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Chapter Text

          “Humans beings have characteristics just as an inanimate object do. It is impossible for Captain Kirk to act out of panic or malice.
           It is not in his nature."

          “In your opinion.”

          “In my opinion.”

                                                                       Court Martial, episode 15, Star Trek

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                                 **EMERGENCY MESSAGE**

                               STARFLEET COMMAND TRANSMISSION

                               CODE AND SCRAMBLE

MEMO START//

SECURITY BREACH: CODE ONE.

AUTHORIZATION: SPENCER, Dawson W./Rank: Admiral.

Highest SF Security recognition.

SUBJECT: Abduction of SF officer; whereabouts unknown.

RANK: Captain

ASSIGNMENT: NCC-1701.Enterprise. KIRK,J(ames) T(iberius).

ABDUCTED stardate 9444.19.1

LOCATION CODE: xb7066+a.X.

POSSIBLE ABDUCTORS: neutral zone mercenaries: Pacifica Coalition/antimilitary movement; Orion citizens w/slave trade conxs.

DEFECTION/AWOL unlikely.

Description follows. Retinal scan and positive ID follows.

DNA markers follow. KIRK.JT. description enhancement complete.

PRIORITY ONE: Must locate. Abduction considered life-threatening.

SFC Complete. MEMO END//

                                               STARFLEET OUT

****

PART I

Everyone he had come in contact with, even the strangers, warned him not to pursue this dangerous course of action. If Captain James Kirk had been kidnapped by Orion slavers, he was probably already dead, they said. Don't try to find him in Holetown or you’ll be dead, too. They'll slit your throat for your watch or your wallet or to hear you cry out when they do it. They'll kill you for nothing. For the thrill. For fun.

Holetown was the one place on Dunbar's Planet to trade your body for drugs. Your body, or someone else's. The place to go to die. Oh, maybe not today, especially if there was any chance you’d be back with money. But eventually. They would get you, hook you, clean you out. You'd enjoy it for a while. But nobody who went in, came out.

Or came out the same.

First Officer Spock had hired numerous informants and paid them handsomely to track the men who had kidnapped James Kirk. The financial stakes for them had been so high, that piece by piece, the trail had fallen into place, until the Vulcan possessed the name of a star system, a planet, a continent, a city, a sector, a square block, an address, a description.

It had been just over a week since Kirk, a reluctant diplomat, had disappeared in the midst of the rebellion on Cyberia Omega 11, in the middle of disorganized Federation peace talks disrupted by well-informed Orion saboteurs. And Starfleet Command had sent out an army of security forces to find him, to no avail.

But they had not known where to look, had looked in places where a high-ranking officer might be stashed for ransom, easy comfortable places like hotels, cabins, homes, or ships. But Spock had seen the damage the Orions had done to the underground rebels, seen the torture and rape and burning, had heard the rampant rumors of slave trade money infiltrating the planet's politics, and he had known not to look for the captain in the easier places, that Orions would not sell him from a place where he might keep his dignity. There would be no ransom demand. He would be sold. Like any common commodity. The captain of the Enterprise was in mortal danger from barbarous people who did not know his worth. Spock felt the danger to Kirk in his bones.

But Starfleet operations would not grind to a halt at the loss of one man. Starfleet Command had insisted that the Enterprise carry out its original orders to remove Cyberian rebellion survivors to the Rigel colonies without delay, with one major capitulation: Montgomery Scott could organize the rescue mission as acting captain.

First Officer Spock had been allowed to beam down to Vilroy VI—local name Dunbar's Planet—alone, where he had carefully laid out his plans, rented a ground vehicle and a room for them to hole up in, and stocked the room with food and clothes. Though Spock knew the doctor was desperate to go along, Leonard McCoy could only give him a medical kit with the hypos calibrated to James Kirk’s settings and then remain aboard the ship. If the Vulcan found Kirk, the ship would come back for them in two days. If he didn't find Kirk, then what the ship did didn't matter.

The longer Spock waited, the lower the chances of finding Kirk alive or salvageable. He could not wait.

****

At dusk in a rented ground vehicle, Spock cruised slowly through the dingy streets of Holetown, like the typical alien looking for a fix or cheap sex with a stranger. On the streets, prostitutes—of many galactic sexes—noticed him right away, approaching the car or beckoning, one by one, as he passed. But his eyes were on the doors of the buildings. There were no numbers, few signs. He had only been told the general area and to look for a faded blue door with a red light, and a seven-foot green Linxion ex-marine bouncer. He would have to pay to get inside. Or force his way in. He didn't care which.

He parked and got out two blocks away and walked. He was not in uniform, but wore a dark, common shirt and trousers and an old leather coat and boots. He had shaved his pointed sideburns but not his face and tousled his hair to add to the disguise. As a result, he still looked better than the people on the street, but not by much. He saw the door, the red light, and couldn't miss the seven-foot Linxion. He could smell the drugs in the air—a combination of burning almonds and rubber tires.

A man jostled him as he walked and he felt his pocket being picked. He reached back, took the man's wrist, twisted it and retrieved his communicator. The man fell away with a cry. Spock surveyed the door; it was narrow and almost closed. He couldn't tell if people were waiting to get in or unable to get out, but there was a stringy group who loitered at the entrance. As he stepped up and tried to pass, a green-taloned hand closed around his bicep.   

"You, man, looking for . . . what?” the bouncer growled.  His question was thick with the heavy syrup of an off-world accent.

“I’ll know it when I see it.” But Spock lied.

Not what, who.

The iron grip turned him slightly. The police never came to Holetown, but this man was an off-world stranger—Rom maybe?, no, Vulcan—not the usual humanoid scumball or addict cruising for a quick buzz and a quicker fuck. "You don't find it here, I say.”

Spock palmed the man a 500-credit chip, "I believe that I will. If not, you can refund my money.”

The man's sneer lessened. He pocketed the wafer and muttered, "No weapons here." He tried to frisk Spock, but Spock moved aside. The idea that there were no weapons in this place was absurd, and oddly the bouncer, perhaps already familiar with Vulcan resoluteness or simple reputation, did not pursue him. Also oddly, Spock was not armed, this place too unpredictable for high-powered Federation phasers. There must be no accidents, no chance for tragedy if he found James Kirk here.

Spock entered the dim hallway, stepping over bodies passed out on the floor. There was music from many unknown sources, nearly without melody, mostly the harsh thrubbing of bass that vibrated through his feet. His nose was assaulted by a rank odor as he moved through the dimness, a mixture of urine, the acrid smoke or cooked, hard drugs, and vomit. He forced his stomach to be still. There were rooms off the hallway, and as he passed, he could see people in them, some staggering, some on the floor, couples copulating while others watched, most so intoxicated they could hardly move.

He passed at least ten rooms off the hallway and, stopping at each one, was amazed that some of the people actually attempted to party, attempted to dance. Most of the dancers only stumbled about and spilled their drinks before launching into the crackle of harsh, joyless laughter. He stopped by each room and watched for a moment, scanning the groups within, noticing that the deeper he went into the sanctum, the rougher the sounds, the thicker the smoke, the worse the smells, the harder it was to control his fears.

Sometimes for a moment someone would watch him suspiciously, and once a half-dressed, wild-haired woman approached him, her fleshy arms snaking around his waist. She said something that he did not understand, but her intention was clear when she popped the end of a vial under his nose with one-handed dexterity, then offered him a snort from a bottle as a drug blast chaser with the other. He shook her off and she did not follow him, but only laughed and staggered away, muttering both incongruent terms of endearment and obscenities.

At the end of the hallway, he turned a corner into a much larger, darker room, with high concrete walls and a few wooden tables and chairs. His heartbeat sped up involuntarily and he forced himself to steady it. If Jim were in here, he was probably half asphyxiated from the smoke. Someone screamed. Whether from pleasure or pain Spock wasn't sure. It was a ghastly sound, like a dog howling, only it wasn't a dog. There were more screams in the dark. He stumbled over someone and adjusted his eyes to the dimness.  Half-naked couples, mixed sexes, same sexes, writhed or crawled across the floor like bundled snakes. He could feel the sexual tension, smell the hot mixture of sweat and human release.

A bright, white-hot spotlight at the far end of the room pulled him through the crowd and he stumbled toward it. There was something going on in the light. People were standing around, watching. He could see the wide back of a muscular human with shaved blond hair in a brown leather vest hunched over. Over someone.

Spock moved past the spectators, and as he moved he could hear the talking ebb, hear the quiet settling in, hear the grunting that lay under all the talk. People moved aside for him; they nodded as if suspecting his intentions but were too self-absorbed to care. The man in leather sensed the change and looked over his shoulder; then he looked back down.

Spock saw bare thighs kneeling between the standing man's legs. Now he could see that the vested man, pants loosened from his body, thrust his pelvis slowly, an undulating ugly rhythm that did not stop even at the arrival of the stranger. Spock took three steps sideways and finally saw what the man was doing.

He froze.

James Kirk's bloody arms were pulled over his head, a rusty chain attached to his wrists thrown over a crossbar to hold him upright on his knees. He was naked, unable to rise, yet trying in vain to squirm away. The man in leather stood over him, one hand in his hair, forcing his sweat-wet head back, his beaten face up. Spock could hear the gagging, half-strangled noises that Kirk made and see shock in the enormity of his eyes.

Spock stepped across the source of the light, and his thin shadow fell like a slammed door across the man. For the first time, the thrusting stopped. The man grinned down at his victim. A tremor ran the length of his sturdy body.

“He’s not for sale till I’m done.”

The strength of command swept out from Spock’s voice. “Step away from him.”

Spock saw the man start a slow, knowing smile and heard him end with a raw, abusive response: “Fuck you, stranger.”

As Spock took a step forward, the man, with irritation, slowly released the head he was holding, hitched up his pants and turned.  There was annoyance, nothing more, in his eyes.  He put his whole body into backhanding Spock with his fist, but the blow bounced off the Vulcan’s cheek as if he were wearing a helmet.  In response, Spock reached out, grabbed the leather vest with both fists, and hurled the man five meters across the room.  The big man hit the cement wall with a buckling thud. The crowd, suddenly conscious, oohed in wonder, and stepped away from Spock.

Returning to Kirk, Spock unsnapped the two hooks and pulled hard at the chains. While metal ends whipped from the rafter and chains crashed and rattled to the floor, Spock bent low at the waist as Kirk leaned instinctively into the Vulcan’s body for protection. Then Spock straightened, looked around for a blanket or coat, tossed off two naked bodies that were passed out on a filthy piece of cloth, and draped the rag loosely over the huddled man.

Behind him, he could hear the sounds of the man in leather collecting himself, a growl deep in his throat. The noise of the crowd changed to sudden alarm.  Spock looked over his shoulder. He could see the glint of a serrated blade shining in the light. Then there were more knives as three burly verdant-hued men moved behind the man in brown leather, who angrily waved them off. The glint of the extra blades disappeared. Spock turned around, leaving Kirk on the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jim trying to move away, struggling to move, to stand, failing.  Ignoring his plight for now, Spock focused only on the adversary before him.

With a scream, the enraged man charged at a full run, but Spock merely stood there waiting.  As the man reached him, the Vulcan knocked the knife away and, without a sound, shoved the man all the way back to the wall, his right arm slamming across the man’s chest.  Instantly, the man’s fingers came around his neck, but Spock’s hands surged up under arms, knocking them away. In one swift movement, he took the man’s head in his hands and over-rotated it towards the wall.  The entire crowd heard the neck snap. When Spock released the body, it slid down the wall, in slow motion—a stricken, surprised look in the dead man’s blue eyes—before it toppled face down on the filthy floor.

Other toughs had wanted to try their hands at the stranger, but at the big man’s utter defeat, they melted into the darkness, disappearing among the half-drugged clientele. A canted eyebrow rose and fell quickly. Friends of Jim’s assailant? the Vulcan wondered. Yet the concept of friendship seemed utterly foreign here.

When Spock turned back to James Kirk, he wondered at the wide-eyed, horrified look on the captain’s face, wondered if its source was the degradation of this place or the murder he had just witnessed.  Focusing on his one task, he scooped Kirk up and walked out of that ghastly room, through the crowd that parted for them, past the small, dank rooms, and down the hallway. At the far end of the hall, he could see the bouncer’s wide green body, all dura-hide and metal studs.  Of course, before he got by, the huge man stepped across the door, blocking it.

“I know man Dost have what you want for, maybe,” he confided to the stranger.  He spat on the floor. “You killed him.” It was no accusation. “Too quick.”  Lifting the edge of the blanket with one green talon, he glanced at Kirk; then he stepped aside.

“Haf-t’ousand freddies.  Much to pay for a boy.”

In surprise, Spock looked down at the limp body that he carried in his arms like a child; in the dimness, Jim did look like a boy. Nodding to the bouncer who let them pass, he only said quietly, “Sir, I believe you are mistaken.”

As Spock took Kirk out into the chilly night, the cold air felt biting in its suddenness. They were being followed by a trio of men but he wasn’t sure if they came out of curiosity or malevolence.  He walked quickly to the rented vehicle, opened the back, and laid Kirk’s limp body across the seat. Before stepping behind the controls, he looked up at the open sky.  He could see stars.  He took a deep lungful of fresh damp air, but he could still smell the rankness of that place from which he had just rescued the captain.

And he would continue to smell it for several days.

Chapter Text

The apartment Spock had acquired was miles from appropriately named Holetown, in a rundown area of Shwa City, the district capital of the even more rundown district.

Without daring to program their location coordinates, he was forced to operate the rented vehicle manually. He drove as fast as he could without incurring too much attention to the vehicle or jostling Jim with the turns.  He considered whether anyone was following them.  He had committed murder back there.  Would the killing appear in tomorrow’s news, or would no one report the crime and Mister Dost simply have disappeared from the midst of an indifferent clientele who bought people for torture and liked to watch?

And what of Dost’s friends, operatives perhaps who would avenge his death? Or had the group who followed them to the car been Orion profiteers who would track them down to recover a “hot” property in order to resell it and double their profit? Spock didn’t care.  All he had to do was protect James Kirk for another 26 hours and then they would be beamed off this despicable planet and safe. 

Spock heard a rustling in the back seat behind him and felt a touch at his shoulder.  The captain was sitting up or trying to. His words were thick as though his mouth was stuffed with cotton.

“ . . . where are we?”

“We are still on Dunbar’s Planet, in Shwa City.  I am taking you to a safe place.”

The fingers clutched his shoulder now. “ . . . the ship?”

“On orders to provide relief and transportation of displaced persons to Rigel. The Enterprise will return for us tomorrow.”

The pressure lessened as Kirk settled down again. The car made a quick right turn, then a left. Spock heard his name again.

“. . . slow down, please,” came a muffled request “. . . you’ll get us both . . . killed.”

The speedometer had climbed to 25.76 over the lawful limit. Spock slowed the vehicle, allowing his grip on the control lever to relax.

“Yes, Captain,” he answered meekly. He knew they would be there soon.

****

The apartment Spock had rented for three days was located in the rear of the shabby complex, and he carried James Kirk up two flights of stairs under cover of darkness and the late hour into the rooms. There was a bedroom and bath, a kitchenette, and a living room, all appointed with serviceable if nondescript furniture.  A sliding glass door led to a small outside balcony with a high railing and one chair.

Spock felt a sense of urgency as he carried Jim into the bedroom and laid him down on the double bed, the man in his arms, limp and nearly gray.  He whipped off his coat and threw it across the room at a chair.  He removed the filthy blanket from across Jim’s chest and then threw it out onto the balcony to be disposed of in the morning.  He grabbed the left side of the bed spread and pulled it around Kirk’s body, for warmth and modesty; it would be as filthy as the blanket he had just thrown out soon enough.

Touching Jim’s throat, he found the ragged pulse.  Relieved, he took a long deep breath.  For the first time in twenty-four hours, he allowed himself to feel a fleeting moment of safety, that things were under control.  Before he could help the captain further, he quickly needed to assess his own status. Doctor McCoy had evoked a promise from him that he would do that.

He stood up, went into the bathroom, and emptied his bladder; then he walked from the bedroom into the kitchen and filled a glass with water from the faucet, draining the glass with one motion. He felt guilty that he was taking so much time for himself, steeling himself for the next task.  He returned to the bathroom, dampened a face cloth, returned to the bedroom, and sat down on the edge of the bed. James Kirk had not moved.

From next to the pulsing tricorder on the nightstand, Spock took McCoy’s medikit and opened it.  He was unprepared for the illogical feelings that washed over him: he missed McCoy to the depth of his soul and would have given an arm to have the doctor there beside him. He felt inadequate even though McCoy, anticipating the worst, had given him detailed instructions on emergency medical treatment for Jim.

Slowly, per McCoy’s instructions, he ran the tiny scanner completely over Jim’s body. Though McCoy would have been able to determine the finer chemical and physiological points from the scanner, Jim’s heart and lung activity barely registered within the lowest limits.  Spock saw evidence of a dangerous chemical imbalance in his bloodstream from the forced ingestion of the debilitating drugs.  His blood pressure was abnormally low.  Spock squinted at the readings.  There was no immediate internal hemorrhaging—Spock’s greatest fear—or it had ceased, but there was almost no doubt that Jim had sustain a considerable concussion.

Spock put down the scanner and touched Jim’s forehead.  His human skin normally slightly warm to the Vulcan touch, felt alarmingly icy, and he recognized the tell-tale signs of shock.  Methodically, he broke out two vials—inflammation reducer for the concussion and a double dose of anti-shock—and popped them one by one into the hypo sprayer.  He injected Krik’s forearm, and then he set the hypo down and waited for a change. Nothing happened but an easing of the breath, an ever-so-slight warming of the skin. Enough for now. He sighed. Next McCoy had instructed him to inspect the captain’s body in detail for broken bones, external wounds, and internal swelling.

For the first time, he really looked at Jim’s body, and for an instant, Spock allowed the rage that he had not allowed himself, even upon first seeing Jim’s assault, to build. He turned his face away and closed his eyes. But this was no time for rage; he put it aside.

Jim’s face was battered, his upper and lower lips split, his left eye purple from a vertical tear that bisected the brow, both cheeks cut at the highest part of the bone, another cut at the hairline.  Spock saw more marks along the throat, bruises four fingers’ width apart. He aligned the head and neck and gently wiped the area around the eye, holding the torn skin together with his thumb and index finger.  He used the laser suture to close the wound. The repair came out a little jagged—perhaps his hands had trembled—but McCoy could perform a cosmetic fix later.  When the eye was clean, Spock lifted the lid and saw a dark red-black hemorrhage that leaked from the edge of the iris across the white of the eye.  That too would have to wait for McCoy’s steady hand.

He pulled the bedspread back to expose Jim’s chest and shoulder; he ran the scanner over Jim’s upper body but put it aside when his own eyes discovered two distended ribs, obviously broken. He felt the ribs and used the bone knitter to mend them. Continuing, he took Jim’s right arm in his hands and felt the muscles near the shoulder, rotated the elbow, moved down the forearm, and stopped at the red-washed wrists, still oozing blood. He skipped over the wrists to the hand and felt each swollen finger, examining each knuckle and nail. Then he started at the top of the left shoulder and repeated the procedure. When he arrived at the other hand, there were two dislocated fingers that he pulled and popped back into place. He nearly jumped when Jim groaned.

His inspection moved down the body, but all the scanner found were darker bruises on Jim’s thighs and calves and the insteps of his feet. Jim’s knees were rubbed raw, but Spock did not want to consider how. Along with the broken ribs, there were broken foot bones that he set. Then he forced himself to inspect the genital area, which was smeared with sweat and dirt and dried brown blood. McCoy had given him exact instructions, which he followed to the letter. He could feel his heart revving up, but he calmly steadied the pounding in order to proceed.

Gently, he turned the captain on his side.  The bruises on his back were massive, purple and blue. When Spock’s eyes fell to his buttocks his breath caught in his chest.  He could see the crude marks of fingers that had gouged the flesh; and there was blood, caked and flaking off on the bed like rust.  He took the scanner and ran it over the broad back, but the readouts said nothing more than what he had already determined.  If McCoy had been there, Spock knew that he would have been able to verify whether Jim had been raped. He put down the scanner.  What did it matter, he knew it was so.  He eased the captain again on his back.

It worried him that Kirk had not regained consciousness. He took up the hypo again, set it for tri-ox, and pressed it to the captain’s neck. No matter how many drugs he administered or Jim had been forced to ingest, McCoy had assured him that tri-ox would be a neutral agent.  Spock’s greatest fear was of overdosing the captain, even with the most innocuous of compounds—let alone with the mix both legal and illegal, now coursing through his veins. Suddenly, Jim’s eyes fluttered open.

He groaned, coughed, and tried to turn away.  Spock put a hand on his shoulder.

“Jim, do not move. Stay quiet.” But the groaning continued, only now it was rhythmic, gruff sounds coming with each breath. Perhaps I have missed a major injury, Spock thought to himself.  “Jim, tell me where it hurts.”

Kirk tried to speak, but his mouth was so dry that he couldn’t get the words to form. He had heard a question, but the pain wouldn’t let him focus on the meaning.  Between moans, he managed whisper one single word: “ . . . where?”

“You’re somewhere safe. With me. Tell me where it hurts.”

But Spock knew that it hurt everywhere, that his waking of the unconscious man had not been an act of kindness. He reached over to the hypo sprayer, changed the setting, and injected Jim’s right shoulder with pain killers. It took another minute before Jim became quiet. Spock steadied his upper body and offered him water, but they spilled more than was swallowed when Jim’s jaw and throat refused to work.

“Thanks,” Jim whispered, turning his face into the pillow away from the light. Then he rolled onto his back, threw his arm over his face, and began to moan again.

Spock could see the wounds on the upturned wrists. He took a small spray can and dispensed dermalceptic foam onto his palm. Very gently, he rubbed the pink foam around Jim’s wrists. The small act seemed to comfort and the moaning lessened, as the body finally lay still. Moving his arm, Jim’s hazel eyes met his and there was a look in them of caution, of disassociation, even departure.  What was he thinking? What did he remember? Spock could not read the eyes, and they disturbed him in the intensity of the unblinking stare.  He turned away.

“Rest now,” he said, putting the medikit back together. “Sleep.”

“What time is it?”

“Early morning.” He set the kit aside.

“How did you find me?”

“Money knows all.” A common Federation saying.

Without acknowledging, Jim put his arm across his face again. As Spock shifted his weight and reached towards the lamp, the captain said, “Leave the light on.”

Spock settled back on the edge of the bed. He did not know what else to do or to say. He didn’t know if he should leave or stay where he was. Jim was silent, his breathing deep and steady, but Spock knew he wasn’t sleeping, that he was using what inner strength he possessed to calm himself, to assess his condition, to heal what he could.  Command training specifically emphasized monitoring one’s own physical condition in emergencies and conserving strength. Even if the captain were only half-conscious, his plans would include an escape or a way to hurt the enemy without further jeopardizing his own health. With no other tasks at hand, Spock rose and went out into the kitchen, poured himself another glass of water, and sat down at the table.

The chronometer said 0230 hours. When the captain slept, he promised himself that he would, too. Until then, he only wanted a few minutes to himself to collect his thoughts, more so to collect his emotions that were screaming for some kind of release. With Vulcan resolve, he drank the glass of water as an obvious substitute.

****

Spock was so deep in thought that he wondered how long it had been before he heard the sounds of someone in the bathroom. He looked over his shoulder. He could see light coming from the inner room as he returned and stood in the doorway.  He didn’t know how Jim had managed to drag himself out of bed, but he had. There was a harsh if short sound of vomiting. A fit of violent coughing. Then the toilet flushed and water ran in the sink. Spock heard the sounds of gargling and spitting. Jim emerged from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, his face the most haggard Spock had ever seen. He returned to the edge of the bed but didn’t lie down.

“Do me a favor,” he said, not looking up. “Run me a bath. Hot.”

“Jim, you should be in bed.” When the captain shot him a look that said, ‘Just do it,’ Spock moved past him immediately and turned on the tap.

When the large tub was filled, Jim limped into the bathroom, dropped the towel, and painfully lowered himself into the water. As the hot liquid hit his wounds, he held his breath and inched himself downward. He felt filthy, soiled, degraded, and only thoughts of feeling clean again kept him in the too hot water. Spock had kindly left a washcloth and a bar of soap on the edge of the tub. He took them and tried to make lather, but his swollen fingers remained stiffly frozen and he couldn’t hold on. The soap slipped from his grasp into the water with a tight, hot splash. Giving up, he put aside the washcloth, and slowly, with the greatest effort, lay back in the tub and sank, totally submerging his upper body and head.

Spock had been watching from the doorway. He held his breath for as long as Jim held himself underwater, and only released it when Jim painstakingly began to rise. When Jim slumped forward again—his forearms on his thighs, his head hanging—his face was so low that his nose was almost in the water.  Then without a sound, he put his arm on the side of the tub, buried his face in his arm, and began to sob.

Spock stood transfixed in the doorway of the small room with only the sounds of Jim’s weeping and the intermittent drips from the spout. He thought perhaps the drips were louder. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t ever expect Jim to be out of bed, trying desperately to wash away the tortured memories, failing so graphically. From somewhere deep inside him, Spock pulled a bit of human strength—yes, it could have only come from his humanity—and sat down at the side of the tub.

He laid his hand on the back of Jim’s neck, hoping to impart with a mere touch a gentleness and vulnerability that said, I am with you. He let his hand remain there for a while, rotating his thumb to massage the corded muscles as gently as a whisper. Then he rolled up his sleeves, reached down into the water, and retrieved the soap. Lathering the cloth, he began to wash Jim’s back.

Methodically, he washed shoulders and upper arms, careful not to put pressure on the bruises. He washed Jim’s neck, his mid-back, his lower back and upper chest, and when there was nothing else he could reach, he put the soap and washcloth aside, reached for the shampoo and poured some in his hands.

Carefully, he turned Jim’s face away from the side of the tub, so that his head hung over the water. He lathered the head, simply making suds at first, then using the tips of his fingers to gently work the foam through the strands, stripped the hair of grime and the smell of that hellish place where Jim had been molested. While he washed his hair, he saw Jim take the bar of soap and lather his stomach and between his legs. As if it were all an impossible effort, Jim stopped, pulled his legs up close to his chest, and pressed his face against his knees. Closing his eyes, he shuddered one last time. It was illogical that Spock was moved by the way Jim’s long lashes lay against his wet cheek.

Spock popped the tub stopper, and the water began to drain. Unsteadily, Jim stood up and let Spock finish rinsing him. Spock wrapped him in a towel and helped him out of the tub. He seemed willing to allow Spock to towel him off, a task that the Vulcan focused on if only for the moment. When Jim was patted dry, Spock moved him back to the bedroom, found a fresh towel to dry his hair, and put him to bed. Jim lay on his side, trembling, fighting tears, then out of absolute exhaustion, silently giving in to them.

Without thinking, Spock reached out to Jim’s face and attempted to place his fingers in the meld position—to aid his mind into sleep. The captain misinterpreted the action and slapped Spock’s hand away.

“No!” he barked. “I have to do this by myself. Leave me alone.”

As Spock left the room, he felt more the alien than he had felt in a long time. He could not comfort, did not know how. How odd that fate had cast him in the role of the comforter. How very, very odd.

****

Spock did not sleep that night, but as the sun rose, he found himself out on the balcony his weight against the rail, peering out across the open land, at distant trees and stark office buildings and normal people with normal lives already moving about at the start of their normal days. This city reminded him of scratchy historical vids of 1960’s North American disadvantaged manufacturing towns, colorless and grim, with all the social and monetary problems of those times.  

He had made himself a cup of tea, but let it go cold in his hand as he thought about last night, as he tried to push the ache in his heart away. Jim Kirk had surprised him at his resilience, at his refusal to let the drugs, legal and otherwise, carry him down into psychosis or death. He had struggled on to the end, when exhaustion had finally claimed him, sparing him with a few hours rest.

Spock had spent the night in a chair, next to the bed in the dark half-dozing, awakened periodically by the sounds of moaning and half-articulated pleas that made him want to run from the pain he heard in them. The rage he felt in that filthy place had been completely replaced by a focused need to help Jim through this, until McCoy could take over. Eighteen point seven five hours until the Enterprise returned, offering real safety, a real home. In the meantime, he wondered if Jim would accept whatever small comfort he could offer, or if he would reject it as the clumsy effort that it was.

He remained out on the balcony for another hour, before he felt someone’s eyes watching him.  He turned and saw James Kirk standing there, wrapped in the thin bedspread, looking very much worse for wear. Spock reached out to take his arm, but Jim waved him off, seemingly rather to accept the support of the wall.

“Is that coffee?” he asked. “I’d love some.”

Spock was so relieved to hear his voice.  “It is tea. But I shall prepare coffee for you. Come inside.”

Now Jim followed his lead back into the kitchen, looking like a bundle of laundry with legs. Spock had everything laid out in hopes that he had guessed correctly that the human love of coffee would become a request that he could supply. In a few minutes, the kitchen filled with the aroma and steam of the brewed hot drink. Spock could see a hint of the old Jim Kirk in the look of pure gratitude as he bent his face to smell the beverage that Spock soon put down in front of him.

When he took a sip, no matter how hot it was, it was heavenly, warming him up inside, cleansing him with its heat, its pure ancient flavor. “Thank you,” he sighed. “I never thought I’d taste coffee again.”

He said it matter-of-factly, but Spock blanched at the words.

“Are you hungry?”

Jim blinked and tried to think. “Yeah.” He couldn’t remember his last meal, everything before this moment still a blur.

”We have eggs. I can make you an omelet and toast.”

Jim nodded, still entranced with the hot coffee, which he cradled between his hands as though it were more precious than dilithium. The hot liquid soothed his aching gums and he let it sit in his mouth for a moment as the heat penetrated the soft tissue. Every one of his teeth felt loose, and his tongue swept repeatedly over the cuts on the insides of his cheeks and lower lip.

Spock removed the eggs from the cooling unit, and a local variety of tomato and mushrooms, and bread and butter. It had been difficult to anticipate their food needs but now he was thinking that he had done rather well.

