fortune'sfavouredchild-partthree

Fortune's Favoured Child - Part Three

McCoy recoiled and at the same moment the transporter effect

seized him and within minutes he found himself back in the

pirates' apology for a sickbay. Training kicked in and he found

himself tending to the wounded and dying almost automatically,

while most of his mind compulsively played and replayed the

sight and sound of hatred in the mouth of a man he had thought

his friend. As he sweated over the injured bodies of his enemies,

almost the worst thing about his situation was the conviction

that he deserved that hatred.

Back in the cell there was a moment's startled silence as the

doctor disappeared, broken by Kirk demanding to know what

had happened to his bottle. He eventually spotted its broken

pieces on the floor and looked round at them, obviously

calculating his chances of getting one of them to bring him a

replacement. Rightly assessing them at zero, he rolled off the bunk

to land, swaying, broken glass crunching under his boots. "Whoo,

'm drunker than I thought I was," he said thickly and set off on

an unsteady course towards the replicator.

Half way there he stopped, paled and put a hand to his stomach.

"I think I'm going to..." and it was Scott who, recognising the

symptoms, reacted with instinctive sympathy and dragged him

into the head where he was horribly and noisily sick.

A few minutes later they came back out. Scott helped him onto

one of the lower bunks, returned to the facilities, produced a

wetted cloth and gently wiped his Captain's face. Kirk smiled up

at him, a pallid reflection of his normal flashing grin, and patted

the side of the engineer's face.

"Thanks, Scotty," he said softly.

"You shouldnae drink that stuff, Jim." Scott was all gruff concern.

"Ye'll only make ye'self ill."

He half-expected Kirk to react with the same angry contempt he

had shown everyone else but he did not. He looked up into the

worried face bent over him and sighed. "I know Scotty," he said

tiredly, "but I'm like the man in the song, 'I'm weary with the

huntin' and fain would lie doon' - I've just got to get the noises in

my head to shut up the hell up." And with that he rolled away

from them all to face the wall.

The feeling of helplessness grew. There were several people

amongst them who had the skill to take over the ship if only

they could escape from their prison; unfortunately none of them

were Doctor McCoy, the only person who was actually allowed out.

At Mr Spock's suggestion they started to make a knockout gas

from ingredients provided by the replicator. If McCoy was

returned to them, he could release the gas next time he called on

to treat the injured. The plan was foiled when the completed gas

bomb and a makeshift respirator they had cobbled together were

both transported away. As they disappeared, the only sound that

could be heard over the characteristic buzz of a Klingon

transporter was that of Mr Scott, swearing lustily.

"What the hell did you expect?" Kirk had rolled back to face them.

"Just because they're pirates doesn't mean they're stupid - you're

supposed to be Starfleet's finest, of course they'll be keeping an

eye on you." He shook his head, an ugly sneer painted all over the

usually handsome face. "Do I have to do all your thinking for

you?"

He looked appalling, his undershirt was stained with vomit and his

face, which had been pale and strained before any of this had

happened, was bleached an unearthly grey by the fierce overhead

lighting and the after-effects of the drink.

All this was bad enough, but perhaps the worst thing was the

expression in his eyes, a sort of hollowness, a complete lack of

the conscience and consideration for others which were among

his greatest assets as captain.

Seated on one of the bunks, Uhura suddenly realised

who Kirk reminded her of; it was his own mirror image from the

alternate universe. She had only ever seen their counterparts on

log tapes but the same callous anger had blazed in the same hazel

eyes she saw on the other side of their cell. She shivered despite

the suffocating heat, suddenly she felt very cold.

Kirk dropped onto his back with a snort of disgust and Stone,

who had invested far too much hope in the gas bomb, lost his

temper entirely. In two strides he stood beside Kirk's bunk,

dragging him out by his undershirt, raising his fist to smash the

insolent face that jeered up at him.

Spock reacted quickly, grabbing the raised fist before the blow

could land as Kirk lay unresisting, half on, half off the bunk,

suspended from Stone's fistful of shirt.

Kirk was laughing as he flung his arms wide. "Go on hit me," he

taunted. "You know you want to, I deserve it, c'mon hit me,

let's all be degraded together."

Repulsed by the knowing leer almost as much as by the

knowledge of what he had nearly done, Stone let go of the

stained shirt and turned away, fighting for calm.

Kirk had fallen out of the bunk and lay on the floor, still laughing

weakly. Although Ensign Malik had tried to clean up the broken

glass, he must have missed a piece because a pool of livid, red

blood began to form behind Kirk's left shoulder, and it was

probably fortunate that it was at this moment that Doctor

McCoy was returned to them.

