Lost and Found
Lost and Found
"James T Kirk, by the authority vested in me by Starfleet Command, I hereby arrest you on charges of High Treason against the peoples of Earth and the United Federation of Planets. All rights, duties and privileges as a Starfleet officer are hereby withdrawn. You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say will be recorded and may be used at your trial. Do you have anything to say?"
The huddled figure in the chair shook his head wordlessly.
The pitiless young voice went on, "In that case you will be held in the secure accommodation at this base until such time as a ship can be found to take you to Earth where you will stand trial. Take him away."
As the guards came to lift him to his feet, the prisoner raised his head for the first time since entering the room. "Lieutenant, can you tell me where my ship is?" he said. His voice was husky and he seemed to be having difficulty focusing his eyes.
"You no longer have a ship, and I'm sure as hell not going to tell *you* where any of the fleet are, you treacherous bastard." The young man's professional veneer cracked wide open. The prisoner looked at him gravely and the lieutenant felt an unexpected pang of shame, then the head dropped and the prisoner allowed the guards to hustle him out of the room and down to the cells.
Once there they began to shackle him. Technically physical restraints were illegal but nobody was taking any chances, his ingenuity was legendary. Nobody spoke to him unless they had to, indeed it seemed as though they could scarcely bear to look at him. Until that is, the very last moment, when the humiliating procedure was drawing to an end and the last man in the cell was kneeling before him, checking the locks. Suddenly the man looked round quickly, leaned over and whispered in the prisoner's ear, "The Enterprise is safe."
The bowed head came up at that, looked the guard in the eye and recognised a former shipmate.
A smile of singular sweetness broke over the pale face and then faded as the prisoner rolled over to face the wall and closed his eyes against the clean, bright, sterile light of the high security facility.
He stayed in the cell for a week, eating the food they gave him, taking exercise at the ordained times, submitting to medical examination and psychological testing and talking to no one. He was under constant watch, and seemed to those who guarded him to have withdrawn deep within himself; he did not even react to the myriad tiny but stinging indignities inflicted by the security lieutenant and one or two of the guards who were unable to resist the temptation to let their disgust boil over into harsh words and rough handling.
During his confinement he was not permitted to contact service personnel and wrote only one letter, to his mother, a cheerful message full of hope and reassurance totally at variance with his situation and his obvious despair.
The medical examination showed signs of recent, extensive, physical torture, hurriedly but efficiently treated. However, in the eyes of every man and woman on this frontier base that was no excuse. His and their duty was to die rather than reveal what he had revealed, and when his appearance on the Romulan civilian newsnets and his abject, servile confession to a host of real and imaginary 'crimes' was picked up by Federation relay stations and broadcast the length and breadth of the Galaxy, a once more than respected name became a byword for cowardice and treachery.
There had even been calls for the re-introduction of the death penalty for treason.
His crimes were all the more detestable because of the current, unstable position along the Neutral Zone. Following the first incursion, which had been halted by the Enterprise, scientists had worked day and night to give the Federation an edge against both the plasma weapon and the cloaking device. They had only been partially successful.
There had been enormous improvements in the motion sensors which, together with improved tachyon detection and communications intercept facilities, meant that it was just about possible for highly-skilled personnel to track a cloaked ship and lock the sophisticated weapons targeting computers onto it. Indeed it had even proved possible to adapt the communication sensors to execute this function so that major refits were not required. A crash program of training had then ensured that every communications and science officer in the front line fleet was instructed in the close team-work necessary to use the new equipment.
In addition, Federation scientists working from the sensor readings taken by the Enterprise had also come up with greatly improved shielding for ground-based installations. This had enabled the outposts and the starbases immediately behind them, including 23, to withstand the hit-and-run raids that had followed within a matter of months.
The bad news was that they had not been nearly as successful with ship shielding. Although some improvement could be made, major upgrades were impossible due to the drain on ship's power.
The effectiveness of both these developments depended on absolute secrecy, for once the enemy knew about either they would inevitably improve their own techniques. In the spiralling, tit-for-tat world of military secrets, a few months extra concealment could make the difference between victory and defeat.
Kirk, as a trusted starship captain, had access to all this information and more, and a frightened and angry Starfleet Command had found itself forced to conclude that he had sold those secrets in return for passage back to Federation
territory. Three weeks after his shameful appearance before the Empire, his captors had shipped him over the Neutral Zone to the remote base under a flag of truce.
It was this remoteness which was causing the delay in returning him to Earth. Unless they could put him on one of the big ships, the journey would take months and public opinion was demanding immediate action. Ever mindful of its image, and possibly even more mindful of the forthcoming meeting of the Federation Budgetary Committee, Starfleet decided to dispatch a cruiser.
Which was when they met their first problem.
The order was sent to the Hood, however three hours after receiving it, that ship suffered a sudden and catastrophic warp drive failure. No one was hurt and little serious damage was done but the ship was left with no alternative but to limp into the nearest starbase for repairs.