“Can I help?” Jim asked, almost eagerly.

Spock looked long at him, concerned by his cheerfulness. “Yes, if you’d like.” However, he couldn’t think of a chore for Jim to do.

“I can wash the vegetables,” Jim offered, noticing the hesitation. Spock watched Jim stiffly stand, tuck the thin bedspread around himself again, and shuffle towards the sink. As though it took all the concentration he could conjure, he took a tomato in each hand and held them under the flowing water.

Spock cracked two eggs in a bowl and added mild spices; as he whipped the eggs with a fork, he could hear water running hard behind him. He turned to see that Jim had stopped the sink and was intently scrubbing the tomatoes with soap and a small brush, then holding them under the water.

Spock put a hand on the captain’s arm. “Jim, you are not washing the tomatoes, you are destroying them.”

Jim looked suddenly embarrassed.

“What did they ever do to me?”

He popped the stopper and placed the two dripping red ovals, now squashed, into a bowl. Ignoring their condition, Spock took one and cut it into slices and then took one slice, methodically chopping it into smaller pieces and removing the seeds. He cleaned a few mushrooms and chopped them.

In another minute, a pretty omelet and a glass of milk were placed before Jim Kirk who brought a forkful of the egg to his mouth. Hmmmm, so good, he thought. He didn’t even have to chew. He took another bite letting the softness slide down his throat when a bad memory filled his mind. He grabbed the glass of milk and drank half of it.

He could feel himself succumbing to the memories. He lifted another forkful but his hand was trembling now. He put the fork down and went back to the glass, to wash away what was threatening to overwhelm him. He saw Spock frown as even with both hands, he could not hold on, the milk sloshing down the sides onto the tabletop. He brought the glass down with an uncoordinated crash and stood up.

“I’m sorry.” He could feel his resolve going, spinning away like the separation of elements under centrifugal force.

Stumbling out of the kitchen back into the bedroom, he stood in the middle of the room, trying to decide, trying to choose. But what? His mind was a jumble, the pain of the memories of violation threatening to split him away from the life Spock had returned to him. Make a decision? Not to save his soul. The room was closing in. He was suffering from tunnel-vision. The bedspread half-dropped around his ankles, and he turned to look at Spock whom he knew had followed him.

“Do you have any clothes I can put on? I’ve got to have some clothes.” The words were a ruse to trick himself into a moment’s meaningless distraction. What did clothes matter? But they did matter.

“Yes, I brought you clothes.”

Spock went to the bureau and removed a set of sweat clothes, underwear, and socks. He handed the stack to Jim who took it but did not move. The dark green flannel sweats were soft and he couldn’t wait to get into them, to be covered again like a man with some dignity, instead of like a baby, whose nakedness or not, was up to the kindness or cruelty of adults.

As Spock went to the closet to retrieve the soft boots he had bought for Jim, he heard the water in the bathroom running again and Jim furiously brushed his teeth.

Spock could only sigh.

****

Staring at his face in the mirror, James Kirk’s stomach lurched ungraciously. His left eye, an ugly hemorrhage from one of Dost’s slaps, stared back, irregular and glowing , making him look, from a half-room’s distance, like one of those peculiar dogs with one blue and one brown one. His nose was bruised and swollen. His upper lip coarsely distended with puffiness. His hair was going every which way. So much for the pretty boy nicknames he always heard on shore leave. Now he looked like any other mutt.

His mouth like a hollow cave in his head, he was suddenly thirsty. He bent over the sink and lapped from the faucet, like the ugly, beaten dog image in his mind. That’s what he felt like, not like a man. But the crude feeling passed as the water took away the terrible thirst. He spit out the last mouthful and it splashed, thin, bright, and red.

Emerging again, Jim quickly pulled on the sweatsuit and socks. “Thanks,” he said. “Looks like you thought of everything.”

Spock neither nodded nor acknowledged the comment, but only continued to study the man before him. Jim could feel the dark eyes inspecting him, studying him like a specimen. He ran his hands through his hair and down the back of his neck. It hurt to raise his arms, more so to touch any part of himself.

“How long before the Enterprise returns?”

“Zero-one-eighteen tomorrow morning.” Spock’s eyes did not release him. “Jim, how do you feel?”

How did he feel? Every inch of his head hurt. His eyes were dry balls inside their sockets. His scalp felt like it had been wrenched from its moorings on his skull.  Even his hair hurt, and he pondered that for a moment but could not make any sense of it. Jim dropped his eyes, as Spock’s mere words of concern threatened to plunge him into misery at the memories of yesterday’s torture. He tried for glibness.

“Not bad, considering somebody beat the living crap out of me.”

Resolution moved across the Vulcan’s face. They must not avoid talking of it. McCoy had advised him that the quicker he could get Jim to speak of the painful memories, the better it would be for him. He said the words in his most neutral tone.

“His name was Dost and his beatings of you culminated in sexual assault. Do you remember it?”

Jim went pale. He wanted to strike Spock for throwing the memory he was so desperately trying to forget in his face.

“Of course, I remember,” he snapped.  “If you want to know just how luscious he thought I was, Mister Spock     . . . Listen, it’s a sex trader’s dream to finally get his hands on a prime piece of Starfleet ass.” Abruptly, he stopped, horrified.  Not a piece of him, all of him.

The imagery was shocking but Spock did not show it.

“I killed Mister Dost for his assault upon you. I have no qualms concerning his fate.”

Jim’s eyes widened, as if in his drug-induced fog he had forgotten that he had been witness to Spock’s mechanical breaking of a neck with no more thought than when a smoker breaks a match. There had been a murder because he had been too weak to put up a decent fight.

“Jeezus, Spock, what have I done?”

“You have done nothing. You have been victimized. I only wanted you back, but he would not relinquish his ‘property’ and I had to stop him or he would have killed you.”

Jim’s lower lip trembled slightly.

“I was so drugged I thought you were a dream. Maybe that’s why I’m not dead. The drugs don’t let you struggle.” Tears threatened his eyes, but he still tried to talk.

Spock reached out again, but Jim moved aside, rejecting the solace.  He was shaking his head.  “I’m all right.” He swiped his hand across his face. He even attempted a smile. “Can we get out of here? Take a walk?”

“I am afraid not. I cannot be sure that Orion mercenaries have not tracked us down and wait to kidnap you again. We must remain here.”

Jim looked so disappointed that Spock was moved by the misery on his face.

“I understand,” the injured man said quietly. The thought of recapture sent a visible shudder through his body. He began to rub his wrists absently, and he could feel his bare ankles throbbing with fatigue.

Like a tiger in a cage, Jim limped out into the living are and found the controller for the small video screen. He began to switch from image to image, taking only a few seconds with each one before moving on. Local news, intergalactic low-grav socball, a gourmet cooking lesson, a computer programming class. He watched a film the longest in which a man and a woman shared a little wine and flirtatious small talk; when the scene turned to lovemaking, he abruptly switched it off.  Tossing the controller at the sofa, he began to pace, a stiff, bent shuffle that telegraphed pain with each step.

Spock watched helplessly, not having any idea how to help. He went back to the countdown in his head, hoping that time was evaporating in their misery. To his dismay only twenty minutes had elapsed since the last time he checked.  What an illogical act he had just performed, and he knew that emotion for Jim had caused the lapse, emotion borne of the desire to comfort further.  Perhaps tonight under cover of darkness, they could go for a walk. Perhaps there was something else he could think to do.

Jim’s eyes met his.

“This isn’t a hell of a lot of fun, is it?” He pressed his palms to his eyes and then sent his hands through his hair again. He shivered. “Is it cold in here, or is it just me?”

“It is not cold. The temperature is 74 degrees Fahren—”

“Never mind,” Jim said, heading for the bedroom. He struggled to pull off his sweatshirt. “I’m taking a shower to warm up.”

Spock was back in the kitchen when he heard the water come on.  He cleaned up the spilled milk and put away the food. He hadn’t eaten either since yesterday, but the thought of food meant nothing to him.  He wiped the table clean and the stove. Something made him leave the kitchen and go back through the bedroom to the bathroom. The door was ajar and he peeked around it.  Jim was standing in the shower, one hand flat against the wall, leaning into it, letting the steaming water beat down on his bare back. Spock could tell by the way he was holding himself that he was sobbing again.

Spock moved inside, reached in and turned the water off.  Jim straightened slowly and turned towards him.  He let Spock towel him off again, his head hanging down, his arms limp.

“Why can’t I stop crying?” Jim asked, mostly to himself.  He shook his head and a shudder ran through him.  He forced his mind to the present.  If only he could get off this wretched planet. He desperately needed to go home to the Enterprise, to the clean, safety of space. “What time is it?”

Spock’s low voice gave him the bad news.

“Damn,” he whispered, taking the towel himself and walking into the bedroom.  When Spock seemed surprised to see him crawl back into bed, he said, “Give me something to sleep. I can’t stand this anymore.  I keep remembering.”

Spock took the hypo from the medikit, set it, and pushed it to Jim’s bicep.  It was not really a sedative, just a mild form of muscle relaxer. He sat down on the edge of the bed.

In moments, Spock could see the troubled look leave Jim’s face as he slipped into sleep. And for a few brief hours, Spock would be eternally grateful.

****

Jim slept for a while, then awoke, redressed, and spent the next several hours staring out the window, unmoving, practically unblinking.  He watched intently as the sun set or the sun simply set without his knowledge, Spock could not tell which.  Kirk did not move as Spock ran the scanner the length of his body: swelling down, blood pressure stabilized, temperature nearly normal, the drugs and a few hours rest slowly correcting the imbalance of cruelty and neglect. Things were becoming a bit better.  Dinner consisted of a hardy vegetable stew and bread, and Kirk actually managed to eat half a bowl, swallowing chunky pieces whole to avoid chewing.  Later, after dark, Spock finally touched his shoulder.

“If you wish, Jim, we could go for a short walk.”

Kirk nodded, and under cover of night, the two men stole out of the apartment into the cool, moist air of a nearby park. They walked in silence no more than two blocks until Kirk motioned that he needed to rest, and they stopped by a stone bench and just sat. Kirk looked up into the sky, through high, thin clouds at the bright, shining stars, and sighed.  Spock watched the captain watching the stars.

Finally, Kirk said, “I know you’re waiting for me to say something, but I don’t have anything to say.” There was bitterness in his voice, a raw edge that spoke of disgust for this place even to the point of hating the innocent night sky.

“Doctor McCoy said that you must try to talk about what has happened to you.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not here to make me.”

Spock waited in terrible silence. “I wish only to help you,” he said finally in near defeat.  “Tell me what I can do.”

“You can get me the hell off this miserable shithole of a planet, Spock! I can barely breathe here!” He stood up and began to pace, limping a little, holding his arms across his chest as if he were freezing.

“I know it is difficult, Captain, but we must wait another three hours.”

“Dammit!” Kirk spat. “. . . dammit.” He shook his head violently. “It’s no use. I hate it out here. Let’s go back.”

“If you are tired, I can carry—” It was the wrong thing to suggest.

Turning on his heels, Kirk started back alone. “I can walk,” he said tightly.

He barely made it up the two flights, but Spock allowed him the dignity of the climb, waiting patiently as he dragged himself each painful, hard-earned step to the top.  He was doubled over, out of breath and gasping, as Spock unlocked the door.  Kirk stumbled in and headed straight for the bathroom; he locked the door behind him.  Spock could hear coughing, but when the coughing stopped, there was silence.  Spock’s time sense told him that they had been gone just over an hour, the last 15 minutes trying to climb the foreboding staircase.

When Kirk emerged, Spock was grateful to see that he was calm and mostly dry, through pale.  His forehead was moist, but Spock couldn’t know if it was sweat or tap water.  Without any coaching, Kirk headed for the bed and eased himself down like a 100-year-old man.

“Jim, do you require another pain hypo?”

He did. Every joint in his body ached unmercifully as if Dost had just given him a fresh stomping. He was weary down to the marrow in his bones, and he felt like unscrewing his head and throwing it across the room.

“No,” he lied. “I don’t want to beam up in a drugged-up fuzz.”  He coughed, which set his head to pounding harder.  “I want to walk off the transporter pad under my own power.”

“Jim, no one expects you to—”

“I’m the captain.  It’s demoralizing to see the commanding officer carried around like a baby or a . . . corpse. If they see me on my feet, they’ll know everything’s all right.”

Spock sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Jim, only a very few people will see you at all.”

“It’ll be spread all over the ship. I won’t have it.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Unless I ask, you’ll let me be. That’s an order.”

Spock considered refusing the order but thought better of it.  It was only logical to evaluate conditions at the actual event.

“May I suggest a nap?”

Kirk expected a fight and was grateful at the conciliatory suggestion instead.

“Oh, yes, you may certainly suggest that.” He closed his eyes and could already feel himself slipping away.  He forced his eyes open. “Spock, I know I’m being a shit.  Sorry.”  He reached out for Spock’s arm but could only reach his knee.  “Thanks for the rescue. I owe you one. Expect a commendation.”

Spock frowned slightly at the odd wording and the culmination of the sentiment of gratitude into nothing more than an administrative notation.  “You owe me nothing. It is my duty.”

But James Kirk was already asleep.

****

“Enterprise to Mister Spock.”

Spock snapped with a start at the sound of Uhura’s anxious voice. He had been meditating in a chair next to the bed.

“Spock here.”

“We can beam you up on your order, sir.”

“Is Doctor McCoy standing by, Lieutenant?”

“I’m here, Spock. Do you have Jim?”

“Yes. He is ambulatory, but I am sure he would be pleased to see you in the transporter room.”

It took only a moment more for him to wake James Kirk, prop him upright, and give the transporter chief the command. As the beam caught them, the relief that flooded the first officer upon leaving that confining apartment and that hateful planet with his captain, battered but alive beside him, cannot be underestimated.

****

They materialized, Kirk alone on his own pad.  McCoy watched the captain sway, stagger, then catch himself only with supreme effort, and the doctor was shocked at Kirk’s condition—bent over like an old man with his face looking like he’d stuck it in a turbine and then forgot to notice.  McCoy rushed the platform and put both his arms around Kirk’s waist. He knew a man who was half-dead when he saw one. 

The doctor shot a look at Spock that was damning and full of fury: You cold-blooded SOB! You go through god-knows-what to rescue the captain, only to risk having him break his neck from a fall off this contraption! But neither man said a word as McCoy, waving away the medical technicians, turned the sagging Kirk and ushered him into the corridor.

“ . . . ‘lo, Bones,” Kirk mumbled hoarsely, as he hugged the doctor to him. He was starting to shake.

“Jim-Boy don’t worry.  I’ll get you fixed up.”

Kirk was too tired to smile. “Promise?”

“That’s a promise.” McCoy could feel his patient shaking harder by the minute.

“I’ll hold you to it. I’m a mess.”

The turbo door whooshed open, and the three men moved inside.

“Didn’t Spock take good care of you?” McCoy asked, so that the Vulcan could hear him, even though he knew its implication wasn’t at all true.

“Regular Florence Nightengale . . . .”

As the turbo deposited them on deck seven, Jim could feel a sob well up inside of him at the knowledge that he was home. He fought it down by closing his eyes and letting McCoy lead him. God, it was hard to even put one foot in front of the other, to open his eyes, to lift his head. But he was home.

Even if McCoy had to hold up half his weight, James Kirk managed to walk all the way to sickbay before collapsing just inside.

****

Forty-five minutes later, McCoy walked out of the ward where he had treated the captain and found Spock, in a fresh uniform and clean shaven, waiting quietly, tricorder hanging from his side.  He was holding the medikit in his hands. McCoy smiled.

“Spock, you did fine. He’s mostly exhausted and in a hell of a lot of pain. Concussion, cracked ribs, severe lower back spasms, his whole body is one big bruise.  But he’ll recover, thanks to you. Though I can’t say I understand why you let him struggle alone on the transporter pad.”

“He is in command, and he gave me an order. His dignity was at stake.”

McCoy looked askance. Dignity be hanged. 

“You’re in command. He’s in no shape to command anything.” Except you, you dumb bastard. McCoy raised a brow in mute consideration. “Jim’s lucky. Seeing what those animals did to him, he could have peritonitis. Sometimes even modern medical techniques can’t stop an infection like that.” He reached over and carefully took the medikit from Spock and set it aside.  Then the tricorder. He stopped to stare at it.

“I assure you, everything is in order, Doctor.”

“I don’t doubt that, Mister Spock.” The common piece of equipment felt heavy in the doctor’s hands. “Could you get him to talk about it?”

Spock looked nervous.

“I saw where he was and what had been done to him. I knew that he did not have to explain.”

Stubborn boy. You’re being stubborn. McCoy moved towards his desk. “Are you going to tell me?”

“Do not ask me to describe it.”

“I’m his doctor.” McCoy tried hard not to raise his voice.  “I need to know what he’s been through.”

“You have the equipment that reads his bodily functions accurately and with great detail. You have the tricorder and all requested samples. You have seen the marks on his throat, wrists, and . . . elsewhere. You have seen the look in his eyes.”

McCoy sighed, not wanting to say the repulsive words, but forcing himself to since he was asking Spock to do the same.

"I know he was raped, more than once.” He thought he saw Spock flinch.  “He’s been beaten, kicked severely about the face, lower back, groin, the bottoms of his feet. I want to know what else happened to him.”

"That is essentially what happened to him.”

“What about you? They just let you walk in and walk out with him tucked under your arm?”

“No, they did not. But that is an accurate description of what I did anyway.” Spock looked in the direction of the ward, as though he could see through the walls. “You can question him when he awakens. He may choose to tell you—”

“He’s already in denial.” McCoy let out a bitter sigh. “Look at the way he acted in the transporter room. I need the facts before I can treat him successfully. There’s more to this than just his physical wounds. There will be psychic wounds.”

“You have the facts in your hands.”

Now McCoy was starting to lose his temper.

“Spock, are you protecting him or yourself?” In a second, he was looking at Spock’s back moving away from him. “Spock, I can order you,” he threatened.

“Then order me.”

The door swished open and closed.

McCoy sat down in his chair with a thud, the tricorder toppling over on the desktop. Sweet mother of the universe, heaven help our two bright boys from outer space. McCoy dropped his chin in the palm of his hand.  Now that Jim and Spock were back on board the ship—seemingly safe—maybe he had even more to worry about.  He suspected so.

Dammit, he suspected so.

Chapter Text

James T. Kirk’s disappearance and reappearance did not go unnoticed by Starfleet Command. An officious young Starfleet coadjutor, assistant to Admiral Dawson Spencer, waited impatiently on the Enterprise to take James Kirk’s statement.

Three days later, debriefing commenced exactly forty-seven minutes after McCoy released the captain from sickbay. The officious man was not the least bit interested in the acts that had been perpetrate upon Kirk’s person, but only in what the captain had said, whether consciously or unconsciously, and in what had been said to him. 

Kirk would be asked question after question about possible security breaches and repeat the answers again under verification scan: that during his ordeal, none of his assailants had ever asked him, a decorated field commander whose ship pushed the edges of the civilized sector, anything—either implied or overt—about Starfleet strategy, tactics, organization, disposition, current weaponry, proposed weaponry, or personnel. And he had not spoken of any of those topics to any of his kidnappers or assailants either with or without duress.

Twenty-four hours later, the coadjutor left the Enterprise, shaking his head at the odd results of his examination: convinced that the kidnappers had wanted intimate knowledge of only one simple thing from James Kirk—not his Federation connections nor his thorough knowledge of Starfleet military preparedness nor even his command expertise. They had wanted only what most military men would consider the most mundane commodity in the galaxy. They had wanted his body.

And he left James Kirk convinced of that, too.

****

Leaning back in the surgical chair, James Kirk took a hypo to the throat and—at his own request—went completely to sleep. Ship’s surgeon McCoy took the captain’s ruined, half-healed face, ruined it again, and rearranged the various components of fine bone and skin. Two hours later, he had aligned the broken pieces, erased the scars at cheeks, lips, and brow, and detoxified the swollen tissue. Thirty minutes under the skin regenerator and Jim Kirk was as before.  McCoy tipped the chair partially upright and stepped back to look at his handiwork.

He had restored the captain’s face to its original, perfect condition—faultless skin; refined nose; unbroken brow line; full, smooth lips.  Anchored all his teeth back in his head. Even combed his hair. He knew the captain would be pleased.  He pushed the instrument tray aside, glanced at Nurse Chapel who told him ‘good job’ with her eyes, before handing him the last hypo. Seconds later, James Kirk’s eyes fluttered open.

“It’s over,” McCoy prompted.  “You’re good as new, Jim. Care to see?” He didn’t wait for an answer as he tipped the chair up all the way. A vanity table and mirror surfaced and snapped into place in front of the patient.

Kirk stared into the mirror for several seconds, a slight frown forming with the knit of his brows. He touched his chin, then his lower lip with a fingertip. McCoy noticed that he did not smile.

“There’s a little swelling left around the eyes.  It’ll pass in a few hours.”

Very slowly Kirk pushed himself up and out of the chair, forcing his eyes away from the mirror last.

“As you said, Doctor, ‘good as new’."

“That is what you wanted, Jim.”

“Yeah,” Kirk repeated. “That is what I wanted.” He turned and walked out.

Odd. Not one word of thanks McCoy noticed. Of course, it was expected that he’d do a perfect job on the captain. And so he had. But he still would have liked even a half-hearted thank-you-for-your-time-and-trouble-Bones. He shrugged at the captain’s response as if didn’t matter. But Leonard Mccoy would remember. When it came to the captain, everything mattered.

****

In his quarters, James Kirk paused in front of the mirror over his dresser. He stared a long time into his own hazel eyes. Why had he really allowed McCoy to put him back? That ruined face, with its scars and thickened places had looked . . . like who he was inside.  That had been a nothing-special face, a face nobody wanted. A safe face. This face was dangerous.  Too dangerous to own. Too dangerous to keep. Why had he ever allowed McCoy to put him in jeopardy again?  Didn’t the doctor know how dangerous this face could be?

He sat down on the edge of his bunk, realizing that until now, he himself had never, ever known.

****

“Which color am I? I forget.”

Five weeks, nearly six, had passed since Kirk’s rescue from the Orion slavers. McCoy had prescribed psychological and physical therapy programs for him, but he had resumed his duties as soon as he was physically able.  McCoy had not objected to an easy half-time duty schedule. Even better therapy. The captain and the first officer had resumed their chess games in the first officer’s quarters.

Upon hearing the words, Spock raised his chin away from his steepled fingers to look at the captain.

Jim had been staring at the tri-D chessboard, his thoughts as ephemeral as the light speed the ship was traveling.

“You are white, Jim,” Spock reminded.

“Oh, sure. Of course.” He picked up a rook and let it hover an inch over an upper level of the board. He put it down at an intersection of four squares.  He couldn’t remember which way it could move. His chin went down to his chest. “I don’t think I can go on, Spock.” He meant with the game.

“You must talk to McCoy, Jim. He can relieve you of duty. Or I can perform a mind-meld, releasing you from the memor—”

Jim’s head jerked up, surprised at how Spock had interpreted what he had said. “No,” he said defiantly. He stood up.  “I’m fine on the bridge. You know I am. It’s the only place where it’s okay. Where I’m not—”

“Afraid?”

Jim glared at Spock. Fatigue suddenly gripped him.  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Let it go for tonight, please.  I can’t think anymore today.  I’m beat. It’s only a game.” He stood and raised his arms over his head, stretching his body as far as he could reach. Spock heard his spine crackle, a series of quick little pops.

Kirk slowly lowered his arms and rubbed the small of his back. The longer he sat, the more it ached. He looked defeated.  “Guess I’m not 100 percent yet. Goodnight, Mister Spock.”

Spock watched solemnly as the captain left the room.

****

Vegan kick-wrestling was a sports fad that had been sweeping the Enterprise crew for about a year.  Many crew members had become quite proficient at it, including the captain.  At least every other day, Kirk tried to work out with Lieutenant Alberts, the resident fifth-degree expert.  Often there was a small audience for the captain’s workouts.

When Kirk showed up for class after missing several weeks’ worth, he found Alberts down on the mat, rubbing his elbow, having just taken a bad fall in a bout with a clumsy beginner.  “Sorry, sir, I believe I’m out for the rest of the afternoon.”

Kirk glared at Alberts as though he had hurt himself on purpose. 

“Anybody else around here as good as you?” Kirk’s question told Alberts that the captain was not willing to forego his afternoon practice, and it was up to him to supply his commanding officer with a worthy opponent.

“I’d like to try, sir,” came a voice from the back of the group.

Kirk looked up.  “And you’re? . . .”

“Lieutenant Whiting, sir. Engineering.  Just transferred over from the Yorktown.” When Kirk said nothing, the young man continued, “Alberts can tell you that I have the expertise.”

Kirk looked at Alberts who nodded slyly. “He’s the one.”

Kirk cocked his head in the direction of the adjoining mat, and the entire group moved to encircle the two participants, who bowed politely, as was the Vegan custom, then assumed the traditional initial battle stance, a half-crouch with raised arms.

Whiting, feeling cocky, bounced twice and kicked first, his legs a blur of power and grace.  Kirk deflected the kick, grabbed Whiting around the waist and brought him down. Point for Kirk.  They were up in a moment, bowed again, then both began a more cautious circling.

Kirk recognized the power behind the younger man’s kick. He took the offensive, twirled, landed a hard kick-jab on Whiting’s thigh. But there was a glint in the lieutenant’s eyes as he saw a weakness in Kirk’s technique.  His body rose in the air and his feet connected with Kirk’s chest.  Kirk blew back on his butt, tried to recover, but Whiting had his left shoulder pinned in another few seconds. Point for Whiting, who circled the mat with a barely suppressed grin. The smirking crowd was now clearly on the side of the junior underdog.

Kirk could feel the heat in his face. He would not lose, would not submit, the sense of friendly competition suddenly replaced with the overload of base survival instinct. They bowed again, but immediately Kirk kicked out hard at the low side of Whiting’s left hip, sending him spinning.  It had been a marginally illegal move, but there were no referees, except for the uneasy silence of the wide-eyed spectators.

Whiting recovered quickly, took Kirk’s arm, and twisted it to move behind him. Kirk capitalized on his own sideways momentum, turned into the twist and flipped the man over his back. The captain tried to pin the lieutenant, but Whiting rolled easily, somehow ending up with his full weight on Kirk’s back, staggering him.

Only a few spectators saw the foreign look that passed across Kirk’s eyes, the jeopardy. As Kirk rose disregarding the ritual bow, he smashed an elbow into the other man’s solar plexus, a clearly illegal move. The crowd heard the grunt as the wind was knocked out of Whiting’s chest.  In an instant, Kirk was solid on his feet. Whiting was scrambling to get up as a hard kick caught him in the chest.  He was backpedaling frantically but he was hit by another harder blow. As he turned on all fours, trying to both breathe and get to his feet, Kirk pulled Whiting’s right leg out from under him, fell on top, and pinned his shoulder hard to the mat.

The group stood in stunned silence.  Did the captain have some kind of personal grudge against Whiting? How could that be? Whiting was new. Finally, Alberts went to help the lieutenant, who was gasping lamely.

Someone threw Kirk a towel. 

Out of his peripheral vision, the captain could see that it came from his own second in command. It crossed his mind that maybe the towel had been thrown a little too hard, perhaps with the force of disapproval. Finally he felt a twinge of good sportsmanship and reached down to help Whiting up.

“Time to wise up about the clean rules of competitive sports, Lieutenant,” the captain lectured.  “Don’t ever think it’s just a game. Because when you’re face to face with an angry Gorn, or a murderous Klingon, or an . . . an Orion pirate, they’ll be happy to kill you—if you’re lucky. Happy as hell.”

Kirk turned and walked towards the showers through the group, who parted for him. He looked straight ahead and did not see First Officer Spock watching him intently. In fact, Kirk saw nothing, felt only relief to have won the match.

To have escaped.

*****

McCoy looked up to see Spock standing in his office doorway.

“Come on in. No need to loiter.” He could see concern on the lean face.  “What’s wrong?” In the more than six weeks since Spock had rescued James Kirk from the Orion slavers, the first officer had not once visited sickbay.

His tone was objectivity itself. “I came to inquire after the captain.”

McCoy studied him, knowing that only if Spock thought something was wrong with the captain would he haul himself to sickbay to verify his concerns. He decided to play along.

“I think Jim is progressing amazingly well, considering.  You see how well he handles himself on the bridge.”

“Yes,” Spock said without concurring.

McCoy stepped from around the desk. "You know something, or I think you do. Let’s have it.”

“Does he tell you of the nightmares?”

“Hasn’t complained in more than two weeks.”

“Does he tell you that the moment he steps off the bridge into the turbolift, he is angry?”

“How do you know that?”

“I know.”

“You have melded with him,” McCoy supposed.

Spock shook his head.  “I have suggested to him that I can remove the memory. He refuses to allow it.”

“It takes a long time to get over the anger.  For someone like Jim . . . well, it takes a really long time.  With the best medical therapy and any luck at all, it’s really a matter of time and, of course, the healing ministrations of Lady Enterprise.”

Spock considered the illogical but seemingly truthful kernel behind that statement.

Behind them, they both heard a tentative rustling. Medical technician Nanci Okata peeked into the room.  “May I see you both, sirs?” she asked, her voice tenuous from nerves.

“Of course, Ensign Okata,” McCoy answered. “Come in.” Spock thought it odd that she asked to speak to both of them.

“It’s about Captain Kirk, Doctor,” she said. “Mister Spock.”

“Ensign Okata is in charge of visual simulation-therapy,” McCoy explained.

Okata looked forlorn.

“He has stopped coming.  Over a week ago. He ordered me not to tell you, and so I didn’t. But I can’t keep it to myself any longer. There’s talk that he’s not himself.” She looked at Spock. “Of course, I’ll place myself on report for dereliction of duty.”

Spock raised a brow.

“You were under orders from your commanding officer, Ensign.” He glanced at the physician.  “If Doctor McCoy wishes to discipline you, that is his prerogative as your immediate supervisor.  As for myself, I consider the situation closed.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, awash with relief.