It was obvious to McCoy that the situation had worsened in his

absence but he could not allow himself to react to that. "Is

nobody going to help him up?" he demanded and was unpleasantly

surprised when only Spock came forward. Swiftly they heaved

their friend back on to a bunk and eased him out of his

bloodstained shirt, so that McCoy could tend to the deep cut over

the shoulder-blade and the smashed mess he had made of his

right hand.

When McCoy had finished, Kirk shrugged back into the sodden

T-shirt and McCoy ran his scanner over him, desperately looking

for some physical reason, some poison, some virus, some

evidence of mind control - hell anything to explain the change in

him.

"It doesn't show up on a medscanner, y'know." The vomiting had

sobered him slightly but his anger was unabated.

"What doesn't?"

"O.F.T.A.A."

McCoy blinked, he'd never heard of....

"Because that's what ails me Doctor, O.F.T.A.A. One fucking

thing after another." He wiped his foul-tasting mouth on the back

of his hand. "You know what really pisses me off? I had it all

under control, I had it all held tight and battened down." He held

out a clenched fist, the nails digging into his palm. "All that pain

and all that loss and all that dying and d'you know what finally

finished me ? That godawful song."

McCoy winced as Kirk looked through them, his eyes huge and

unseeing. "It was playing in a shop as we walked past," he said

softly. "She took my hand and said, 'Whatever it is - let me help'."

He swallowed hard and looked at them. "Don't you remember?"

and he began to sing the old tune Calcroft had sung aboard the cutter.

Good Night Sweetheart, tho' I'm not beside you

Good Night Sweetheart, still my love will guide you

Dreams enfold you, in each one I'll hold you

Good Night Sweetheart .....

His voice broke before he could finish the sweet, silly, trivial little

song and, when he spoke again, the harshness seemed all the

uglier for the contrast with his singing.

"Strange how potent cheap music is," he quoted savagely.

"Whassamatter? Didn't you know I could sing? Well, I can't - not

sober anyway. Good ol' George saw to that. He didn't want a

fucking choirboy for a son, nosiree! Good ol' George wanted a

son in his own image - a plain talking, hard-fighting, two-fisted,

foul-mouthed, narrow-minded, emotionally-crippled sonovabitch."

He laughed, a grating, mirthless noise. "And lo and behold, that's

exactly what he got. Ironic isn't it - I've hated him all my life and

now I find out I've turned into him behind my own back."

McCoy had no idea what to say to all this. He couldn't think,

things were happening too fast, there was too much to take in.

He had always thought of Jim as one of Fortune's favoured

children; a man who had strolled through life, his way made easy

by all the gifts that fate had bestowed on him with such a

generous hand. The magnitude of his mistake shook his

fast-dwindling faith in their friendship still further. "Jim, I ...

You're not ..."

Kirk shot off the bunk and grabbed the Doctor by the front of his

tunic. "I loved her and I killed her - what sort of man does that

dry-eyed? I buried my only brother and couldn't cry for him -

what does that make me?" He shook McCoy roughly. "Now do

you see why there's nothing left? Now do you see why I'm

running away?"

The horrible thing, thought McCoy, was that he did understand.

He couldn't blame Jim for refusing to take up any more burdens,

heaven knew he'd carried a hell of a lot for a hell of a long time

- but despite that understanding he found himself still clinging to

the hope that, somehow, Jim would come through for them yet

again.

Something of this must have shown in his face because Kirk

pushed him aside with a weary obscenity and, helping himself

to another bottle of liquor, swung himself up onto an upper berth.

Uhura, watching from her seat on the floor at the other side of the

cell, thought how odd it was that the physical grace of his body

had remained even while his personality seemed to be

disintegrating.

Kirk drank deep and after a few minutes began to sing again. His

self-proclaimed inability to hold a tune in a magnetic bottle had

been a standing joke aboard the Enterprise, even though nobody

could actually remember having heard him sing, so the mere

existence of this true, sweet, slightly husky tenor was another

shock, especially to the musicians amongst them.

Uhura in particular found it difficult to conceive of anything which

would make somebody deny that he could sing as well as this, and

she realised she didn't want to know what George Kirk had done

to his son that had made him do so.

McCoy was finding it difficult to think at all, the song kept

tangling itself in his thoughts, distracting him. He didn't recognise

it but the frequently repeated and maddeningly memorable chorus

soon burnt itself into his brain and after a few repetitions he

found it impossible to forget.

"I call upon Thee,

Hear Thou my call

Come Strong Deliverer,

Lord of us all."

He joined the others in an angry huddle at the far end of the cell.

"Can't anybody think of something we can do? I'm no engineer

but even I can tell things are getting worse out there. The lighting

has failed on some of the decks and I think air recyc. went out for

a few minutes - they were running round like idiots, cussing up

a storm before they got it to run again." He glanced over at Kirk.

"We might all die in this godforsaken rat trap and he lies there

singing hymns."