The second problem was the only available replacement - the Enterprise.
There was consternation at Fleet HQ. The loyalty the traitor inspired in his crew was notorious but, if there was to be a trial before the year's end, there was no other choice and surely no one, no matter how loyal, could wish to help or support a man like that. Even Garth's crew had mutinied in the end when faced with conduct too appalling to be condoned.
In the Briefing Room with the command crew and Doctor McCoy, Spock replayed the orders he had received from Admiral Delgardo, and sat impassively while they listened to the details of the assignment. Delgardo was angry and embarrassed and it lent his tone an unusual and inappropriate severity. "You understand, Commander? You are to treat him as you would any other prisoner and return him to Earth at a speed of not less than Warp 5. I want your word of honour as a Vulcan and a Starfleet officer that you will have him taken straight to the brig."
The Vulcan ignored the stifled cries of protest from the rest of the Bridge crew and listened once more to his own voice saying, "You have it, Sir." Shortly after that, the Admiral signed off.
Before anyone could speak or protest, he turned to the engineer. "Mr Scott, I would be interested to know how you managed to disable the Hood." Mr Scott had threatened to do ... something unspecified, and Spock had misdiagnosed his words as mere hot air, he was conscious that he did not usually underestimate people that badly.
There was an embarrassed harrumping noise, and when Mr Scott finally spoke his accent was more than usually impenetrable. "Ah well, Mr Spock did ye not know Maddie Masterson is now Chief Engineer of th' Hood?"
"No, I did not," said Mr Spock in complete comprehension but he let Mr Scott continue. He had learnt a lot since the Galileo incident and he knew the others needed to understand too.
"A year an a half ago she was one o' my laddies. I only had to ask ... she served under him an' all."
Spock spared half a second to wonder why Mr Scott referred to someone as abundantly feminine as Engineer Masterson as a "laddie" and then, recognising the thought as a symptom of rising hysteria, thrust it aside and asked, "What is the engine status, Mr Scott?"
"You name it - you got it." Was the imprecise but forceful reply.
"In that case Mr Sulu, set course for Starbase 23, Warp 8 - no doubt, Mr Scott, you will inform us if that proves a problem. ETA?"
"Eighteen hours 42.3 minutes." The helmsman had started the calculations the second the Admiral had finished speaking.
"Mr Sulu, you have the Con, I shall be in my quarters. Anybody who feels the need to communicate the news to the staff in their Department has my permission to do so." He got up to leave.
"Mr Spock." As he passed her, Uhura, greatly daring, put her hand on his arm. "You're not really going to turn him over to them, are you?"
"I intend to follow my orders, Lieutenant," he said calmly and with that he left the room.
A bewildered Chekov began a half-hearted complaint about this cold-bloodedness, but Uhura was having none of this. "Pavel," she said gently, "whose orders do you think he was referring to?"
Scott pushed back his chair wearily and levered himself to his feet. "Well, I hope yon Vulcan is more careful with his tongue in front of the crew, they're in an awfu' funny mood." He caught Doctor McCoy's eye and the two older men exchanged a look of understanding; they had both worked hard over the previous weeks to maintain at least a degree of calm aboard; but they both knew that, despite their best endeavours, that calm seemed likely to shatter irretrievably at any moment.
Alone in the heated sanctuary of his quarters, Vulcan fists unclenched and tense shoulders relaxed. At last, an end to waiting. His internal clock continued to keep him accurately informed as to the passing of the days and weeks but the last four months had given him his first insight into the human perception of time as something malleable and plastic, the speed of whose passing distorted according to the events which filled it. The whole horror of those events, from the Captain's disappearance while on a shore visit to the order from Admiral Delgardo, had taken only four months, two weeks and 21.2 hours and yet Spock felt as though he had lived a lifetime during it.
Only McCoy knew that Spock had moved heaven and earth to remain in command of the Enterprise and had then been obliged to do the same all over again to retain his rank. It had taken days of delicate negotiations and political manoeuvring and the ruthless and highly distasteful use of his personal status as a member of one of Vulcan's most prominent families and of his standing as one of the Federation's leading scientists.
Intellectually Spock had found the entire process grindingly difficult, and both men had marvelled again at the Captain's ability to ride the convoluted threads of relationships and statuses which made up Starfleet HQ. It was a skill Kirk was oddly ashamed of, probably because it conflicted with his self-image as a bluff, straight-forward military man, and he hardly ever chose to exercise it; but when he did, and it was always for the sake fof the ship or its crew, he was masterly.
Until recently the word had been that, once you were one of 'Kirk's own', you need never worry about your career again. It had been a status not easily won and all the more prized for it.
McCoy had been first impressed and then deeply worried by Spock's apparently limitless faith that the Captain would return to the Enterprise.
