fortune'sfavouredchild-parttwo

Fortune's Favoured Child - Part Two

They rematerialised in a room they did not recognise and, in the

startled silence that followed the unexpected transport, they all

heard the sound of Kirk's dispirited, "Oh god, what now?" His

voice was scarcely more than a whisper.

McCoy was still moving forward as the beam released him,

calming words on his lips, his hand stretched out to his friend but

Kirk turned to him and his angry glare killed stone dead any idea

McCoy might have had that he could help and he faltered to a stop.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Spock surreptitiously

staunching the blood from a split lip, as Kirk wandered away from

them all into a corner of their prison and, leaning against a wall,

slid down onto the floor and buried his face in his hands.

The prison itself was a bright, bare room approximately 15 metres

square. It was harshly lit by square panels in the ceiling and there

was not a single protruding object or surface to be seen. There

was also no door. They checked quickly and found that the

transporter had somehow relieved them of every item of equipment

they had managed to grab including their phasers, tricorders and

the medical kit.

McCoy walked past Spock, apparently aimlessly, and without

speaking looked up and checked the cut. Spock removed his hand

and let him see that the bleeding had stopped; both of them were

careful not to draw any attention to the injury.

Stone raised his voice. "I am Commodore Theodore Stone,

representing the United Federation of Planets, we are on a peaceful

mission. Please identify yourselves." There was no reply although

similar messages were repeated in the twenty-three different

languages the prisoners could muster between them.

They examined the room, one wall panel swung aside but lead

only to hygiene facilities and a smaller panel revealed a food

replicator. This gave rise to a little hope until Spock discovered

that it was a free-standing unit, unconnected to the main ship

computer. When tested it responded to commands in English and

provided a range of basic food stuffs suitable for Vulcans and

humans. Latches in the walls released panels that dropped down

to form two tiers of bare but adequate bunks.

Gathering in the centre of the room, they pooled their research.

The most obvious fact was that this was no Federation vessel.

There was no physical exit so the only way in or out was by

intraship beaming, a dangerous procedure Federation ships only

ever used in emergencies. On the other hand, the food replicator

was the V20L model standard in smaller Starfleet vessels, although

the taps in the hygiene unit produced the fine, upward spray

favoured by Andorians.

Mr Scott voiced the suspicion that had occurred to most of

them. "Orions - the whole ship must be built from parts

scavenged from half a dozen worlds."

The Enterprise crew, who knew nothing of the blow aboard the

cutter, turned instinctively towards their strangely silent Captain;

suddenly realising that, unusually for him, he had taken no part

in the investigation. He was still sitting on the floor at the far end

of the room, back to the wall, arms round his raised knees,

forehead resting on them.

Worried by this unusual passivity, almost more than he was by

the violence or their dangerous situation, McCoy went up to him,

wishing whoever was in charge round here hadn't taken his

medical kit. He had a nasty feeling he was going to need it.

"Jim?" he said gently and stretched out a hand.

Although Kirk could not have seen the gesture, he flinched and

raised his head slightly. "Leave me alone!" His voice was so angry

that McCoy jerked back as though stung. Kirk tightened his grip

on his knees and pressed his forehead back down onto them. He

seemed to be trying to make himself small, to disappear into

himself, to hide.

To the Enterprise crew at least it was a chilling sight, so many

times the only thing that had stood between them all and death

had been their Captain; in this simple, elegantly effective captivity

what little hope they had might well rest on those suddenly,

shockingly, bowed shoulders.

Stone spoke into the silence, perhaps trying to assert his authority.

"Well, if we can't get out, we'll just have to wait and see what

they want."

Part of what "they" wanted became obvious a few seconds later

when McCoy vanished in a haze of transporter sparkles.

"That was a Klingon transporter," remarked Spock as the doctor

disappeared. Once again the Enterprise crew looked to their

captain and once again they were disappointed of any reaction.

