"Come in."

I looked up from my office desk to see Cadet Uhura at the doorway. Of all the students I had seen this afternoon during my office hours, Uhura was not one I was expecting. The first oral exam always seemed to cause students the most distress, inevitably a stream of students filed in to request an adjustment in their marks—requests which I firmly but summarily denied.

It was unfortunate that the instructors for lower level Vulcan language classes had lower standards than I, but I would not lower my standards to accommodate student expectations. In my experience 98% of students would find this jarring, 63% would be unable to adapt (of which 70% would quit the class, 12% would fail, and 18% would receive substandard grades). Of the remaining 37%, 67% of those students would manage passable grades, 29% would attain above average grades, and 4% would excel. These statistics were tolerated by the Academy only because the remaining students spoke almost flawless colloquial Vulcan by the end of the term—a feat that no one else seemed to be able to wring from their students.

"How can I help you this afternoon, Cadet Uhura?" I asked in Vulcan. One of the reasons the students who stayed in my class did so well was my insistence that all communication take place in Vulcan, a rule that forced them to think in Vulcan. It also allowed me to speak my own language on a weekly basis and to hear it, however accented, spoken back to me.

"Teacher Spock, I wanted to ask you about my exam mark."

"What is it you wish to ask me?"

"Seventy-nine percent?"

"Simply stating something in the tone of a question does not make it a question," I corrected automatically even though it was not the first time today I had heard an objection to a mark put quite that way. On Vulcan, stating a question in that way would have been considered rude—but then I was not on Vulcan--a fact I was made aware of daily and for which I was, for the most part, grateful.

"Is my mark really 79%? It's not a mistake?"

I went through the motions of looking up her mark, though I was well aware of the marks of all 96 of my students (soon to be 54 if statistics from previous terms held true). It had become apparent to me after the first few students that although I had complete confidence in my ability to remember the marks of all my students, they did not. They wanted to see the electronic version on which the Academy relied for student grades to make sure that they matched.

Having found her exam results, I handed the pad to Uhura to see for herself. I allowed myself to watch her as her attention was focused on the readout. She was wearing a regulation uniform, her hair pinned up in some complicated pattern that I attempted to deconstruct the construction of and failed.

"Your notes say my vocabulary was excellent and my pronunciation was … I'm not sure what this word means," she admitted. She handed the pad back to me and pointed to the word with her finger. I could smell the faint traces of melon and some other scent that clung to her, no doubt from soap. Synthetic scents were prohibited at the Academy because of their unpredictable effects on other species (not to mention some humans).

I looked at the passage in my notes on her exam and realised that I had used a word generally not shared with off-worlders.

"I did not expect you to inquire about your mark," I said, trying to stall until I could figure out a translation of the word that would not offend her.

"I get 79% and you expect me not to ask?"

"Yours was the highest mark."

"It was?"

Having learned such questions were intended to be redundant, I simply arched an eyebrow at her while she digested that piece of information.

"So what does that word mean?" True to her nature, Uhura's curiosity was overcoming her disappointment at her low mark though I could sense that she remained skeptical of its accuracy. I switched to English to answer her question.

"It means Other. The word after it denotes a manner of speaking. In short, it means you have a distinctly Terran accent to your Vulcan."

I watched with interest as her cheeks flushed. It was more difficult to see on her than some of her colleagues, but the change in colour was noticeable nonetheless. In fact I had seen that flush in 7% of the students who had been to see me so far. I suspected it represented anger, yet none of the students so far had expressed theirs. I waited to see if she was braver.

"I've never been told my Vulcan is accented by any other instructor."

"It is unfortunate that they neglected to mention it. Perhaps they believe Terrans are not capable of speaking unaccented Vulcan. It is a common misconception, but I am in a position to know otherwise."

"Some languages can't be spoken unaccented by other species."

"That is true. But that is not the case with Terrans speaking Vulcan."

"So you know Terrans that speak better Vulcan than I do? Well I'd like to meet them," she said eyes flashing.

"Arrogance does not become you, Nyota. You are an excellent student, but you are not through learning simply because you are better at languages than all your classmates." She looked abashed at my rebuke and I found himself feeling an unwarranted regret at being the one to make her feel so. Switching back to Vulcan, I made a peace offering.

"If my mother should visit Earth while you are still at the Academy, I can arrange for you to meet her if you wish."

"Your mother?"

"You did ask to meet her."

"I did?"

"Her Vulcan is unaccented." Uhura's frown deepened and it occurred to me that my heritage was perhaps not as well known here on Earth as it was on Vulcan. Yet another reason I preferred to be on Earth despite its emotional population.

"I take it you are unaware that my mother is herself Other. She is human."

"No, I didn't know that," she said quietly. "Well, that explains it."

"What does it explain, Cadet?" The question was more curt than I intended due to my surprise at her reaction. Of all the people who would cast aspersions on my character because of my mixed heritage, Uhura was not expected to be counted among them. For one her interest in differences was one of the things that made her so good at languages, and for another she usually demonstrated too much class to indulge in such comments.

"Your accent, Teacher. It explains why you don't have one when you speak English. Most Vulcans have one—even the ones at the Academy," she noted, completely ignoring my sudden guardedness.

"And what grade would you give them on their English? 100%?"

"No. I see your point. I'd give you 92%."

Her boldness surprised me, but I was—as always—intrigued by her thought process. Though it was often not apparent at the outset, it was frequently based on unassailable logic where languages were concerned. Still, her assessment in this case struck me as emotional.

"You admitted I do not have an accent. Are you certain you are not simply deducting marks because you do not like the grade I gave you?"

"You don't have an accent, but you must have spent most of your time growing up speaking Vulcan. Your syntax isn't colloquial."

She looked at me steadily and when I said nothing--for what could I say?--she thanked me for my time and turned to leave.

"Touché," I said, having recovered enough to say something before she left completely.

There was a momentary flicker of surprise, followed by relief--that I was not offended? Illogical--before she smiled at me. A somewhat unhappier cadet pushed past her into my office tempting me to sigh aloud (which I did not indulge). I calculated that the odds of seeing this cadet smile, or even say anything remotely interesting, were an infinitesimal 0.074%.