Spock glanced at McCoy, dishing out his best what-did-I-just-tell-you look.  He felt a bit surprised to see McCoy put his hand on the young woman’s shoulder as he walked her to the door.

“Nanci, I’m sorry.  Nurse Chapel had already told me.  My mistake for not immediately getting back to you. There was no need for you to feel like you did anything wrong.”

When she was gone, McCoy returned.

“You knew?” asked Spock.

“Yes, of course.”

McCoy frowned to think that Spock had so little faith that he could run his own department.  “Glad to know that the first officer thinks the chief medical officer is totally incompetent.”  He didn’t wait for a response. 

“I also know that Jim has stopped going to massage therapy—and that’s a pretty sad statement since everybody on this ship, present company excepted, is forever trying to cajole me into prescribing one of Nurse Munson’s massages for everything from hiccoughs to hemorrhoids.” He stopped with the levity, growing serious again. “I also know what happened in the gym yesterday.

“Spock,” McCoy continued deliberately, “I guess it seems like I’m not doing anything for him.” He shook his head.  “I wish I could just lay my hands on him and chase out all the demons, but I can’t. Jim has to chase them out himself one by one. And that’s going to take some time.  Do you hear me?”

“I hear you, Doctor,” Spock moved closer, an expression of slight disapproval crossing his angled features.  “But why have you allowed him to stop all of his therapy?”

McCoy sat down at his desk.

“He’s physically almost back to normal, he’s mentally keen, his reflexes are good, he does his job.  Spock, what good does it do to force him to go? I’ll only force the issue if he doesn’t go and something happens.  It’s better if he comes to it of his own volition.”

“But you are his physician,” Spock said emphatically.  “You know what is best for him.”

McCoy wanted to laugh aloud when he heard those words come out of the Vulcan’s mouth, but the look on Spock’s face told him that they had indeed been spoken without irony.  This is a first, whispered the little sarcastic voice that lived in McCoy’s brain.  “Maybe I’m just letting him hang himself.” The doctor said that just to see how the Vulcan would respond to the truth, however cantankerous.

Spock did not respond, except with the traditional raised brow that McCoy knew could mean anything from ‘I had not considered that’ to ‘Since you are human, surely you are making an illogical joke.’ Then Spock’s expression turned thoughtful as though hiding a slight but annoying pain.

“And what about you, Spock? You haven’t talked about what happened to you.  You want to?”

“Have you also been letting me ‘hang’ myself?”

McCoy smiled at the great comeback. “I can be a good listener.”

Spock placed his hands behind his back and sighed. Was he truly in need of a ‘good listener’? When it came to emotion, sometimes the human doctor’s skill far exceeded even the Vulcan disciplines. As his mind focused on the past, a pang of culpability shot through him. In logic, he accepted the inevitable need to purge himself. Perhaps a ‘good listening to’ was in order here.

“Doctor, I killed a man with my bare hands, without a twinge of conscience, almost without forethought.”

“He was trying to kill you and Jim.”

Spock sighed again. In his mind, he pictured Dost ready to charge him—evil, full of fury, reeking of corruption and male hormones, but human and therefore inherently weaker than any Vulcan. Though that filthy room was filled with many other possible opponents, it had nevertheless been a one-on-one battle.  He had always owned the advantage.

“Was he?” Spock asked more to himself than to the doctor.

“That’s what your report said. You said he pulled a knife and charged at you.”

“I killed Dost because he had raped the captain and because he was doing despicable things to him when I found them. I killed him because I hated him and because I didn’t care that I did.”

If often emotional himself, it was scary for McCoy to hear the Vulcan speak of hatred and murder, but the doctor could also be realistic.

“If he hadn’t tried to come at you with the knife, if he had just backed off, would you have gone after him?”

Spock frowned that he had never considered McCoy’s question before.  A sudden clarity filled him.  “No, I would have left with the captain.”

McCoy stood up and went to stand by Spock.

“You killed him in self-defense. Maybe there was more to it.  Maybe you wanted to. But you wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t tried to kill you first.  That’s the truth, Spock.  Forget him. He doesn’t deserve one moment of self-recrimination.  Let it go from your mind.”

When McCoy took his arm, Spock was amazed at how good the touch felt through his uniform, how strong.

“I have concerns for the captain,” he said softly.

That Spock didn’t pull away from his touch told McCoy that he had accepted the truth of his words.  “I know.  Me, too. Let’s keep an eye on him. He’ll come to one of us, sooner or later.”

“Will he?”

“He always does.”

“Indeed.”

****

Kirk heard his buzzer and cringed.  “Come,” he said, a sour tone to his voice.  His heart sank when he saw McCoy peek around the corner, grin at him, and pull out the traditional brandy bottle and two small glasses from behind his back.

“It’s been a while,” he quipped.  “You game?”

“Sure, come on in,”’ He put down the stylus, as though the sight of the doctor, booze in hand, had just made his day. “Brandy or scotch treat tonight?”

“Brandy and banter.”

McCoy dragged a chair to the desk with his foot and sat down. He poured them two generous helpings of the liquor that he and Scotty had long ago programmed the synthesizer to concoct. Liquor and the little blue antidepressants he prescribed for Kirk wouldn’t mix, but a surreptitious scan of the captain earlier in the day had revealed that Kirk had stopped taking his medication. A little liquor wouldn’t hurt him now, maybe loosen his tongue.  Maybe help them both out tonight.

“To your health,” McCoy said, lifting the glass.  How fitting.  The captain’s health: tonight’s only real topic of discussion.

Kirk kept his smile, leaned forward and took the glass. He too lifted it in salute.  “Cheers,” he responded. Ridiculous word. And Bones already knew the state of his health.

They both took a swig and as if McCoy could read his mind, he said, “Not too cheerful tonight, I see.”

Kirk shrugged.  “It’s late, I’m working.  You know how it is.”

“Uh-huh,” McCoy nodded, settling back in the chair.  Clearly, he was studying the younger man though trying not to be obvious about it. “So how are you, Jim? Haven’t seen your around my office lately?”

Kirk returned a too-easy smile. “I feel fine, Bones. In fact, you can take me off your easy duty roster.  I’m ready to go back to work full time.”

“Be happy to,” McCoy responded, also too easily.  “As soon as you complete the psych therapy program I prescribed.”

Kirk swallowed before speaking.  “I suppose that’s why you’re here. You know that I quit.”

“Chapel noted that you stopped coming to the scheduled sessions.” Consciously, McCoy made Chapel the heavy.  He wanted Kirk to know that he wasn’t spying on him, and he didn’t want to deny that this wasn’t a friendly drink.

“I wasn’t getting anything out of them.” When McCoy said nothing, it made the captain a bit nervous and more so when the blue eyes seemed both piercing and patient.  Kirk could feel sudden heat in his face.  “No nightmares. Aches and pains are gone.” He addressed the issue, sounding confident in his dismissal of it.  “My paper work’s piling up. Besides you know I like to do my therapy in the gym.”

McCoy leaned back in the chair and turned the glass slowly between his palms, filling the air with the thick, just-sweet smell of the brandy.  Not only was he the top medical man this side of the beta quadrant, he was often the wise, old country doctor, who watched the comings and goings of his human wards with a keen eye for falter or fatigue. Tonight he was trying to still be that doctor as well as the astute psychologist who could analyze Jim Kirk’s psychological motivation like any textbook case.

“I thought things were quiet up top, Jim. Even Spock looks bored.  Give the conn to him or Uhura and do your work in your office.  Can’t release you till you complete the program.” His tone was pleasantly acquiescent, yet somehow matter-of-fact, and final.

“Come on, Bones,” Kirk cajoled.  “I’m fine, really much better. Gained back the lost weight.” His face softened into an almost seductive smile.  “Bright eyes, bright smile. Do my job and want more.  Every day the Orion thing seems father away.”

McCoy tilted his head, watching the captain with an analytical eye though his expression was purposefully lazy and lackluster. “Oh? How’s that?” It was glaringly noticeable when Kirk downed nearly half the glass.  “How does it seem farther away, Jim?”

Kirk considered McCoy’s first real question. How could he answer without answering. Did I say farther? I meant nearer.

Suddenly Dost’s face became an undeniable image in his brain, and his eyes moved to the back wall as though the memory had become more real than the drink in his hand or the clear blue eyes of the old friend who sat across the desk.  If McCoy could hear his lies, would he even recognize them?  Kirk heard the words leave his lips like startled birds taking flight.

“Like it didn’t happen.” He changed his mind.  “Like it happened a long time ago.”

“Like it happened to someone else?”

“Yes, like that.”  Kirk tried to think of something else that McCoy wanted to hear. “Like it’s not important anymore.”

McCoy set his glass aside and leaned forward.

“You never told me about it, Jim. What happened to you on Dunbar’s Planet.” He paused in sympathy. “I know how bad it was.”

Kirk sent his eyes past the doctor’s shoulder, but his eyes boomeranged back as a certain show of strength.  “Then there’s nothing to tell.”

McCoy smiled at the little evasion. “You said it wasn’t important anymore, but it’s important for your doctor to hear it.”

“It’s definitely an unpleasant memory.” The captain felt the heat of righteous indignation.

“I can imagine.”

“I don’t think so.”

Kirk downed the rest of his drink and turned his wide back towards the doctor.  He couldn’t even begin to talk about it. He didn’t know where to start. At the moment six Orions jumped him as he returned to his quarters, at the first sting of a hypo at his throat, or at the first time Dost dragged him half-naked across a filthy floor and kicked him in the head? There were other first times. In seconds, language left him and fierce misgivings replaced coherent thought. The memory took his breath and left him cold. He fell silent.

McCoy pretended he hadn’t noticed the silence.  He refilled the captain’s glass, talking as he poured.

“Four centuries of therapeutic improvements since Freud and Jung, Jim, but one thing hasn’t changed: the trauma doesn’t go away until the patient confronts it. It’s how we process bad experiences.  We put the trauma into words or visuals to objectify it.  Then we relegate it to its proper place in our lives.” The blue eyes focused on the young captain, now painfully vulnerable. “In your case, to something terrible that happened to you, but is over.”

But Kirk’s stubbornness overtook any vulnerability.  “I’m doing that,” he snapped.  “It takes time.”

“It hurts you to be touched so you avoid it. You never felt that way before.”

“I’m just preoccupied with work.”

“With what’s happened to you. Work is a distraction.”  McCoy’s voice softened.  “Let’s talk about it.”

“Not tonight.”

“It’s quiet. Just you and me.  It’s a good time.”

“I’m tired.”

McCoy remembered distinctly Kirk’s less than enthusiastic reaction to his successful surgery. He cocked his head and drank from his glass.  “So how’s your face?” he asked, seeming to change the subject.  “You know, hearing, eyesight, chewing, talking.” His lower lip jutted out like an antenna.

“All fine. I can spit with the best of ‘em.”

“But how does it look to you?”  The doctor’s tone was expectant. I did a damn-near perfect job, if I do think so myself.

“You tell me. I don’t have to look at it.” I hate your perfect job.

McCoy frowned just a little.

“I don’t have to live with it, Jim.”

“It’s just a face.  There’s nothing to live with.”

McCoy leaned forward.  “You think that face brought you the pain.”

“It’s just a face, isn’t it? If anything, I brought the pain on myself.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Kirk turned away the face in question.

“I’m really tired, Bones.”

“You sleeping all right?

“Fine.”

“Nightmares?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Everything’s fine.”

“Yes.”

“Then finishing the therapy will be a breeze.”

McCoy leaned back, giving the captain breathing space.  He felt like a cowboy trying to corral a wild horse.  Though academy training and fifteen years of Starfleet discipline had tamed James Kirk, he still had a wild, stubborn streak in him that often stopped the doctor cold.

McCoy’s conversational tone broke the tension in the room.

“You know, Jim, I can understand that Tech Okata’s sim sessions would be painful for you. It’s not easy to confront a trauma head on. But Munson . . . she’s a real pro.  I walk out of an hour with her feeling like my bones have turned to taffy and all my troubles blown out an airlock. And she’s just your type, too.”

Something jarred Kirk to speak. “How’s that?”

“Same interests. Double major: physiotherapy and early American history.  She knows more about the American Civil War than you, me, and the computer combined.  Her great-great-great grandpappy was a civil war historian at Charleston University. She tells wonderful anecdotes about Sherman, Lee, Grant—even Lincoln—all the while taking the kinks and loops out of your stiff neck and any other sensitive places.”

Kirk looked skeptical. “You trying to fix me up?”

Literally and figuratively, Jim-boy.

McCoy didn’t try to justify that he was talking about taking a little extra comfort in the realm of the physical—either by professional services or by dinner and dancing. It was Jim Kirk’s choice.  And Jackie Munson’s. It wasn’t like he talked to her about sacrificing her body on the altar of the captain’s need; he would never do that.  But the birds and the bees had a way of coming together when James Kirk set his mind to mixing pleasure with business. Or they had in the past.

McCoy gave a shrug that said take it or leave it. “There’s a crewwoman on board who’s an expert on a part of American history that I know you’re especially interested in.”

Kirk relaxed a millimeter.

“I’ll talk to her some time.”

“Nothing to be afraid of.  Besides Shiatsu, laser acupuncture, and low-grav chiropractic manipulation, Jacqueline Munson’s a Federation board-certified sonic and manual massage therapist, licensed on fourteen different home worlds. Even yours.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“So why did you stop the massages?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You’re only working half-time. You’ve been busy avoiding.”

Kirk smiled, suddenly chagrined. “Look Bones, I’ll go back. I promise.”

McCoy paused to pour himself another drink and change the subject. Sort of. 

“Bet you have no idea who’s got the greatest hands on the ship?” He didn’t wait for Kirk’s guess. “Lord only knows what for, but your first officer actually took Munson’s massage techniques class with us three months ago.  I have to hand it to him, for an emotionless ascetic who’d rather sleep on a bed of nails than crack a smile, he’s got the touch.  Sends the top of your scalp right into synchronous orbit.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

McCoy couldn’t quite tell how he meant that.  There had been a certain wistfulness to the captain’s voice, like he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt relaxed.

But Kirk’s mood soon shifted.  Growing impatient, he put an abrupt end to this topic.  “I just don’t want to talk about it, Bones,” he said, “and I don’t want to go to therapy, and I don’t want Spock, or anybody for that matter, standing over me with his hands around my throat.  I want to forget it.”

“I’m your doctor and your friend.  I’m telling you that will never happen.”

“If you’ll just leave me alone, I can make it happen.”

Friendly visit’s over, son. McCoy stood up.

“Then, by all means, make it happen. You’ve got one week to cure yourself, that is, move those psych readings back where they were—or to report back to Munson and Okata.  In the meantime, you’re still on half-duty sick leave.  Goodnight, Jim.” He picked up the brandy bottle and left.

It was obvious now that Leonard McCoy, the professional phony, had never come for a friendly drink at all, but only as the ship’s physician to evaluate him, to declare him unfit.  Maybe the captain should have drunk to his own health, because he didn’t feel so well right now.

Kirk sat up for another hour in stony silence, biting his cuticles, stewing over the conversation that he had just endured.  Psychologists! Ten times worse than desk-bound paper pushers! Couldn’t Bones see that getting beyond this would just take time.  Why wouldn’t the doctor give him the time he needed?  He finished the liquor and wanted more.  He felt miserable, depressed, his confidence shot.  His eyes burned.  If only he could sleep.

He pulled off his tunic and boots, threw himself on the bed, and fell into a fitful unconsciousness, but Dost’s ugly face—foul and leering—soon glared down at him, like the wrath of sin itself.  When Dost finally put his hands on him and ripped his uniform away, James Kirk woke with a panicky start. He was drenched in sweat and the bedclothes were down around his ankles.

Wishing with all his soul that McCoy had left the brandy bottle behind, the captain lay awake the rest of the night, eyes wide open, waiting for the artificial dawn.

****

James Kirk,  captain of the Enterprise, moved efficiently through the warp-speed vessel and pressed the buttons and gave the commands and kept on moving as though his life were normal.

Days passed, 24-hour increments of which some hours were his watch, his time to be who he and no one else could be.  But he was dead inside.  Dead with a stomach-churning emptiness that had become his every waking moment, and the emptiness choked away what fragrant pleasure there could come from life as though the emptiness were weeds.

And it was this emptiness that filled him up, every space of him. And he ached to fill himself with something other than the emptiness, even sorrow, some other expanding thing that wouldn’t hurt so bad or push so hard against each thought and breath or every decent feeling.  But he didn’t even know what those feelings were or what they could be anymore. Happiness did not exist, not even as memory. Nor a moment’s peace of mind. Nor the suggestion of love. Especially that.

The concept, the feelings, the word itself, even its wounds, had left him. The ability to learn of love was gone. He loved nothing, not himself, nothing outside himself. Even the vast emptiness that had been the beauty of intergalactic space, once deeply loved and needed, was gone.  His own emptiness was bigger than the space between the stars. His universe became this growing void that pushed and crowded out everything that was not its own expanding self.

For a while, he thought of suicide, allowed it to be a real option in the front of his mind, an image of an open airlock and himself embraced, then imploded by unseen pressures in a blazing instant.  But soon that option would be gone, dispersed to nothing, and he would not remember having it or needing to have it.  Only the hopeless residue from once having been a man who would kill himself added to the empty hopelessness, a truer source of his despair.

With all of this emptiness, with all these worthless feelings as vast as limitless space creating and destroying him, James T. Kirk rightful captain of the USS Enterprise, stepped out of the turbolift and entered the bridge, working his half-shift one last time before the emptiness took over and—without any warning—destroyed his life.

Chapter Text

The next day, after having been summoned, Kirk walked into sickbay and found Spock in McCoy’s office. The two officers had obviously been conversing for a while. McCoy smiled when he saw the captain, but Kirk could see that it was little more than a professional display.

“Heard you gave a junior officer quite a workout a couple days ago,” McCoy brought up nonchalantly.

Kirk shot a blistering glance at Spock, whose expression remained neutral.

“You hear that from Alberts or Whiting?” His eyes stayed at Spock’s sober face.

McCoy shook his head.

“This very big ship is sometimes a very small ship.  When the captain gets mean in public, gossip happens.”

Kirk’s eyes flashed.

“People have gotten lazy around here.  We have enemies and we have missions that can go wrong.  If people want to live, they have to be tough.”

As he moved around his desk to stand next to the captain, McCoy’s voice changed to a gentler tone, the physician’s way of offering support.

“And you’re tough, aren’t you, Jim.”

A sudden feeling of threat swept over Kirk; he took one step back, frowning.  Were his two best officers ganging up on him?  He didn’t like that one bit. And he didn’t appreciate McCoy’s obvious and cloying professional courtesy.

“Tough enough, Doctor.” He eyed his first officer suspiciously.  “Why are we have this conversation, Mister Spock?”

McCoy spoke up first, sensing the captain’s displeasure.  He tried to protect the Vulcan.

“Spock’s a little worried about you, Jim.  He told me about your chess game, the one where you forgot—”

“I know the one.  And now I’m beating up on my crew, eh, Bones? Very suspicious behavior.”

McCoy smiled broadly, taking his arm.

“Want to talk about it? You’ve got the ear of your chief surgeon all afternoon.”

Kirk glowered and pulled away.  “Don’t patronize me, Bones.  I’m not the least bit interested—”

“Then let me make that chat an order, Captain.”

A frown stuck on Kirk’s face as though he’d been hit by a pie. “Fine,” he snapped, turning to Spock. “I believe you have work to do, Mister Spock.”  He glanced back at McCoy. “Or I suppose he’s a required participant in this afternoon’s gangbang?”

Spock raised an eyebrow.  He spoke directly to McCoy.

“Fascinating metaphor.”

Now it was McCoy’s turn to frown.

“Maybe Spock should stay, Jim.  I’m sure he, as well as I, would like to hear your explanation for your use of that term.  Do you really think your two best friends are out to . . . assault you?”

He had thought about using an uglier term but decided against it.  What was on Jim’s mind was perfectly clear.

Kirk turned away, suddenly embarrassed, knowing that he had misspoken, a revelation that McCoy obviously expected him to explain.  “I apologize, gentlemen,” he said with a disarming smile.  “Of course, I don’t think that, Bones.”  His voice was light, his face open, but the doctor could see that that he was, albeit very slowly, wringing his hands.

“I admit to having afterthoughts of Dunbar’s planet,” Kirk continued.  “Who wouldn’t? Mostly, how the Orions could have ever pulled off the logistics for such a kidnapping.  We’re talking about a high-level breach of Fleet security.  This really hasn’t anything to do with my treatment down there, but what if something like that happened to someone in Starfleet Command?  All of Starfleet operations could be jeopardized.”

He was mostly talking to himself now, his mind racing ahead, making decisions as to what type of discourse sounded the most casual, the most reasonable.  He was totally lost in his mind, when he felt McCoy’s firm grip on his arm.

“Jim,” was all the doctor said.  The look on his face said ‘Stop’. Please.

“But, Bones, you and Spock wanted an explanation—” He stopped.

“Jim, forgive me.  I had no idea things were this bad.  I know you dropped out of therapy, but you need it.  You’re repressing terribly. Let me help you.”

Kirk straightened his tunic with a sharp tug.  Why had he ever thought he could trick McCoy, who was becoming more like a Berengarian terrier every day, nipping at his ankles, unwilling to ever let go? But he was captain of the Enterprise and he could bully with the best of them.  Well, now was the time to shock and hurt this little Georgia prick and get him the hell off his back.

He pulled himself up to his full height.

“If you think you can, Doctor, with your pathetic simulation therapy, bring back from the dead a man who sodomized and degraded me so that I can kill him with my bare hands—then, yes, you can help me.  Otherwise, keep your professional labels and time-wasting treatments to yourself.”

He turned to leave, but McCoy’s voice stopped him in mid-step as forcefully as if the doctor had stuck a foot out and sent him flying. The decision had come instantly.

“Captain James T. Kirk, report to my office in one hour for a full Robbiani dermal-optic series.”  His fists were balls at his sides.  “Additionally, Captain, by the power of the office of Chief Medical Officer aboard the USS Enterprise, I am declaring you emotionally unfit.  You are relieved of duty.”

McCoy turned to Spock.

“Until you receive an official report from my office stating otherwise, Mister Spock, you’re in command.”  He pressed a button at his desk. “Nurse Chapel, initiate an official memorandum to the Surgeon General, Starfleet Command.  Patient: James T. Kirk.”  He picked up a cassette, glared a moment longer at Jim Kirk, who looked half in shock, and threw the tape down on the desk.  It hit with a crack, as the chief surgeon turned and walked out of the room.

You could cut the residue of Leonard McCoy’s disgust with a knife.

*****

The dermal-optic test went smoothly.  And Captain Kirk did not pass.  McCoy scheduled Kirk for immediate high-level psychiatric therapy, consisting of conversation-reassignment counseling, light-level drug intake treatments, and therapeutic massage physio-stimulation.  In the meantime, James Kirk was confined to quarters.  It might as well have been the brig.

****

It was late. Oppressively so.

After an hour’s workout, Spock walked down the deck five corridor towards his quarters.  His days, stretched to eighteen hours of performing both the captain’s and science officer’s duties, had pushed the workouts later and later.  It was now near midnight.  He had been unusually tired during the workout, as something odd nagged at the back of his mind—a worry, a threat, something exceedingly painful, but having no source within himself.

As he passed the captain’s cabin, he heard a distinct cry of anguish emanate from it although he knew that it was not his ears that heard.  He pressed his palm against the door; an electromagnetic current of despair vibrated at the very spot his hand touched the structure. Without hesitation, he pressed the buzzer.  No answer.  He pressed it again.  Still nothing.  He punched in the override sequence and went inside.

James Kirk was sitting at his desk—bare-chested and disheveled—a half-empty glass in one hand, a bottle of something brown in the other.  He was obviously not sober, and Spock acknowledged to himself that he always felt exceedingly uncomfortable wherever the captain was drunk.

“Here to rescue me again, Spock? I’m not in much danger yet. I’ve only just begun.”’  Not true. He had already downed one-third the bottle.

Kirk wondered just why Spock had appeared at all. In the back of his thoughts, he remembered Spock’s watchfulness when he’d wiped the floor with a junior officer, and when he could not remember how to play a game that he’d played since he was a kid, and when he’d told the ship’s chief surgeon where to stick it.  He took another drink and swallowed hard.

“You know what you know,” he muttered.  “You’ve got a lot of gall to think you know more.”

Spock replied evenly, “I know everything about you.”

For the moment he meant it, for he knew that James Kirk was consumed by the memories of rape and torture and helplessness and a fear so great that he could not dismiss it from his mind, not even for one minute.

Kirk cocked his head and tipped the glass in Spock’s direction before raising it to his own lips.

“Arrogant bastard,” he said like a toast.  He took a mouthful, working his jaw as though the liquid were so tough he needed to chew it up before swallowing. “I don’t want you to know anything about me. About this.”

Spock reached over and took the bottle from Jim’s hand, setting it aside.

“You must confide totally in McCoy, Jim.  Tell him everything that has happened to you, every detail, no matter how painful.  That is the only to free yourself from the pain.”

“How would you know?” Kirk asked pointedly.

“I have confided in him regarding my behavior in this affair.  He is greatly skilled at defusing possible emotional . . . difficulties.”

“Well, good for you, but I want to forget.  I don’t want to talk about it. To anyone.  Why can’t you leave me alone?  You have the ship.” He said it as though he thought Spock had purposefully conspired for the dubious honor of ‘pretend’ captain.

Spock took one step closer.

“Jim, then tell me what happened to you, what you feel.  If you are wary of McCoy, perhaps I can be of service.”

“Service, Spock? I know about being of service.” Kirk laughed harshly, turning the word into an ugly sexual image in his mind.  “You were there. You saw.”

“I saw your condition at the end.  I do not know how you were captured or what Dost did to you earlier before I—” He did not finish.

Kirk’s face contorted into an ugly mask.  If Spock wanted to see the ugliness, well, here it was, and it was a monster.

“You want to know how the drugs took away every ounce of strength? You want to know how bad the pain was? How he tore the clothes off my back, off my legs, how he worked me over like a punching bag, wore me down? You want to know how he kissed my mouth until I gagged, how he used his fist to—"

“Jim!” Spock said flatly, commanding him to stop with the power of his voice.

Jim’s resentment coalesced like white heat before fire burned the flesh.  He told himself to shut up. He wouldn’t give Spock any more titillating details.  He wouldn’t give them to anybody. Through a clenched jaw, he spat, “Fuck you.”

Spock’s only reaction was to sigh.

“Yes. He also said that to me.” Spock’s tone changed becoming more detached.  “I comprehend the speaker’s intention to wish the recipient of the words an unpleasant rather than a pleasant experience.”

Kirk’s eyes were hooded pools of darkness, and his voice dripped with ugly sarcasm.

“If you were next on his wish list, believe me, he wasn’t wishing you any goddamn pleasant experience.”

Spock raised a brow in consideration.  Jim knew Dost very well.

“But we are friends, Jim. Why use this particular expression with me?”

Christ, Kirk felt annoyed.  Friends? Us? A meaningless word to a man whose heart was no more.

The effect of the liquor suddenly kicked in, aiming his annoyance at this cool, calm visage who invaded his cave like some overly polite white knight.  It didn’t come out often, but Jim Kirk could quickly become perverse, and the captain didn’t much appreciate Spock’s glib little game. Would he have to toss the Vulcan out bodily? If only he could.  He had no strength against Spock’s towering calm and purpose.  Though the weight of his depression nearly staggered him, James Kirk pulled himself up with nothing but his own building anger hauling him to his feet.

“Not clear enough for you, my dear Mister Spock? All right, listen up, because this is exactly, precisely, unimpeachably what I mean.”

He up-ended his drink and slammed down the glass. Dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, he narrowed his eyes, and his lips became an ugly line across his face.

“I mean—take your little midnight visit and stick it up your know-it-all ass. I mean take your condescending kindnesses, your hyper-intellectual analysis, your prissy pointed-eared neutrality and go FUCK YOURSELF with it! Clear enough!”

As the litany of vulgarities that he had never heard before from any Starfleet officer let alone a friend, the pupils of Spock’s dark eyes narrowed slightly, but he would not allow the captain’s outrageous words or even blatant hostility to chase him from this room.

“Why do you pretend that I am against you, Jim, when in truth, I am your friend and only wish to help you?” He wanted Jim to know that he knew how bad it was, how bad it had become, because he could see and hear the desolation that it had caused.  Perhaps his question had only been rhetorical, and he would, as the humans say, have to put his money where his mouth was.  He reached out a hand and touched Jim’s face with his fingers.  “Let me take the memory from you.”

As though the touch were painful, Jim pulled back.

“No.”

“Then share the memory with me so that you are not alone.”

But Jim was adamant.

“It’s my memory. It happened to me.  I have to conquer it.  Not you.  Not Bones. Me.”

Kirk stood up, sudden outrage in his eyes, and he threw the glass across the room.  It broke with a crash at the exact moment that tears burst from his eyes.  “I won’t let you touch me that way.”

Speak reached out again, moved his hand slowly around to the back of Jim’s neck and gently drew him closer.

“You must let me touch you.  You will allow it.”

And Jim came toward him, melting, his face pressed into Spock’s chest to stop the tears that were already coming, already forcing him to submit.  Spock turned Jim towards the bunk to get him off his feet, and suddenly, Jim’s balled fist beat the edge of the bed.

“You didn’t have the right to kill him!”

“I did have the right,” Spock said, moving behind him and kneading his bare shoulders.

More than anything he wished to comfort James Kirk, to show him how sorry he was for the brutality he had suffered, to take the pain from his knotted shoulders and back, to undo what cruelty and barbarism had done to this proud, giving man and to be so kind that the kindness would simply wipe away all Jim’s memory of Dost’s hands upon him.

He had no idea that this was precisely what Dost had done, been kind to the captive, attentive, physically comforting.  After the first beating and sexual assault, Dost had fed the semi-conscious man and let him rest.  There had been caresses.  Back rubs.  Small attempts at affection. Dost had even persuaded a half-dazed and drugged James Kirk that it was over.  But it wasn’t. Not even now.

