“Vulcan tea, hot.”

Ensign T’Xof always thought it was one of those subtle little indications of the human-centric biases of Starfleet that when ordering her drink from the replicator, she had to specify Vulcan tea, or else suffer through some human concoction whose only use, so far as she could discern, was that when cooled, it worked well as a cleaning agent for grimy LCARS console sticky with fingerprints. She waited for the drink to materialize, using her peripheral vision to assess the passing foot traffic on the promenade. One or two who had overindulged in synthehol, the odd heated argument with a vendor, a shifty looking freighter pilot perhaps waiting to make contact with a partner in some illicit scheme – but nothing that warranted the immediate intervention of a security officer.

The drink was not strictly necessary. She did not in fact require hydration or sustenance at this time, but she had observed that many human and other non-Vulcan security officers chose to undertake patrol drink in hand. At first, T’Xof had dismissed it as an indication of inefficient prioritisation of resources, like her old Academy classmate who would always arrive for the first lecture of the day still consuming xir breakfast. But grudgingly, the young Vulcan had come to see that the action was a kind of subterfuge. It camouflaged security officers in plain sight, allowing them to stroll unnoticed among unwary civilians. And in the event of a genuine call to action, it was not difficult to dispense with, or even wield as an impromptu weapon. T’Xof had once subdued two rowdy Nausicaans with nothing more than a cup of tea and a packet of sweetener.

Once ready, she took the drink and inhaled its aroma. The taste immediately brought back a rush of sensation. It was, T’Xof knew, nothing more than a biochemical reaction, her olfactory senses triggering memory pathways. Of being a young girl on Vulcan, watching Shalok holo-sims and imagining herself as the great Vulcan detective, who always solved his crimes through logical induction while his bumbling Klingon assistant, Jorn, Son of Watt, relied on fallible emotions and poor reasoning, while cradling a cup of tea made specially for her by one of her co-mothers. Of the first time she was allowed to join a couple of her fathers on a freighter run, and being surprised that the tea they brewed on the small moon where they unloaded their cargo tasted different, inspiring her to learn about atmospheric pressure and, for about a week, encouraging a career in astrophysics, before her determination to become an investigator took over once more. Of the last cup of tea she had prepared for her sister before she had left for the colony and the last time she had seen her in person. All of these memories flashed through her as she breathed in the steaming scent of the tea. It was nothing but cortical stimulation in response to external stimulae, T’Xof knew, logically, and yet…

There was an old Vulcan expression. “Home is not where the organ primarily responsible for the circulation of blood is found, that would be totally illogical.” She didn’t like their tea, but on this one thing, T’Xof thought she perhaps preferred the human version.