"Aye well, I suppose we can only wait and see," said Mr Scott

and he too sat down, followed after a few seconds by everyone

else, some on the floor, some on released bunks. There were a

few desultory attempts at conversation, some paced up and

down their cell, one or two tried to eat but gradually silence fell

and they waited anxiously to see whether the Doctor would be

returned or whether one of them would be the next to be swept

away.

Kirk never moved and nobody quite dared to approach him

although once or twice Spock, and Spock alone, heard his voice,

repeating over and over again, softly and vehemently, the words

he had shouted aboard the cutter. "I can't. I can't. I can't."

It was two hours later that Doctor McCoy reappeared, his tunic

stained with blood, his medical kit in his hand. They crowded

round him anxiously but he waved them away. "I'm all right," he

said testily. "The blood isn't mine." Schneider passed him a cup of

what the replicator called coffee, and he nodded his thanks.

"They're pirates all right, mostly Orions with a few other

humanoids of different types. There's been an explosion in the

engine room, eight dead and thirteen injured including their medic

and almost all the engineering crew. This blasted ship isn't going

anywhere until they can repair it and I don't think there's anyone

left who knows how. Hell, unless I can patch up a few of the

wounded, there's barely enough left to work the ship at all."

A knowing smile passed over Mr Scott's face. If their captors

needed help he might be next to be swept away and if he was,

getting control of the ship would be no trouble at all. There was

half a dozen different ways of doing it, and he'd been consoling

himself with that fact for the last couple of hours, ever since the

noise of the engines had told him something was badly wrong with

them. "There's never been one of those scum I'd let near ma

engine-room," he said loudly for the benefit of anyone listening in.

There was no reaction.

McCoy drank and grimaced at the taste. "I've been shoved back in

here because there aren't enough of them left to watch me," he said

wearily. "I'll be taken back when one of the injured needs me." He

glanced round their prison looking for Kirk, the only person who

had not come forward to greet him. He found the Captain still

sitting on the floor, his forehead resting on his bent knees.

McCoy had spent the last two hours in a state of almost complete

terror. He had been alone and surrounded by enemies; two of the

injured belonged to no species he had ever encountered before

and his anxiety for them had both fed off and amplified his fears

for himself and his friends. He entirely forgot Kirk's reaction to

his last question and reached for the familiar security of knowing

that the Captain had some scheme, some plan that would get

them all out of this mess. "What do we do now, Jim?" he asked.

There was a long silence then the bent shoulders heaved as a

huge, shuddering breath was drawn in and released. The fair head

lifted. "You know what? People have been asking me that since

I was thirteen." His voice took on a high-pitched, singsong whine

that gradually grew in volume. "Whadda we do now, Jimmy?

Whadda we do now, Lieutenant? Whadda we do now,

Commander? Whadda we do now, Captain? Always the same

stupid, fucking question - and you know what? This time I don't

know what to do. For once someone else is gonna have to sort

it all out."

McCoy recoiled from the friend he hardly recognised. The quiet,

troubled but wholly professional Captain of the Enterprise had

vanished, leaving this tense, angry, exhausted stranger.

"I'm tired of being the one who plots and plans, I'm tired of being

the one who bluffs and schemes and most of all I'm tired of being

the one whose fault it is. I can't... not any more, I can't..."

He bowed his head, his fists clenched at the back of his neck, the

knuckles white. "You don't know what it's like," his voice was so

low, they could hardly hear it. "Watching the dead and the

maimed parading through your dreams, and every crisis

wondering - will this be the time the rabbit stays in the hat? Will

this be the time when it doesn't work? And the letters... dear

god... the letters. 'Dear Mrs Mitchell, Dear Mr Kelso, Dear Mr

and Mrs Galloway'," he looked up and the distress in his eyes was

more than McCoy could bear and he had to look away. "No more,

d'you hear me, NO MORE!"

He scrambled to his feet to face Spock. "You don't want

command? Well, hot news - neither do I!" He dragged off his

shirt and held it at arms' length. "Who wants to be captain?" There

was no reply and he tossed the shirt into a corner.