Something abruptly shattered in Jim’s mind. He took a swing at Spock, but Spock only grabbed his arm out of the air, and gently twisted It behind his back, holding him down with patient control. Jim became instantly furious, furious at himself for having cried like a baby, hating this man who was overpowering him just like Dost. He knew that tears, no matter how many bucketsful he cried, would never be enough. This defeat was worse than tears, worse than rage, worse than failure. Or it soon would be.

“Jim, stop it,” Spock whispered.  “Stop this fighting.”

As he released Jim’s wrist, he turned the captain’s body, his right hand reaching out towards Jim’s left shoulder.  In a moment the captain would be unconscious, safe, the anger abated.  But some inner wisdom told him that an hour’s respite was no solution. Logic suggested that rage must be neutralized with its opposite—with gentleness, with calm, with a profound understanding that rage held no answer.  It must, like stampeding animals, be turned upon itself and stopped, its runaway energy dissipated like the easing of a constant, unrelenting pain. 

As the man beneath him shook with dread, Spock could actually feel the warmth leave Jim’s body, and he toppled the shaking man down to the bed, pulling the light bedspread around his back and legs. He had only wanted to stop the shaking.

But Jim could feel Spock’s heaviness against him and felt smothered by the blanket, no matter how light.  He tried to sit up, but he was tangled in the bedspread—and he began to struggle and fight back.

At the sudden battle, Spock’s fingers easily found the places against cheek, nose, and temple, and as easily, his telepathic mind slipped under the surface fear.  As though hit from behind, Spock grunted when cold black images slammed into his mind.  He tried to separate Jim’s memories from his, Jim’s emotion from his, but it soon became impossible, for Jim was caught in a depression that was out of control, already destroying what they had—what was good and honorable and theirs. 

When Spock repositioned his fingers again, this time steeling himself against the bleakest thoughts, he found them there: Dost’s heavy body across his back; Dost pushing inside; Dost making him cry out from the knife-like pain; each price paid for a few more seconds of life; each unresisting compromise with the devil that was Dost, and with the devil’s body.

To Jim, Spock made Dost real again.  No part of his mind recognized the touches as gentle, the heat—not lust—but the warmth of reconciliation or the sweet offering of solace.  He cried out now—not a word, just ugly sounds like the sound of a metal blade ripping through lumber.  Spock was in his mind the way that Dost had been in his body—uninvited, unwanted, without compromise.  He pushed back at Spock’s mind, but it was unyielding, and the repulsive images and sensations were real again, too—as real as the first time, and the last.

He could still feel the man’s hands violating him, still smell the foulness in his nose. Suddenly he twisted wildly and jumped to his knees.  A blood red curtain descended over his icy world, and it became thicker, harder to see through, harder to breathe through. In an instant, he shoved Spock backwards off the bed, and when Spock took him with him, the two bodies rolled across the floor.

“Let me go, you bastard!” There was screaming now. “I’ll kill you if you don’t let me go!”

Kirk was up in a flash, straddling the Vulcan beneath him. He grabbed Spock’s blue shirt and roughly hauled him from the floor.  Spock backpedaled, then crashed into the nearest wall. Kirk pulled him to his feet, one hand around his throat, the other pummeling his face and mid-section. Telepathic contact looped tighter with the landing each blow.

As he pummeled Dost’s flesh, the utter passivity of the man in his hands inflamed James Kirk beyond his knowing.  Rage and grief crashed in on him with a gale force.  He felt murderous, and the murder in his mind made him invincible: You were kind, then you did this to me! This fucking thing! I’m going to do it to you. To you! 

****

Spock shut his eyes, concentrating on conquering the pain. Dark blood rushed from his nose and mouth, and his ears began to ring.  He groaned silently with each punch as the next caught him up.  He would not fight against what was happening to him. To either of them.

He did not resist when Kirk’s mind entered his.  He did not resist when Kirk’s mind became as forceful as his. He did not resist when Jim’s mind pushed inside, overtaking him like a bird of prey overtakes a rabbit no matter how fast it is running.

And he did not resist when Jim became the rapist Dost in his mind.

****

“You’re dead, you bastard!”

Real words this time, coming out in a hoarse, choking croak. A rock-hard fist connected one last time with a soft lower belly.  You fucking bastard! Dost was dead except where it counted—in his mind. But Dost was dead. He had seen Spock break his neck. Seen him fall.

Suddenly the rage was gone. Not with physical release for there was none, but with the sure knowledge that the evil that had snatched him from his safe, clean world . . . was already dead.  After his mind recognized it, then his body followed. When his heart couldn’t beat any fast, when his arms couldn’t raise themselves one more time, when there were no more tears, he broke the mental contact.

Or it broke away from him.

He released the body in his hands and staggered past the bed, starving for air, starving for anything that would remind him that he could be clean again. He was shivering badly, and the horror of what he had done hadn’t hit him yet.

Yet James Kirk managed to pull his disheveled self together. He headed straight for the bottle, but when he tried to pick it up, it dropped down to the carpet with a thud.  He watched it roll under the chair, but it was a blur, rolling and swimming away. Oh, sweet heavenly stars.

All at once his vision cleared, He looked down at his own body.  He was Jim. Spock was Spock. Dost was gone.

There were no words to describe the relief he felt.

****

Very slowly, as if expecting more blows, Spock released his raised arms from over his head.  He wanted to say something, but he was filled with such mental anguish that he was blind from the chaos in his head.  Logic had been trampled like garbage. Intellect did not exist anymore. Friendship had no name except animal passion. Innocence lay a casualty, as well as loyalty and hope. Every good thing that had once been his life now laid waste inside his mind.

He heard the sound of roaring air and slamming bells and knew that it was the hammer of his own heart and aching lungs.  He tried to stay standing, but his back slid down the wall.  He couldn’t look at James Kirk. He couldn’t bear even the light in the shadow when his mind was in such darkness.  His mind felt shattered, wrenched from his body, as though his ragged brain bled down into his throat.

He felt totally alone.

He had relinquished control—of everything.  Even the one thing that meant more to him than life itself: his mind.  He gasped at the intimate betrayal.  A moment’s kindness before agony. A caress before fire. A kiss, then the plunge of the knife.  Affection, then lust, like he had never known in another. It was blind and vicious and ugly. And it belonged to Dost, and then to Jim, and then to him.

He didn’t know or remember where he was or who he could call on for help. Gathering the mental threads of his tattered thoughts, he tried to cover the chaos of his mind with Vulcan disciplines, but he remained naked under the cold blanket of failure and pain.  He ultimately failed . . . failed to comfort? He didn’t quite know in the face of his own suffering, and so he no longer attempted to know.  Instead, clamping his eyes tightly shut, he tried to divorce himself from his body and bury himself alive in his mind.  He knew he could succeed at that.

Or he would surely die trying.

****

Spock was . . . where was Spock?

Through a haze of misery, James Kirk could see a dark figure slumped at his feet.  How did you get here? he thought. You seem hurt.  How did you get hurt here in my cabin? How did you--? No please. He remembered the murder that raged in his soul.  I have not killed a dead man, I have killed . . . what there was between us, my love for my friend, his love for me.  Oh, Spock what have I done?

Rancid bile rose in his throat, and he remembered the only other time he had known that taste in his mouth: when he had faced the wolf inside himself, when he had come to understand that such a cruel, savage part of him existed alongside the intelligent, compassionate man he considered himself. It existed beside him. Within him. That time when the transporter had malfunctioned, he had gagged at the knowledge that a beast roamed inside, and that knowledge had left him weak and full of self-loathing.  He felt the same now.  For he knew that it was true.  Knew that the wolf-beast had visited again.  Knew that the wanton rapist—physical need the only thing driving him—had exposed its ugly vicious soul.

His hands went up to his face to hide behind, but there was no hiding from this.  He had just committed the most heinous crime known on the peaceful planet Vulcan.  He, who did not have the mental power nor the expert skills, had somehow acquired them.  How he wanted to weep, but he didn’t dare, for the tears would be for the wolf which deserved no tears, no forgiveness, no compassion, no right to life at all.  He had accepted that side of him once, but not again. Never again.

This time he could not—could never—forgive.

Chapter Text

McCoy was awakened by the captain’s voice, garbled and nearly incoherent.  With any medical emergency on the ship, the doctor was instantly awake.  He threw on his clothes. In another minute, he was pushing the button to Kirk’s quarters. When no one unlocked the door, he used his override access code to enter the half-lit cabin.  What he found inside was shocking. The shirtless captain was smeared with green and red welts.  The first officer, his uniform torn and ragged, slumped in the shadows of a corner.

“My god! Are you all right? What happened here?” He thought maybe he should call security, but no one else seemed to be in the closed, dim cabin.  He began to look for wounds.

Kirk pushed him away.  “Help Spock.”

But the captain always came first. McCoy ran the scanner from forehead to groin.  He got odd, mixed readings. Wild spikes. Too much adrenaline. Too little oxygen. Blood sugar in the pits. Muscle fatigue off the scale. And unbelievably, Kirk was fighting tears.

“I said help Spock.”

McCoy heard the odd edge of begging in the command. Then his eyes jumped to the shadows. “All right, all right.”

He went to the huddled man, almost afraid of what he might find.  When he touched Spock’s shoulder, the man withdrew.

“Spock, talk to me,” McCoy coaxed. To his concern, his scanner showed something more than minor physical trauma—a cracked collarbone, cuts and bruises—but nothing life-threatening. Instead it was the unusual brain activity, both erratic and flat—not the calm, gentle rolling waves that usually coursed across the screen like precise, impeccable clockwork—that worried McCoy more.

He turned back to Kirk.

“Tell me what happened.”

“I don’t know what happened.”

“Who did this to him?”

“I did . . . must have.”

“Jim, don’t you know?”

“I’m not sure. I think I—”

Spock moaned, and McCoy pressed a hypo to his throat, filling his system with a stimulant that made him instantly aware of his surroundings, if only of his now churning stomach.  As the drug did its work, Spock’s eyes began to clear, but McCoy’s scanner told him that his patient was far from all right.

“Can you stand?”

As he helped Spock slowly to his feet, the doctor glanced at Kirk.  On the edge of the bed staring out at nothing, the captain appeared disoriented, his chin trembling, his eyes glassy and vacant.

McCoy gently herded Spock out into the office area and lowered him to a chair. The scanner continued to turn up erratic readings, and Spock, too, had the same look of disassociation in his eyes. Had they been fighting? What kind of disagreement could turn into a midnight brawl? No kind, that’s for damn sure.  McCoy couldn’t think of one issue—philosophical or factual—that could come between these two, except for one obvious fact: Spock’s face had been beaten—hard.  If this wasn’t a philosophical argument, maybe it was a lover’s quarrel.  Was a third party involved? A woman? But the ship carried no civilian guests, and the idea of them fighting over a crewwoman seemed totally implausible.  Spock’s hormonal level was normal, or McCoy might have suspected pon farr. He even ran his medical tricorder in a 360-degree sweep of the room.  If an alien presence had done this, it didn’t register either on his equipment or with the ship’s intruder alert system.

McCoy touched a small laser suture to the first of several places on Spock’s bloodied face, but as cut by cut, Spock’s face was healed, his near-black eyes remained haunted and unfocused.  “Come on, I’m taking you to sickbay.  You’ve got a broken bone that needs setting.”

The injured man managed to shake him off.  “No, I must . . . recover in my quarters . . . I must meditate.”

“Why?” McCoy touched his arm.  “Who the hell did this to you?”

“Take me away.”  He glanced in the captain’s direction and the apprehension in that look signaled ‘from him’.

“Wait here,” McCoy answered.  He went back and laid Kirk down. “I’ll be right back,” he whispered.  When McCoy returned to Spock, the Vulcan was on his feet, lurching towards the door.  The doctor caught up with him and took his arm.  “Let me help you.”  The first officer didn’t answer.  “Dammit, Spock, that’s what I’m here for. To help.”

****

McCoy escorted Spock back to his quarters, eased him down onto his bed, and took out the palm-size bone knitter from his medikit, wielding it as easily as a diner wields a fork. It would do in a pinch. Within a minute, McCoy had semi-mended the collarbone. When without a sound, Spock turned on his side and curled up into a ball, McCoy knew that he’d never before seen the Vulcan in quite this dismal state; yet his physical readings—beside a rapid pulse and queasy stomach—did not seem life threatening.  It was mental readings that were so off, totally atypical and scary, lurching off the scale like Spock himself had lurched across the room; the Vulcan shivered as though he were freezing, his arms across his chest even here in his too-warm-for-humans quarters.

A moment later, the Vulcan lay completely still, and McCoy sat down on the bed next to the silent man.  The doctor had seen these new readings before: healing trance. He took in a nerve-calming breath and leaned forward an inch trying to gage which bedside manner was most appropriate for this most-stubborn patient.  It only took a moment.

“Here’s the deal, Spock. I know you can hear me. I know you’re in a healing trance.  I’ll give you until 0930 tomorrow morning to come out of it.  After that I’m notifying the Vulcan Health Institute to send someone out here who can deal with this.  I know whatever happened with Jim was personal, but I won’t have you die on me, and I won’t have you mentally impaired because I did nothing.” He touched Spock’s arm, wanting to comfort, and was filled with frustration because he knew couldn’t. “Oh, hell, don’t do anything stupid before I get back.”

But he managed to stay another little while.  He went to Spock’s computer and left a curt message for Scotty that the two senior officers were on medical disability for a least a day, then sank down into an office chair to gather his wits about him.  He craved a good stiff drink but didn’t dare.  Five minutes later, he knew he had to leave his patient alone.  He couldn’t help it. He had to be in two places at once.

Because he had two patients.

****

McCoy found the captain sitting up at the edge of the bunk in the dark. “Lights on, one quarter power,” the doctor ordered. He approached the captain and surreptitiously scanned the length of his body.  “You’re almost in as bad shape as Spock.”

The doctor could barely make out the perceptible shaking of the captain’s head, but McCoy put down the scanner when he finally saw James Kirk’s face. Though his handsome features were composed and almost serene, large tears coursed out of his eyes like liquid over the edge of an overfilled teacup.

“I didn’t know who he was, Bones.  I thought he was . . . I had to—I—I had to hurt him first. I had to hurt him first!”

“You beat the shit out of him, Jim. That must have been some argument.”

Kirk’s eyes widened in horror.  “You don’t understand."

The doctor took Jim’s right hand and began to clean up the bloodied knuckles.  “All right, help me understand.”

Tears dripped off the captain’s chin.

“I forced myself on him.” Now McCoy paused. “In his mind.  Our minds.  I guess I—  Oh god, Bones, I raped him.” McCoy stiffened. “I mind-raped him.”

McCoy’s heart seemed to leap in his chest, and he felt his stomach lurch.  He swayed against the bed. Sweet mother of the universe.  No way.  But it all made a weird kind of sense.  “That’s impossible,” he said, with the conviction of disbelief.

“Impossible?” Kirk pulled his hand away from the doctor’s ministrations. “Because you know I don’t have any psionic abilities? Because you know that Spock is my best friend?  Because you know I could never do that to anyone?” The captain reached for McCoy’s wrist, squeezing it so hard that McCoy tried to squirm away.  “But I did do it.  I’m telling you, I did do it!”

The desperation in Jim Kirk’s voice chilled the doctor to his bones.  “Why, Jim? Why would you do that?”

“I thought he was Dost.  I tried to kill him because I though he was Dost!”

“All right, relax.” McCoy touched both shoulders. “Relax.”

Jim turned away, wiping his nose on his bare arm.

“What am I going to do, Bones? Is he going to be all right?”

“Yes, I’m sure of it,” McCoy answered him, almost by rote.  But now that he knew what Spock was suffering from, he wasn’t really so sure.  He had never read any literature about telepathic mind-rape—no doubt because the privacy-paranoid Vulcans made damn well sure there wasn’t any. But one could extrapolate that for touch telepaths like the Vulcans, such violations would be despicable, intolerable, purely devastating, perhaps even driving some of them along with their perfectly logical minds head-first into the illogic of madness.

Because Spock had talked to him earlier—albeit in a disjointed fashion—he knew that on some basic level, the Vulcan first officer, if surely the walking wounded, was also moving and thinking, and that had to mean that he would be all right.  McCoy focused now on the weeping James Kirk. 

For everyone’s sake, he just had to focus on the captain.

****

Indeed, deep down in the darkest recesses of his unconscious mind, First Officer Spock had registered Doctor McCoy’s timely deadline. 

At 0930 the next morning, he came out of his healing trance, swung his long legs over the side of the bed, and pitched forward on his face. The commotion woke the dozing physician who jumped to grab his fallen friend.  As he eased the first officer back into the bed, McCoy was so relieved to see Spock conscious that he forgot to get angry at his patient’s self-destructive, stubborn behavior.

“You’re not going anywhere,” the doctor cautioned, beginning his examination.  “Not without me anyway.”

Sitting unsteadily, Spock acquiesced to the doctor’s attentions.  A hypo or two, a brief touch. After a moment, the sunken brown eyes cleared.

“How do you feel?”  Though Spock only blinked in answer, McCoy could see intelligence and self-awareness return to his eyes.  “Can you talk now?”

Spock slowly nodded his head.

Without another word, McCoy went to the wall servo and came back with a cup of tea. As Spock drank the strong brew, McCoy saw resignation cross his gaunt, lined features, and then the more familiar look of clear hard-headedness and uncommon strength. For McCoy, the troublesome first officer was well enough.

Barely controlled exasperation surfaced from somewhere deep inside the doctor’s worry. Though annoyed, McCoy would not raise his voice, but his aggravation was startling   He took Spock’s chin and tilted it up.  “Why can’t you ever confide in me, Spock?  Just once.  It would be such a goddamn treat.”

In his half-daze, Spock did not know whether to translate that literally or idiomatically.  After all, the words were spoken by the chief medical officer, yet on the other hand—well, it was the same. So he said nothing, assuming that given enough time the emotional human would eventually explain what he, in his devastated fuzziness, could not begin to reason out.

“My god, man, you’re a mess,” McCoy still muttered, running his scanner in circles over Spock’s chest. “Yes, Jim told me his version.  Did you think he wouldn’t?” McCoy scowled.  “Or were you counting on that.”

When Spock remained silent—stubbornly so—the doctor knew that two could play that game.

“It’s me, McCoy. Maybe I’m hard to take sometimes, but it’s been four long years.  Why can’t you ever see past all our bickering for what it is—just the way you and I choose to communicate.”  Sighing, he dropped his hands to his lap, his anger converging into resignation. “You know I always find out.  It’s completely illogical for you not to tell me in the first damn place.”

But Spock could barely remember how to spell logic, let alone argue its merits.

“He told me that he beat you up,” McCoy went on, “and that somehow . . . somehow he mind-raped you.”  The doctor swallowed hard.  “He’s put himself in an impossible situation.  Maybe all of us.”

Spock raised his hand to wave away the doctor. “I shall recover with time.  Allow me to meditate.  I can heal myself.”

“And what am I supposed to do with him?”

“You . . . must help him.”

“I can’t help him with this.” McCoy looked down at the equipment in his hand.  It could tell him everything about a medical situation, down to the molecular level . . . and it could tell him nothing. “Why did you let him do it?”

Spock shook his head.  He would not be forced to speak of it.  “Vulcan disciplines demand the strict observation of privacy.”

As Spock anticipated, McCoy only stiffened and snapped, “Dammit, Spock!” At the sound, Spock’s shoulders sank.  He didn’t like to be yelled at by the chief surgeon who sat fuming beside him.  He didn’t like to hear the hurt in the doctor’s words that he knew would quickly turn to anger.  In the next instant, he knew he was right.

McCoy’s blue eyes held fire.

“Now you’re gonna tell me why you let him do that to you, Spock, or I swear! I’ll have you hauled to sickbay, with orders for Nurse Chapel to strip you down and examine you with an ice-cold rectal probe. And she’ll do it, too!”

The Vulcan took in a deep and shaky breath.

His voice barely above a hoarse whisper, he finally answered, “Surak’s greater good.” He could feel McCoy’s palpable confusion and could not help but sigh again.  “What at first appears illogical may find its logic in the Greater Good.”

“Sounds like old-fashioned situation ethics to me, and obscure points on Vulcan philosophy don’t answer the question.”

For a second, Spock’s eyes shifted around the room, as if methodically searching for an escape route, before settling instead on a smudgy shadow at the farthest wall.  He felt so weak that he wasn’t quite sure if he could still continue to speak at all.  He opened his mouth and was a bit startled when more sound actually came out.

“First . . . tell me the condition of . . . the captain.”

McCoy frowned.

“Asleep, last time I looked. He’s exhausted.  He needs a lot of rest.  Physically, he’ll be fine.”

That was all Spock needed to hear.

“I no longer require your services, Doctor.  I shall recover . . . on my . . . .”  Without warning, he folded over like an accordion.

“What the hell?”  McCoy caught him with one hand.  “Fine, just fine.  I’m definitely calling those healers.  They can be here in six hours.”

Spock’s eyes fluttered open.  “No, I forbid . . . how do you know where—?”

“The Intrepid-A. She’s in this sector.  I always keep track of Vulcan medical personnel, just in case.”

Spock’s eyebrow rose. He had no idea that, when it came to his health, McCoy had an ongoing contingency plan. Again, he sighed, resigned.  “They are Vulcans.  They would not understand what has happened.”

McCoy sidled closer, letting his body heat warm and comfort.  He knew he had already threatened, and he felt bad about that, so he didn’t speak for several more seconds.  Finally he said, “Look, Spock, I know it’s tough, but it’s time.  Tell me about it.  More importantly, tell me why.”

But Spock still wasn’t quite ready yet.  He dropped his eyes.  McCoy heard him let out an enormous sigh, even imagining there was a little catch at the end.

“Do not distress the captain further.  I will answer your questions, Doctor.  Though I do not know how to tell you why I allowed it.” His mind seemed swathed in fog, his mouth in cotton. “There are no words.”

“You’re an articulate man. Try.”

“However I say it will not be correct.”

“Say it, Spock.”

“There are no words in Standard to describe the intention.”

“Tell me what the hell you were thinking.”

What I was thinking, Spock thought. He felt trapped.  What could I have been thinking. This is what I was thinking. This is not what I was thinking. Saying it would make it so. But, he knew for a fact, that it was . . . already . . . so.

“I thought that I could take the memories and therefore the pain—take it all away, as I did after . . . .” His voice trailed off, but Holberg 917G was not the issue here.  “He wanted revenge.  I let him avenge himself on me.”

“That’s illogical,” the doctor responded with disbelief.

“You are correct, all things being equal.  However, it is as you asked, ‘what I was thinking’.”

“You allowed it. He couldn’t possibly overpower you.”

“I allowed it.”

Spock heard incredulity in McCoy’s voice.  “But why, Spock?”

“He needed—” He couldn’t continue. Couldn’t concentrate enough to reason it through.  Just the memory made him want to recoil with horror, to turn himself off again and hide inside the mental cocoon that had nestled him in oblivion.

“No need justifies that kind of brutality,” McCoy countered, his racing mind trying to listen and figure things out at the same time.  He was aware of physical rape, but mental? How could a mere human mind overpower a Vulcan-trained one? Spock prided himself on his inherited mental abilities, and he knew for a fact that, as Jim Kirk had said, the captain possessed no appreciable psi talents, latent or otherwise.  But the doctor also knew his instrument readings hadn’t lied. “My god, man, mind-rape—” He swallowed.  “You poor devil Spock, are you sure about it?”

“I speak not of sexual need, certainly not of what you humans call ‘love’, but power over oneself.  The victim’s need to regain control in order not to feel further victimized.”

McCoy’s expression turned steely.

“How did it happen? How did he get into your mind?”

Spock swallowed and looked away.  “I was in his.”

Frowning, McCoy arched a brow, waiting for more explanation.  Seconds later, he knew without a doubt that there would be none.  The doctor hated when Spock chose to be evasive, and the first officer was always evasive about personal things, especially concerning the captain.  Dammit, but whatever had been the source of this disgusting assault was severe and harmful and dangerous, and the doctor knew that Spock wouldn’t tell him anything further unless he pushed.  “That’s why he beat you?”

“He was fighting for his life.”

“You attacked him?”

“That was his perception.”

McCoy’s head was spinning with this Vulcan obfuscation.  “Can you please start from the beginning.  I’m not following any of this.”

Spock’s voice deepened at the memory.

"I attempted to comfort him. He took it as a physical assault. When I entered his mind, he comprehended only another attempted rape. And so, to save himself, to survive, to mitigate his rage, Doctor, he beat me and then he assaulted my mind.”

McCoy was nearly flabbergasted.

“You saved his life.  This is how he repays you?”

“I comprehend the irony, Doctor.” Spock’s voice was becoming deeper and even quieter. “I tried to make him feel safe.  Yet everything I did accomplished the opposite.  Within his mind, I—with my incompetent attempts—turned into . . . his assailant.”

McCoy didn’t want to hear anymore. He was feeling physically sick.  “I want you in sickbay for a complete exam.”

“I am no longer physically hurt.  I only allowed him to inflict superficial wounds.  I would not allow him to permanently injure me.  That would only add to his feelings of remorse.”

McCoy’s blue eyes flashed with a rare irritation. He wouldn’t call broken bones or a busted face superficial, but they were healed, and he wouldn’t argue a moot point when there were still so many others.

“And just what do you think we have here, Spock, a happy occasion?  Do you have any idea what the connotations of this are? As far as he’s concerned, and maybe me too, he’s committed rape and attempted murder.  We don’t treat our friends this way, our colleagues, our loved ones—shit! —whatever it is you are to him.” He was sputtering in anger.  “Controlling another is not the same as controlling ourselves!”

“You have not seen his downward spiral, his depression.” Spock’s tone implied ‘you haven’t bothered.’

“I am monitoring him, Spock! Maybe I don’t follow him around all day like you do, but I’ve got eyes and ears and lots of shiny technology, and eventually I would have caught up with him.  I could have helped him cope with his feelings in a less violent, more humane fashion if either of you had bothered to clue me in!”

“He is better now. Your own Robbiani test will confirm that he is stable.”

“And what about you, Spock? What the hell about you?”

“I have suffered nothing that deep meditation levels and time to achieve them cannot correct.”

“Bull.”

“I assure you that in forth-eight hours I will be—”

“And I can assure you, you don’t know what you’re talking about.  You damn fool!”

Dismissing the doctor, Spock stood up and trudged towards the head, but overwhelmed by a sudden attack of tunnel vision, he walked straight into the door jamb. His chin snapped back, and a fresh cut opened at his cheek.  Stunned, he stumbled back as McCoy appeared at his side, grabbing him before he toppled to the floor.

At the same moment, James Kirk stood in the interior doorway, clothed and clear-headed again.  He had slipped in through the adjoining bath and had been listening for a while.  He moved tentatively toward his two friends, but his blood-shot eyes focused only on Spock. His mind was filled with the terrible memories of attacking Spock.  Not a dream. Real memories.

As Spock’s gaze leveled at him, the captain could see a kind of resoluteness reflected on the lean face, a peculiar satisfaction.  He could see so many other things on Spock’s face: clarity of purpose, unlimited acceptance, unconditional forgiveness. And love, he could see love. There was also blood.  He looked at Spock and touched the fresh dark blood on his cheek with his thumb. Pressing it between his fingers, he studied how thick and moist it was.  How wet like tears.

“Spock, you . . . you all right?” He started to reach out to Spock’s battered face once more, but dropped his hand, feeling unworthy to ever touch this man again.  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. 

“Jim, you shouldn’t be here,” McCoy interrupted.

With a jerk, Kirk took that literally and stumbled away towards Spock’s office. He tried to press a button at the computer, missed it, then tried again. It caught this time.

“Palmer, here.”

"This is the captain. Contact . . . contact Starfleet Command. José Mendez.” His voice was leaden. “Get me Commodore Mendez.”

McCoy’s eyes widened. He moved quickly.  “This is Doctor McCoy. Belay that order, Lieutenant.  The captain isn’t feeling well.”

“Uh . . . aye, sir.”

McCoy pushed the button and turned the captain away.

He seemed in a daze, yet what came out of his mouth was coherent.  “I attacked a fellow officer. A court martial offense, punishable by— I deserve—”

“For now, let me be the judge of what you deserve.”

McCoy began to gather up his medical equipment. He felt momentarily helpless, but perhaps he could stop the further deterioration of this dire situation.  Somehow. Jim Kirk needed serious help from something and a court martial wasn’t it.  The doctor frowned and glared at Spock.  Damn. His eyes traveled back to Jim.  What else could he do but leave them together? He could not treat them, or even comfort them, except in the most superficial way.  He was no healer here. He was far too late for that.  He looked from one to the other.

“Keep your mornings free.  I’m setting up appointments tomorrow with Margo Peretti.  First you, Spock, then Jim. Strictly confidential. I want her to get to the bottom of this.”

Spock looked noticeably uncomfortable at the mention of the psychiatrist’s name. “Doctor McCoy, I would request that you spare me—”

McCoy was getting hot under the collar, perfectly willing to throw his professional weight around one more time.

“I ask questions, Mister Spock, but I don’t much like what I’m hearing for answers. If this is as serious as I think it is, you need to talk to someone more objective than me.  You’ll tell everything to someone with professional status on this ship or I’ll have the Vulcan healers here so fast you can never come out of that fancy trance of yours.” He shook his head at his own failings. “Oh, hell, I’m just too damn close to the both of you.”

McCoy’s tirade trailed off in disgust.

“Doctor McCoy, you are the captain’s physician. And mine—”

“You should have thought of that before doing something so damn stupid.” Spock’s face went pale, and Kirk’s swollen eyes widened. To McCoy, they both looked emotionally wrung out and dry, as though wrapped in skins made of parchment.  “Damn you two.”

Then abruptly, McCoy snapped his tricorder shut, turned on his heels and left.

Still unsteady, Spock headed straight for the nearest chair, leaning heavily against it. “I told him as much as I could,” he managed to confess.

Kirk’s eyes cleared in resignation. “Do you think he understood?”

“Would you?”