When he had tentatively suggested that Kirk might be dead, Spock had merely said "No" and then refused to discuss the matter further; leaving McCoy unsure whether the Vulcan was giving voice to that most unVulcan of all emotions - hope - or whether he actually knew something nobody else did.
Even the Romulan broadcasts had not appeared to shake his confidence. Unusually for him he had made a point of appearing in the Mess where comments over dinner about the Captain's "resourcefulness" and "skill at what I believe is called 'the big bluff'," had done much to calm the situation.
Back at Starbase 23, the news that the prisoner was to be transported to Earth on the Enterprise provoked the first real reaction from him that anyone had seen since his arrival. He was obviously and completely horrified. Indeed so total was his distress, that the prison authorities sent for a doctor to sedate him, fearing he might do himself some injury. However when the doctor arrived he found the prisoner lying quietly in his usual position with his face to the wall, apparently resigned to whatever came next. His guards noticed that he did not sleep at all that night.
Next day he was given a shower, a shave and a haircut and issued with clean, new, prison fatigues. Then, still in handcuffs, he was taken under guard to the base transporter room where two guards and the security lieutenant were waiting to beam up and formally hand him over to the Enterprise.
During the short conversation with the ship one of the guards saw him lift his head, suddenly alert, at the sound of the measured tones coming from the comms panel but, when the time came to take up position for transport, the head fell once more and the expression became unreadable.
"Energise." The familiar tingle enveloped them all as reality faded out and was reborn.
"Lieutenant Tarsalimo and prisoner requesting permission to come aboard."
"Permission granted." The response came from Giotto, Chief of Security. The prisoner shuddered almost imperceptibly, but he stepped off the platform obediently and stood on one side, waiting patiently.
"I expected to see the C.O. - couldn't bear to be in the same room as him I suppose."
"I couldn't say." Giotto was terse to the point of rudeness. "Where do I sign?"
The formalities were soon over and the security detail left, glad to escape the heated atmosphere they could feel but not decipher. All this time the prisoner stood quietly, only the bunching of the muscles in shoulders and neck and the tightly clenched fists betraying his tension.
"If you will come this way." The gentle words hardly seemed to register until the older man went up to him and touched him lightly on the arm. For a few seconds he didn't move, then he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, lifted his head and, face Vulcan-calm, followed Giotto towards the door.
And then his miracle happened.
As the door swept open he heard the sound of a well-known voice. "Ship's Company 'shun!" and the muffled thud of boots and there, lined up on either side of the corridor, in full dress uniform, the crew of the Starship Enterprise stood to parade attention. On either side of the door the bosuns' whistles sounded in formal acknowledgement of a captain's arrival on board.
He swayed slightly and the voice sounded in his ear. "Just a minute, Sirr, I'll soon have these damn things off ye." Mr Scott in the tartan glory of his clan, wielding a pair of bolt cutters, released him from his shackles. An honour guard from Security formed in front of him and Mr Scott put a tactful hand under his elbow, then they set off down the corridor. As each crew member was passed, they saluted in the rarely-used, old-fashioned, military manner and each of them murmured their own greeting. "Good to have you back, sir." "Welcome home, sir."
As they turned a corner he glanced back and saw the crew racing away and realised that they were running to relieve those on duty so that they too could join the welcome. He pressed a hand to his chest - the pain over his heart was scarcely bearable.
One or two of the crew were openly crying as they stood to attention, and only by working his way through the crew list, ticking off people in his mind as he passed them, was he able to retain his own self-control.
They entered the security section, marched into a cell and then without a break marched straight back out again. A brief smile flickered, he understood perfectly.
He knew his strength was failing fast as they entered the turbolift and swept up to the senior officers' quarters. It
was there that he found those who were closest to him - his yeoman, Christine Chapel, Giotto, who had somehow
found time to change uniforms, the bridge crews DePaul, Kyle, Leslie, Riley, Palmer, Chekov, Sulu, Uhura.
He paused for a moment outside the door to his quarters and passed a wondering hand over the name plate he had thought never to see again, then he went in alone.
They were here as he had known they would be, not stood to attention as the others had been, just waiting for him. He
opened his mouth to speak and they had to run to catch him as he fell.
Vulcan reflexes ensured that Spock won the race.
Gently he lifted the limp and frighteningly light body onto the bed and stood, tense but impassive, while McCoy ran a
scanner over it. The doctor had already reviewed the records sent by the prison authorities and so he was not
surprised by the readings. He looked up at the Vulcan and smiled reassuringly. "Exhaustion and emotional overload -
I'm not even gonna take him down to Sickbay. What he needs is quiet and a friend or two to talk to." He saw the
narrow shoulders relax and watched with some concern as the Vulcan sat down heavily on the bed. *Poor bastard,
easy to forget how hard this has been on him*, he thought and then aloud, "D'ye want me to take the first watch?