Uhura leaned over and gripped his arm. "That's not a Terran

hymn," she said softly. "That's the Rigellian 'Hledaif Taifamni' -

'The Song of They Who Were Defeated'." Her hand tightened.

"Doctor, the 'Strong Deliverer' is death."

He stared at her, appalled, as guilt rose in a huge, black tide and

swallowed him whole. *Oh god, how much of this is my fault?*

Kirk was a strong man, McCoy had seen him cope with trauma

and loss before. *Could he have coped if I'd....* He stumbled away

from them to one of the bunks and hid his face in his hands.

The rest of them took up seats on the floor or on bunks as far

from Kirk as they could and Spock finally worked out the

emotional dynamics of their situation. Because the prisoners could

not see their jailers, because they had no way to fight back and no

way they could escape, all the hatred and frustration they were

feeling were being transferred to the Captain who made the perfect

scapegoat - visible, available and, in his current condition,

all-too-easy to hate.

He glanced up to where Kirk sat, dominating the room by position

and sheer force of personality and wondered what he would do

next? He accessed the secondary memory level and reviewed the

incident to date. He himself had escaped relatively lightly from

the Captain's hostility, and although Kirk's freedom to chose his

"victim" would no doubt be constrained by the reactions of their

fellow prisoners, it seemed likely that Spock himself would be

soon be a target. He adjusted his shields appropriately.

Hendricks leaned forwards. "What does he mean - he loved her

and he killed her?" Spock looked warily at McCoy but to his

surprise the Doctor nodded his consent.

"Tell him Spock, the last thing we need in this situation is secrets

between us all." So Spock outlined the essentials of the terrible

history of the woman who had to die so that history could regain

its proper course.

They all thought he had pitched his voice low enough so that it

would not carry as far as Kirk but he must have miscalculated

because, as the story ended, Kirk called out from his bunk,

"You missed out all the good bits, Spock."

"Captain?" Courteous, enquiring, they might still have been on

the Bridge of the Enterprise.

"She was a good woman, Spock. She was generous and gifted

and full of hope for the future and I never told her how right she

was. I never told her who I was, she never even called me by my

first name." His voice was rising, the words tumbling over each

other. "I lived in that ugly room, in that ugly house in that ugly

time for three weeks knowing she was going to die, knowing I

had to let it happen, knowing I had to hope that I could make it

happen so that billions of people could live their lives as they were

meant to."

"I had to meet her every day and pretend nothing was wrong. I

'courted' her, like a man of her own time because she was entitled

to that happiness at least and I had to listen to her make plans for

a future that neither of us would know. I lied to her constantly

and consistently with all the skill I could muster and when the time

came I killed her AND SHE KNEW IT! The last words were

shouted and his head began to thrash from side to side as though

he were trying physically to shake the memories away. Galvanised

by that much distress, McCoy forgot the threats and the warnings

and, grabbing his hypo, made to thrust his friend into

unconsciousness.

Kirk recoiled, scrambling up the bunk away from him. "Keep off," he

shouted. "Do you *want* me to hurt you?" And at that moment

McCoy was transported away from them again.

Uhura sat on the floor, her back to the wall, her eyes burning, pity

like a cold stone in her chest. She was remembering the look in

Kirk's eyes as he reappeared on the Guardian planet, a terrible

expression compounded of stunned horror and bitter self-loathing

as he stood, meeting nobody's gaze, seeming to look inwards

at something that gave him no satisfaction and immense pain.

Now it all made sense and, for one brief, selfish moment, she wished

with all her heart that she did not know.

Ensign Malik on the other hand was angrier than he could ever

remember being in his entire life. It was difficult to recall that,

only a few days ago, he'd actually thought himself lucky to be

getting a chance to speak to the famous Captain Kirk and the

crew of the Enterprise. He'd even let himself daydream that

maybe, just maybe, if he impressed Kirk with his attention to duty

and his willingness to learn, there might even be an outside

chance of a transfer to the Enterprise.

All that had vanished as though it had never existed, leaving

nothing but hatred and the chill fear of death. He was only 21, he

was on his first deep space mission and, although intellectually he

had known that he might die in space, with all the unconscious

arrogance of youth he had never truly thought it would happen to

him. Oh he'd had fantasies, the same fantasies every cadet had -

the glorious death, the heroic rescue, the last stand; but not this

- never this - this mean, squalid, terrifying helplessness.

Kirk caught his eye and the look cut like a knife. It seemed to the

ensign as though his every thought, fear and failing had been

instantly read and known and despised.

"Not what you expected is it, sonny?" Said Kirk with patently

insincere compassion, "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori -

is that what you want?" He began to sing, exaggerating the

diction, parodying the sentiment, making a genuinely affecting

song a ridiculous caricature of itself.

"I carried my sword willingly, I held our banner high

I marched into the darkness, I was not afraid to die

For because our cause was righteous I'd be lifted to the sky

Where I'd see victory lighting up the mo-orning

Where I'd see victory lighting up the day."