“No.” He shook his head.  “Why did you let me? —”

“Because you cannot hurt me, and you needed—”

“I don’t believe that. What happened here was a lie. A misguided, solipsistic, self-pitying lie.”

“You had to destroy Dost.”

“Is that what I did?”

“Yes.”

“But that’s not all that I did.”

Spock moved to Kirk and stood beside him, without touching him. “That is all.”

Kirk absently shook his head. “No.”

Spock’s eyes glistened. “Yes.”

Chapter Text

First Officer Spock found himself sitting quietly before one of the newest members of the Enterprise medical staff, Doctor Margo Peretti, whose specialty was psycho-astrosociology, the study of psychological behavior of artificial societies in space.  Though Spock had ever thought of his life on the starship as “artificial”, even he could see the verity of that interpretation. And now there was a dire need for him to be sitting in the office of the authoritarian counselor—albeit without aid of the traditional couch—who would naturally assure him that she was there to ‘help’ him and not merely to be a voyeur whose only intention was to get him to “spill his guts,” as Jim might say.

He shifted slightly, a veritable squirming in his seat.  With an odd wave of déjà vu, he was again the six-year-old child: misbehaving, recalcitrant, defiant.  And again, he was being made to conform.

But he was an adult now, a Starfleet officer, trained to obey.  Trained, or glad to do it? Had he conformed so much as a child that he could no longer rebel? Had his original spirit been broken to the strict nonemotional harness of Vulcan teachings without his clear consent?  He thought he had consented then, but at only age seven . . . perhaps not. He would ponder this question at another time.

****

After introductions, Margo Peretti arranged herself in another chair across from the tall, thin Vulcan. She nodded politely. Here she was, not more than three months into her new assignment, being asked to treat, not one but both shining stars of Starfleet Command’s interplanetary human/alien harmony: the legendary James Kirk and Spock of Vulcan. But Leonard McCoy’s psych report was full of torture, degradation, rape, mind-rape, and loss of command discipline, with undertones of love-hate displacement, hallucinations, pseudosexual-masochistic self-hatred, and severe personality disorder. 

Maybe both stars were about to go nova.

Though this case would no doubt prove professionally interesting, she would have rather skipped the entire experience.  She had no desire to turn two otherwise psychologically uneventful careers into fodder for yet another interplanetary conference paper.

But Leonard McCoy chose her because she had worked with Vulcans among the test groups she had interviewed for her dissertation, possessed a clear background in both Vulcan and human child psychology, had once been a rape counselor, and—perhaps most importantly—because she barely knew these two men at all.  He was counting on her objectivity—the one commodity he told her that he no longer possessed.  And now, as it always came down to, it was just her and her patient, sitting silently, expectantly across from one another.

As Spock was the Enterprise’s only resident non-human, she had no idea what kind of pressure that position put on him or released him from: perhaps more pressure because he was the ship’s sole representative of the Vulcan culture; perhaps less because there were no other Vulcans against which to judge him. She had heard rumors that he affected female members of the crew (and maybe a few males, too) as emphatically as the captain, yet there was no evidence or hearsay that he responded to any offers past a working relationship—if in fact, anyone would have the nerve to make them. She had also heard that those crewmembers trained in life or computer sciences who qualified for his research teams considered themselves the luckiest on the ship.  If Spock was an emotional enigma, he appeared to be the most, professional, and most certainly logical enigma around—completely without pretension or scandal.  The perfect officer to his superiors above and subordinates below.  No one had a bad word to say about him.

And Margo Peretti knew of Spock’s vast intellect as well as, of course, the renowned Vulcan reticence to talk of anything personal. Leonard McCoy had warned her that Spock could be closed-mouth. The easy part of this job would be to get Spock to feel comfortable enough to converse with her.  The hard part would be to get him to say anything of substance, and there was nothing in his demeanor to tell her that today he might be willing.

Make nice, she told herself. Don’t spook him. Do you job. Remember he’s half-human—though she wasn’t quite sure what that meant in terms of actual behavior.  She had read his psyche profile, of course, but you can’t split a person exactly in half, though this one balanced each Vulcan versus human neurosis with a talent and intellect so great that a personality flaw or two could hardly matter.

She blew the image of a two-sided coin out of her mind.  Simple psychology really: runs away from Vulcan to become his own man, yet still tries to out-Vulcan the very ones he ran away from.  Especially his father—a Federation ambassador, no less.  Was Kirk a father substitute? Or just an ally? She reined in her thoughts, to stop second-guessing herself, and him.  Give him everything he wants and needs, she cautioned herself, and you can do some good. Margo Peretti considered all this in a matter of seconds.  Now she took a deep quieting breath and smiled pleasantly before beginning.

****

“Mister Spock, you realize that our conversation is being recorded and that the Chief Medical Officer has the prerogative of reviewing it later.”

“Affirmative,” he acknowledged, his tone as neutral as his face.

She paused for a moment, studying the dark, dignified look of him, his bearing, his breathing, his dead, unreachable calm. He was handsome in a way that only Vulcans could be, their faces all angles punctuated with the soft curves of upswept brows and elegant ears. With his near-black hair and long, lithe physique, he was the essence of streamlined symmetry and precise intellectual control, packaged in the trim blue uniform of a Starfleet officer of the line.  He looked like he’d been born in that uniform.

At the same time, Spock observed the woman seated before him. Margo Peretti was a human woman of indeterminate age, with dark, thick brown hair pulled back behind her head and warm brown eyes.  Perhaps a hundred years ago, she would have worn reading glasses.  She had on the traditional blue uniform dress of the medical team with its asymmetrical cut to the collar, but her skirt was longer, a length that was coming into style for women in certain departments. 

“I have read Doctor McCoy’s report,” Peretti began.

Spock interrupted her. “He is our doctor.  May I ask why he is not here?”

A proper and logical question.

“Doctor McCoy feels that I have more experience with these types of psychological matters.”

“To be a friend does not require experience,” Spock returned.  “He obviously believes that this situation does not require a friend.  Only a psychiatrist.”

“You feel that your friend has abandoned you?”

He raised a brow.

“I am Vulcan.  I feel no emotion in the matter.  But you will be seeing Captain Kirk after me.  As a human, it is he who needs the comfort of a friend.”

She looked into his eyes, wanting to set the record straight.

“Mister Spock, believe me when I tell you that Leonard McCoy has sent you to see me out of nothing but friendship.”

“Indeed.” Obviously, he was not concurring.  His tone said, I have raised my objections to your presence here. As you have power over me and the captain, proceed, Doctor, proceed.

It interested her how he played emotional advocate not for himself but for James Kirk.  Yet the concerns came directly from him, from his mouth and mind, from his own possible needs.

“Wait, a moment,” she said, rising.  She moved behind him and brought back a small glass oval dish of what turned out to contain a careful selection of fine Tellurian chocolates.  She held out the dish and moved her head in a nod that said, Help yourself.  “I don’t know about you, but I have a terrible sweet tooth.”

“No, thank you,” he said by rote, yet he couldn’t help glancing into the container at the splendid miniatures, each like a perfectly wrapped gift box with translucent green and pink spun-sugar ribbons.          

Actually, he could barely remember the last time he had indulged in a piece of candy.  Perhaps more than a year and a half ago on Earth when Jim had insisted that he share a caramel apple purchased at a local street fair.  Jim thrived on the excess sugar, which only intensified his sense of fun and adventure, whereas too much refined sweetener sent the Vulcan’s blood sugar levels into an intolerable and rapid descent.  Yet Spock couldn’t take his eyes from the candy.  Surely one piece could not be considered an unhealthy overindulgence.

“The ones with the red ribbons are caramel filled,” Peretti offered.

He uncrossed his arms and removed a piece with the red ribbon.  He placed it on his tongue and let it sit there a moment, melting in the warmth of his mouth.  “Thank you,” he said finally chewing.  “It is delicious.”

She put the box on the side table to his left.  For a moment, it seemed that everything had stopped, that they were just two people—not yet friends but considering it—enjoying the respite of fine confection, that nothing was wrong or that no one was in trouble.  Of course, the moment couldn’t last, but it had served its purpose, to relax both of them, to set the stage for open conversation and perhaps even trust.

He watched her fold her hands in her lap.  Her eyes on him were inviting like the chocolate.

“I understand the facts of what happened, Mister Spock,” she began, "from Captain Kirk’s abduction, to your rescue of him, to what happened between you in his quarters, and I understand your logic of submitting yourself to James Kirk’s rage.”

“I am gratified.”

Her face softened when she realized that he misunderstood her.  “I meant only that I can follow your logic not necessarily that I agree with it.”

Spock lowered his head, but he looked up at her through dark lashes.  He could still taste the chocolate in his mouth. “Might you agree, Doctor?”

“I don’t know yet.  I’d like you to help me understand.  Can you talk about, about what happened yesterday?”

He sighed.

Talk.  Sometimes he forgot that talk was the only way that humans had to find out about one another.  . . .Yes, Doctor Peretti, I can talk about it for the rest of your life and mine and not explain it to your satisfaction, or McCoy’s, or even Jim’s. I can talk forever about it and not know more than I know now.  That given the same circumstances, I would do it again.

The deep calming breath that he took in gave him courage.

“Given the captain’s desperation, instead of continuing the ineffectual prying I was doing in his mind, I chose to let him act out his violent fantasy on me—within my mind. It was an experiment in human psychology, and I could only hypothesize the outcome.”

“Did it turn out the way you expected?”

“Not exactly.  I failed to include the reactions of others into the equation, as well as the captain’s residual feelings of having ‘injured’ me. I do not regret my helping him cope with his emotional turmoil. However, I do regret his guilt over the act.  He feels that he lost control.”

“By most definitions, he did lose control.”

“It was a natural extension of his emotional grief.”

So the nonemotional man from Vulcan was an expert on the emotional state of his human captain.  Interesting that he would expound on a subject to which any other Vulcan would claim no direct knowledge. But being half-human, of course, gave him the greatest insight.  Well, she had her own source of insight.

“I have a lot of experience with your culture.  I know it’s not spoken of much, but I understand that mind-rape is considered the most heinous crime for one Vulcan to commit against another.”

“It is not spoken of at all.  However, you are correct.  It is considered heinous because telepaths have the power to overwhelm another’s mind, and to control the mind is to control the person.”

“You gave up not only that control, Mister Spock, but you allowed James Kirk to violate everything that you are.”

“Essentially correct.” When she had simply stared back at him, he felt oddly compelled to continue. “In his mind I had become his assailant.  I could not bear to be considered so.  I could not continue to hurt him in the guise of comfort.  That is exactly what his assailant did. Once I realized this pattern and his reaction to it, I had no choice but to desist.”

"You could have held him at mental bay."

“I did for a while, but I came to understand that he needed more.”

“A greater sacrifice.”

“As it turned out.”

“You consciously allowed his untrained brutal anger to invade your machine-like mental precision and destroy it.”

"I am not a machine, and your hyperbole regarding my mental destruction is obviously inaccurate.”

She frowned at his literalness and his evasion.

“He seriously injured you.”

“I have recovered.”

“How long did it take you recover?”

“Twenty-four hours of deep meditation.”

“We’re lucky to have you back.”

He looked a bit startled.  He didn’t know how to respond. He was used to McCoy’s routine over-solicitation, but this woman’s concern appeared genuine, even though they were little more than strangers. He was not used to such concern from the crew, and what she said next also surprised him.

“Are you feeling well enough for this, Spock?” She watched him raise a signature brow.  “We can postpone this until tomorrow.”

“Postponement is unnecessary.”

She could not quite buy his nonchalance, and she wouldn’t be accused of bullying him—even if it was only her own conscience doing the accusing.  But she looked into his stoic face and knew that he was what they used to call a ‘tough cookie.’ Only sometimes it was the toughest cookies that crumbled the easiest.

“Then you won’t mind describing what happened yesterday.”

The words came out without a hint of emotion.

“I do mind, but I shall describe it, if you so wish, Doctor.” He swallowed before continuing.  “Captain Kirk beat me out of intense rage, and because we were already in mental contact, he invaded my mind.  His intention was to destroy it.”

“I assume that to be mentally violated is worse than being physically raped.”

He folded his arms.

“For a Vulcan, yes. To know nothing of yourself—what you have spent your lifetime to become—and know only the basest emotions of an alien mind is the purest pain. No one but the mind being invaded can know the degradation, the disbelief, the horror.”

“How close did he come to destroying your mind?”

“Not very.”

“Then it was an inconsequential attempt?” When he remained completely silent, his silence relayed to her his reticence to agree. “The fact is, Mister Spock, that it was a very successful attempt,” she countered.  “Doctor McCoy even said he thought you might die.”

He straightened imperceptibly.

“Doctor McCoy exaggerates.”

“Do you truly understand what you are saying, and in what context? We are here because James Kirk was physically raped and that act has wreaked havoc on his emotional control. You just said that a mind-rape was worse than a physical one, yet you claim to be recovered from that act which only happened to you yesterday.  It’s not logical—”

“There is a difference between what happened to me and what happened to Captain Kirk.  The difference is that I allowed it.  While the violence was difficult to bear, the intention—that is my own—mitigated the severity of the results for me.  I assure you that if I must, I am well enough to speak to you now.”

She nodded, almost smiling.

“I’m glad you feel well enough to continue, because I’ve wanted to know more about you ever since I came aboard.  I’d like to ask you something that’s intrigued me about all this.” She folded her hand and dove right back in. “What is the nature of this rape’s . . . opposite? We’ve only discussed the negative aspects of a mental connection, but surely to be a telepath—to actually join with another sentient being’s mind—offers profound benefits. The intimacy must be incredible.”

He ignored the emotion he heard in her voice.

“I have performed several mind melds in the course of my duties aboard the Enterprise.” He did not name them: Van Geldler, the mother horta, Kolos, Nomad.

“With Captain Kirk?”

“Yes, some with the captain.” Nor these: Kirok, Ike Clanton, Janice Lester.

“And you found them to be . . . ?” 

“Intriguing. The captain’s mind is unusually forthright.”

“Demonstrative, passionate perhaps?”

“Yes.”

He took another deep breath. Why had she chosen those words? A mistake, no doubt, for him to have agreed with them.  He attempted to turn their talk away from Kirk.

“We who have the Gift are trained from childhood in the mental disciplines and in restraint.” He knew he had not answered her original question, and he could see on her face that she was well aware of that.  He felt caught; yet because he was second-in-command of the Enterprise and used to delivering relevant, impartial, even unsettling information with the emotionless tone of a computer playback, he stood his ground, remaining dispassionate and aloof. “To  be joined with another in physical and mental union—it is the most sublime of experiences.” He raised a canted brow and pronounced drolly, “Or so I have been told.”

She heard the door slamming shut in his voice.  Satisfied, she let it go at that.  “Spock, what’s the Vulcan punishment for mind-rape?”

He slowly raised an eyebrow as though recalling a treatise from memory. “No further risk of repetition of the same crime can be allowed.  If the criminal is insane, then psychological rehabilitation begins immediately. If the criminal is sane and the act intentional, the punishment is solitary confinement for life.”

“Captain Kirk is not insane.”

“Captain Kirk is my friend.  Our friendship, while normally a palliative, can sometimes be a burden.  I know him. His punishment has already begun, and it will be severe. He will see to it.”

“He hurt you. Don’t you feel that calls for . . . ?” She paused, briefly pressing a hand to her forehead. “Forgive me.”

“Revenge is illogical. In this case, even more so by the fact that I am responsible for the mental contact. As you say Captain Kirk is quite sane and not a Vulcan citizen, therefore his psychological rehabilitation is the foremost factor here. I believe that you are part of that rehabilitation.”

“That’s the plan,” Peretti quipped, "but you jumped the gun.” She saw his slight confusion. “You began a course of treatment without me.” She shook her head at the thought of what he’d done, the indescribably danger he had exposed himself to. A moment’s exasperation oozed up through her words.  “Whatever were you doing in James Kirk’s unstable mind, attempting one of Vulcan’s ‘sublime’ experiences’?”

He sighed at the memory both bitter and bleak, and at the mild affront he heard in her words. “Under the circumstances, that would have been impossible. I was attempting . . . to comfort him.”

“What went wrong?”

“As a Vulcan, I did not know how to do that.  I failed to anticipate that just by being in his mind . . . he would interpret that act as a gross attack and react accordingly.”

“Captain Kirk is a highly trained military tactician.  He capably launched a counterattack.”

His brow canted downward.

“Captain Kirk is capable of extraordinary military strategy, but that is not all that he is.”

An awkward silence crept in on them, and she noticed that he was prone to ending his statements with allusions to the captain’s sterling qualities.  Her eyes came up. Time to change the subject, yet he would understand this connection to the captain.

“Have you ever lost control, Mister Spock?” she asked.  “For example, when you were a child?”

Spock steadied his breathing. 

Childhood: always the essence of any conversation with a psychiatrist. But why not ask about something more recent, Doctor Peretti? Why not ask about how I unequivocally broke Mister Dost’s neck? The killing had been in his mission report, which she no doubt had read. He understood that she was trying not to push him, not to create a condition of threat. He raised a brow. To have lost control—then or now. What was the harm in talking about it? The first time was so long ago. Another world ago.

“I was six years old,” he offered. “I threw what would be considered a tantrum for the benefit of my mother over some trivial rule of discipline. Unfortunately, my father arrived home in the middle of it. Vulcan children are not spanked, but overt emotionalism is never tolerated. I was taken to a healer.”

Peretti listened intently, nodding. “A Vulcan child-shrink?”

“Colloquially put, but essentially correct.”

"So, what did she do?”

“He used certain Vulcan mental techniques to suggest that I not act that way again. I obeyed.”

She frowned to herself because it sounded so much like mind control, but she did not let him see any reaction.  “How did that experience make you feel?”

“I became more in control of my emotions, more able to tune out others whose rejection might elicit an emotional response. I found the healer’s ministrations exactly what I needed under the circumstances, to aid me in the control that I . . . that was expected of me.”

“But obviously you didn’t feel that therapy or counseling or even Vulcan mental disciplines could help James Kirk. That only his violent acting out—his invasion of your mind, his attack upon your body—could help him.”

Spock looked straight into her eyes.

“It was between Jim and me. I had killed his assailant. He had no one to take his revenge upon but me. It was about control. I gave him what he needed. He did not take control of me but of Dost, the man who assaulted him.”

“But you just said it was between Jim and you.”

“Dost was dead.”

“Yes, I know, Mister Spock. You killed him.”

“Doctor, I sense that you want me to feel shame—that I encouraged a shameful act between us—but I do not because the act cannot be labeled shameful.  It was not even against me. I am Vulcan, a race now devoted to the concepts of logic and peace, but the violence of Vulcan prehistory cannot be swept away so easily. We are at times reminded of what Vulcans were once capable of. Therefore, I recognize it when I see it in the depravity of the human race. I recognize that it can surface, even in one as rational as James Kirk.”

“And you recognized that it was a need that required considerable indulgence.” She watched his dark eyes narrow slightly knowing that he could not be sure whether to interpret her words as agreement or disapproval. When the dark eyes widened again at his failure to resolve the issue, she decided to explain.  

“I never meant to suggest that you should feel shame, Mister Spock. However, I think it’s fair to say that what happened was a very harmful act.” Peretti sat up a fraction taller in her chair. “There is little evidence in any medical research on any planet to suggest that mental or physical violation of one’s best friend can come from—or create—a healthy psychological environment. I believe I also express Doctor McCoy’s position.”

She had not meant to chastise him. But he was saying that perhaps this assault could be a good thing—no, no, a necessary thing, and she wanted to examine that premise.  He did not answer her response but seemed to be pondering it.

“You’ll have to determine how to answer my next question, because I don’t know how to phrase it more quantitatively.” She pursed her lips. “How badly did he hurt you?”

“You would understand,” he answered, “if it had been a physical invasion.”

As expected, he saw her reluctantly nod. Humans—all they ever understood was the realm of the physical. Indeed, his injured body was now mostly healed, and however important to his work, his body meant little in the greater scheme of Vulcan mental substantiality. More importantly, it was his greatest asset that had been compromised so profoundly.

“Captain Kirk seized my mind with all the fury of a will consumed by revenge, animal fear, and savagery.”  He paused, feeling a bit the traitor. Again, he realized that he had not answered her question. “He hurt me badly enough, Doctor. I have not fully recovered as I am having difficulty concentrating and controlling my emotions.”

“Was it worth it?”

“He is much better.”

“Will you recover?”

“We are both recovering. He is very strong.  As strong as I am.”

A smiled played at her lips to hear him speak with such certainty. Incredibly, she was inclined to believe him as though it were fact. At this, she decided to push on to the second most crucial issue of this incident.”

“I understand that you had to kill a man while rescuing Captain Kirk. How did you feel when you killed this man?”

“I felt nothing.”

“Why did you kill him?”

“It was logical.”

Peretti’s own brows moved up her face and her open expression told him that she was not quite ‘buying’ his use of that word, even if he was the ship’s resident logician.

“I am sworn to protect Captain Kirk,” he continued. “If I allowed Dost to harm me, there was no way I could protect the captain. I believe there is a logic to kill or be killed.”

“James Kirk, the captain of the Federation’s flagship, is a prize.  Why do you think this Dost person would want to kill him?”

“Because a man like that must destroy that which has integrity and beauty in order to feel like a man. He would have gladly killed me to regain his prize, and, if you had seen the results of his brutality, he was already killing the captain.”

“You could have disabled him.”

“If I had only injured Dost, let him live, his allies would have gladly attacked me on his behalf. The odds were not favorable that I could both defeat several men and still guard Captain Kirk. I chose to do the one thing that would eliminate the immediate threat, even the odds, and demoralize the additional men.”

“Do you regret the killing?”

“I regret having killed a sentient being, but I cannot regret saving the captain or any other person from his violence.”

When he stopped talking, the silence resonated the honorable intention of his words. Peretti began to nod, as though in agreement.  “Go on.”

Spock felt mild surprise that the doctor seemed to know there was, just a little, more to come.  He could sense no major psychic or empathic ability from her, but she could be shielding. Or just very, very experienced.

“There is another reason for which I killed Mister Dost, Doctor.” He looked down at his two hands lying in his lap; it was hard to comprehend that they were the deadly weapons in question.  “I wanted to.”

“Tell me why.”           

He raised his eyes. “You know why.”

“For Jim.” Her use of the captain’s first name conveyed an intimacy heretofore avoided.

“Yes.”

Yes, yes.

“And if you hadn’t, perhaps the captain’s subsequent rage would have focused on its proper subject—Mister Dost. Not on you.”

Peretti saw a tightness move across his eyes, a hurt. He looked a shade greener than usual. “I cannot undo the decision that I made on Dunbar’s Planet.”

“If you could, would you?”

“I do not see how.”

She felt impressed at his composure, at his willingness to offer absolute honesty, and a little embarrassed that she had expected nothing more than evasion from him. But she still wondered if it were only that Jim Kirk was at the epicenter of this quake, and that if he weren’t, she shouldn’t be congratulating herself on her intervention techniques quite so soon.

“Let’s talk about James Kirk,” she continued, steering the subject to the man at the center of everything here. “Doctor McCoy has spoken to me about your relationship with him. I have also read various mission reports and the captain’s daily logs. You both are obviously extremely close, but there’s more to it than that. I’d like to hear from you. Can you tell me?”

He heard her words ‘extremely close’ and knew them as a euphemism for shared emotions—denied and improper. Denied because for a Vulcan they were improper. He stilled his breath that had quickened, his heartbeat that had begun a race against no one. Deliberately, he chose. He chose to discuss the most personal aspect of his adult life: his forbidden, self-indulgent feelings for James Kirk.

“We are friends.”

She almost smiled at his truthful if certainly evasive response. She knew he was testing her, pushing back a little. That was only fair. After all, she was asking a lot from him.

“From these reports, you would die for one another.  That is far closer than just ‘friends’, Mister Spock.”

He had never meant to be untruthful; he had only wanted to give himself the emotional room to maneuver the conversation, to dole out his words at his own pace and depth of meaning, not hers.

“I have given my oath to obey and to protect him. That is my professional commitment to him as my superior officer.  Beyond that, there is no word in your culture to describe our personal relationship or to explain it.” He looked out over her head. Pausing, he weighed his trust of a stranger in his mind. He ultimately trusted McCoy—even if the doctor had removed himself from this entanglement—and McCoy obviously trusted this woman. Logic demanded an extension of that trust. “However, in the Vulcan language, there is an ancient word t’hy’la. It is what we are.”

She repeated it. “It’s very beautiful. What does it mean?”

“It means many different things.” How to put it into Standard. How to clarify all the subtle shades of meaning—to speak of possibilities, of reality, of barely realized truths, both Vulcan and human. Suddenly, a dozen disparate meanings popped into his head. He would offer her a selection like the chocolates she had offered him.

“It means close friend, where friendship is not allowed. It means brother, where shared blood is not a biological fact. It means lover, where love is forbidden. It means mate, where society does not recognize the sanctity of that bond. It means honoring the life you have together, even if that life is only temporary, not forever.”

“It means you would go through hell to save him.”

Spock raised a slanted brow.

“Vulcans do not believe in hell, but humans do, and he has been there. How little compassion I see on his behalf.” That was an accusation. “That James Kirk is t’hyla to me means that where I am concerned . . . there is no act that he could commit, so depraved, so terrible, that I would reject him for having committed it.”

“That’s remarkable.”

“He is remarkable.”

“I believe that you believe that.  But why?”

“Because he—” Spock stopped.  “You have access to his personal and Starfleet files. It is obvious that he is remarkable."

“Yes, we all know all about his achievements.  However, using that logic, every crew member should have the depth of commitment for him that you have. We are all loyal but not to that degree.”

Peretti thought about easing off, but she knew she would have to push here to get him to say what drove him to allow, maybe even encourage, Kirk’s assault.  He had ignored every overriding cultural taboo to permit James Kirk a venue for venting his frustrations. He had compromised his own peace of mind and laid himself open to unimaginable despair, all for the welfare of his captain, and his friend. She had rarely seen such sacrifice before except from committed couples.

She leaned forward in the chair.

“If we admire him, Spock, you will die for him. If we respect him, you, a superior being both intellectually and physically, are content to be his second. If our personal lives rarely cross with his, you have let his personal demons attack you with a viciousness rarely seen except in the most dysfunctional relationships.” She nodded her head. “So there is more about him that is remarkable to you.  What is that other thing that especially binds you to him?”

Spock became rock-still, even his chest unmoving, and he knew that she couldn’t help but notice the stillness, perhaps more apparent than the wildest gesture.  He could speak to her of Starfleet loyalty or of James Kirk’s exceptional command abilities or of his personal bravery and sense of honor.  Even Jim’s expression of brotherhood on Elba II or his own Vulcan eagerness to experience long evenings of tri-D chess or to grasp the finer points of Terran poker. But there was not enough truth in any of that.  For Jim’s benefit, he would say it.

For Jim.

“James Kirk is the first person who has ever unconditionally accepted me as I am.”

“And that is a great gift.”

“For someone like me, it is a great gift.”

“And you would say that you also accept him as he is—as we humans say, ‘warts and all’.”

“I do.”

She eyed him carefully.

“One more thing. Also, as we humans say, did you ‘egg him on’?”

He looked straight into her face. He need not acknowledge her perception. He understood the idiom and chose to dismiss it.

“That does not matter. I accept him even when he cannot accept himself. There is nothing more to say. Nothing.” He lifted his chin.

“Does he know how lucky he is?’ To have a friend like you.”

“It is I—” But she cut short his self-deprecation with a lift of the candy dish.

“One for the road?”

He stood up and placed his hands behind his back. He felt grateful that she was signaling the end to this session. “There are no roads on the Enterprise, Doctor.”

“And no one aboard who enjoys Tellurian chocolate.”

He brought his hands to the front and took another delicate piece. “Perhaps one person.”

She nodded and smiled. “We have something in common, Mister Spock.” He started to move off. “Mister Spock?” He paused, looking back to her.  “I understand your total forgiveness of James Kirk, but perhaps he doesn’t. Perhaps he needs to hear it from you. You have to understand something here: he knows what he has done, that he has committed a heinous act against his best friend. Do you understand that you may not have done him a favor? Therefore, he must be made to understand that you forgive him.”

His soft dark eyes lingered at hers, and he nodded slightly, acknowledging the wisdom of her words. And his own responsibility. Again, he turned away.

“Spock?” He paused again. “Everything’s going to be all right. I truly want you to believe that.”

“Thank you for your concern, Doctor. I shall attempt to believe it.”

She watched him knowing for certain that was by far the most remarkable session she’d every had with a patient—of any species. There was a kind of electricity in the air that only slowly dissipated after he was gone. She took in air and could feel the heat.  If Kirk himself was anything like his first officer . . . .

She swallowed hard. No wonder Leonard McCoy had felt the need for help with this case; the dynamics were as complex as any she had ever known.

Or the simplest.

Chapter Text

She held out her hand in order to shake his, but as she expected, he ignored it.

“I’m Doctor Margo Peretti, Captain Kirk. You probably don’t remember me. Please, take a seat.” She could see wariness in his eyes, but that was a common response from patients the first time. “You’re undoubtedly curious about who I am and why Doctor McCoy would want you to talk to me.  Allow me to explain as we get acquainted.”

Other than a thinness that she knew was a direct result of his ordeal, he looked fit enough. Only a slight gauntness under his cheek bones made his hazel eyes seem prominent and gave his features a bigger-than-life quality, like a wide-eyed boy in the principal’s office. Only this wide-eyed boy owned the school.

“I know precisely who you are, Doctor Peretti,” he replied easily.  “Born on Earth. Ph.D. from Stanford-Stratos University. Post doctoral research on the social behavior of humanoid multi-races in artificial societies. Your dissertation is required reading for social-scientists and starship captains with an inter-species crew.  I signed the requisition bringing you aboard. I, in fact, hired you.”

It was easy to sense his intelligence, and his hostility. He was obviously well-versed in the intimidation techniques of command prerogative.  She supposed it came with the rank. Perhaps he felt the need to use intimidation because he was apprehensive, or maybe he was just a bully.  But of course, she knew, that wasn’t it at all.  James Kirk sat before her a shipwrecked soul that she alone might have to tow to safety. If only it could be as easy as hoisting him out of the water and letting him drip dry.

