(Her opinions are limited here to the subject of her "repatriation" and to the Prime Directive. Her thoughts on genetic engineering are confined to the "polarbear" handle on long-dormant accounts on old, in some cases defunct, fora.)
It is a few months before she's invited to a speaking engagement by an activist club at a university on Viarat, a moon inhabited by predominantly human colonists but some Vulcans.
She accepts the honorarium, writes a speech, and (in the recovered Prometheus, which Renée has been holding for her) goes to Viarat, accompanied by her husband.
They get a hotel room; a liaison from the activist club shows her to where she's giving her speech, she gets as far as thanking them for inviting her and beginning to outline her planned topic before someone in the back row pulls a phaser pistol and squeezes off a burst that hits her in the sternum.
She collapses, exhaling all her air voicelessly. Someone next to the shooter tackles her and gets the phaser away.
Isabella tests her breathing, finds it painless, says: "Where's - my husband? Was the shooter caught?"
"Your husband - tall, brown, curly hair, excellent bone structure? He's been asking for you, but considering you've just been shot and I only had his word the two of you are married, I decided to wait until you woke up before letting him in. I did tell him the surgery went just fine and you'll barely even scar. Be careful, though, the bone repairs are still a little weak. Stay lying flat as much as you can, don't rest anything on or against your chest, don't lift heavy objects. Yes, they caught the shooter, although I can't tell you much more than that." He smiles faintly. "Been busy."
"We're married," Isabella confirms. "Maybe I should wear a ring if I give another speech." She holds still as instructed.
Off he goes. He returns a few minutes later, trailing Lalita—
"You okay?" he murmurs.
He sits down in a conveniently located chair beside her bed, rests his hand on the nearest one of hers, and aims a smile at Dr. Hall.
"Good work, Doctor."
"A week, minimum. I'd say more like two if you were mostly human, but Vulcans bounce back faster, so if you're very lucky it won't take any more than a week."
"You do that." He looks between his patient and her husband and then adds, "If anybody gets on your case about visiting hours, send 'em to me. Just don't do anything to make me regret it."
"And very good at his job." She tries gingerly moving her arm, finds that her collarbone doesn't like it. "Well, I'm going to be fantastically bored, it would seem."
(About which she has some mixed feelings about enjoying, in her current state of general invalidity, but it is net positive.)
But it's still a very nice voice. And he can go on reading to her with it pretty much until she gets bored or needs sleep.
(No one gets on their case about visiting hours.)
Lalita contemplates going somewhere, but eventually decides that no, he's slept in worse places than a hospital chair and given the option he would rather stay.