There ought to be someone here - if he wakes up alone in his condition he's liable to think we've had second
thoughts."
Spock nodded, unable to speak. He had been
unutterably shocked by the sight of the white-faced figure
who had just come in. He had seen the body relax its
upright stance, the mind its strained hold on consciousness
and both surrender willingly to the dark. Jim, who never
surrendered to anything! He was horrified, both at the sight
and at its effect on himself. If he was to be of any use at all
to his friend, he must regain control, re-erect his shields
against emotion before he sat down in a corner and
wept like a child. McCoy, stronger in this if in nothing else,
patted him on the shoulder. "Off you go then, I'll call you
in six hours."
Spock was turning to go when the man on the bed
opened his eyes and spoke. "Mom?"
"She sends her love, says to tell you she and Peter
never doubted you and they're both looking forward to
seeing you soon."
The eyes drifted shut and then forced themselves
open. "Moira Mitchell, will you check she's OK, please?"
"We'll see to it - don't worry, just go back to sleep."
McCoy was talking gently, in the same voice he had hushed
his infant daughter with in the years before his divorce.
"And please will you turn the lights out - I haven't had
any darkness..." His voice trailed off as Spock dimmed the light
and he slept. They noted silently that every thing he had asked
of them had been phrased as a request not an order. Although
neither man doubted him, they both realised that whatever
had happened to him and whatever they felt about it, James
Kirk no longer considered himself captain.
They went to stand over by the door to talk so they would
not disturb him. "Doctor, who is Moira Mitchell?"
"Gary Mitchell's mother, she's disabled after an attack
of Almatorsi fever, Jim's been supporting her since Gary died."
"Surely he had service insurance?"
"Young bastard hocked it as security for a loan - the
money lender called it in when he died. She thinks she's
getting a 'fleet pension, she doesn't know that if it wasn't
for Jim she'd be destitute."
Spock nodded and thought how typical were both the
act and the reticence. He now had a good idea what had
lured the captain off the base without telling anybody where
he was going, an act that had raised unavoidable suspicion
in several very high places. All it would have taken would have
been an invitation to a meeting with or about Mrs Mitchell
and the captain would have been anxious to avoid
discussing his destination with anybody. Someone, somewhere
had made it their business to get to know Jim very well
indeed and he reflected that it took a particularly ugly
ruthlessness to use a man's most decent instincts to lure
him to his own destruction.
He glanced towards the bed and left the room. Outside
he found Uhura waiting alone, obviously deputised as crew
liaison. He explained the position to her; repeating the
doctor's diagnosis, unaware that his reputation for truthfulness
made his reassurances more valued than McCoy's.
The news spread rapidly though the ship.
Throughout the preceding four months, faith in the captain
had remained surprisingly high. Most of the crew had
served under Kirk long enough to grow accustomed to
the sight of him pulling rabbits from hats and when he had
first disappeared they had all hoped for and even expected
the best. Very few had been prepared to believe the worst
before they had to.
The broadcasts when they came had the effect of
dividing the crew into two, perhaps unexpected, groups;
those who refused to believe the captain a traitor and
those who, having seen the condition he was in, believed
that he might have talked but who nevertheless could
not bring themselves to blame him. Knowing him as
they all did, they realised that only unimaginable horrors
could have reduced him to the state they could see on
their screens and they were prepared to welcome him
back on that basis.
Anyone harbouring darker suspicions kept them
to themselves especially after the lynch mob rhetoric of
the media reached the Enterprise. The resultant backlash
against "civilians", "desk jockeys", "press vultures" and
outsiders in general had generated a fierce, protective
loyalty towards "their" captain. A loyalty that had welded
the crew into a single, focused and rather terrifying unit
that was more than ready to forget recent history and
remember instead their service with him. They all owed
him their lives but for many it was the memory of a
thousand tiny courtesies and examples of consideration
that weighed more heavily upon them and they found
themselves basing loyalty on things as small as an arm
round grieving shoulders, a smile of thanks, an apology
or a letter of reassurance to an injured crewman's
worried parents.
Unaware as yet of the fierce emotions his return
had stirred up, Kirk slept the thin, unrestful, dream-ridden
sleep that had been his portion since the last time he had
occupied the same bed.
Kirk woke early the next morning and lay for a
few seconds luxuriating in the dark, peaceful hum of
his quarters. Then memory crashed over him like a
tidal wave and he rolled over onto his stomach, groaning.
Instantly someone was at the side of his bed and
without thinking he jerked into a foetal huddle,
covering his head with his arms.
"Jim - please!"
Even above the thunderous pounding of his heart
the shocked voice of his friend penetrated, he uncurled
and looked up into Spock's openly appalled face.
He swallowed convulsively. "Sorry - force of habit,"
he said awkwardly and looked away, unable to bear the
sight of the naked emotion he had forced on the Vulcan.