“I thought that Doctor McCoy hired me, Captain.”

“I hired Doctor McCoy.”

She smiled. All right, so he was determined to let her know who was boss. How could she let him know there were no bosses here, that her goal was to relieve his anxiety, not create more.  She didn’t wait.

“And you, of course, are James Tiberius Kirk, youngest starship captain in Starfleet by many years.”  She knew he had to be feeling like the oldest.  She attempted some levity with her best French accent. “I’ve heard you called l’enfant terrible of the Enterprise.”  She gently teased, “Behind your back, of course.” She had also heard the less ceremonious ‘tomcat’ nickname but decided not to mention it. “Thirty-six years of age. You’re unmarried, no children—”

“That you know of.”

“Yes, that’s right. That I know of.”

This chit-chat was getting them nowhere and making him hostile.  She leaned forward and put her hands together.

“Look, Captain Kirk, I want to be forthright with you.  I know the facts of your career from the ship’s records.  Additionally, I know what Doctor McCoy knows about what happened to you on Dunbar’s Planet and what happened in your quarters between you and Mister Spock. What I don’t know much about is you—James Kirk, the person.  I’m here to learn about you and to be your advocate.”  She paused, with a kindly smile. “Though you hardly need one where Mister Spock is concerned. I should be as lucky to have such a friend.” She was surprised when he only glared at her, as though everything she was saying, especially about Spock, was none of her goddamn business.

Finally he said, “What’s McCoy’s plan, to drum me out of the service?”

“You don’t need an advocate because of Doctor McCoy, Captain.” She placed her fingertips together.  “I’m afraid you’re your own worst enemy.”

“How very interesting,” he said without interest.

“May I call you ‘Jim’?”

“That’s my name.”

She smiled to herself; he wasn’t going to give her a millimeter.

“I know that you’re feeling humiliated, Jim. At the end of your rope. For the time being, you’ve lost your command. Maybe you think I can get it back for you or that I stand in the way of you getting it back. Later, if you want to, you can tell me which. What I want you to know is that I’m here to help. Only that.”

Kirk stood up, not acknowledging a thing she had said.  Ignoring her, he walked past her to the bookcase to the left of her chair, removed a leather-bound book, a seventy-five-year-old tenth edition of short stories by someone he’d never heard of named Flannery O’Connor. The pages fell open and the irony of the title, “The Life You Save May Be Your Own,” was lost on him. Instead, he absently turned to the last page and fingered the watermark. Deep in his mind he felt that this frail, old volume no matter how obscure, possessed a keen integrity, keener than any he could ever remember possessing. The book in his hand, heavy and venerable, made him feel worthless. Perhaps because he was James Kirk, the feeling quickly passed.

“Doctor McCoy says you collect antique books,” Peretti offered. She didn’t bother to look over her shoulder and couldn’t know that her casual tone was making him mad. “I have a few. You’re may borrow any, if you’d like—”

“Look, Doctor Peretti, I know who I am, and you know who you are.” The book slammed shut as he turned his head in her direction. “Let’s cut to the chase.”

She smiled to hear the old Earth expression. It had something to do with American Wild West movies, she believed, back when movies came on cellulose acetate projected onto hundred-foot screens.  Did he think of himself as an Old West hero? A Texas marshal perhaps, having to run the lone-gun-toting, ask-too-many-questions stranger clean out of the half-tamed frontier town called Enterprise?

She looked up at him.

“I would be pleased to do that, Jim. Exactly what do you consider ‘the chase’.”

“My sex life, of course,” he sneered, walking back to face her again. “That’s all you head menders are ever interested in.”  He stood there defiantly.  “Go head, ask me about it.”

She had heard his game was poker and now recognized the indignant dare in his voice.  He certainly was full of bluff. She cocked a brow at the obvious red herring.  Tough or gentle? Quickly she decided.

“Why should I ask about something you haven’t got?”

Startled, he almost choked at her audacity.

“I’m the captain of the Enterprise. I . . .” He took a deep breath and spat out each word. “I haven’t had time.”

Peretti tried to put a little gentle humor into her voice.

“I don’t think ‘time’ is the problem, Jim.”

Now he was frowning.

“I’m not impotent.”

"I doubt if you know whether you are or you aren't."

“What’s what supposed to mean?”

“Well simply, you’ve dropped out of the hands-on therapy program and declined any type of physical situation, even the most clinical ones.” She folded her arms and spoke to the matter, a simple, objective tone to her voice.  “Nurse Munson reports you’re a no-show for massage therapy.  Med-tech Salas says that you wouldn’t let him touch you during a routine sim session. Ensign Okata says—”

“I’m here with you, aren’t I?” he said stiffly. There was a pink blush to his cheeks. He looked embarrassed, but stubbornly remained unruffled.

She ignored his half-hearted jab.

“It’s been over six weeks since the incident on Dunbar’s Planet. Have you once tried to masturbate?”

He answered her with a defiant “No,” then felt ridiculous afterward.

She smoothed her uniform skirt as if she were speaking of nothing more than filling out the most routine status report.

“Take-home assignment. Try it tonight.”

“See what comes up?” he shot back.

She couldn’t keep the smile out of her eyes.  Why was he insisting on playing this game? In another context this conversation might have been flirtatious. “I simply meant, relax and try to enjoy yourself.”

He was about ready to swear at her, but he managed to hold his tongue.  There was something about her demeanor, a hint of humor and irreverence toward his rank that told him, ironically, that she was sympathetic and that he was safe.  But he was too distressed to accept the safety she offered, didn’t know that it could be real.

“He’s right, you know.  McCoy. I attacked a fellow officer.”

“He says no permanent harm was done.”

“I did it. You can’t expect me to deny it.”

“But you’re not denying it.”

“I can’t wear this uniform anymore. I don’t deserve to.”

“It’s the captain’s uniform. You’re the captain.”

“McCoy doesn’t think so.”

“Doctor McCoy thinks you’re in trouble. That you need help. So do I. I’m here to help you.”

“I don’t need help. I need to be punished.”

“That’s the last thing you need, Jim Kirk. Let me help you.” She rose and faced him. “Let me help you,” she implored.

He returned to the bookcase and stood silently before it.  She had pleaded with him, and he had heard and felt the plea. For a short moment, it moved him.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, looking down at the fine leather cover still in his hands.  “I picked that fight.  I don’t know why I’m so hostile.  I’ve never been a hostile person.”

“You’re angry,” Peretti acknowledged.  “You have a right to be.  I’m here to help you dispel some of that anger, if you’ll let me.”

He remained distrustfully silent.  Was she offering real help or the kind that landed you in early retirement.  Neuro-emulators could isolate the synaptic patterns of traumatic memories, permanently interrupt the deepest chemistry, and thereby alter the emotional responses those terrifying memories invoked.  But the basic treatment eradicated memory links, like the old-fashioned use of radiation killed off healthy, as well as diseased, cells.  No one knew for sure the exact route or tributaries of adjacent thought.  Therefore, it was an inviolable Starfleet policy that no starship commander, no matter how successful, could be allowed to command after having received such treatment. Once your brain was compromised, you were finished. Well, so far, only his body had been breached.

Peretti could still sense his hostility, and she remembered something he’d said earlier.

“Jim, I’m not a head doctor so much as a heart doctor.  I want to know what’s in your heart.” She paused. Perhaps that had been too personal a thing to say about what he needed.  She sat back down in her chair deciding to become clinical again. “Of course, you’re concerned with sex.  You were sexually abused.” She could see the pink of his cheeks redden further.  “From your current records, you have no lingering physical problems.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“We’re here to talk about whatever you need to.  If you don’t want to talk about your sex life, then we’ll talk about something else.  I’m here to listen to you.” She knew he fully understood the danger of low psych stats. “You know, as well as I do, it’s the only way.” She cocked her head, listening for the tiniest movement beside her.  She could hear his tight, controlled breathing. When he said nothing, she prompted, “Now that we have had our little excursion away from you, tell me what’s on your mind.”

“What about what McCoy wants?”

“That can wait.”

“I’d much rather talk about the weather.”

She smiled to herself at his easy facetiousness.

“To me, the weather of the Enterprise is perfect.  How does it seem to you?”

He laughed nervously.

“Wet and cold.”

“I can imagine.  Let’s talk about that.”

He went suddenly pale.  She was telling him to remember it.  What were they always insisting that he remember?  How could going over ‘it’ again help? But hadn’t he just asked to go over it? Cut to the chase, he had said in frustration. He pursed his lips, swallowing hard.  He sighed yet felt short of breath. All the bravado was gone from his voice.

“Yesterday I committed a violent act against my first officer.”

She repeated the words ‘violent act’, making him aware of the euphemism.

He could hardly say the words. “I beat up my friend and then I mind-raped him. You want to know why.”

Finally.

Those simple words had put the ugly thing out in the open. The case at full gallop.  She looked up over her shoulder.  “Do you know why, Captain?” She almost heard the blood leave his face.

He replaced the book quietly and came back to the chair, re-seating himself.  With every fiber of his being, he wanted to walk out of that office.  But on the Enterprise—as on all Federation starships—James T. Kirk might be supreme boss, but the Chief Medical Officer was God. There was no way to get command back without going through Leonard McCoy, and now without going through this woman.  He knew it.  Did she know it, too? He would do anything to get his command back. Say anything.

Even the truth.

“I’ll do my best, Doctor Peretti, to tell you why.” He cleared his throat, straightened his spine and made himself speak as though he were a machine.  The words came out clipped and bitter.

“I felt powerless. Degraded. Not capable of being the captain anymore.  I did it for payback. To regain control of my life. I confused Spock with the man who—with my assailant.  I hadn’t slept in days. I was rock-blind falling-down drunk.”

In fifteen seconds, his confession was over.

When he came to the point, he came to it.  Command training is a powerful thing, she thought.  Bet the brass balls at headquarters love him at debriefings. With a report like that, there would be plenty of time for the higher-ups to hear the whole sad story and still make it to Happy Hour at the Officers’ Club. At least Kirk had dropped his glibness. Peretti shifted slightly in her chair.

“Just how did you confuse Spock with the man who attacked you?”

A shadow memory rolled across his face, making his eyes go unfocused and troubled.  He was remembering something strong, an image that pulled him back, out of her office, into his own world of revenge and retribution. He moved his head imperceptibly before he spoke again.  It was terribly noticeable that what he said was and was not an answer.

“It was so damn easy the way he just walked right in and snapped Dost’s neck.  Just like he owned the bastard.”

When you thought you owned him, Peretti thought to herself.  Dost, ugly name.  How often the dead haunted the living, as though not dead at all.  And how easily the living conjured the dead from their graves—as real in their destruction as the sharpest blade or a phaser set to kill. And worst of all with the cruelest, most bitter irony, how often the victim bonded with the assailant, needing him or protecting him or identifying with the one person for whom hate and rejection should be the only emotions. How often it happens.  Now again.  She could feel it in her bones.  She focused on his final words, the ones that gave her an opening.

“Jim, do you really believe it was easy for Spock to do that?”

Large eyes shot up to her face.  He looked startled.

“He committed murder for you,” she said.

He grimaced.

“It wasn’t murder.”

“He killed for you.”

For some reason, he felt indignation. “There is that possibility every day that he works for me aboard this ship.”

“Then it was a trivial thing.”

He looked slightly dumbfounded and shook his head.

“Spock saved my life.  He was alone. I remember I couldn’t believe that he had come alone. I thought we were both dead men, that we had only seconds more to live. But when I saw Dost crumble, I felt such relief . . . .”

It was good that he had brought up what Spock had done because now they could talk about what he had done or might do.

“You and Spock . . . you’ve served together four years now. You believe you know him well?”

He glared at her again.  He knew she had done her homework. “You know how well.”

“How do you describe your relationship with him?”

“I don’t care to discuss that.”

“It’s a harmless question. You’re friends, aren’t you? That’s how he described it.”

Harmless.  Nothing she was asking or observing was harmless.

“We’re close,” he admitted. “As brothers.” Sam had never been as close; he blanched to think of that. Was Dad groaning in his grave? Was Sam?

“Then I must ask.  How could you rape your brother?”

His mind tore itself from childhood truths.  “I wanted to be clean. That’s all. Clean again.”

“Do you feel clean?”

“In a way, yes.”

“What way?”

He could feel his heart speed up.  “Spock understands.”

She nodded.

“Yes, he told me, but I’d like to understand from your point of view.”

He hesitated, finding the idea punishing.

“I lost control. I wanted to kill Dost, but more than that I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to control him.”

“Like you had been controlled.”

He reiterated. “I wanted control over him. I took it.”

“You forced him to submit to you.”

“Yes.” He blinked.  Did she mean Dost? No. She meant Spock. “I didn’t force Spock . . . .”

“Then he freely gave you what you needed.”

“Yes, he was trying to comfort me, like Dost had pretended to do, before he . . . “

“Raped you.”

“Yes.”

She heard resistance in his tone, a hint of anger.

“It’s all right to be angry with Spock. He made a mistake in judgment.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“He made a mistake and then you did.”

“There weren’t any mistakes.”

“There was a murder and a rape, but no mistake?”

“There was a killing and an assault, but on the same person. That bastard.”

“Which one?”

“Dost. Dammit! Spock got in the way. He got between Dost and me. That’s why he got hurt.”

“You didn’t like it when he did that. Dost belonged to you. It made you angry when Spock killed him.”

“All right, it made me angry.”

“Angrier than you’ve ever been.”

“He hurt me, and I wanted to hurt him back.”

“Spock or Dost?”

“Both!”

In stupefied horror, James Kirk froze. Every thought in his head stopped cold.  To admit for one moment that any of that hateful, vicious act had been truly aimed at Spock was unthinkable. Denial filled him, then the lie of that denial.  He wanted to scream at this woman until she took it all back. He wanted to cry. He just wanted to cry.   

To force himself sexually on anyone had abhorrent to him; he could barely imagine the desire or the impulse. He had apologized to Yeoman Rand, who had been gracious and discreet, but he’d known the incident—a transporter malfunction splitting him into opposites—had ruined their working relationship.  She had lost respect for him; maybe she’d even grown afraid of him. It had come to a head when she often asked a shipmate to deliver his meals to his quarters if she knew he was alone. Though they’d made attempts to carry on as usual, and often some crisis or other thrust them together, a few months later, she, tired of the effort to compensate, had requested a transfer to another ship.  He had not wanted to, but he had to let her go.  Maybe that had been best for him, too. Without having to see her every day, he could forget the wolf inside him—until now, when he’d again forced himself on someone close to him.

He hung his head, so ashamed. First Janice Rand, now Spock.

“Spock’s my closest friend. How could I do . . . that?”

“You bonded with Dost,” Peretti replied. “The shared experience, getting through it together, looking into each other’s eyes, seeing the raw soul of another person, the intimacy, the heightened emotion. Stockholm Syndrome, they used to call it. Now we call it Hostage Attachment Syndrome, but it’s the same thing, especially if the kidnapper is expertly manipulative.”

But the captain didn’t care about psychological theory.

“Why did Spock keep touching me, holding on to me?  Why didn’t he let me go when I told him to?”   Kirk leaned forward slightly, his eyes grand and glistening.  “Did he tell you why?”

She could see him starting to fall apart, so she reached over and briefly touched his arm to steady him. “Like you, perhaps he lost control.”

As the moment fell to silence, the captain’s eyes overflowed with sudden hot tears. So that a stranger would not see them, he turned his face away. Over and over, he had replayed the scene between him and Spock in his mind, running it backwards and forwards. No matter how many times he saw it, he could not change the ending.

“Does he . . . know that’s what happened?"

“I don’t believe so.”

Kirk slumped.

“I have to tell him.  But how can I?”

“You can tell him anything.”

Kirk’s large eyes got larger.  He stood up and walked behind his chair, coming around it to face her again.  That night, he had answered Spock’s compassion with wonton cruelty.  He had acted like Dost. Dost who had efficiently turned him into a duplicate force: the personification of brutality. He had bonded with Dost, she had said.  The thought made his skin crawl. He had always thought himself gentle. Now he knew he wasn’t.

Peretti could see each thought as it crisscrossed his face.  Was entranced by the battle she witnessed as it played itself out across his handsome features—eyes, brows, lips in motion, chest rising and falling as he struggled to reason everything out, to remember even if he didn’t want to.  She could see his shocked pain turn on one realization after another.  It was now time for him to talk to her about even harder things, the most difficult memories. She could not demand that he tell her anything, she could only offer to listen.

“Sit down, Jim, please.”

Reluctantly, he sat. He could not look at her.  He knew what was coming yet couldn’t bear to know it.

“I’m your doctor. For me to help you, I need to hear what happened between Dost and you, but most of all, even more important than my hearing it, you need to talk about it. Do you understand?”

The request was chilling, a knife through his heart.  She needed to hear how had had wound up here, in this mess, in this horrible state? To hear that? He opened his mouth to try to speak.  His stomach turned instead.

“I don’t want to think about it.”

She leaned forward again, wanting to support him, physically if she had to.

“But you’re thinking about it all the time. The memory won’t let you sleep, or work, or live.  It tried to kill you yesterday.  Get it out, put it out where we can examine it. Together we can defuse it and make it go away.”

He was slowly shaking his head.

“You said we only had to talk about what I wanted. Talking about it won’t make it go away. Nothing can make it go away.”

She changed her tact. This was blatant paralysis, and she’d have to force him from it. Her voice was neutral, but her words were cutting.

“This from a man who even as a boy could survive what most grown men couldn’t? A boy who had the emotional strength to live through a massacre that killed even his friends and still come through that experience unscarred enough to enter Starfleet Academy and excel.” She sat back in her chair, as though now discussing another patient, a twin perhaps who had survived the mass murder on Tarsus IV through cunning and sheer strength of will. “James Kirk’s original Steinman results are legendary as the most normal and balanced any of the test administrators had ever seen.  Those readings are why they made you a starship captain on your thirty-second birthday.”

He had heard enough. He couldn’t stand it, wouldn’t hear another word about a boy long since gone, about a man who no longer existed, someone he couldn’t even remember.  In a half-second, he was heading for the door.

She rose offering as much empathy as her voice would muster.

“Look at you, Jim. This memory is eating you alive! You’re thinking of killing yourself right now. If I put that in my report, Doctor McCoy won’t have any choice but to ship you off to one of those padded rehab bungalows for Starfleet burnout-outs. You’ll end up teaching early Federation history to a bunch of school kids on Starbase 12 who couldn’t care less about what you were or what you could have been. Think about that before you walk through that door!”

James Kirk stopped abruptly. The door loomed before him, and he heard her words.  He knew that once he left her office it was over. He tugged sharply at his captain’s tunic and turned around. Her words ‘let me help you’ echoing in his mind.  Had she been lying or just deviously interested in the most lurid details of his ordeal? He decided, almost without hesitation, that she was a dog and he was the bone.    

“How the hell can you help me, Doctor Peretti, if you’d do that to me?”

She could see his righteous anger and knew that it was a far healthier emotion than despair. She relaxed a bit.

“I didn’t mean it.  I was just trying to get your attention.”

This session had come very close to getting out of hand.  She re-seated herself, a little shaken. “I can help you, Jim, first of all, by convincing you that you’re not alone. As long as you’re in this office and as long as you’re on the ship, you’re not alone.” The look in his eyes told her that he felt trapped. “If Starfleet puts you in a courtroom, if you put yourself there, god help you.  None of us will be able to save you there.” She had out her hand, reaching out to him. “Stay here with me. Let yourself be saved right here.”

His hazel eyes narrowed. He squared his shoulders and returned to the chair.  He wanted to take her hand but didn’t allow himself the weakness. He sat down. “I’m not a coward. I wouldn’t kill myself.”

She smiled at his honest bravery.

"I know.  But if Starfleet hadn’t already outlawed firing squads, you’d volunteer to put yourself before the nearest bulkhead and take a phaser through the heart.” She sighed to steady her voice.  “I know you’re not a coward.  You just think you have no options. I’m telling you that you do.  Talk to me and you’ll see that you do.”

Her voice was like honey, like a safe haven in which he could rest, like a friend’s. Her face held nothing but concern and a desire to help him.  If only he could be convinced of her words.

“It’s time you trusted someone with some of this,” she said.  “If you can do it now, you won’t be sorry that you trusted me.”

“So all you want, “James Kirk said deliberately, "is for me to tell you more or less what he did to me” His smile turned tight, and in an unsettling manner, he shrugged, giving in to her demands—apparently. “Oh, you know, Doctor. The usual things that rapists do.”

Beyond self-loathing, he would be flip, because he couldn’t trust her, because if he did, he would have to say it, talk about. Well, fuck it, fuck her, fuck all this shit! Nothing could make him talk about it.  He almost bit his tongue.  He almost got up and left again. He almost picked up the chair and beat it to pieces against the wall.  Yet part of him wanted to trust her, because he was so tired of holding everything inside.  What did it matter if a stranger knew the worst? To speak of unspeakable acts. Maybe he could be clinical, maybe he could skip the parts about . . . . Maybe he couldn’t do this at all.  God, just say it. Say it. SAY IT.

“He raped me. He rammed his— Dammit, he raped me!" There. In an instant, he knew he had failed. Miserably.

She wanted to sigh but didn’t. What was the old expression about ‘pulling teeth?’ But she knew that the fear of the pain of extraction had become almost as bad as the actual event had ever been.

“There’s an image in your mind when you think of him,” she prompted.

“No image,” he answered too quickly. “Just feelings that make my belly ache. Disgust. Exactly what you’d expect.”

She paced herself, waiting.  What she saw in his eyes was that he had begun to realize that she could outwait him.

“Of course, you mean the image of Dost,” he continued trying to wiggle off her hook. “A foul-smelling brutish psycho with bad breath and a worse haircut. Pretty scary.”

“Not that image, Jim. Let it go.”

Let it go. Didn’t know how to. He heard his voice talking nonsense. Drivel.

“So does being stripped naked constitute a rape, Doctor? Not compared to the real thing, I suppose.  What’s a little bare ass and exposed privates between intimates? Only at that point, I didn’t know that he and I were going to be. Pretty naïve for someone in a sailor suit.”

She said nothing but was startled when she could see his heart beating in his chest beneath the gold softness of his shirt.

“He had these incredible drugs.” He began to ramble. “Not the kind that makes you euphoric, the kind that makes you numb and paralyzed. He shot up my jaw once. I thought I was going to choke to death.” He chuckled but couldn’t quite disguise the bitter edge.

“A hypo is the image in your nightmare.”

“I’m running and he catches me with that damn hypo.”

She wet her lips to chase away the dryness. There was a long moment of silence.

“That’s still not it, Jim.”

He stopped cold. She was like a sensor that could home in on his most minute show of weakness. His throat was tightening. He could barely breathe let alone speak. What else could he say? What other words could he throw at it, hoping some of them would stick?

“Dost special-ordered one Starflet officer from the Orions. At first, I thought he wanted me . . . like the Klingons or the Romulans might want me, but he just wanted . . . .” His stomach turned and he thought he might vomit. He straightened a little so that he could breathe. “The drugs wore off fast and just when I could crawl a few meters, he’d scoop me up and then he . . . .” Suddenly, the words began to tumble out of him.

She watched his struggle, listened intently as she said she would. Heard every word of horror, every sigh of pain.  All she could do was nod, indicating that she had heard. She could not interrupt for any reason.

“He made it so very hard, Doctor Peretti.”

This time from somewhere deep where starship captains keep a last reserve of bulldog courage, he gave her what she wanted.  Hauling up an unblinking tenacity, he told her everything. Uncompromising details.  How much he had suffered. How excruciating his pain. Exactly how he was violated.

“It took so long for him to . . . finish. He didn’t even take pleasure from it.  He just did it to show me that he could make me afraid enough to want to die.”

As his voice trailed off, hers continued.  “What possible reason could justify such a thing.”

“There is one,” he said softly. “Military reasons.”

“You wouldn’t commit such acts to gain a military advantage.”

“But I can understand it. How it can happen. The pressure to beat an interstellar enemy. High stakes of intergalactic proportions. But what happened to me wasn’t about that.”

“What do you think it was about?

“It was about . . ..” He touched his cheek. “About this.”

“Your face.”

“I’m a starship commander. I have a head stuffed with Starfleet esoterica. Org charts, personnel, weaponry, strategy. Secrets, all kinds. Every alien renegade from here to the Klingon home world is after me. I’d be worth an empire’s ransom on Romulus. Yet Dost didn’t want any of that.”

“Then why you?”

“Yes, why me? If he didn’t want Starfleet Captain James T. Kirk for what he knew, why not take someone else?” He looked down at his hands and was flooded with guilt. “Anyone else.”

"Is that the biggest disgrace? To have so much of value to offer and yet he takes what’s worth so much less?"

“My face and body.”

“But they were worth a lot to you, Jim.”

“There are a lot of handsome men.” He thought of Spock.

“McCoy said that you put off plastic surgery for a while.”

“I was scared that they’d kidnap me again if I had my face back.”

“But you got over it.”

He smiled with embarrassment, not understanding what a healthy act that was.

“At some point, you realize that you’re being irrational.” He raised his chin and filled his chest with air.  His light tone hadn’t stuck. He opened his fists and rubbed the palms compulsively on his pants.  “I kept waiting.  That was my ace in the hole, what I knew about Starfleet, but we weren’t playing that game.”  He paused, out of breath.  “I couldn’t believe we weren’t playing that game.”

“Maybe those stripes on your sleeve were what caught his attention.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Kirk’s eyes flashed and he grabbed the braid on his left cuff and yanked hard twice.  He handed the gold ribbon her like it was junk.

“Is this worth anything? Worth more than a man’s dignity, his body outright?” When she didn’t take it, he opened her hand and forced her fingers closed around it.  She sat quietly with her fingers around the ribbon.

“Only you can know its worth to you,” she said simply.

He sat back hard, stunned at his own outburst and equally stunned when her face remained soft and neutral, as though nothing he could say would make her loathe him.

“What’s the matter with me?” he whispered in near despair.  He felt like he was hurling away from her.  He closed his eyes, but when he opened them she was still there. “And what’s the matter with you, Doctor? How can you be so kind?”

“You have the right to be angry.”

“Not at you.”

When she’d said the same words before, they had sounded hollow, but not now.  Even in his misery, he had not realized just how violently angry he was. His hands fell open as though cut from his body.

“Isn’t it ridiculous? I think it is.” He threw back his head and began to laugh.  “Good joke, wouldn’t you say? A million-credit property in Dost’s hands and all he wants is a half-conscious piece of sorry Starfleet ass!”

She watched him laugh instead of cry. But it was the same.  His laughter slowly faded away until the sounds of his deep, erratic breathing competed with the low hum of the ship’s engines.

“When I looked up and saw Spock, I prayed that it wasn’t really him, that he hadn’t seen what Dost was doing to me.” He sighed before describing how Dost had chained him, beat him senseless and threatened to shoot his head off as he forced open his mouth.  “And what he had already done.  I hated him.” Kirk looked hard into Peretti’s probing eyes.  “Dost,” he said with finality.

When James Kirk was through and a touching silence claimed the room again, Peretti marveled at his strength, at his ability to endure.  She shook her head, because as much as he had told her, there was still much more to tell because she could still see such fear in his eyes.

“That’s still not it,” she repeated. “It’s in your mind now.  Let’s talk about me what’s in your mind.”

He saw her brown eyes, clear and warm, beckoning to him. Hadn’t she heard enough? To be done with it was all he could imagine for his entire future.  To be done with this torture.

He felt himself giving up to her, giving in to the image that was making his chest feel like someone had a fist around his heart, squeezing it dry.

“This is the image,” he whispered. “Always the same. Palm first, coming over my nose and mouth. Pushing in on me, stopping the air." He let the spin carry him with it.  “I remember my academy training. ‘Never panic'.” He pulled back his shoulders. “’You panic, Cadet Kirk, and you’re out of the program!’ Even when I thought he was going to suffocate me, I didn’t panic. I held on till I was blacking out. Then, as if he knew exactly how hard to push, how much I could take, his hand would slip away, and he would let me live.” Now, his heart was pounding so hard that he could barely hear the words coming out of his mouth. “I have nightmares, about the moment when I’m on the verge of panic. Even in my dreams, I never know how long the moment will last.  Sometimes I can’t bear it.”

“But you do bear it.”

“In my dreams, I panic.  I can’t hold on.”

“Is that what happened on Dunbar’s Planet?”

“No. There, I held on.”

“But that’s what happened yesterday, isn’t it, Jim?”

He only nodded silently. Of course. He couldn’t hold the panic at bay.  It had gone for the jugular, and he had, profoundly out of control, fought for his life.

“Do you know what it’s like to have someone you loathe climb on top of you, inside of you, whisper your name, leave you with nothing but your ruined name, his voice wrapped around it rattling in your head. ‘jimmy’ in that graveling voice. ‘oh jimmy’. He took my name and my body and used them up and left me with nothing."

“You wanted to die, Jim?”

“For the first time in my life, I wanted to die.”

“And when you saw Spock, did you still feel that way?”

“No, I wanted so much . . . to live.” He shivered. “I was desperate to get away from Dost, like an animal willing to chew off its own leg to get away.  But I was too far gone.  When I saw Spock, I thought . . . I can survive this. I’m not going down. Between the two of us, we can escape.”

Peretti let out the breath she was holding becoming the healer again.  She wanted to give him a moment to collect himself.

“The nightmares, Jim.  They’re going to lessen in intensity for the next two nights, then stop all together.”

It was a point-blank statement. He looked at her as though she were crazy to think that just saying the words, like an incantation, could make it so.  But she just kept nodding until his expression changed to one of minor acceptance.  Just the thought of a good night’s sleep made him want to weep from relief. He pressed each eye with a palm.

“I feel so ashamed. Why do people who are brutalized feel such shame?” He had observed that reaction in some of the populations on planets that had been plundered when the Enterprise had arrived too late. “I wanted to die just from the shame.”

