Title: Precious Things
Setting: Star Trek 2009
Note: Many thanks to rexlapinii & elanya for beta-ing!
Summary: There are things which are greater than any single human or Vulcan. As long as there is life, there is hope.

The smuggler is calm and unworried and Solak knows that the proof they have against him will somehow turn out to be useless yet again. Five times already the man has defied their attempt to prove his guilt and annul his trading contract. Today will be the sixth, it would seem. Solak takes a small breath, steadies himself and recites one of the many new meditative mantras he has memorized since the rotund creature first appeared in his office, all waving arms and cheerful demeanor.

It is a small and petty victory and one he knows he will only admit to his wife that evening, but at least he has in return – once again – deprived the smuggler of seeing any frustration or anger.

The data sent to the Vulcan Trade Regulation office is returned to his computer with the expected notice and Solak taps out a response quickly and efficiently before nodding to his assistant.

"Release him."

His assistant nods – already prepared for the moment and showing no sign of anything at all either – and the smuggler sags slightly in disappointment before vacating the office with a cheerful waggle of his fingers in farewell. His laughter echoes through the hallway of the security office long after his flamboyant departure and sometimes, Solak thinks that if he could allow himself hate, the human male would garner a great deal of it from him.

Instead he leans on his desk and steeples his fingers, trying to understand how the man managed to find yet another loophole in the trade rules to justify his illicit activities.

~*~

It has been ten years now and Solak has managed to thwart the smuggler only twice. He treasures both those events, though it is the first time he managed to do so which is still bright and sharp a memory in his mind.

The man had laughed when presented with the evidence. The very same, cheerful laugh as all the other times he got away with his criminal behavior, and that was when Solak realized that the man actually enjoyed having Solak chase him down and try to pin every possible rule in the book on him.

Though he is quite certain his surprise never showed upon realizing that fact, the man looked entirely too satisfied with himself then.

"Rematch for next time, buddy!" The words were unexpected, as was the underlying current of friendliness in the man's voice.

Solak found himself thinking about other things than rules or regulations after that meeting for quite some time.

Humans, it turned out, were not as simple as he had originally thought they were.

How very fascinating.

~*~

His world is dying and there is nothing more he can do. All the ships have been unclamped from their moorings, all the prisoners released and now he and his people stand by the edge of a cliff and watch the great planes and angles of the canyons ahead shift and grind as Vulcan slowly tears itself apart.

All of them are silent and wide-eyed, dust streaking their clothing and skin, when the first smuggler's ship lands behind them in a shriek of abused metal on rock and sand. It is one of many, they realize, other crafts discernable in the horizon.

"Don't just stand, you idjits! MOVE!" The words thunders behind them and Solak whirls around at the sound of a familiar voice. His expression is blank yet he numbly acknowledges that his shock must be showing. When he finally picks out the face of the speaker through the whirling dust and tarnished metals plates of a smuggler's ship, a sharp, brief smile greets him. It is not triumphant nor mocking and Solak can see the anguish lying underneath the man's urgent gaze.

He and his staff board the craft hastily and are met with the solemn and grave stares of the children from the nearby school. Their faces are dusty and smudged and the smuggler's spindly limbed assistant flutters among them, as though she might be able to keep them all safe simply by wrapping her many arms about them. There is no safety harnesss for her this time Solak notices, her usual seat taken up by a plethora of boxes and containers and two of the smallest children, one sitting in the other's lap and both of them snugly strapped down to her seat. Crates and cages are piled on the laps of the other children and the smuggler's latest haul is neatly displayed for all to see. From the furious hissing breaking through the sounds of the craft as it prepares for a hasty take-off, Solak can discern that there are at least a dozen small sehlat cubs within the cages in the far corner, and at least three variety of rare sandworms packed in heated sand somewhere out of sight. There will be precious pottery in the blue boxes, Solak knows, each tenderly packed away. The green lined crates doubtless contain many a scroll or ancient book – how the smuggler would discover such venerated artifacts had always confounded him. He cannot even begin to imagine what might be safely packed away in the ship's many hidden holds. He does not dare to hope – not when so much is lost.

Solak gestures to one of his agents and the woman nods, directing the children to grab hold of the alien hovering among them and soon the female is anchored as securely as she might have been in her seat's webbing, small hands determinedly holding on to her every arm and leg. She sighs and hums sadly, settling among them protectively, large unblinking eyes fixed upon Solak as he nods at her once and then turns, making his way through the passageways of the smuggler's ship until he reaches the bridge. It is equally cluttered and Solak finds himself cataloguing every rare species of fauna, flora and forbidden items he can see as an afterthought and nothing more.

"How about," the smuggler says, voice low and sad before he stops speaking, focusing instead on the task at hand. He does not look back over his shoulder as he pounds on controls and sends his ship tearing through the atmosphere, does not say a word as the customs officer straps himself in the co-pilot's seat and sets about assisting them in their desperate flight, their efforts taking them away from a dying world barely in time.

When they are safe, the smuggler gives him a sidelong glance, features unreadable. "So. How about you do an inventory of all that when we hit port so you can arrest me properly, eh?" The man's voice is a ghost of its usual, teasing self but he still tries. After a moment, Solak realizes that the tracks breaking through the dust on the mans' face are tears.

He remains quiet a long time, the human in the other seat no longer breaking the silence as the customs officer takes over reception of the incoming transmissions. More smugglers he discovers – some released from the holding cells of his own facility not so long ago – each of them checking in with reports of what they brought back with them, the Vulcans they now bear upon their ships, each of them confirming coordinates so that they can gather up and organize themselves. Solak intercepts the names he recognizes and sends the information along to those among his staff who will find comfort in hearing of loved ones having survived the death of Vulcan. He notes that the smugglers are all including their illegal inventory in these reports. He understands what they have done, each and every one of them.

"I do not believe that will be necessary." Solak reaches out, resting his fingertips lightly on the top of the smuggler's hand and nods once, gravely. He can feel the grief and helplessness radiating from the man ease ever so slightly and though his own countenance does not change nor waver when the human looks at him, Solak nonetheless finds that no further words are needed to express his gratitude.

Current Mood: calm