Too shocked to reply, nobody spoke and with a muttered curse he

turned away from them to stand leaning against the wall, his

position a mirror-image of the one he had taken up outside the

Transporter Hall on Starbase Eleven, except this time his free

hand clenched and unclenched, his breathing harsh in the dead

silence, suppressed violence in every line of his body.

Unusually for Kirk he was wearing his undershirt, and the sight of

him, all in black, the hard muscles of his back and shoulders

flexing, was both strange and menacing. Suddenly his right hand

lashed out and he punched the wall - hard. There was a collective

hiss of in-drawn breath as every human in the room winced.

Nobody had any idea how to react. To the Enterprise crew at

least, the idea of their Captain in such emotional distress that he

would relinquish command was so foreign to them that, far from

wanting to help him, they were conscious of nothing so much as

a feeling of betrayal.

McCoy, on the other hand, was ready - indeed anxious - to help,

he just did not know how. Although he had been half-expecting

such a breakdown for weeks, he still found himself utterly

unprepared for it, and he realised that, subconsciously, he had been

relying on his friend's strength all along. Disgust at his own lack

of ordinary, clinical forethought added itself to the ugly mess of

shame and regret he was already carrying.

Kirk was still leaning against the wall, and after a moment Spock

approached him, although his face bore its accustomed lack of

expression, nobody in the room doubted his concern. However,

before he could say anything, Kirk whirled round to face him.

"Spock, if you say I'm being illogical so help me I'll hit you again."

*Again?* Suddenly they all noticed the dark, olive bruise round

the Vulcan's mouth. *Did that mean...?*

Spock, however, appeared unaffected by the snarled threat.

"There would be little point in my saying what you so obviously

already know. However, as your First Officer, I feel I should point

out that it may be in your best interests to allow Doctor McCoy to

administer a sedative. Your emotional condition.."

Kirk sagged back against the wall and began to laugh, and there was

a thin, metallic thread of hysteria in the sound. "Good Ol' Spock,

give him a problem and he'll give you a polysyllabic solution. Tell

me, Commander, is it my emotional condition that worries you

or is it the fact that I'm broadcasting great, big chunks of nasty,

dirty, human emotion all over your nice, clean Vulcan psyche?"

Although the muscles of Spock's face never moved, the

impression of recoil was plain to even the most insensitive.

Commodore Stone was sitting on one of the lower bunks, trying

to gather his scattered wits. It was over 15 years since he had

been on a field mission, he no idea what to do about their

captivity, and he realised to his disgust that he too had been

relying on Kirk to get them all out of this mess. He looked up

and saw the situation was getting out of hand. Dammit they were

supposed to be trained personnel, it was time they started acting

like it! He got to his feet. "For heaven sakes, Kirk, pull yourself

together, this isn't the time or..."

"Teddy," interrupted Kirk "why don't you..." The expression was

graphic, anatomical and obscene and the Enterprise crew at least

were shocked to the core. Not by the words, they'd all heard

worse, but by the fact that it was Kirk who was using them.

Some of them had known him for years, Scott and McCoy over

ten, and none of them, in all that time, had ever heard him use

even the mildest of expletives - an odd prudishness in a notably

unprudish man. The sudden descent into profanity underlined the

change in him in a way almost nothing else could have done.

Kirk turned away from them, and in two strides Stone was behind

him, grabbing his shoulder. "Don't you dare..."

Kirk swung round, shaking the hand off violently. "Or what

Teddy?" He was a head shorter and twenty pounds lighter than

Stone, but the Commodore took an involuntary step backwards as

their eyes met. There was something feral and dangerous about

Kirk as he advanced on the older man, forcing him back and back

again and, to his astonishment, Stone realised he was actually

afraid of him. The simple, natural authority that came to Kirk as

easily as breathing seemed to have mutated into something just as

commanding but infinitely less wholesome.