“It’s a common response,” she said with sympathy. So many times, she had heard that feedback from other patients. “Perhaps having been reduced to our lowest level, we can’t remember how to feel normal or believe that we can ever feel normal again.”

He had heard every word she said and then thought of what he’d done to Spock.  Was he feeling those things, too? This terrible worthlessness? He recalled when Spock was in his mind, the churning images of torture that flew by him, suffocating him.  He remembered his struggle against them, his refusal to submit. So easy to turn the tables, hold the Other’s mind down—that mind, fixed but not struggling, resigned but not calm.  To drown a man or a mind with nothing but your bare hands or will—he still felt shocked to know he could do that.  And do it without a second thought. Like the coldest heart. Like any human monster who didn’t recognize the Other as human, or sentient, or equal. Vlad Tepes, Hitler, Pol Pot, Colonel Green, Khan Noonien Singh, Tolsat the Devil’s Fist, a dozen more. Monsters who could look a woman or child in the eye and snuff out the light of life as though the universe had no need for light.  Men like that had always been his enemies.  Now he had joined their ranks.

What was in his mind was disjointed, but he said it anyway.

“Spock is my friend.  I wanted to kill him. I thought I had, and I didn’t care.”

“You care now.”

“It’s too late now.”

“Look around you. That’s not true.”

He chuckled bitterly.

“No harm done?  Mister Spock’s on his feet. I’m on mine.  So what’s the problem?”  She waited for him to answer himself.  “Well, I’ll tell you what the problem is. I could only do what I did because he’s who he is and I’m what I am: a Vulcan telepath and a cowardly rapist.”

“He entered your mind first.”

“To help me, but I couldn’t accept that that’s why he was there.  I could only see the threat.  I put him through the worst ordeal anyone from his planet could endure.”

“He can heal.”

“How can he trust me again? I’ve destroyed what there was between us.  I should have just taken a knife and stabbed him in the heart. That would have hurt him less.”

“I talked to him. He doesn’t see it that way.”

“You don’t know him. He can endure a lot of physical pain.” He remembered Deneva—mostly his fear for Spock. “But the mental invasion will eat at him.  I’m his best friend, and I tried to destroy his mind.”

“He was very open to your suffering.”

Kirk dropped his eyes.  “He’s my best friend. Was.”

“Is, Jim. Is your friend.”

“Starship captains shouldn't be allowed to have friends.  This is what happens when you allow people like me to have friends!”

“This feeling won’t last.  You have to trust me about that.”  All this emotion came from the greatest shame and guilt—from a man who had been so wronged, and in his pain, had lashed out. But there was someone else more important than her to help him; she had to make him understand. “Jim, I know it’s hard for you believe—to accept—but he forgives you.”

“That’s impossible.  He’ll tolerate me. He’ll be the consummate professional, nothing will interfere with his performance, but inside he’ll loathe me, maybe even be afraid.”

“Jim, Spock has displayed the most loyalty I’ve ever seen between friends or officers. You’re right that he should loathe you, but he doesn’t. He simply doesn’t. Don’t insult him by insisting that he feel what the most common of us would feel.”

Kirk paused. Part of him recognized that she was right about Spock: that Spock was better than all of them combined.

“Is he all right?”

She wanted to smile to hear his concern for his friend. “I believe so, yes.”

“Better than me?”

In total sympathy, she said, “Much.”

“That’s good,” he said, not minding.

Peretti looked at the braid on his sleeve, and then at her own. They both wore the Starfleet uniform, and yet she marveled at the complete jeopardy that uniform had put him in. Ships’ crews were usually safe, except for the occasional warp engine overload or alien attack, and James Kirk had always managed to move the Enterprise out of danger.  This time, it was the captain himself who had not managed to step aside.

“If Spock hadn’t killed Dost, would you be going after him now?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you’d want to.”

“Of course, but it would be complicated.  I have standing orders when and where to take the ship.”

“And if you found Dost alive, what would you do?”

“I don’t know.”

She persisted in her scenario.

“Let’s imagine, Dost is still alive. You find yourself alone in a room with him. What would you do?”

He grabbed a quick breath.  She could see the effort he put into his answer.  He wasn’t stupid and he wasn’t delusional. This time, his answer—even a surprise to him—was the same. 

“I still don’t know.”

No question this time, only a reiteration.

“This is the man who bought you like a commodity, tortured you, drugged you, beat you half to death, degraded you, and you don’t know what you’d do with him?” She saw him drop his chin in purposeful concentration. Time became silent seconds.

He let the silence drag on, before lifting his chin and looking straight into her eyes.  “You’re saying it wasn’t easy for Spock, but hard.”

“As hard as you say it would be for you.”

Peretti knew that the emotion between these two men was deep and personal. For a long while they sat silently as Jim gathered his emotions and put on his captain’s face again.  It felt so good when she reached out and squeezed his hand.

“Good,” she said. “Very good.” She stood and briefly put her hand on his shoulder so that he could feel the warmth.

Is it over? He wondered. God, I feel better.  He looked up at her.  Something normal popped into his head. “Spock and I . . . we used to play chess in the evenings. I have to invite him for a game.”

“That sounds delightful.”

She hadn’t dismissed him yet, but he got the impression that she was getting ready to.

“This is a lot to think about for one session,” she said.

She moved behind him toward the door, disappearing. He couldn’t quite see what she was doing and felt the bitter edge of rejection.

Then she returned, reseated herself, and held out an elegant dish of dark candy, the same one she had offered Spock.  As if she could read his mind, she said, “You’re right, of course. We’re not quite finished yet.  Have a chocolate. Mister Spock took two.”

Stunned at his own stupid reaction, he sat in morbid silence. Why am I being such an ass? He thought.  When am I ever going to be myself again. He knew she knew what a ridiculous person he had become.  “I’m sorry.”

She smiled and cocked her head at him, studying him without judging.  He took one piece of candy and popped it in his mouth. Startlingly delicious.

“I know you think this is a test, Jim, but it isn’t. I’m still on your side.  Even if you get mad at me, I won’t get mad at you.” Again, she leaned forward in the chair.  “Would it help to know that I’ve come to greatly understand what happened yesterday.”

“Your understanding is a great kindness, but it doesn’t eliminate the need for justice or my punishment.”

“I can’t approve of the violence, Jim, but its symbolic nature was cathartic and therapeutic for you.  And maybe for Spock, too. I do understand that.  And I forbid anyone to punish you for it.  Especially you.”

She smiled at him with her eyes. A quiet expression crossed her features as she recalled something that First Officer Spock had reminded her of. There was an acknowledgment she must make, a sorrow that must be expressed.

“Jim, I want you to know that I am so sorry that this horrible thing happened to you.  All of it. I am sorry. More than I can say.”

When he didn’t move except to nod, she knew that there was more on his mind than gratitude. When he finally spoke, his voice was cautious and quiet, like a man unwilling to beg but understanding the need to ask in a way that was both direct and conciliatory.

“If other people,” James Kirk began evenly, “are scientists or musicians . . . .”  He tried to smile a little at her.  “Or physicians, I’m different.  I make decisions. That’s what I do for a living. I’ve been highly trained to do it and to want to do it.” Suddenly the look in his eyes was fierce with courage and desire. With every conviction he had ever felt, he said, “I want my command back, Doctor.”

For the last hour, Margo Peretti had watched James Kirk vacillate between command confidence and tears, between his own warm congeniality and an adrenaline-driven bravado, like a drunken man staggering from one edge of the walkway to the other.  But he always managed to pick himself up and keep going. He never gave up, a characteristic duly noted in his Starfleet dossier.

“Then which is it, Captain?” She paused for emphasis. “Punishment or reward?”

He frowned.

“I don’t think of my job as a reward.”

She wouldn’t condescend to him.

“Jim, I’ll be honest with you. Doctor McCoy wants assurances that what happened in your quarters can never happen again.”

“It can never happen again,” he said adamantly.

“I’m sure if I had asked you a week ago, you would have claimed that it could never happen once.”

He looked desperate. “Then how can I give that assurance to him? You know I can’t.”

“He wants to know that you can handle your job, the brutal stresses of that job, the vast responsibilities, the hours, the fear of the unknown, the—”

He cut her off. He knew all that.

“What about the joys, Doctor?” he countered fiercely. “The thrill, the delight, the fulfillment, the depth of feeling down to my toes. The love it gives me for everything in the universe. Again and again, it fills me with all of that, and that’s what I use to counterbalance the pain it also gives me sometimes, the fear I sometimes have to face. Does he even care to know that that’s how it works for me?”

He froze in near-defeat. He could never defend what he had done yesterday. How could she be asking him? Well, maybe she wasn’t.

“Then I must ask, Jim.” One last thing, my dear Captain Kirk, just one last thing. “Your job—it’s a very dangerous one sometimes. Only you can know how dangerous. What if an assault like this one should happen to you again?”

He looked so tired, young but hurt like an old man has been hurt from the trials of a long and difficult life.  She was moved by the inner strength she saw push the hurt from his expressive eyes.

“I would just have to survive it. Somehow.”

She returned his earlier smile.

“That you have that gold braid on your sleeve doesn’t mean that you’re invincible or a machine.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he acknowledged.  “A lesson in humility I learned on Dunbar’s Planet.” She saw him swallow, then lift his chin. I can take it, the gesture said.  He asked politely, “What are you going to tell McCoy?”

“Whatever you want me to.  I told you that I was an advocate for you.”

There was disbelief on his face, then a resolute hardness. He was the captain again.

“Tell him that if he has to be the CMO, if he can’t be our friend, to leave us alone.  As for what happens to me, it’s his decision.”

She nodded.

“I can do that, Jim.” She sat back in the chair. “I can also tell him that there is no indication that you are unfit. I’ll recommend further limited psychotherapy, but nothing he can’t monitor.  I have no doubt that you and Spock are both capable of working things out between yourselves, and I’m going to recommend that he return command of the Enterprise back to you.”

Kirk’s eyes closed he was so moved with emotion. “Will he listen?”

“It’s his job—and mine—to take care of the captain.  He takes that job very seriously. He’ll listen.” She could see skepticism remain in his eyes. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

He raised his eyes to hers, capturing them.

“I know. But when you’ve been hurt this badly, you think that that’s all there is to life. You’ve made me remember there are other things.”

“Would you like to end this discussion now?” Meaning that she would. “I can see that you’re tired.” Meaning that she was.

He dropped his head to his chest and closed his eyes. It was over, finally over, and he had survived. Then he lifted his head and looked up at her.  If only for a moment, he wanted to touch her. He held her gaze instead, resting in the warm compassion of her eyes, and he could see that she looked at him with pride. Was a thank you in order? he wondered. He hoped that she could read the sincerest gratitude on his face.

And she could.         

Chapter Text

“Credit for your thoughts?”

Margo Peretti looked up from her after-dinner coffee to see the twinkling blue eyes of Leonard McCoy peering down at her.  She had been staring out of the aft lounge bay window at the hot white stars moving slowly like lazy brilliant fish in a very big pond. She had been thinking about James Kirk and the unsettling story he had told her that morning and about Spock and the insights and pure loyalty he had expressed.  They were both fine threads in her mind—one gold, one silver—each woven back and forth across the tapestry of their mutual lives on this great ship. And Leonard McCoy was like a third thread, copper and fiery, gentle and country-wise. The metaphor shifted. Tough as nails. He’d been waiting for a while; she motioned for him to join her.

He sat across from her in the nearly empty lounge. “I’ve always thought it odd that more people don’t come here to watch the stars,” he said, eyes focused on the cosmos.  “Glad to see that you appreciate the beauty of the heavens.”

Peretti sat back in her chair, her head tilted in a relaxed position. But she wasn’t relaxed; she was tired.

“This isn’t heaven, Leonard.” A long sigh escaped her.

“Tough day?” He was well aware of what and who were bothering her: a day with his two prize patients.

“Brutal.” But she corrected herself.  “I don’t mean for me. For them. What they had to talk about. What Jim Kirk went through—to tell that to a stranger. It was all I could do to keep my professional demeanor.”

“You’ve heard those kind of horrors before.”

A hundred times.  She knew the patterns, the shocking details, the grief and shame of the victims, the denial and, if they were lucky, some sort of catharsis and a final acceptance. It had happened to so many women. Fewer men.

“I could never trivialize any woman’s ordeal,” she said,” but men internalize it differently. They’re less resilient, more fragile.  They never see it coming.”

“I’ve never thought of Jim Kirk as fragile,” McCoy offered.

“He is right now. Also amazingly resilient. It was tough for him to tell me that happened to him, what he did yesterday, the things he felt. Feels. But he told me. I don’t know, Leonard. I think I did well, but I’m not sure if I really reached him. He might still be thinking court-martial. Maybe he still wants to be punished.”

“I can’t believe that you didn’t help him deal with this, make him feel better, Margo. You’re an excellent therapist. Don’t second-guess yourself.”  He stood up and looked down at her near empty cup. “That looks good. What is it?”

“Old favorite. Kahlua and coffee.”

He smiled, moved to the drink replicator, and came back with a second cup for her and one for himself. He reseated himself.

“Was Spock any help?”

“If brutal truth can help, he helped. He, too, had confessions, but he looked me in the eye and laid every card on the table.  Jim Kirk couldn’t ask for a better advocate.”

“Sometimes I think those two are in love,” McCoy quipped.

“And who the hell else is going to love them? Certainly not the rest of us.”

McCoy raised a Spockian brow. “That was aimed at me.”

“And myself, too. And anyone else who sits in judgment in some safe place and has the power to ruin good men’s lives.”

She put her coffee cup down on the small chrome cube in front of them. “Doctor McCoy,” she said seriously, deciding that she needed to start over, with more formality and a professional demeanor. He nodded at her, as though he had noticed the change in her tone and the straightness to her spine. “If you’re ready to hear it, I’m ready to make my recommendation.”

He looked around. Essentially, they were alone, no one close enough to overhear them. Sure, he had half-expected her to come into his office tomorrow ranting at the Gordian knot of two human and half-Vulcan psyches twisted up in a pretzel psychology that was impossible to unravel. But apparently he had misjudged her.

“I know that you expect the captain and Mister Spock to attend several sessions with me,” she said. “However, after talking to both of them at length, my recommendation is that we allow them to work out the rest of the issue between themselves.”

His blue eyes narrowed.

He had not expected this response from someone new to the ship, someone looking at the command team and the mess they were in with fresh, objective eyes.  Did this kind of grim thing happen on other ships, between other officers? He felt real surprise. It was as though she, like Alexander, had dispensed with elaborate attempts at untying the knot and, with a knife, had sliced the offending thing in two—just to be done with it.  He also put down his cup.

“Why is that, Doctor Peretti?” he asked, a little miffed.

“There’s nothing to gain by any further humiliation of either of them in the name of medical evaluation. I won’t let them become a peep show for the higher ups. They accept their mutual responsibility. Their concern for the other is great. Captain Kirk understands the source of his hostility and his inappropriate response to it.  If there are fences to mend, I feel confident that they can mend them in the privacy of their own quarters. We must give them the benefit of the doubt. If James Kirk and Spock are the two finest men on the ship—and I believe they are—then what happened yesterday happened for an inherently good reason. I believe that.”

McCoy stood up, the stars becoming the background for his irascibility. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow, Doctor.”

“I’m sor—” She had started to apologize, then stopped herself.  Why should she? She had done her job to the best of her ability. If he couldn’t accept her findings as an objective observer, then it was, of course, his prerogative.  “Leonard, please . . . .”

He wouldn’t let the liquor sneak up on him tonight.

“You haven’t offered your recommendation concerning the captain.” He lowered himself again.

She looked over her shoulder, at the smattering of crewmembers who had filtered in, all of them quiet and gloomy.

“Leonard, don’t you get the feeling that this ship . . . that the Enterprise is running on equal parts black coffee and routine? I look out into the stars and I see us move, but it’s like she’s lost her soul, that purpose that propels her forward.  She needs something else.”

“Right now, she’s running on logic,” McCoy reminded.

"That’s not enough. Her crew, even Spock, we all need Jim Kirk’s enthusiasm, his drive, his self-reliance, his sense of wonder returned to us.  Dost didn’t kill those things in him or Spock somehow restored them. Give them—him—a chance to prove it to you. Give the Enterprise her rightful captain back and give Jim Kirk back his life. He wants his command back. I think he should have it.”

She could see on his face that he didn’t agree. Wanted to. Couldn’t quite. And didn’t want her to know that he didn’t completely trust her assessment.

Nonchalantly, he picked up the cup, took a sip, and looked into her eyes. He was asking her to bet her job on this, but wasn’t he the one who wanted an outsider’s opinion?

“Your professional judgement says that they’re going to be all right," he said.

She paused, considering, then answered.

"Everything I’ve ever been taught is screaming at me to say ‘no’, that they’re repressing, have inverted values, have self-sacrificial complexes, but Leonard, they’re such incredible advocates for one another.”

McCoy wanted to agree, wanted it badly.

“Take tonight to think about.” He would, too. "I’ll give your recommendation my utmost attention.” That clearly meant that he didn’t agree with her or couldn’t yet. He heard her sigh in frustration. “I can’t give the captain his command back. He hasn’t proven himself—”

Exasperation surfaced in her voice.  “Don’t make him beg you.”

“My intention is to make him show me that what happened is over for him. That even if it rears its ugly head again, for whatever reason, it cannot be the cause of one more act of violence on this ship. Ever.”

Her voice was neutral again.  “I understand. Jim Kirk does, too.”

“I won’t decide anything tonight.  I’ll have to run more tests.” The cup rattled on the glass as he put it down. He stood up. “We’ll talk some more tomorrow. Goodnight, Doctor.”

“Goodnight, Doctor.”

When he was gone, she turned again to the stars. Nothing had changed. One splash of light was the same as the next. Intellectually, she knew that wasn’t true. Each was unique in size, gravity, atmospheric composition, and planets. The stars. Sirens, calling this starship to danger. Or to glory.

Or to both.

****

On his way to his quarters, McCoy passed the first officer in the corridor. The Vulcan did not acknowledge him.

“Spock!”

Turning he caught Spock’s arm just as the door to the Vulcan’s quarters opened and he tried to duck inside. The doctor’s firm grip pulled him so that they faced each other as the door closed behind them with a final swoosh. “I need to discuss Jim with you.  He’s still talking about turning himself in.  I’m not at all sure that’s not the best thing.”

Spock’s eyes focused for a moment on a spot just above McCoy’s left shoulder. When he raised his head, he said with the keenest deliberation, “I will not allow him to be court-martialed.”

McCoy hated to say the dreaded thought, but he forced himself.

“Perhaps it’s what he actually needs, Spock. Sometimes a man knows in his heart and conscience what is best for him.”

Spock lifted his chin, steadied his breath, and steeled his dark, hooded eyes. “If I am forced to testify, I will deny the attack.”

McCoy’s mouth dropped open. “You’d commit perjury?”

Spock looked wounded, his face drawn tight. To lie under oath. To lie at all. Impossible. Savagely illogical. The thought made him physically sick. Only another thought could make him feel worse. An intolerable disgrace, a jail cell, a greatness ruined. He steadied his heart and breath.

“Yes.”

“Spock!”

Flabbergasted, McCoy could only repeat the name.

“The captain would be destroyed. Everything that he has worked for gone. I will not allow it. Do you understand, Doctor?” Spock pulled out of the physician’s grasp. “Now leave me be.”

McCoy felt like he had been punched in the stomach, would have gladly traded a beating to have evaded hearing the vile word ‘Yes’. But something unexpected turned the doctor fierce, begging him to be the healer he needed to be, and something else beyond even that—the confidant, the other brother, the friend.

“Spock, what the hell happened on Dunbar’s Planet?”

“You know what happened to him, Doctor.”

“Not to him.” Like a friend in a storm holding out a saving hand to a half-drowned man, McCoy regained his firm grip on Spock’s arm. “To you.”

Spock was loath to answer, but this was about Jim—for Jim—and from the human touch, the Vulcan took what strength he needed to answer. Would the doctor understand, could he? Yet McCoy was also human and they, like he and Jim, were related, not only by professional experience but by ancestral blood. Spock, his dark eyes locked upon the human fingers tightly wrapped around his arm, forced himself to speak.

“I was extremely afraid for the captain, and I wanted to remove him from that place. He was covered in wounds and smeared with blood and filth. I did not know the extent of his injuries. I thought I might fail to rescue him, and if he died, I did not know how I would live with that failure.”

McCoy looked into Spock’s dark eyes and saw that fear again. He squeezed the arm a fraction more, imparting more soothing warmth than pressure, and leaned forward till his lips were near the Vulcan’s ear.

“You didn’t fail,” he offered gently. “Spock, you didn’t fail.”

With that he turned away and ducked back into the corridor.  He could practically hear Spock’s sigh of relief as the door slid closed behind him.

Leonard McCoy lifted his shoulders and sighed, too.  Poor Jim. Poor Spock. Poor me, he thought. Caught in the middle.

As usual.

****

The next afternoon, Doctor Margo Peretti walked into Leonard McCoy’s office and sat on the edge of his desk. He looked up from his own report he was reviewing.

“Captain Kirk’s latest Robbiani stats?” she asked, peering over his shoulder.

He responded by turning the screen toward her.

“Just like Spock said they would be. The numbers are up.”

“I don’t doubt it,” she said in amazement.

He leaned back in his chair. “You’ve had a night to sleep on this.  You still sticking with your first recommendation?”

She nodded. “Yes, I am.”

It was noticeable when he looked away.

“Thank you, Doctor,” he said brusquely, turning the screen back to face him. He looked uncomfortable.  He didn’t ever believe that mere numbers on a graph could accurately reflect exactly what was in a man’s mind.

“Leonard, what’s bothering you?”

He shot her a look that said, It’s obvious, isn’t it?

“I’m very worried about the captain, Margo.” And our relationship he didn’t add.  Maybe now it wasn’t much better than his and Spock’s. “He put up such a good front, good enough to get by me.  Maybe he’s still putting up a good front. Enough to convince us that he’s all right when he’s not.”

“This isn’t an exact science. You know that.”

“But for me, it has to be.”

She was talking about technology: sim sessions, neuro-emulators, psychogenic devices; he was talking about preserving human life—a whole damn boat load.

“You’re forgetting one thing, Margo. This isn’t just about James T. Kirk’s career. It’s about the lives of over four hundred human beings.  What if I reinstate the captain and he’s not ready. He makes a mistake in judgment that he wouldn’t have made before this whole ugly mess. This ship could go up in a blaze the size of Texas. Yes, James Kirk’s career becomes a pathetic footnote in the history books, but all of us are stone-cold dead because the Chief Medical Officer didn’t listen to that little voice in the back of his head that said, ‘Jim Kirk isn’t ready’.”

“I understand your position, Leonard, but understand mine. James Kirk and Spock are my patients. Someone has to look out for their interests. I can’t sanction anything that smacks of punishment—especially a punishment ordered by a guilt-ridden patient just because he has the power to place himself in the brig.”

McCoy raised a sardonic brow.

“You don’t know the half of it.” Before last night, the doctor had not known that Spock was capable of such feelings. “Spock tells me that if there’s a court-martial, he’ll deny the attack.”

“What?” She gasped. For the moment, the first officer’s logic or illogic didn’t matter. Jim Kirk was foremost on her mind. A trial? “You can’t seriously be thinking of allowing a court-martial as therapy.  A trial would be as devastating to his recovery as a memory excision to his career.” Obviously she thought Spock was justified.

McCoy looked disgusted with what he heard himself saying, playing devil’s advocate over an option he found despicable but needing consideration. “Sometimes there’s something therapeutic about punishment.”

“He doesn’t need a puritanical response, no matter how seemingly reasonable. He needs solace and comfort, not punishment.  If you won’t give it to him, maybe you’re no friend—” She bit her tongue. “Besides a psychoanalyst, he needs a friend,” she reiterated. “Perhaps nothing more.”

Leaning forward, she eyed him cautiously, carefully picking her words.

“We’re a long way from Starfleet Command. We’ve gone weeks with routine ship’s assignments. With luck maybe we can go awhile longer.  Reassign him to normal part-time duty. As far as Starfleet is concerned, he’s still recuperating from the events on Dunbar’s Planet. Let’s give him some more time. A court-martial isn’t the answer. It’s time.”

McCoy frowned in bitterness. Jeezus! This was getting out of hand.  He wanted desperately to turn the conversation away from rehab centers, court-martials, conspiracies, half-truths, and out-and-out lies. Couldn’t she see that he might have to sacrifice a career for the shipload of lives? Even Jim would see that. He said nothing, stuck for words and a decision.

When he didn’t answer, she knew exactly what was in his mind. Her interpretation of all this.  The brutal facts of it. His reaction to the facts. Every damn perverse, loyal, and undoubtedly loving thing about all of this.

“You have a right to view the session tapes.” The disk in her hand dropped on his desk.  “I think you should. Mister Spock’s analysis of the captain’s emotional state during the attack and his own reasons for allowing the violent behavior are insightful.” She eyed the older doctor. “Also his comments about you are worth noting.”

McCoy could only imagine. He and the Vulcan were often about one uncivilized inch from coming to blows. As recently as last night, in fact. He sometimes wondered which remark of his would be the final one to push Spock past reason. Probably something about the captain. He sighed. But this wasn’t about Spock.

“We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I’d done my job properly in the first place.”

“You can’t be the perfect diagnostician, Leonard. Nobody can.”

“I’m the captain’s personal physician. It’s my job to comfort and heal him. Instead, my discomfort at how to handle this whole thing has jeopardized him emotionally, not to mention his career.”

“You’re his dear friend.  You know it and he knows it, too.”  She slid from his desk, ready to go.  “You’ll have my official report by 2030 hours tonight.” But she hesitated before leaving and he noticed. There was something else on her mind. Another chink in the armor. She turned back.

“You know them well, and you know that careers in Starfleet tend to separate people either by promotions or reassignments. They're obviously devoted to each other.  Eventually, I wonder if they won’t have to choose an alternate lifestyle if they want to stay together.”

“I think the way we live is already an alternate lifestyle,” McCoy said drolly, fingering the cuff of his pants.

“It might be a real issue someday.  Just make sure you’re there for the two-man heart to hearts.”

McCoy wondered suddenly if the captain had resented having to talk to a stranger, no matter how sympathetic, instead of an old friend.  Had Jim felt abandoned by him? Would the captain ever trust him again with a deeply personal issue? If that’s what Jim and Margo had yesterday—a true heart-to-heart—maybe Margo Peretti was now Jim Kirk’s trusted friend. Not him.

“Leonard, we’re here if they want us.” What else could she say?

“They won’t,” McCoy said, steeped in guilt.

“I don’t know if we’re even capable of offering them much real help.”

McCoy grimaced.

“I wish you hadn’t said that. Kind of makes me want to throw myself out a cargo bay door.” He saw her smile absently at his joke that was too close to the truth.

She took a step towards the exit. “My report. You’ll have it tonight.”

He watched her go and sat alone for a while, slightly jealous that her professional part in this was over, when his was just beginning.           

****

With the dispassionate eye of a clinical psychologist, Leonard McCoy made himself watch the tapes of the sessions between Margo Peretti and the captain and the first officer.  He listened, making notes in his head, forcing himself to pretend that, for the sake of a proper and objective diagnosis, he didn’t know either of the men. Intently he followed Peretti’s tact with Spock, as she drew him out, won his confidence.  Then with the captain, a far more difficult feat. His medical powers of concentration on overdrive kept him from becoming emotionally involved with what he was hearing.  Only twice did he momentarily slip from that stolid purpose: his face reddened to hear first Spock’s and then Jim’s complaints of him, and his eyes stung as he heard the young captain recount the details of his horrific ordeal. By the end of the two hours, McCoy felt he had learned more about both of these men than he had known from several years of working beside them.

And about himself.

****

“Come.”

“Jim.”

James Kirk’s eyes widened to see the chief medical officer. “Bones?”  He sat up in bed.

“Don’t get up.  I came to see how you’re feeling.”

“I’m feeling fine.” He suddenly remembered the other conversation in which he had insisted upon his fineness and lived to regret it later.  “I’m just lying here thinking about things.”

“What things?”

Kirk was getting used to doctors asking him nothing but what he was thinking about. “When it’s quiet, when I’m alone, sometimes I remember Dunbar’s Planet. How it was. Some of the feelings I had. Sensations. You know.”

“Forgotten memories?”

“No, not exactly,” he said, slowly shaking his head.  I’ve always remembered what happened.” He played with the edge of the red blanket. “Just now, don’t get me wrong, Bones, but I was thinking about dying.  I remember once, when things were really bad, having the strongest sensation that I was going to die, but then—even though I was still alive—I was already dead and it was the dead who were really alive, and that when I joined them, I would be alive, too. Odd, huh?”

“Do you still want to die, Jim?”

“You know I don’t.”

“I hope you don’t,” McCoy said softly.

Kirk crossed his legs and motioned for the doctor to sit down. McCoy joined him, sitting at the end of the bunk.

“Want to know something else?” He saw the doctor nod. “I can’t get over how much older I feel. Like my life before all this was just an extension of childhood . . . being captain of a starship, nothing but a child’s game. Kid stuff. I was good at it, wasn’t I, Bones?” He didn’t wait for an answer before sighing.  “Childhood’s over now. I lost my innocence on Dunbar’s Planet. I’m a lot older now. A lot older.”

“You can still be a great starship captain again. There’s no doubt in my mind that you will be.”

Kirk almost smiled.

“What are you going to do about me, Bones? You’ve got a decision to make.”

McCoy looked down at the bed and then back up into his captain’s eyes, at this man, with tousled hair, who looked, for now, like a boy sitting cross-legged at the head of a dorm bed.  He half-expected to glance up and see model starships hanging from the ceiling.

“There isn’t going to be any court-martial, Jim, because what happened between you and Spock is going to remain on this ship. It’s privileged information between doctor and patient. Regarding that matter, there was never any decision to make. Only you thought there was.” And Spock, he wanted to add. “As the CMO, my only decision is medical: that is, the most efficient course of treatment. You’re on medical leave for the time being, no different than the one you’ve been on since Dunbar’s Planet. Finish the psych therapy program, get your Robbiani numbers back up to where they were and . . .  ."  There was one more thing.