"Well, it isn't like that, sonny. The truth is, life is full of

pointless death and painful dying, you just found out earlier than

most people, that's all."

Ensign Malik looked at the drink-sodden husk of a man he'd once

admired and his hatred was even fiercer than his fear.

Kirk looked at the ensign, at the painfully young face, its dark

skin flushed with anger and he swore foully. He began to sing

again and this time his voice was raucous and aggressive. The

song was 'Dead Men's Boots' the most famous soldiers' song to

come out of the Centauri city wars.

"We all marched out at dawn

To the sound of drum and horn

The lies they told us ringing in our ears

By the time the night had come

You couldn't hear the drum

For the screaming and the sound of women's tears.

O Mother dear, I don't want to be a soldier

I'm tired of the dying

And the sound of grown men crying.

O Mother dear, I don't want to be soldier

So I'm going to sit here drinking

Until this bar is dry."

Kirk's voice rang out, loud, confident and full of a rage that was

frightening in its intensity. The slight huskiness disappeared as he

sang and his voice filled the cell making it impossible to think

constructively or hold a conversation without shouting and

gradually they all fell silent.

When McCoy reappeared half an hour later, exhausted and

distressed by the death of one of his patients, he found Kirk still

singing. He suspected that only the nasty look in the Captain's eyes,

and the fact that the bladed scalpel was tucked into the top of his

boot, prevented his shipmates from physically shutting him up. The

hatred in the cell was so intense he could almost taste it. He

wandered over to where Spock sat.

"Do you have anything to report, Doctor?"

He shrugged, not knowing where to start. "It's bad out there

Spock. My last patient was a knife wound. They're starting to

fight amongst themselves. It's like the mirror universe, they're

fighting for power, and now they're in such a mess, allegiances

are breaking down and people are starting to jockey for position."

He dropped down on the bunk next to the Vulcan and shook

his head. "I can't understand how anyone can live like that."

Kirk stopped singing. "Oh, I can, Doctor. At least that way you

only have yourself to look out for. I'm just beginning to realise how

much freedom comes from not giving a damn about anyone

else." He smiled dangerously. "In fact, in survival terms one might

even call it logical." Spock refused to rise to the bait.

"And of course there are other reasons." He looked at Uhura

and for the first time ever she was afraid of him. She had always

known that he found her attractive, just as she had always

known that he would never do anything about it, but this frankly

appraising look spoke of an entirely different man, one who might

just have grown tired of denying himself what he wanted.

Kirk looked over at Spock and the anger that was so close to the

surface boiled over. "Stop looking at me like that, you smug

Vulcan bastard! You think you're so fucking superior, don't you?

While the rest of us sweat and thrash around in the muck and mess

of life you just sail right over the top and heaven help any poor devil

who goes under when you're around, because you won't lift a finger to

help, will you?" Hazel eyes caught and held the Vulcan's. "Did you?"

He rolled up into a sitting position and sat, poised and predatory,

on the edge of the bunk. "Come on, Commander, you could see I

was in trouble. What stopped you? Afraid of getting your hands

dirty or still ashamed of feeling friendship for me?"

Spock stared at him, horrified by the sudden realisation that for

Kirk any help, no matter how clumsy, would have been better

than the silence and privacy that had been his only offering. He

had persuaded himself that human grief was best dealt with by

other humans, and that his own reluctance to involve himself

directly was merely a recognition of that fact; a truly contemptible

lie for his real motive had been much less worthy. He forced

himself to recognise that motive for what it was - fear, fear of

emotion, both his friend's and his own.

He bowed his head. "You are correct," he said softly. "I ask

pardon."

"Too late," said Kirk and there was an ice-cold triumph in his

voice. Spock dropped his head still lower until his face was

hidden, a gesture so nakedly emotional he might just as well have

wept in front of them.

This last exchange broke McCoy's fragile hold on hope. Kirk

had paraded his best friend's closely guarded feelings before their

friends and their enemies, a thing he had thought not even torture

could make him do. Truly they were all lost now.

Even the strangers seemed to realise the enormity of what had

happened. Stone looked up at him, contempt written all over his

face. "My one consolation in all this, Kirk, is that you'll never set

foot on another starship."

Kirk lifted his eyes from Spock's bent head and the Commodore

flinched. "Teddy, Teddy, Teddy! You still don't get it, do you? I

don't want to - I've had enough. If we ever reach a Federation port

you won't see me for plasma. I can be out of sight in ten minutes

and untraceable within an hour. That's one of the advantages of

a childhood in the gutter, you know where to find the gutter rats."

He tilted his head and looked at Stone, judging him and finding him

wanting. "C'mon Teddy, you've always thought I was a jumped-up

boy wonder, all flash and no foundations. Admit it, you're just a

leettle bit glad you've been proved right."