Scott was forcibly reminded of the transporter accident that had

divided the Captain and of the 'wolf' that had prowled the corridors

of the Enterprise, hungry, wrathful and uncontrolled. They had

all treated the gentle half of Kirk as his true self, but now Scott

realised for the first time just how much a part of Kirk the wolf

truly was. They had all been so relieved by the successful

refusion, they had forgotten that the wolf still lived. It had been

confined but it was not dead and, for the first time since the

accident, Scott saw the wolf again.

Riveted by the battle for dominance in the centre of their prison,

no-one spoke, and Stone realised he had forfeited something by his

retreat. Somehow he had relinquished control and what was

more, Kirk knew it. His lip curled as Stone's fists clenched.

"Don't even think it, Teddy," he said, softly, contemptuously and

then turned his back on Stone, his confidence in his own safety

another insult.

He tugged at the collar of his T-shirt, it was stiflingly hot in the

room, and went over to the replicator. "Water, quarter litre,

cold." He drank thirstily, spilling some of the water down his

chest. Then he repeated his order and stood, leaning against the

wall drinking and watching them, baleful and silent.

McCoy could stand it no longer. Friendship, medical ethics, the

duty to heal, the discipline of the service and sheer, honest-to-god

love, finally combined to carry him past his own problems. He

went over to his troubled friend and, turning his back on their

cell-mates to offer at least the illusion of privacy, stretched out a

hand and said gently, "Jim, don't do this to yourself. I'm your

doctor and your friend, please - let me help."

Kirk went white. The tumbler fell from hands grown suddenly

clumsy and bounced across the floor with a hollow clatter as

Kirk gasped like a man suddenly plunged into ice-cold water.

Recognising the symptoms of shock, the doctor lunged forward

but, before he could do anything, Kirk hauled himself upright

by an effort of will so immense it was practically visible and flung

out a hand to stop him getting any closer. "Stay back, you stupid

bastard," he shouted. "Haven't you done enough?"

END of 3/7

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Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative

Subject: REP: Fortune's Favoured Child [PG-13] (TOS) 4/7

From: Jess inEngland <Use-Author-Address-Header@[127.1]>

Date: Mon, 3 May 1999 06:11:39 -0700 (PDT)

Cc: mail2news_nospam-19990503-alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated@anon.lcs.mit.edu

--------

REP: Fortune's Favoured Child [PG-13] (TOS) 4/7

Rated PG-13 for bad language only - no sex and next to no physical

violence.

FORTUNE'S FAVOURED CHILD 4/7

By Jess

At the far side of the cell, Calcroft went cold as she suddenly

realised who Kirk reminded her of, and why this was all

happening. "I've just worked out who you are," she said into the

shocked silence. "You're George Kirk's son, aren't you?"

It was obvious that she did not consider the relationship a

recommendation.

He swung round to face her and his expression was not pleasant

"Oh, so you knew good ol' George did you?" he said silkily.

"We served together on the Zuhkov," she replied, trying not to

think about the terrible night on Argelius when it had taken four

of them to drag him off that poor musician.

"Nasty son of a bitch, wasn't he?" said Kirk and smiled bitterly at

her surprise. "You think you had it tough serving with him on a

starship? You ought to have tried being his kid in a two-room

apartment in New Chicago."

He stumbled backwards to sit on one of the bunks, the anger and

tension suddenly and obviously overwhelmed by some deeper

emotion. "Poor old Sam," he said after a few seconds, his voice

so soft that McCoy half-suspected Kirk had forgotten they were

there. "He always felt so guilty he got to stay with Mom after

the divorce and I had to go with Dad. God knows Mom was

no prize in the parental stakes but compared to Dad ..." His

voice trailed away, and there was a moment's fascinated,

horrified silence as they all watched the somehow indecent

spectacle of a normally reticent man revealing a previously hidden

pain. "And at least she felt *something* for Sam."

He shuddered and looked up at them. "D'you know what she said

when I had to tell her he was dead? She said ..." his face worked.

"She sa...."