He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the
bed and realised that someone had removed the fatigues
while he slept and that he was wearing only the anonymous,
starfleet issue underwear of T-shirt and shorts, the kind
that was supplied to prisoners and serving crew alike.
He wondered vaguely which of them had had the sensitivity
to realise that he wouldn't want to contaminate his quarters
with tangible reminders of his imprisonment. He shivered
slightly; the memories were not going to be that easy to
deal with.
"I'm going to take a shower - you will be here when
I come out, won't you?" He was unable to look his friend in
the face and so missed the eyes widening in startled
comprehension and heard only the reassuring "Yes".
As soon as the bathroom door closed, Spock moved
to the intercom and softly alerted the doctor who arrived
seconds later. Quickly he explained the situation and watched
as McCoy reacted explosively. "Poor devil, still not sure of
us!" Furious though he was, the doctor still had the presence
of mind to keep to a whisper. He paused in his pacing to
look at the Vulcan. "What are you picking up from him?"
Although primarily a touch telepath, prolonged daily
proximity and a number of actual mind melds had left the
Spock with the ability to sense the captain's general
emotional state. He concentrated, choosing his words
carefully. "Shame, exhaustion, fear and guilt," he said
eventually.
McCoy nodded. "Yeah, that's just about what I
expected. Torture's like rape and that's the classic pathology
of the rape victim - doesn't matter what they did, doesn't
matter how hard they fought, they still feel like collaborators
in their own violation." A sudden horrible thought occurred.
"You don't think..."
Spock did not pretend not to understand. "Possible
but unlikely, given what we know of the Romulans' warrior
code." The Vulcan was stone-faced. "I take it your medical
records.." The doctor's shake of the head cut off the rest of
the sentence, and the two men settled down to wait for
their friend.
In the shower Kirk stood under the pounding water,
temperature and pressure turned up as high as the computer
would allow. Having done his best not to think about
anything important for weeks, he now found that he was
incapable of rational thought at all. The words he'd forced
himself to memorise all those weeks ago trudged through
his brain, an endless, dreary round of names and places
and figures interspersed with nauseating memories of his
own voice pleading for mercy. Wearily he leant forward
and rested his forehead against the tiled wall, hoping to
drown out the noises in his head with the drumming of the
water and the far-off throbbing of the engines.
He stayed under the water so long that McCoy was
starting to fret and when he eventually came out, naked
save for the towel round his waist, a whole new cycle of
anxiety started up. It wasn't just the all too visible rib-cage
or even the extensive scar-tissue, for by now Romulan
medicine was known to be strong on returning a man to
fighting strength and weak on the cosmetic side of
surgery; it was the symbols crudely tattooed into his chest
high on the left shoulder that shocked McCoy to the extent
that, hardened as he was by years of front-line, military
medicine, he had to choke back the vomit. There was
something particularly obscene in the sight of the alien
script, the flaring orange and black colours and the way
the inflamed flesh round the edges glistened in the
subdued light. The medical records had spoken of
"scarring to the chest and abdomen"; there had been
no mention of this mutilation.
Kirk flushed under the scrutiny and turned away
to his clothes locker. Ignoring the drawers containing
uniforms, he rummaged around until he found an old pair
of corduroy pants and a woollen shirt, kept for the laziest
of shore leaves.
Military life, with its shared facilities and communal
living, soon kills off personal modesty; however with increasing
rank, habits of privacy usually tended to re-establish
themselves. There was something curiously pathetic about
the way he neither asked nor expected to be left alone to
dress. Unable to bear the sight of the scars anymore, McCoy,
forgetting all the taboos, took Spock by one surprisingly
tense arm and led him to the opposite end of the cabin and
together they stared at the wall.
Behind them they heard the quiet sounds of dressing
and then the thud of a dropped shoe and a muffled, "I can't do
this." The strain in his voice seemed grossly disproportionate
to the difficulty disclosed when they turned to find him sitting
on his bed, struggling with the laces of a pair of old shoes.
Gracefully the Vulcan came over, knelt at his feet, and
put his hand over the trembling fingers. "You don't have to,"
he said gently as he dealt deftly with the fastening.
McCoy looked over his shoulder and understood
something, there was no easy way to ask this but he had
to know. "Your motor control is damaged, isn't it?"
"Yes." The close-cropped head remained bent,
revealing a ring of scars running right round the bone-white
neck.
Swiftly McCoy ran his scanner over him, how much
else had the Base medic missed? He examined the
readings and sighed with relief. "Never mind, the damage
isn't irreparable. You come down to Sickbay and I'll have
you sorted out in a couple of hours, we'll deal with that
godawful tattoo thing at the same time."
"No!" The voice was low but definite.
"It's only a coupla minor operations.."
"No! No more operations!"
The scanner in McCoy's hand began to read
massive increases in blood pressure and adrenalin
and, in a sudden flare of horror, he understood. "They
didn't give you any anaesthetic did they?" he whispered.