Stone flared up, the accuracy of the comment almost as stinging

as the contempt in Kirk's voice. "Don't attribute your drunken

fantasies to me."

Kirk's gaze, hot and malignant, swept through the cell. "Oh

Teddy," he said reproachfully. "You don't think I don't know

exactly what you're all thinking, do you? I can read the lot of you

like a book: McCoy's wondering how much of this is his fault;

Uhura is worried about showing fear; Riccordi is worried about

his immortal soul; Schneider is worried about his girl; Calcroft's

thinking 'like father - like son'; little Malik's still young enough to

think it'd be easier if he was dying *for* something and Hendricks

thinks it'd be easier to die fighting. Spock over there is trying

to persuade himself that he doesn't feel anything at all and

Mr Scott... "A distinctly dangerous look came into his eyes.

"Mr Scott is wondering if the fact that I can jury-rig a replicator

means that I could also jury-rig the engines."

Scott stared at him aghast. *Surely he wasn't going to ... *

Kirk patted his hands together lightly, in a familiar gesture that

seemed obscenely out of place. "Well, let me see now. Lighting

failures, no warp drive, intermittent life support outages but the

tractor and transporter are still working, I'd say what we've got

here is problems with the secondary power couplings, probably

in the A/N circuits." Suddenly he flung back his head and shouted,

"And if you want any more - transport me out. Quick - before the

odour of sanctity in here makes me puke."

"Shut up ye fool!" Infuriated by this betrayal, Scott jumped up

from his bunk just as they all heard the hum of the transporter and

Kirk vanished.

There was dead silence until Stone spoke.

"Can he fix the engines?"

Nobody answered at first; they were all too stunned. "I've never

seen anybody do that to a replicator," said Riccordi eventually,

"and he did say he was an Engineering major."

McCoy shrugged. "I thought he majored in History." He had

thought he knew Kirk; now he didn't know what the hell he knew.

Spock had retired to sit on his heels on the floor, apparently

meditating, but he raised his head at this. "Double major, Doctor,"

he said. Malik blinked, he hadn't even known that was possible.

Scott whistled. "Well, that explains how he knew about the cold

start for the warp drive. It's no what you'd call common knowledge

outside engineering circles."

"Can he fix the engines?" Stone insisted.

Scott was not about to confirm Kirk's shockingly accurate

diagnosis, so he smothered the retort that almost escaped him and

answered reasonably, "That depends on what's wrong wi' 'em."

*How the hell had this man ever made commodore?* However

they all deserved to know at least part of the truth. "But if he did

study engineering there's an awfu' lot of things he could fix and

a lot more he could try that'll get us all blown tae smithereens."

Nobody spoke after that - there was nothing more to be said.

They all knew the only reason they had been brought aboard was

that the pirates had hoped one of them would do what Kirk had

just done, turn traitor and fix the engines. Apart from McCoy, the

pirates had no need of the rest of them and, as soon as the engines

were repaired, they would be disposed of, probably straight into

space.

They sat and waited. Twice the lights flickered and went out

briefly. After about ten minutes the silence deepened as the air

circulation cut out.

Uhura wanted to say goodbye to her shipmates but dare not. If

she spoke at all she knew she would break down completely so

she sat, arms folded, shivering slightly. Engineer Riccordi

produced a set of rosary beads from round his neck and got

down on his knees in a corner, after almost three years of

serving with him Calcroft hadn't known he was Catholic,

something she realised Kirk had picked up in less than a week.

Suddenly, after about twenty minutes, Spock and Scott lifted

their heads at the same moment and looked at one another. "The

warp drive has just been fired," said Spock. Nobody else could

feel anything but nobody doubted them.

Scott shook his head sadly. "I never thought he'd do it." His eyes

met Engineer Riccordi's and he smiled, tiredly. "Say one for me,

lad." They sat for long minutes in silence then Scott got to his

feet, went over to Uhura and kissed her cheek. "Goodbye lassie,

it's been a pleasure knowing ye." He turned towards McCoy,

holding out a hand and at that moment they felt the familiar tingle

of transportation. This was it.

They rematerialised in a transporter room they did not recognise,

manned by somebody they most certainly did.

He smiled at them, the huge, familiar, unclouded grin apparently

unaffected by a split lip and incipient black eye which combined

to give him a distinctly rakish look. The makeshift respirator

dangled round his neck. "Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum,

anybody?" he enquired blandly.

They all stared at him blankly for what seemed like an age, and

then someone lauged in delight and they surged off the transporter

pads towards him, swept forward by shock and somewhat

hysterical relief. Relief not only at their rescue, but also at the

fact that it was Kirk who had rescued them, a familiar pattern

restored, their original faith in him vindicated.