Abruptly his mood swung back to anger. "Aw to hell with it," he

said thickly as he jumped up and strode over to the replicator.

They parted before him, half afraid, half repulsed, and he punched

the "on" switch with the side of his fist. "Scotch."

The machine was noisier than it should have been, probably due

to poor maintenance, but eventually an androgynous voice

ground out, "Not recognised."

"Alcohol."

"Not recognised"

"Ethyl alcohol as human intoxicant." To Uhura his dogged

persistence and his failure to get angry at the continued denial

were as horrible as anything that had happened. She had always

seen his determination as a positive, life-saving thing; for the first

time she realised what such strength of will might do when

harnessed to the drive to self-destruction.

The machine whirred and clattered and announced, "That

programme is not available on this unit."

"Oh no? We'll see about that." Kirk turned from the machine and,

taking McCoy's medical kit, emptied its contents onto one of the

bunks. Ignoring the Doctor's startled protests, he took the medical

laser cutter and a bladed scalpel and prised the face plate off the

replicator. He contemplated its guts for a moment then reached

inside and for the next five minutes worked on the machine, his

face intent, cursing occasionally at the pain from his injured hand,

ignoring questions and protests. Then he repeated his order.

The mechanism had grown even noisier but it obediently produced

a bottle of colourless liquid.

"I thought that was supposed to be impossible," Engineer

Riccordi whispered to a fascinated Mr Scott.

Kirk sniffed at the bottle. "I always knew there was a good reason

why I majored in engineering," he said and, before anyone could

intervene, he took a swig of whatever it contained. McCoy darted

forward as Kirk coughed down his mouthful of "human

intoxicant" and hurriedly scanned the bottle. Well, at least it wasn't

actively toxic but the alcohol content was enormous.

Kirk ignored him and, grabbing the edge of one of the upper

bunks, swung himself up to sit, back to the wall, one knee bent

up, the other leg extended, surveying them from above with an

ugly expression, part scorn and part amusement. He took another,

more cautious, mouthful and grinned nastily. "So, whadda we do

now, people?" he said.

There was no reply, and after a moment, drawn by a common

unease, they all gathered at the other end of the room, talking in

hushed whispers, for some reason unwilling to let him hear.

"What on earth has got intae him?" Scott asked the question in all

their minds.

"I'll tell you what's gotten into him," said Stone, his normal, quiet,

dignity swept away by sheer rage. " He's cracked up. They

promoted him too young and he's cracked up."

There was an instinctive murmur of protest that died as they all

heard Kirk coughing through another mouthful of liquor. Too

many of them were remembering the way the Captain had been

over the last few weeks. His unhappiness, perhaps even misery

was not too strong a word, had been noticed by everyone and,

while nobody had known what to do about it, more than one of

them was uneasily conscious that they had not tried to do

anything. Anger, guilt, and fear washed over the group.

Stone, without the same reasons for loyalty as the Enterprise

crew, was merely angry. "I promise you one thing, after this he's

finished in Starfleet. When we get back, I'll be calling for another

court-martial; and this time I want to watch while they break

him into little pieces and throw him out with the rest of the

garbage."

"Might I suggest, Commodore, that the question of *what* we do

when we get out be postponed until we have discovered *how* to

get out." Only the Enterprise command crew recognised Spock's

cold formality as anger and Stone's indignation died in the face of

the uncomfortable truth that there was literally no way out of

their confinement until someone outside released them.

The next half hour was wasted in an attempt to break one of the

ceiling lighting-panels in the hope of gaining access to some sort

of maintenance crawlway behind. The attempt failed, the mere

fact that the panel was translucent did not mean that it was any

more fragile than the walls. An attempt to use the laser cutter

merely exhausted its charge long before any appreciable damage

was done.

As they worked, Kirk watched them and drank his "human

intoxicant" and prophesied failure with an amused contempt that

was maddening.

