into a painting. If someone came from behind and stabbed him to fulfill a once-forgotten blood oath, he would only be thankful to see something so majestic and breath-taking in his final moments.
“My colleague and collaborator, Vudic Jalal.”
He never thought such a blue could exist outside of art, like someone had taken the entire sea and poured it into this man's two eyes.
“Your name, sir.” His tone indicated that he had already asked once.
“Doh'Val.” He hastily added, “Son of Carl.” A Vulcan. The day was hardly over and he was speaking to a Vulcan, a species his own people had warred with on and off for centuries, whether on their own or as the Federation. He never expected to meet one.
Those eyes that he could write opera about narrowed for a second and then widened carefully. He detected something unusual in his name. “...Carl.”
Doh'Val set his jaw, ready to teach the man a lesson that snide remarks to a half-Klingon are still snide remarks to a Klingon. They said that outside the Empire, other species had a dim view of their culture and may find ways to disrespect him. “Yes. My father.”
The man paused. “I have an uncle by the same name. Mother's family.”
The last thing he expected to hear. A half-Vulcan with a half like his—human. What were the odds? “Are you—”
Some other attendant butted in, greeting Vudic and taking away his attentions for a second. The Betazoid, meanwhile, pulled Doh'Val a few steps away. “Well? I say this is going quite well for everyone involved. You two have a lovely time. Keep an eye on my colleague for me.” How well could it possibly be going? They had only exchanged their names.
And suddenly they were back facing each other. Now he had a few moments to evaluate the man before him. There was something so reassuring and familiar about his face despite the angular Vulcan features and pointed eyes. “Have we met? You are—I, forgive me; I have seen your face, I think.” His skin didn't possess the same sickly pallor expected from his species, a feature which only added to Klingon stereotypes about them: they sat around all day, thinking empty thoughts and never raising a finger to do even an ounce of hard work. Not this man. A healthy, light terracotta brown like the hilt of his mother’s ceremonial knife, only a few shades lighter than his own cinnamon-bark skin. His short black hair curled, creating a wave-like fringe around his face.
“If you have come to the conference before, you must have seen a presentation of mine or merely saw me in passing.” But those intense, narrow eyes wandered up and down. His tone wasn't dismissive; he too probed his memory in an attempt to place where they had met.
“This is my first time at the Academy. I am performing as part of the conference.” He twirled a lock from his trim beard around his finger. “Are there recordings of your lectures?” Could a hologram ever attempt to imitate those eyes?
“Only those which I have given here. They are not widely distributed like lectures from the Riza Conference Series, however; the Academy has agreed to only provide them to individuals upon request and at the consent of the lecturer or performer. I would have recognized your name.” A slight turn of his stoic mouth indicated disappointment. Thus far, he'd yet to find the moment when they'd met before. “You must travel to Earth often. Your father, yes?”
“Earth is very large.” He smirked. “You can calculate the odds of us meeting once and then once again here.”
He didn't expect a chuckle but not a deadpan response either. “I could but it would be neither useful nor frumple.”
Perhaps he had misheard? Doh’Val tried to form a response, wondering what he meant by that last word.
Those narrow, painted eyes closed for a moment. The man was embarrassed. Or perhaps mildly frustrated. “The computer translators here—” He stopped, glancing away as if he'd find the words he wanted written on the swirling ceiling. “May we move to the Solarium?”
As they walked, he raced through all possible languages they might share. He didn't even know “Long Life and Good Health” or whatever it was all of them said. Did the man know Klingon? Some common trade language? Vulcans always seemed so consumed with their own culture that to think one would bother learning anything about another culture—
“This is a calibration. Please respond if you understand.”
He stepped back, catching himself from the shock. “You speak Federation Standard?” The moment the sentence left his mouth, he realized how stupid it sounded. That he also spoke it was much more notable.
The man tilted his head like a small dog. “Your manner of speaking. What language did you learn first?”
“Klingon. My father is Newar, outside Kathmandu, and I learned his language because he wanted me to be able to speak with his family. Federation Standard is my third.” What idiotic small talk! He wanted to ask deep questions but could not even quite think of what they would be. Another hybrid! Another like him! A hybrid!
“Did the children on your planet ever ridicule you for how you spoke?”
A too-familiar question, but he wanted to answer. “For a time. A few punches and the teasing stopped.” He needed to smile less. He looked like a simpleton.
Practiced stoicism responded. “How very good for you.” He saw behind that measured face was a deep well of emotion. The human side, no doubt. Vulcans—so he was told—complain all too often about the emotional dramatics of humans, and he could only imagine the war at play when the two species are occupying the same body. How curious that the human part of this man threatened to unleash a volcanic temper was the same which gave Doh'Val gentility and patience.
Silence between them. Others prattled on everywhere else. “There is a flavor to how a someone speaks their natural tongue which translators hide. I like it.” The man's distinct accent must have been confusing the computer. A strange concoction of Vulcan-ish and something so familiar yet out of reach, a sing-song lilt like his pitch was following the crests and troughs of a sine wave. It wasn’t Nepali but something like it. Little scraps of childhood memories floated to the surface of his mind like the voice of his late great-grandmother. Doh'Val wanted to hear more, and he was quickly learning how to flatter the man.
“A pluralistic view, not one shared by many.” The tightness showed his restraint to say more. “Tell me about what you have prepared for the conference.”
“A series of short pieces based on ancient sacred music from Earth. Few recordings are here today because the style was only practiced in monasteries and no one outside the monastery was allowed to hear it. A blend of my dual heritage.” He felt his fluency falter for a moment. “I am interested in the challenge. We want to preserve certain forms of music, but these are forms that the culture only allows certain people to hear, let alone learn. We have to balance both considerations.” Convincing his family’s patron to let him perform his compositions for the conference was easily one of his greatest accomplishments to date.
“Fascinating.” That sounded like the closest he would ever hear to high praise. “What do you wish to convey in these pieces?”
He was talking too much. Answer the question quickly. “I think I could better explain if you came to the performance.”
“I expect that I will find the experience enlightening.”
The Betazoid appeared once more and got a few words out before remembering where they were. Oh no. There must be some way to get rid of this man. “We go,” he said with such a heavy accent that Doh'Val could barely make out the words.
“My apologies, but my colleague and I must depart.” Was that the sound of remorse?
They started away. No, no, don't go. Doh'Val found himself shouting, “Please join me for a meal this evening!”
All the conversations in their vicinity ceased for a second, conference attendants suddenly turning their attentions. Curiosity, apprehension, amusement. Maybe they were waiting for a fight to break out. The silence pained him.
Vudic made some odd gesture, and suddenly everyone turned and went back to their business. “I cannot join you this evening. However.” He pulled out a small, intricately decorated token. “This is one place where lecturers gather. The organizers found these were the easiest way to tell us where we can refresh ourselves. After the lecture series ends each day, you will find us there. You can expect us tomorrow.”
They left. The crowd closed in behind them. He tucked the token into the breast pocket of his leather vest; it was the closest one he could find to his heart.