As they crowded round him, shaking his hand and slapping him

on the back, the old relationships reasserted themselves effortlessly,

and they abandoned their recent hatred of him thankfully and

completely. The universe had regained its familiar shape - it had

all been another trick, a role performed with consummate skill, a lie.

Only McCoy stood apart, clutching at the transporter console as

the room seemed to tilt and sway. Kirk, looking over Stone's

shoulder, saw McCoy go white and pushed his way quickly through

them all to where the doctor stood.

"Jim, I'm so sorry!" He was shaking now and close to tears and he

wasn't even sure what he was apologising for, the mistake with the

cordrazine, the way he had failed his friend afterwards or the way

he had fallen for the trick in the cell.

Whatever it was, it did not seem to matter because Kirk simply

grabbed him by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eye.

"It doesn't matter, Bones" he said firmly, shaking him gently.

"None of that matters now. It's all over." And McCoy looked

straight back at him and saw that it was.

When they turned back to their shipmates, both a little

embarrassed, Stone asked the 64,000 credit question. "Where

are the pirates?"

Kirk shrugged modestly, his eyes dancing. "In the Brig, where

else? They had a perfectly good gas bomb just going to waste.

It seemed a shame not to use it."

He nudged McCoy. "You'd better go look at your patients, Bones.

I tried to isolate Sickbay but the circuits on this ship make a plate

of spaghetti look coherent."

"All right, all right, I'm going, but I want to see you down there

sometime in the next hour." McCoy scowled at his friend, trying

unsuccessfully to hide an enormous grin. "And don't give me any

of that 'I'm fine' crap, I've seen the readout on that moonshine,

you haven't. Besides you've gone and messed up your blasted

hand again."

They all looked at the bruised and bleeding knuckles and Kirk

shrugged again. "One of them didn't mind the gas - I had to slug

him." He made shooing movements. "Come along people we've

got a ship to secure. Scotty, you and Riccordi better go check

what I've done to the engines. Uhura will you see if you can get

the comms rig working, please, the Bridge is down there," he

pointed. "Mr Spock, if you would care to accompany her, I'm

sure Commander Calcroft and the Commodore would like to see

if their ship is still with us. I couldn't get the sensors to show me

a damn thing, but no doubt a few kind words from you and the

computer will be eating out of your hand."

Mr Spock, recognising a feed when he heard one, obligingly

provided the punchline. "I sincerely trust it will do no such thing,

Captain."

They all scattered happily, leaving Kirk, the redshirts

and a frankly adoring Ensign Malik to check through the ship for

stragglers, wounded and something decent to eat.

Although it normally took a tractor beam and six strong men to

drag him down to Sickbay for treatment, Kirk turned up more or

less on time and let McCoy fuss over him, accepting the de-tox

shot, and for once rather enjoying the familiar grumbling as the

Doctor bent over his injured hand. "I sometimes wonder why

the hell I bother treating you - this is the second time I've had to

do this today. If you can't remember all that fancy, unarmed

combat they taught you at the Academy, the least you could do

is remember to throw a left once in a while."

Kirk grinned and then winced, as the cut in his lip re-opened. "I'll

try to bear it in mind."

"Here, let me have a look at that." Gentle hands tilted his face up

to the light. "It's nothing, I'll seal it so it doesn't keep splitting

open. That shiner's better left alone 'til we get somewhere with

better facilities." He worked for a moment in silence.

"Co' on 'ones, ou' i i."

"What?" MCoy finished and started to put his instruments away,

suddenly shy, unwilling to jeopardise this new/old rapport.

"I said 'come on Bones, out with it'."

When McCoy turned back, he saw Kirk looking at him with

amused affection. "Did you really have to hit him, Jim?" he said.

The smile faded. "Yes." It was his only real regret about the whole

business. He had needed something to distress all three of them

before the 'performance' began; he just wished he'd had time to

think of something else. "Is he all right? I mean I didn't do any

real damage, did I?"

McCoy shook his head. "Take more'n your dainty little fist to

make a permanent dent in that Vulcan hide." He paused and then

made himself continue. "It's not his outside that worries me."

Kirk got to his feet, pulling faces to test the sealing. "Don't worry,

I'll talk to him." He bent down and looked up into the downcast

face from below, forcing a reluctant smile with the warmth of his

own. "I will talk to him but you needn't worry, he understands."

MCoy nodded, willing to accept that Kirk was the expert where

Spock was concerned. He summoned up his courage. "We're

going to have to talk too. You know that, don't you?"

Kirk smiled and patted him on the shoulder. "Yes, I know -- but

not now, Bones. We're *both* too tired right now. When we get

to Memory Alpha. We'll sort it all out there." MCoy looked at him,

still tired but still labouring for them all. Then, because

Jim's word had always been good, he let him go.