Kirk shook his head and then forced himself to lift
it so he could apologise to his friend face to face. "I'm
sorry about the reaction, Bones. I know it'd be different
with you but you're not allowed to treat me. My body is
part of the evidence for my trial."
The extent and vehemence of the doctor's
cursing brought the first smile they had seen to the tired
face, and for a moment they had a glimpse of the vital,
living man they had known before. Spock raised an
eyebrow and essayed a contribution to lightening the
mood. "Really, Doctor, I don't suppose Starfleet Command
knows where a Falactrian bandit keeps its hoard and I
fail to see how demanding they insert themselves in it
could possibly help."
The pale face looked up at them both and smiled
slightly and then the eyes filled with tears. McCoy, who
had been waiting for this since Kirk's arrival on board,
cheerfully abandoned 40-odd years of conditioning on
the acceptability of physical contact between men and,
sitting on the bed, hauled his friend into his arms.
After a split second's hesitation Spock, who was
still sitting on his heels at Kirk's feet, knelt upright and
put his arms round both of them. Sandwiched between
his two friends, his face buried in someone's shoulder;
James Kirk wept as though his heart would break.
Not quietly, as the despairing weep, but with a sort
of noisy misery that spoke of great pain and of a strong
mind still struggling to understand what had happened
to it.
When he had finished, the doctor produced a real
silk handkerchief from up his sleeve and Kirk blew his nose
and wiped his eyes. "I can't imagine why women think
this such a good idea," he said, real amusement in his
voice for the first time. "I feel terrible."
"Well, in my medical opinion, you look a whole lot
more like yourself and less like the zombie-walking-death
that came aboard yesterday," retorted the doctor, giddy
with relief. "You hungry?"
"Yes." He was surprised. "Hell, that's a first. I haven't
felt hungry since they grabbed me." He was talking to the
doctor but his eyes were on the Vulcan, who had dropped
back to sit on his heels, his face impassive save for the
pulse beating in his forehead.
"What'll you have?"
"Anything but combat rations." His eyes were still on
Spock. "They wouldn't give me anything else on 23, and I've
had enough reconstituted protein and high energy biscuit
to last a lifetime - if they ever call a war I'm taking a lunch
pail."
McCoy laughed delightedly and bustled away to the
intercom to order a meal. Kirk leaned forward. "I'm sorry
about that, Spock," he said quietly. "How much of it did you
take on board?"
"Very little - after the first thirty-five seconds I found
it intolerable and was obliged to choose between shielding
my mind against it and moving away."
Kirk eyed him narrowly and then relaxed at the
candour of the gaze that met his. "I thought I could feel you
mentally standing back. S'okay, I was relieved - I wasn't
sure what downloading four and a half months of grief in
a few minutes would do to you. It's bad enough for me and
I'm used to emotional loads. I don't think I could bear it if
I forced you to take it on as well."
Spock looked down quizzically as he got back to
his feet, touched by Kirk's familiar, and frequently
exasperating, willingness to deal with another's hurts
before his own. Remembering the previous night's request
he said, "About Mrs Mitchell, as of three weeks ago she
was in excellent health, indeed there has been a 4%
increase in circulatory efficiency and her doctors believe
that it may be possible to operate and give her at least
assisted mobility."
Kirk stared at him open-mouthed then threw up
his hands. "That's it - I give up! You are without doubt
an absolute miracle - how the hell did you find that out
all the way out here?"
"I checked your messages, I hope you do not
object - there was one from Mrs Mitchell dated three
weeks ago. She gave you her news and assured you of
her support."
Kirk smiled his thanks to them both as McCoy
came back bearing a tray loaded with the sort of
breakfast he didn't usually let anybody eat in peace.
They took chairs and watched in satisfaction as he sat
down at his desk and tucked in.
Cautiously Spock tried a little morale boosting.
"Jim, I strongly recommend that you read your mail,
there are many messages of support you would no doubt
find encouraging." He still found human humour difficult but
he knew that it was based at least in part upon incongruity
so he continued, "I must confess that some of the senders
are a little unexpected. They include Mother Horta and,
almost more surprisingly, Ambassador Fox."
It must have worked because Kirk swallowed a
mouthful of toast and grinned. "I bet that's the first time those
two have appeared in the same sentence! Mother Horta?"
"Yes, apparently thanks to her contact with the miners
she has become greatly addicted to the newsnets and now
that her children are doing most of the work, she has plenty
of time in which to indulge this regrettable weakness.
According to the mining manager who sent her message,
she states that she does not believe a word of any of it
because you are far too - I believe the word she used was
endoskeletal."
Kirk laughed, an oddly rusty noise. "Endoskeletal?" he
said."I've been called a lot of things in my time but that's a
new one - anyone know what it means?"