When his prophecies were fulfilled and they were finally obliged

to admit defeat, a renewed wave of hopelessness swept the prison

cell, and it was Schneider who stumbled over to where Kirk sat,

apparently enjoying their failure. "Captain..." The young man

actually put his hands out in a gesture of supplication.

Kirk laughed and took another swig - by now he was very drunk

indeed. "Sorry kiddies," he said coldly. "Daddy isn't playing

today." Although he was one of the youngest people in the room,

more than one of his fellow prisoners felt the sudden, odd

conviction that Kirk was indeed older and more experienced than

any of them, and that he was privy to unpleasant truths that they

had never been told.

Stone elbowed Schneider aside and looked up into a familiar face,

flushed with an unfamiliar danger. "What the hell do you think

you are playing at Kirk? This isn't a game." Stone looked about

ready to hit him.

Kirk grinned and rolled over onto his back, one knee raised, the

other leg across it, foot swinging. "Oh yes it is Teddy, and you

know what? Somebody else can have my go - I don't want it."

McCoy came to stand at Stone's shoulder; the urge, the need to

understand and heal smothering his fear and guilt. "Jim, what in

god's name do you think you're doing to yourself?" he asked.

Kirk turned his head and met his friend's eyes at a distance of

only a few inches. He smiled with what appeared to be genuine

amusement. "Can't you tell? I've given up. I'm running away and

I'm not going to stop until I find myself a nice beach somewhere,

where the sun is hot and the sea is warm and the only decision I

have to make is whether or not to get out of bed in the morning."

Spock allowed himself a sudden recollection of Kirk during the

Psi 2000 incident; distraught, feverish, tiredly yearning for a quiet

beach to walk on. Hurriedly he clamped his shields down hard.

"Running away!" McCoy was shocked. "That's not like you."

Kirk rolled on to his side to face the doctor, propping himself up

on one elbow. "How the hell do you know what I'm like?" he said

angrily. "Shit even I don't know what I'm like any more. I've

spent so long pretending to be the Big, Bold Captain I can't

remember who or what I am underneath." He drew in a deep

breath and glared at them. "You don't get it do you? You all

expect me to keep on taking it and taking it like some stupid,

fucking kid's toy - knock it down and it comes back for more."

The words were pouring out now, charged with the anger that

comes from truths too long unspoken. "And I did take it, for

years and years I took it. I broke my bones and I spilt my blood.

I turned my back on my chances for home and family. I killed my

enemies and when the time came I even killed my friends.

I took it, I took it all and what has it got me? Nightmares, scar

tissue and enough guilt to sink a fucking battleship. I have no

home. I have no family. I have *nobody* - do you have any idea

what that's like? In the last six weeks I have lost the only two

people in my entire life who ever loved me for me; not for the

strength they could leech out of me, not for what I could do

for them, not because I looked after them, just me for me."

McCoy reacted angrily, stung by the imputation that his friendship

was just another dependency. "That's damn unfair!" he said.

Kirk's smile sent chills down McCoy's spine. "Oh yes Doctor, I

was forgetting. You're my friend, aren't you? In fact, we're such

great friends you haven't been near me in weeks." McCoy

turned away from the sardonic glare that was almost a blow in

itself.

Kirk dropped onto his back and stared at the ceiling. "That's what

Sam and Edith had in common - they didn't want anything from

me, they didn't need me, they just loved me. Not the pretty face or

the honour student or the rising young officer or the captain -

just me, just Jimmy, the frightened, lonely sonovabitch in the

captain's stripes."

He looked over the Doctor's head and caught Uhura's eye. "You

don't like that, do you Lieutenant? The idea that I get scared."

The sudden change of target was so unexpected she flinched.

"Oh no, everyone's allowed to be afraid but the Captain." He

began to laugh, an ugly, drunken sound. "I bet you thought I

had you turn off the medalarm in my cabin in case it picked up

when I... had company. No, the truth is, Lieutenant, I had it

turned off because I have nightmares and some nights, all alone

with nothing but the noise of the fucking air-conditioning for

company, I scream myself awake."