He wasn't naive enough to think that his friend had got over his

grief. Grief like that was a long, long journey, but at least the

deadlock had been broken; partly by the mere fact of action,

Kirk was always at his best when something difficult was

required of him and partly, McCoy thought, by the catharsis

of the performance. Kirk had obviously released a lot of

emotional steam in that cell and, although his journey would

still be long and hard, at least he was on the right track now.

*And if he thinks he's ever going to keep his troubles to himself

in future, he's in for a nasty shock"* thought McCoy, as he went

to check on his (distinctly ungrateful) patients.

The Commodore's cutter was still in tow and it made sense for

Stone and his crew to go back to their own ship and for the

Enterprise crew to take the Orion ship on to base. Stone left in a

flurry of congratulations and a promise to nominate Kirk for an

actor's award in the Tri-V Oscars.

"You certainly had me fooled - if it hadn't been for Mr Spock I

think I'd have broken your neck," he said, with what Kirk

privately felt was rather too much enthusiasm.

The Commodore disappeared back to his own ship, and Kirk left

the Transporter Room, Spock in his usual position behind his

right shoulder. "I still say he thinks I'm a jumped-up boy wonder,"

he said ruefully.

"I agree."

Kirk stopped dead and shot Spock a sideways look as the Vulcan

came up beside him. It was a familiar expression, the mock-scowl

that said Kirk knew he was being teased but was willing to play

along. Part of Spock escaped his formidable controls and rejoiced.

"It's no use smirking at me, Spock. I'm not going to ask you whether

you're agreeing with my assessment of Stone or with his of me."

Spock lifted an offended eye-brow. "Vulcans never smirk," he said

repressively and for once let himself feel the ripple of pleasure as

Kirk threw back his head and laughed.

They stood for a moment, enjoying the sensation of life returning

to normal, then Kirk leaned over and brushed Spock's shoulder

with his own, the lightest of touches, his need to express his

affection pared down to a level acceptable to Vulcan sensibilities.

"I really am sorry about what I said back there," he said quietly.

Spook shook his head. "There is no need for apologies, Jim. You

did nothing that was not necessary. Even if I had been distressed,

it would be most illogical of me to complain about that which saved

all our lives."

"You know that wasn't entirely why I did it."

Spock smiled, although his face did not move. He wondered how

many beings would insist on accepting blame for their motives

as well as their actions. "I know," he said.

Kirk looked at him narrowly and after a few seconds nodded,

apparently satisfied.

"And you, Jim. Are you all right now?"

The manifest sincerity of the question demanded and received an

honest answer. "No," said Kirk. "No, I'm not." He rubbed at his eyes

tiredly, and for a second the burden he bore was written plainly on his

face. Then he smiled slightly and shrugged. "But I will be -- or at

least as all right as anyone gets round here."

He glanced towards the bridge. "Look, Spock, don't be surprised if

some of the others are less forgiving that you were. I said some

pretty nasty things in that cell - at the moment they're all too

relieved to remember. Once the relief wears off, things might get

a little tense. Just bear with them, okay?"

He half expected Spock to make some crack about the illogicality

of human responses, but the Vulcan merely nodded, and Kirk

gestured down the corridor. "Come along Mr Spock," he said.

"We've got a ship to run."

It was several hours before they all had time to discuss what had

happened, hours during which repairs were consolidated, meals

eaten, injured treated and rest periods taken but eventually the

Enterprise officers gathered on the pirate Bridge, the only

undamaged room big enough to hold them all, for a combination

de-brief and celebration picnic.

Hendricks and Schneider were watching the pirates, both the

injured in their beds and the uninjured in the Brig. Constant

vigilance was necessary, not so much to prevent escape, but to

prevent them killing each other.

Kirk appeared to be more or less back to normal, the familiar

bounce in his step had reappeared, along with an apparently

inexhaustible supply of truly terrible Long John Silver jokes. He

sat in the Orion captain's chair, looking tired but calm, eating an

enormous sandwich and drinking a much refined version of

'human intoxicant'; a liquid which tasted remarkably like red wine

and which, he suspected, Mr Scott had concocted solely to prove

that, anything the Captain could do, the Engineer could do better.

Uhura was perched on the edge of the enormous weapons console

that dominated the room, eating a mallasia fruit with a spoon.

"I have to hand it to you, sir, that was an extraordinary performance."

He shrugged as he finished his sandwich and licked the sauce off

his fingers. "Not really, I've got more than my fair share of

self-pity I just cranked it up and let it run." He glanced over at

Spock. "I'm afraid some of it turned out nastier than I expected."

He thought back to the apology he had made earlier. There had been

something oddly formal about the exchange, as though the

apology and Spock's grave acceptance were part of an ancient

ritual. A ritual whose participants continued to execute the old

rites even though their original purpose was long forgotten.

He remembered the other times he had been forced to bruise

his friend's supposedly non-existent feelings. Each time he had

made his apologies, and each time Spock had insisted on his own

lack of resentment. The difference was that this time Kirk

believed him, perhaps he was finally beginning to understand his

Vulcan friend.