"It means she thinks you've got too much backbone
to have done what you're accused of," said the doctor.
Kirk's smile faded. "Pity to spoil the poor creature's
illusions," he said lightly, then shoved his plate aside. "Sorry
Bones, I can't eat any more." He grabbed and retained the
coffee mug as the doctor whisked the tray away and drank
deep, filling his senses with the unaccustomed richness.
After months of mere nutrition without taste, the flavour
of the coffee seemed to be made up of many different
layers and nuances, complex and wonderful. He looked
up to see them watching him. "I was just thinking how much
we take for granted. Even the ship's coffee tastes good."
"Captain," began Spock but was interrupted at once.
"Not 'captain'. They've taken that from me and I've
got to get used to it." His voice was light but firm. "Tell
everyone to call me Jim. I'd like that, nobody has called
me that since I was... taken."
"Jim then." Spock took a deep breath. "I would like
to apologise for yesterday's detour by way of the cells, I
trust you did not find it too distressing."
"No, I wasn't upset. Made you promise to glasshouse
me did they?"
"Indeed. I was quite prepared to .... override that
promise however Mr Scott and Doctor McCoy insisted that
you would 'appreciate the joke'."
Kirk smiled, savouring the complex web of loyalties
involved. Spock had been prepared to break his word but
neither McCoy nor Scotty had been prepared to let him, and
both of them had trusted their former captain enough to know
that he wouldn't want it to happen either. "They were right -
besides after that welcome how could I possibly object to
anything. Did you organise it?"
Unable to keep quiet any longer, McCoy intervened.
"Nobody organised it, it just sorta grew in the last few hours
before we got to 23. Started with Security givin' their boots
an extra shine and snowballed from there."
"So how come they sent the Enterprise to get me?
I was expecting just about any other ship." He watched in
some amusement as McCoy and Spock shared a look of
uneasy complicity.
Spock looked at the wall over Kirk's head and
began, "The original intention was to send the Hood,
however that ship had ... problems so the Enterprise was
given the order instead."
"What sort of problems?"
"Engineering problems."
"Ah." Kirk too remembered Engineer Masterson
and decided against further enquiries. He yawned hugely.
"Sorry, I've only just got up and I'm ready for bed again."
"Wanna rest?"
"No, not yet - let's talk." McCoy opened his mouth
to speak but was cut off. "No, not about that, I can't - not
yet anyway. Tell me about the ship."
Spock had been wondering how long it would take
him to ask about the ship. The question of command was
going to be difficult. Jim had never before had to deal with
its permanent loss and his reaction, judging by the business
at Gamma Hydra IV, might be violent, still there was no
point in trying to hide the true position. "I am in command
of the Enterprise at this time," he said and watched in
some surprise as Kirk blew out his breath in a vast gust of
relief.
"Thank heaven for that! What with the welcome
committee and you still having only two stripes up I had
visions of some poor captain, bound and gagged and
stuffed in a store-room somewhere. Why haven't they
promoted you?" His pleasure and interest were both
obvious and sincere.
"As you know I have no wish to command,
however Starfleet appear to be labouring under the
misconception that I can be persuaded to take up such
a position," Spock said blandly.
Kirk eyed him, unfooled. "Played Halberson off
against Fitzpatrick did you?"
McCoy was incredulous. "How the hell did you know
that?"
Kirk shrugged. "It was the logical thing to do," he
said with a certain dawning mischief in his voice. "Halberson
wants the ship for that protege of his and Fitzpatrick wants
anything except what Halberson wants - they both have
the power to make the decision or to stop someone else
making it. Spock would be the ideal interim candidate for
both of them while they rally their power-bases."
Spock had the unaccustomed sensation of being
out-thought; it had taken him three days of delicate
manoeuvring and inquiries to come to the same conclusion.
Kirk leaned forward, gathering their attention into
one narrow focus. "Spock I want you to keep the ship. Accept
the promotion and captain her. You can do it, however little
you think you can, and you are the only person I can entrust
her to."
Spock looked at him, his heart sinking. Kirk had
obviously lost all hope. Hope was often illogical but for this
human it was essential and it was gone. Only in that extremity
would Kirk be prepared to hand over the ship that was more
to him than his own life.
He thought of his own plans. He had no desire to
continue in the service if Kirk were forced to leave it,
having once known the balance and ease of such a
relationship he knew he was unwilling to serve without
it. He had been alone before and he did not relish a
further experience of it, especially not aboard the
Enterprise, especially as he knew that McCoy, that most
loyal of men, had also decided to quit the service if Jim
were convicted.
He had acknowledged the unVulcan illogic of the
reaction weeks ago, but found himself both unable to
suppress it and unwilling even to try. This double self-betrayal
had occupied his meditation period for several days before
he had been obliged to set it aside as a paradox, an
equation without resolution. It was his duty to stay and
yet he would go.