He turned on Calcroft's young ensign. "They don't tell you about

the dreams when you train for command, do they Ensign Malik?

They ought to." His eyes were dark with remembered horrors,

his voice hushed. "I've lost count of the nights I've killed Gary,

the times I've seen that Romulan die, the times I've watched that

liner go down."

He shuddered and drank deeply from the bottle. Then he looked

over to assess their reactions and chuckled maliciously. "Sorry

kiddies, is Daddy frightening you? Not easy is it, finding out

Daddy has feet of clay? Fucking difficult things to walk on too.

One day you're walking along, minding your own business and

suddenly *crash* there goes Kirk - a legend in his own lifetime!"

He took another swig, looked at them and burst out laughing so

hard he choked, the liquor spurting from his mouth and down his

nose. He spluttered and coughed and, blowing his nose into his

hand, wiped it on his undershirt, a repulsive gesture that turned

Riccordi's stomach. "You should see your faces! You all look

like someone just told you there's no Santa Claus!" The bottle

dropped unheeded from his hand and smashed on the floor.

"Time to grow up, kiddies." He struggled up into a sitting position

and rubbed his hands together in imitation of a famous TriV

storyteller all the humans had seen as children. "Now let me see

- what other illusions can I shatter? I know, shall I tell you why

I don't deserve the gratitude of the Karagai? That's a real good

story."

The smile hardened. "I get to accept the gratitude of an entire

fucking planet, millions of 'em kneeling to me wherever I go,

calling me Ma'atahai. Do you know what it means? 'Beloved of

the people'." He snorted derisively. "Those poor, dumb smucks

even gave me a medal - the Karagite Order of Heroism - pretty

little thing - neat but not gaudy. Never wear it. I wanted to refuse

it but Starfleet wouldn't let me, not even when I told them what I'd

done. I got a fucking medal because I chose to let four hundred

sixty-three men, women and children die needlessly, and the

really good part is that they got to die over an open comm link

so I could hear them scream. Boy, have I had some juicy dreams

out of that one!" The flippancy jarred horribly.

McCoy leaned forward, he had looked up the Karagai after Spock

had explained the incident in the Transporter Hall, maybe this was

something he could do to help. "Jim, nobody but you blames you

for the liner. The inquiry exonerated you completely while you

were still in hospital. The geothermal plant had to be your first

priority, if you hadn't shut it down the entire planet would have

been uninhabitable within hours. There was no way you could

have known there would have been time to save the liner first.

You didn't have enough information to take that sort of risk."

Then gently but insistently. "Think how many lives you saved on

that miserable ball of dirt."

"And think how many I didn't save, Doctor." With heavily,

ironic emphasis on the title. "Even the Karagai don't remember

the dead but I do, I remember them all." He stared at his boots.

"Abbott D, Abramovitch B, Ackland R, A-deral, A-diman,

A-dipak, A-nestera, A-nesterai, A-parinal, Ashok K...."

"My god man, you don't mean you memorised them!" McCoy

was horrified. Kirk had been a mere lieutenant during the incident

on Karag, had he really been carrying the scars from it all these

years without anybody noticing?

"Yup, all the way through to Z-karinam and Zubin F. Every time

I start believing Starfleet PR, every time they give me another

fucking medal, I remember them." He glanced across at Spock.

"There ought to be at least one person in the Universe who

doesn't believe all that crap, don't you agree Commander?" He

flung the question at the Vulcan who did not reply.

Kirk shrugged. "You don't like that story? Never mind there's

plenty more where that came from. Shall I tell you what I had

to do to stay alive on Tarsus? I was only 13 so that one's

*real* good nightmare fodder, especially the bit about how Tom

Leighton lost half his face. Or what about the truth of what

happened to the Farragut?"

Desperate to stop the stream of shaming gibberish McCoy

palmed his hypo from the bunk below the Captain.

Kirk, however, noticed. "Put that down Doctor or I'll break your

fucking neck," he snarled.

Fortune's Favoured Child - Part Three