For the first time he was sure, not only that Spock understood

why he had acted as he had, but also that his understanding of

itself precluded resentment. There had been no choice and

therefore resentment would be not only deplorably emotional

but also illogical.. Spock had feelings and those feelings could be

hurt, but not like this, not by doing something so necessary.

Briefly he wondered at the strength of his own conviction and

then set the question aside with a mental shrug - some things were

too precious to question, better just to live with them and thank

your deity that you could.

He grinned at Uhura. "Good thing it didn't last any longer - I was

running out of miserable songs."

Mr Scott, however, was struggling with his conscience. He

suspected that the Captain would not want him to reveal what

he knew but he could not let them all live in this fools' paradise.

If his suspicions were correct, they ought to be told what had

been done for them.

He looked up from his glass. "Aye but that's no the whole story,

is it Captain?" Kirk looked at him warily. "We'd not been free more

than a few minutes when Hendricks asked me to have a look at

the surveillance equipment in the Brig. The transporter sensors

were working but nothing much else was, video was faint

an' intermittent and there was no audio at all. By the look of

things it'd bin that way for months. Don't worry, I've fixed it now,

no one will ever know that there was no way those pirates could

have heard what you was up to. Which leaves me wondering how

the bloody hell, begging your pardon, you did manage to

communicate wi 'em."

Kirk scrubbed a hand over his face, he had hoped to avoid this

particular explanation. He looked down into his glass and took a

deep breath. "It's quite simple, one of the pirates was an empath.

Mr Spock felt the first contact while we were still aboard the cutter

and, while he could screen what he allowed the empath to pick up,

the rest of us couldn't. Luckily she was an empath not a telepath,

so she couldn't pick up what we were thinking but emotions,

especially big, noisy, violent ones, she could read like a viewscreen

- so I gave her a bellyful. That's why I had to get so nasty, the

pirates weren't listening to our words they were tapping into our

feelings. You had to hate me, you genuinely had to believe that I

might join them; once you all believed it the empath believed it

too." He spread his hands in a familiar 'there you are' gesture,

willing them to let the matter rest.

But they couldn't. The magnitude of the performance had begun

to dawn on them. He'd deliberately set out to hurt them. He knew

their weak spots and he had played on them like a master

musician; McCoy's guilt, Uhura's fears, Stone's resentment,

Scott's horror at the prostitution of engineering skills, the red

shirts' trust in their Captain, even Spock's unVulcan love for his

friend. He'd attacked each one of them at their weakest point and

for a moment Uhura was chilled by the ruthlessness of it all. Even

comparative strangers like the cutter's crew had been expertly

dissected and used.

It explained so much - the alcohol consumed deliberately as a

depressant, the singing, because music would amplify emotions,

his and theirs, and most of all it explained why he had revealed so

much of himself. All the ugly details they had been so glad to

accept as fictions must all be true, and he had poured salt into

wounds already raw, desperate to maintain a steady stream of his

own pain and alienation to feed the empath. Her anger died as

she realised that, if he had been ruthless with them, he had been

a thousand times more ruthless with himself.

She glanced over at Spock, he had been part of it all too. During

all that time in the Brig he must have been revealing at least some

of his emotions to the empath, a deeply repugnant action to any

Vulcan; but what was more, and what must have been even harder

for him, he had been forced to help his friend deliberately hurt

himself. She looked at both men and saw their continuing ease

with one another and wondered how many friendships held that

much trust and mutual understanding.

McCoy too had been thinking. "Just a minute, just a damn minute

here," he said, fear as usual making him angry. "If our emotions

had to be real, so did yours," he stared at his friend, appalled.

"My god, Jim. Just how true was all that?"

Kirk sat back so that his face was hidden by the soft shadows of

the Bridge and looked at them.

These were his friends, the best friends a man could ever have.

They would not think any less of him if he confessed to a few

human 'weaknesses'; to grief; to regret; to a loneliness sometimes

so intense it threatened to crush him; to a whole raft of incoherent

fears and angers and resentments which he had thrown onto the

great bonfire of his rage and grief, deliberately stoking the flames

until the heat of the blaze had convinced the empath. It had been

a dangerous game, control had been impossible for fear of detection

by the empath, and he wondered if even Spock realised how close

his Captain had come to being consumed by the flames himself.

It would have *so* easy to let go.

He looked down at his bruised knuckles and realised that, even

now, he could not bring himself to share any of this. He knew

that he would be a happier man, perhaps even a better man, if he

could but he could not. There was a long pause and when he

looked up his grin was crooked, his eyes as impenetrable as any

Vulcan's. He shrugged. "It was as true as it needed to be,

Doctor," he said quietly. "As true as it needed to be."

THE END

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