He had resolved to resign his commission and take
up residence and whatever research work was available
near whatever prison or rehab. colony Starfleet consigned
his T'hy'la to. He could and would offer such comfort and
support as the law and his friend's stubborn pride would
allow, but he knew that he was utterly unable to remain
aboard the Enterprise alone.
He looked into the earnest face opposite and
found himself incapable of giving the assurance that was
demanded of him but equally unable to refuse. "We will
speak of this another time," he said and hurriedly continued,
leaving no time for interruption. "As for the ship's status -
we are currently skirting the Neutral Zone on course for
Earth at warp 5. ETA 3 weeks 4 days ll.3 hours, the ship
is in excellent condition and all personnel are functioning
to within 94% of maximum efficiency ratings."
Kirk opened his mouth to argue and then thought better
of it. Who was he to insist? The time when he could issue
orders was gone. He cast around for another topic of
conversation.
"Look, I noticed yesterday you have the same crew
complement we had before I disappeared, we were due a
crew rotation two months back - what happened?"
Spock was conscious of an odd sensation, part
regret and part relief. If Kirk had been able to notice that in
the condition he had been in yesterday, then the habit of
command was by no means broken, somewhere deep
inside the old responsibilities still tugged at him. No doubt
this residue of captaincy would make relinquishing
command harder but at least it meant that there were
enough of the basic building blocks of his character left
for him to rebuild himself and his life.
He thought back to the mass refusal to leave the
ship until its captain's fate was known and phrased his
answer carefully. "No rotation was necessary, 17 people
re-enlisted, 12 people refused promotion and/or
re-posting, 28 people refused to take accumulated home
leave and 2 cases of Fasothla Swamp Disease were
accidentally recorded in the Medical Log as influenza,
thereby avoiding the compulsory shore convalescence laid
down for that illness. There were therefore no crew
vacancies to be filled."
Kirk's eyes were shining: this was like all his birthdays
come at once, so much trust, so much love. "What about the
4 from the lower decks who were due to take late entry to
the Academy last month?" he said sternly.
"Ah yes, most unfortunate. It appears that the entire
pre-Academy training group contracted chicken pox and had
to be quarantined. Their entry has therefore been postponed
until next year."
Kirk flung his head back and gave voice to the laugh that
had been building. "Chicken pox! What the devil is chicken
pox?" he yelled in delight.
"It is of course more Doctor McCoy's province than
mine, but I understand it is an ancient Terran disease
hitherto believed extinct." Kirk laughed again and half way
through the laugh became a yawn. "Jim, perhaps you should
consider resting further."
"OK Spock, I'll just have another shower and then I'll
have a nap." He caught sight of McCoy and wagged a finger
at him. "And you can take that psycho-analytical expression
off your face, Bones! Being clean is another thing I've taken
for granted, that's all."
McCoy was unconvinced. "Will you be OK on your
own?"
"Oh yes." His voice was firm but the eyes had a
strange look in them. "In fact I think that was one of the worst
things, nobody ever left me alone." He shook himself and laid
a hand on both their shoulders, urging them towards the door,
"Now off you go - I'll see you when you come off watch."
They let themselves be persuaded. McCoy however had
the morale of the rest of the ship to worry about. "Jim, are you
up to seeing some of the others tonight? They're all real
worried about you..."
"Yeah sure. I'd like that, but not too many and.... tell
them no captain-stuff."
They left him and outside turned to look at one another.
McCoy spoke first, he was never sure how accurate the
Vulcan's diagnoses of emotion were and he was anxious
that there be no misunderstanding. "He appears to be
coping with it but he's still hurting."
"That is to be expected, under the circumstances."
Spock understood only to well. The thirty-five seconds of
mental contact he had endured had almost overwhelmed
him. He had picked up virtually nothing of the ordeal itself
probably because, even in his extremity, Kirk had sought
to protect the telepath he called T'hy'la. It would have been
both cruel and unseemly to probe further; however the
torrential flood of shame and self-loathing had been
unmistakable. Normally the insights gained in the meld
were sacrosanct, but he was conscious of his own
lack of experience in the healing of emotions and
decided to confide in Jim's other, nearest friend.
He looked down the corridor checking for the
presence of other ears than McCoy's. "The Captain,"
out here he had no intention of calling him by any other
name, "is a man of conscience." He put his hand up to
halt the doctor's explosive interruption. "He is also a
man for whom it is imperative to act in accordance with
that conscience. At this time he believes he has
failed us, the ship, the crew, the service, the Federation
and himself. The memory of his tribulation burdens him
little in comparison with that."
McCoy blinked, startled at his perception. Spock
was right; Jim was a man who constantly felt the need
to question his own actions and motives. The belief that
he had behaved wrongly in a matter that so nearly
touched his personal honour would be intolerable
to him - quite apart from the question of any military
secrets. He nodded and the two men separated,
each lost in his own thoughts.