Kirk cocked his head, amazed at the doctor’s words, warmed by them. “Bones?”

“Get some sleep. Patch things up with Spock and get some sleep.” McCoy stood up. Okay, two things. “You do that, and I guarantee you’ll feel young again.”

“Bones,” Kirk called out, but the doctor had already left.

James Kirk let out a whoop and threw himself back on the bed. And he began to laugh.  For the first time in weeks, from deep down in his belly, he began to laugh.

****

After laps, James Kirk stood at the track railing overlooking the largest exercise room. Below him on the lower level, a few people practiced solitary, silent disciplines like yoga or tumbling. In one far corner, a lone figure, dressed in black workout clothes, moved with great precision and grace through a series of one-legged standing poses that Kirk found remarkable to watch. He inched around the red railing, reminiscent of the bridge, to get a better look.

Spock moved effortlessly from one pose to the next, each requiring the keenest balance and control. Kirk suspected the series was those from an obscure Vulcan discipline, though he didn’t remember from Spock’s explanation who or what they represented. Kirk held his breath as Spock, lifting his right leg behind him, reached back and took his ankle in his left hand, bent at the waist, and stretched out his right arm in line with his spine. He held this pose for two minutes, then three, before releasing it, and coming out of the pose in the exact, slow-motion order that he had gone into it.

Kirk’s body was strong and he possessed good balance, but he couldn’t imagine holding those difficult poses for such long periods, as though Spock could actually fall asleep with one leg and two arms in mid-air. Uhura saw the captain and came by to stand beside him. Without a word, she, too, watched the first officer for a minute before rolling her eyes in true amazement. She squeezed his arm, then dashed away, beginning her own laps. Kirk smiled. He felt proud of Spock whenever another member of the bridge crew acknowledged his first officer’s superior abilities.

Spock moved effortlessly and with excruciating slowness out of each pose into the next, and Kirk had become accustomed to seeing the Vulcan glide so steadily that he was never quite convinced he was seeing movement at all. That’s why he was surprised when he was sure he saw Spock waiver during the last pose—just an unsteady shiver—and then fight for control. Quickly, Kirk moved down the flight of access stairs. By the time he reached the floor below, Spock was moving toward the exit.

“Spock!" Kirk called out.

The Vulcan hesitated, then resumed walking, assuming the captain would catch up.  He did.

“I’ve been watching you. Very beautiful. Your control is remarkable.”

Spock frowned slightly. “My concentration is not as I would wish it tonight.” He avoided saying the word ‘captain’.

“If you’re not too tired, I’d like to talk to you.”

Spock shot him an unfathomable look. “As you wish, Mister Kirk. Meet me in 20 minutes in my quarters.”

To Kirk, it sounded like a command, but he understood the logic of that tone. Command line discipline was, after all, just that. He was no longer in charge of the ship. Spock was.

Kirk nodded, saying nothing.  He couldn’t call Spock ‘captain’. He couldn’t even say the innocent ‘yes, sir.’ He and Spock entered the turbolift in silence. Kirk didn’t want things to turn awkward so soon.

“The second series of poses, I remember you telling me about them in passing. What are they again?”

“The Kolinahri discipline is one of complete elimination of emotions.”

Kirk felt himself swallow hard. “Are you attempting to do that, Mister Spock?” he asked directly.

“It is a Vulcan cultural ideal. However, ideals and day-to-day reality are often two very different things.”

Kirk remained silent, unable to respond to the ambiguous response.

As the turbo deposited them on deck five, Spock turned toward his quarters. “I will expect you at 2035 hours,” he said pointedly, and then disappeared through the door.

Kirk stood there for a moment, before heading to his own cabin. The sonic shower did not distract him enough from Spock’s distancing tone. With a snap of his wrist, he pushed the hot water button and boosted the temperature till it hurt.  

Chapter Text

“Come.”

When Kirk entered the Vulcan’s quarters, Spock was again in uniform, already seated behind his desk. Kirk had never considered that desk an emotional barrier before . . . until tonight. Ignoring it, he carefully walked around Spock and placed a tentative hand on the Vulcan’s thin shoulder.

“Can we talk?”

“Please, sit down.”

Kirk couldn’t tell if his first officer was happy about that prospect or not. He removed his hand, let his arm drop to his side, and pulled up a chair. “I don’t know where to start.” He took a deep breath. Yes, you do. “I talked to Doctor Peretti yesterday morning.”

“As did I.”

“She said that you called us ‘friends’.  Are we still?”

“I consider you my best friend.”

“I’m very proud to be your friend, Spock.” He felt like he was talking to someone who could walk out of the room at any moment, or more likely, boot him out—and he felt like a hypocrite.  “I’m not sure if you’re proud of me anymore.”

“Jim, can’t we—” Spock closed his eyes. Suddenly, the distancing demeanor was gone.  “I want to forget that you were so hurt that you had to take revenge. I also want you to be able to forget that.”

Kirk balled his fists in his lap.

“I can’t forget. My brain won’t let me, it seems. I should never be allowed to forget.”

Spock raised a brow. “If you were a Vulcan, you would be ‘helped’ to forget.”

Now it was Kirk’s turn to raise two skeptical brows. “Are you thinking of erasing this from your memory?”

“I only meant that it is possible, even encouraged, when memories bring on violent emotional responses.”

“Spock, it’s not the memories of the violence that was done to me. It’s the memories of the violence that I did to you.” He could barely keep going, but he made himself. “There’s something I have to tell you.” He hesitated. “But I don’t know how.”

“You can tell me anything.”

Surprise visited the captain’s eyes. “That’s what Doctor Peretti said about you.”

“Indeed?” For some reason, Spock found contemplating the psychiatrist pleasantly intriguing.  “Doctor Peretti is not telepathic and yet, it seems, she has the ability to know what is in one’s mind.”

“You, too?”

“I am telepathic. Yet without touching you, I do not know what you are about to tell me. However, as she implied, there is nothing to fear.”

“There is everything to fear.” He was so afraid to say it, so afraid to think it. He couldn’t bear to think that Spock would hate him when he heard him say it. “She made me realize something . . . that when I attacked you, there was a part of me that wanted to hurt you.”

Dark brows moved.

“But why would you want to do that?”

“Because I was so angry at you for killing Dost . . . when I wanted to.”

“You do not want to kill anyone.”

“Not now. But then. I was in such pain that I wanted to kill something.”

“However unfortunate, I believe I understand the dynamics.”

“I’m sorry, Spock. If I could take it back somehow . . . .”

He knew that was a pathetic thing to say. He stopped talking, so tired of hearing his own voice, his own stupid remarks. He wanted to forget, but how could he forget something so personal, so terribly tragic.

“I can’t even imagine how I was in that state, how I could have debased you like that.  I don’t remember much, but I know I did it out of a need to hurt someone.”

“You did not hurt me.”

“Of course, I did.”

Spock stood up, walked to the far end of the room and turned.

“I was appalled—” He held up his hand to stop Kirk when he saw the grief-stricken expression come over his face.  “At what had driven you to that state, drunken and terrified. I tried in my pathetic, nonemotional way to help.” He sighed as if barely comprehending. “I only made it worse.”

Closing his eyes, he remembered the scene and continued.

“It was an emotional issue of the deepest, darkest kind, and I trivialized it with my facile dismissal of your outrage, as though I could wipe it away with a mere touch of my hand—like your storybook wizards wave their magic wands. I know I inflamed your fears. I wanted only to calm you, like a human father or brother would do. I wanted you to know that I cared for you. Yet my mental probing could not be interpreted as less than bondage and brute force. Forgive my clumsy attempts at human affection, at human . . . .”

Kirk was shaking his head, shaking all over to hear the brutal honesty in Spock’s words.

“There’s nothing to forgive. I beg your forgiveness.”

“Jim, it is not your fault.” Spock, too, felt frustrated.  “You did not ask to be kidnapped nor could you have prevented it.  You did not ask to be tortured.  And I did not ask to be put into a position of kill or be killed.  None of this is our doing.  What we did was react. What he did was instigate emotional and physical mayhem. I can never forgive him. However, I do forgive you. And myself.”   He remembered the last thing Margo Peretti asked of him. “With everything I am, I forgive you.”

Kirk was sitting in his chair, tears collecting in his eyes. He never thought he would hear those words or ever deserve to hear them. But suddenly he heard them and believed them.

“Thank you, Mister Spock.” He was awash with relief, and the relief gave way to the most fundamental question, what had been haunting him. “Why you, Spock? Why did I hurt the one person that I respect and need” –and love— “more than anyone else.”

“Perhaps you know that I could as you humans say, ‘take it.’”

“You took it.”

“What you fail to understand is that I wanted to take it. Because I can.” Spock came around the desk to touch Kirk’s shoulder.  “Like I can take it now.” He moved his hand to touch his fingers to the bare flesh above the gold collar. He could see Kirk melt into the touch, turn into it. “Let me take it from you.”

Kirk felt deeply ashamed.

“You would do that—after what happened?”

“It is a logical solution of which we should avail ourselves.”

“Why aren’t you afraid of me. I would be.”

“You would not hurt me now.”

“No, not now.”

“Then do not fear this as I do not.  This time . . . our mental contact will be a healing force. There will be no anguish.”

Kirk closed his eyes, so that his tears struggled between a web of lashes but did not fall. He shook his head in tiny moves. “I’m afraid for you . . . .”

But Spock ignored the warning.  When Kirk did not move away, he encouraged softly, “Let me turn the memory into something else, something you can more easily accept.”

James Kirk’s eyes opened and looked at Spock through watery vision, like a drowning man under the sea looks up at the sun. He nodded. “I have to let you,” he said, not wanting to, but he could not go on like this.  “I don’t want to remember, but I never want to forget. Promise that you won’t take it all away.  I can’t be spared that much.  I have to remember what was done to me and to know that I, too, am capable of the same kind of depravity.”

“I promise.”

Now Spock nodded, almost imperceptibly. The long fingers moved slowly settling over the points of the fine face, at temple, nose, and cheek. He steadied his breathing, cleared his mind before focusing like a laser into Kirk’s, whispered “My mind to your mind,” then sent his energy through bone and flesh, repression and denial, to find the horror of the memory and turn it from Kirk’s point of view to his, so that Kirk might see, might know, might let it go, and especially the guilt, might let that go.

Kirk saw the actions of himself out of control, heavy and wild, felt Spock go limp, went into Spock’s mind as he was forced to open it up so that he could endure.  He felt the sting of blows like a child might hit a man, even as they cut his flesh, but they were nothing compared to the knowledge of the symbolism of the act to come and what it would mean, did mean.

When he was finally over, he saw what it did not mean: that Spock’s concerns for him were gone. It did not mean that, not for an instant. It had never meant that he was alone in his despair.  He could barely comprehend that. How could Spock not be outraged, angry, vengeful? But as soon as he asked the question, the question was answered in truth that it was so.  With absolute certainty, he knew it.

How could such trust and loyalty exist? But it did. He knew now that everything Spock had ever said was true.  He could not be hurt that way. Not physically.  With a word, yes, or with a look, because they came from the heart. But not by that night’s mental brutality and physical violence because they came from some other place that was worthless and without love.  And Kirk let go of the guilt, his most horrendous burden, because he knew he could never do it again.  With a profound shudder, he simply let it all . . . go.

And now the edges of the memory were fading, as though what had happened had happened a decade before.  It was no longer the open wound that chafed with each step and breath.  It was going back, shrinking, moving away from him at the speed of light, until it was a small, queer thing sitting on the top shelf of his memory, nearly out of sight, but safely there—where he could barely reach or see it, but where it could still be reached.

As Spock withdrew his hand, Kirk’s eyes were still swimming, but when he blinked, the tears, instead of blinding him, cleared his vision until Spock’s face was in focus and real before him.

And Spock took in a deep, satisfying breath.

Kirk looked away with momentary confusion.  “What are we doing here?  Oh, yes. Now I remember.” His eyes returned to Spock’s. “You all right?” He saw Spock nearly smile. “Me, too.”

Suddenly, he felt surprisingly good. Clear-headed and relaxed. The air in the room smelled sweet and clean. He unclenched his fists and his arm and shoulder muscles felt loose for the first time in weeks.  He took a deep breath and the tension headache that had plagued him all day lessened and eased away. The ache in his joints grew distant, his racing heartbeat settled into its usual steady rhythm, his breathing quieted and lengthened. 

“May I have a glass of water?”

Spock brought him one.  It tasted like well water from his uncle’s farm when he was a boy.  He’d never thought that before.  When his glass was empty, he held it up and looked at it, amazed.

“Thank you,” he said softly, feeling wonderful, light on his feet, like a kid again. “That tasted wonderful.”

“You’re welcome,” came a gentle response.

Both of them knew they were talking about more than just a glass of water. Kirk sat back into the chair as he studied how good he felt, how light and clean.  For the first time in a long time, his head felt perfectly clear.  As if a fog had been burned away, as if a shadow had lifted, a revelation surfaced in his mind.  Why hadn’t he thought of this before? He knew it for a fact, yet the fact of it had laid dormant as a grave.

“You . . . Spock, you were on Dunbar’s Planet.”

Spock wondered at this sudden, obvious statement, but he did not question it aloud. Jim would make the connection, would make it relevant and clear to him.

“Yes,” he acknowledged simply.

Jim’s face softened as though he were about to smile, but his lips parted only slightly as he recalled their hours waiting for the Enterprise, waiting in that safe place Spock had created for them both.

“You were so kind to me, and I never thanked you for your kindness.”

Spock had little choice but to rely on the old responses. “You do not need to thank me.”

“Why not? Why wouldn’t I?” Jim marveled suddenly.  “I’ve barely remembered it till now. My obsession with Dost shut you out. Even your light couldn’t penetrate that darkness. If only I had let you in, Spock, recognized your kindness . . . as the light. How different things might have been . . . how very different.”

Spock watched the hunger appear on Kirk’s face, the desire for understanding and communication, and he nearly became lost in that look. He tore his eyes away. And his mind.

“Captain, it is illogical to speak of that which might have been,” the Vulcan said. “It is, however, very human.”

. . . and beguiling.

This particular human, sophisticated and worldly wise, could sometimes be naïve and charming as a child.  If Sarek’s people looked life in the eye, defeating it with the mind, Amanda’s race could only stare it down, beating it on a dare. And this human was particularly adept at that, at rarely showing fear, daring life to cut him down or daring it to even try.  If only Sarek’s son could possess that knack, if only . . . .  Spock put a stop to his thoughts. Most illogical to desire that which was not within his nature or his nature’s need. Yet could he not acquire the skill from James Kirk? The skill perhaps, but not the temperament.  If Kirk could dare the fates and win, Spock knew that he himself could only toil at success, sometimes winning with focused work and hard control.

Spock crossed his arms.

“Captain, in the gym, you were watching me tonight.”

“The gym? Tonight? Oh, yes, that’s right.”  Kirk remembered the lovely and difficult poses, how exotic they were. How mesmerizing. “I watched you for a while, but did I see you waiver on the last two positions?”

“I was unusually unsteady.”

“Did I cause that?”

Spock unfolded his arms and leaned forward in his chair.  “I have been taught that perfection is attainable and I was determined to do the routine perfectly. Perhaps my striving for perfection was my undoing.”

Kirk smiled wistfully.

“Maybe near-perfection, but nobody’s perfect, Mister Spock.”

“I wanted to be perfect for you.”

“You are.”

“Nearly perfect, Jim.”

“Even the rose has thorns, Mister Spock.”

Jim Kirk heard his own words and understood the concept, but the thought did not bother him, did not make him sad.  Sometimes, it seemed, perfection required the juxtaposition or imperfection to make the perfect quality real. Yes, he was imperfect, but he had survived and been forgiven, and there was a quality of excellence in that.

“Even the rose,” he repeated, like the softest echo, to the deep, trusting brown eyes.

****

For thirty minutes, he sat, in full uniform, across from Jacqueline Munson, eyes closed, as she took each hand, one at a time, and applied a slight pressure to wrists, palms, and fingers, lifting away the tension and fatigue with the slightest smooth touch, a mere movement of her thumb and fingertips on his skin. Then she moved behind him and laid her hands on his shoulders: first without weight or pressure, then weight without pressure, then pressure without force till the heat from her hands loosened his muscles and he found himself drifting away, half-asleep in his seat.  She imparted a calmness through her hands directly to his muscles that saturated his entire body like a dry, brittle sponge absorbs warm, scented water.

He had left the first session wondering how he could have ever felt so apprehensive.  She had been gentle and solicitous, not pushing him, so that after thirty minutes, he felt a pang of regret when she lifted her hands from his shoulders and silently moved away. From now on, there was a second name he could think of to feel safe.

There were six such sessions encompassing more areas of his body, each beginning as a quarrel between nothingness and nausea, between euphoria and fear.  But he had always won the battles—with her help. And the battles were becoming shorter. Then nonexistent.

After each session, she would send him away with a collection of music disks—each less melodic than the last, which he faithfully listened to while he read, or with sets or subliminal tapes that whirled in his head while he slept—he wasn’t quite sure of their actual content, except that he slept like a baby on the nights that he used them and had anxiety dreams about losing his luggage, stark naked, in a freezing cold spaceport on the nights when he didn’t.

And after each session, he felt noticeably better, more confident, relaxed and—to his greatest pleasure—normal. He was beginning to feel a homogeneity to his personality, a coalescing of the pieces that Dost had fragmented in that dingy hole with heartless hands.  He began to find his emotional balance again.  The brink-of-tears impulse had left him and he had lost the urge to blurt self-hurtful, angry words that were only manifestations of an emotional top-heaviness.  He could actually take a deep breath, hold it, and release it with control, and not have the guilt and remorse rush back inside like a vacuum sucks in outside dust and debris. It felt so good to be himself again.

Thank you, Nurse Munson.

Thank you, Mister Spock.

He never once thought to thank himself.

Chapter Text

McCoy stood outside Jim Kirk’s quarters.  Nobody home—obviously. Why wasn’t he surprised? Just then, Spock was leaving his own quarters, and the doctor held out his hand to stop him.

“Spock, Jim’s missing.”

“Hardly, Doctor. The captain is in engineering. Deck 19.”

"A shuttle bay? What’s he doing there?”

“He is involved in what, I believe, humans label ‘tinkering’.”

“With a shuttlecraft?” McCoy muttered. “He’d better not be entertaining thoughts of going anywhere.” When the Vulcan remained silent, the doctor grew suspicious. “All right, spit it out. What’s he up to when he’s supposed to be in therapy and resting.”

“The captain has invented something he calls a ‘textbook science project’. He has installed a transporter in the shuttlecraft Marie Curie.”  Spock lifted his eyes and nodded, a salute to Jim’s ingenuity.  “He considers it both a vast design improvement and his own brand of therapy.”

Yeah, good idea, McCoy wanted to say, but didn’t. Okay, if Jim needed a distraction, he would allow it.  The doctor shrugged. 

“Well, at least, Scotty can keep things under control down there.” When Spock said nothing again, McCoy got nervous. “Montgomery Scott is still in charge of Engineering, isn’t he?”

“At the moment, Mister Scott is performing routine engine quality control testing. Though the captain is currently relieved of duty, his previous service scheduling orders remain in place.”

“You mean,” McCoy blurted, “that Jim is installing a transporter in an operational shuttle all alone, by himself, without Scotty?”

Spock paused at McCoy’s comment.

“Your flair for the redundant remains unsurpassed, Doctor. As you know, the captain is quite capable of performing general engineering on all critical starship components, including transporter facilities.”      

“Yeah, well, everyone knows he’s a whiz kid,” McCoy muttered, having forgotten, “but he usually doesn’t have the patience for it.  That’s what Scottys are for.”

“He usually does not have the time for it,” Spock returned.

McCoy rubbed his hands together nervously. “Look, hobbies are fine, as long as it’s starbase engineers who test critical components like transporter functions.”

“It has already been tested.”

McCoy’s jaw dropped because he knew what that meant, and they were nowhere near a starbase.  “Tell me you don’t mean with a living person.”

All right, the doctor wouldn’t panic feeling a bit panicky.

“You?”

But, thank the stars, Spock looked safe and in one piece.

“I am in charge of diagnostic and final calibration. Primary and redundant systems have run at zero fault code returns. Simulations and all virtual testing have proven faultless, also. I would not risk a human being unnecessarily.”

McCoy couldn’t believe his ears, but he could feel his fists ball up with tension.

“You put James T. Kirk through a home-made, jury-rigged damn improvised transporter! That’s an illegal and unsanctioned procedure! It’s criminal and imbecilic under any circumstances!”

“Jim insisted.”

McCoy’s voice dripped uneasy sarcasm. “And you allowed it.”

“He is the captain.”

“You’re the captain!”

“Doctor McCoy, I find it fascinating that you still fail to comprehend the dynamics of Jim’s psychological situation.” Spock’s voice dropped lower, turning intimate and knowing.  “It is about control. Control over one’s life, one’s own body. He has installed a machine—”

“That could kill him!”

“That re-creates him.” Spock frowned at McCoy’s accurate yet wrong interpretation. “He had to test it himself.”

“And you let him jeopardize his very life! You don’t have the right.”

“I do. As you have just pointed out . . . .” Spock set out his lower lip and his voice held some disdain. “I am the captain.”

Chief Medical Officer McCoy moved closer, lowering his own voice.  Obviously no one was dead, and the pursuit of that issue would only make him appear illogical in Spock’s eyes. He changed his tact.

“That was a damn dangerous stunt, Spock.”

“It was a necessary step towards Jim’s recovery.”

“A first-year medical student could see the pattern. Whatever he wants, you just let him do it.”

“No, Doctor,” Spock answered.  He sighed at the deepest truth of which he was about to speak.  “Whatever he needs.”

****

Flat on his back under a shuttle with a sonic torque wrench clenched in his hands, James Kirk could see two black boots—nothing more—standing inches from his face. How did he know it was the ship’s chief surgeon? He just knew, that’s all. With a groan, he rolled out from under the anti-grav jacks. Maybe he could kick them free to avoid facing the disgruntled physician once and for all. He reached up and pulled himself to his feet. Damn. Caught in the act. Like a bad, bad, kid.

“Jim.”

A pleasant surprise. The voice spun a familiar southern comfort around his name.

“Greetings, Bones.”  He dusted off his bright orange engineering coveralls. “Guess you caught me red-handed.” He put down the wrench and looked at it longingly.  “I swear I was just on my way back to my cell.”

McCoy cleared his throat, repressing a smile.

“Spock filled me in on your clever innovation.  If you just wouldn’t waste your time on command, you could probably reinvent this entire ship piece by piece.”

Kirk looked pleasantly chagrined.

“You know what they say about ‘idle hands’.”

McCoy tried to maintain the lightness. “Did it work?”  He deliberately left the question ambiguous, letting Jim run with it.

Kirk drew his sleeve across his face, wiping off a film of sweat, and started to move through the area, away from the shuttle.  Now that McCoy had interrupted his concentration, a much-needed shower was beginning to sound pretty good.

“Didn’t Spock tell you?  He shot me right out into the cold, cold cosmos and then brought me back safe and sound into the warm bosom of Madam Curie over there.”

Beaming, he winked at the doctor in joyful pride. “Without so much as a scratch!”

It felt good to McCoy to walk beside Jim Kirk again, and he could hear new confidence in the younger man’s voice. “So how do you feel?” he probed.

They approached a waiting turbolift and stepped inside.  Kirk shot the doctor a quick, sideways glance. “Like a new man.”

McCoy nodded.

“I liked the old one well enough.”

Kirk ordered the lift to deck five.  “Well, I didn’t.  And you didn’t either.”

McCoy knew he deserved that.  So Kirk was feeling introspective as well as confident.  That was a good thing.

“I came to let you know that things are going well.  The Robbiani and Steinman diagnostics show coordinated and normal readings. I’m impressed.”

“That’s good to hear, Bones,” Kirk said softly as the lift moved upward. The hint of bravado faded as he recalled that he had been restricted to quarters during certain hours and was already overdue.

McCoy relaxed. “I’ve already notified Starfleet Command and the Surgeon General that I’m certifying you fit for command.  You can go back to work in a couple of days.”

Kirk looked startled, then pleased. “Thank you, Bones.”

“Listen, Jim . . . .” McCoy’s demeanor changed and he stared at the lift controls.

“Halt turbo,” he muttered.  They hung suspended between decks.  “Jim,” the doctor began again awkwardly, “I’ve been carrying some really bad feelings around for a while.”

There was no hesitation.  “About me.”

“No,” McCoy raised a brow. “About myself.  I haven’t been a very good friend.  Not even a good doctor.  I misdiagnosed your emotional condition after Spock brought you back home. I was angry when you didn’t confide in me after Dunbar’s Planet. And I know that you sensed—after what happened between you and Spock—that I wouldn’t listen, that I had already judged you. I had. And I’m sorry. I wouldn’t blame you if you sued me for malpractice.”

It was true: McCoy had lain awake nights thinking about it. Imagining Jim performing that assault. Horrified at the violence and knowing that it was the brute force of a symbolic, vengeful act. Given Jim’s mental state—traumatized from the original ordeal, busted, sleep deprived, dead drunk—how could it not have turned violent? Yet he was a physician with a surgeon’s need to cut away the cancerous tissue, cauterize the wound, vaporize the putrid flesh.  But this hadn’t been flesh, it was an obscene and vicious act.  One long over. There was nothing to remove.

Kirk’s smile held more than a hint of reconciliation, and he understood whose responsibilities were whose.

“You’re a good doctor, Bones.  Don’t ever think that you’re not.  It’s your job to judge me.  I’m the man who makes the choices and they’d better be the right ones.  I never blamed you for giving my case away. You turned me over to the best people on your staff. You’ve got excellent people working for you. I just wish that it could have been easier . . . on all of us.”

“Jim, there’s not a man or woman on this ship who wouldn’t do anything for you.  Not just from duty. For you.” He saw Kirk drop his eyes. “I only wish I could have done more.”

Kirk reached over and squeezed the doctor’s shoulder, and when he gave the order for the turbo to continue, they felt the push in the pits of their stomachs.  “Forget it, Bones.” The door opened and the captain stepped out.

McCoy watched Jim moving into the corridor for a moment. ‘Forget it’ seemed to be the watched word of the day. He stuck his head past the door.

Kirk paused, looking back.  “I know I’m supposed to stay in my quarters, but I’d like a reprieve to visit the botany labs.”

Like you would stay anywhere I told you to, Captain.

“What’s in Botany?”

“Roses,” Kirk called over his shoulders.

“You got a date with Jackie Munson?”

“If I’m lucky.”

“You are, son. You are.”

Luckiest sonovabitch on the face of any planet. Lucky to have survived. And this entire ship is lucky to have you back.

McCoy felt like he was looking at a hero—maybe Jim would only call himself a space-going Humpty Dumpty, and McCoy knew that he had been one badly cracked egg, broken into a million pieces, who—piece by piece—put himself together again.

Still watching the captain, McCoy paused, sensing a lingering sadness in Kirk that he hadn’t wanted to see.  Maybe as a physician he was being premature.  Maybe this miraculous fusion hadn’t really happened yet.  Maybe it would take more than just time.

When the turbo arrived on deck seven, McCoy entered sickbay, wondering if there wasn’t a final chapter of this book yet to come.

He spent the rest of the day wondering.

****

That afternoon, two days after his sixth and final physical therapy session was over, James Kirk found himself standing before a deck fifteen cabin door, holding a long-stemmed white rose—cajoled from the botany lab—as a token of his successful travail through the dark shadows of the most fearful episode of his life.  He felt like a schoolboy on his first date, a little giddy, only he wasn’t a schoolboy, and he hoped that the captain of the Enterprise asking for a date wouldn’t put Jacqueline Munson on edge or, worse yet, on the spot if she sincerely wanted to back out.

He listened for the “Come,” popped inside, and as expected found her more than startled to see Captain Kirk—of all the people on the ship!—standing before her with a sweet, almost shy, smile on his face.  Boyishly petite with dark, feathered hair, Munson was on her way to a workout Kirk judged from the blue leotards she had on.

He finally held out the rose. “For you,” he said. “With my appreciation.”

She took it, thanked him, but still didn’t quite know what he wanted.  To thank her for doing her job? Did he bring his barber and security guards roses, too?

When he asked her to dinner, she thought about saying no, that it hadn’t been long enough after his therapy, that it could lead to complications, to choices he probably wasn’t ready to make, but realized, like she knew he realized, that he was technically off her clinical roster and wouldn’t be returning. Her assignment aboard the Enterprise was ending and she had been reassigned to the Yorktown for several months. She would be leaving the Enterprise in a few days and would no longer be under his command. There was no good reason why she couldn’t see him outside of work.  Maybe to decline was the dumbest decision she could possibly make. She just hoped that he wasn’t unconsciously trying to get her to make his choices for him.

“I have to ask, Captain Kirk—”

“Jim,” he corrected, his eyes smiling in that impish way that people on the ship loved to see.

“Jim, I can’t help but wonder . . . well, if you aren’t setting up a date with me as some kind of test for yourself.”

He didn’t dismiss her astute comment out of hand.

“That’s a fair question. I’m not sure that it isn’t, but I am sure that I like you. I want to get to know you better.  McCoy tells me that we have a lot in common.”

She grinned at the mention of the CMO’s name. Ah, of course, Doctor McMatchmaker. So, Leonard McCoy thinks this is a good idea, eh? She shrugged in acquiescence.

“If you can promise that the replicators can conjure up something butterscotch for dessert, I’d love to have dinner with you.”

“And if they can’t,” he said with mock sincerity, “I’ll have Chief Engineer Scott reprogram the entire system.” He saw her toss back her head and laugh. A good sign. “I’ll come by at 2030 hours then.”

She nodded, lifting the rose to her nose. It had only a hint of fragrance—a disappointment—but it was delicate and beautiful, silvery white with a touch of lilac like the stars. She smiled at its beauty before looking back at him again.

He hesitated, before taking her shoulders in his hands, then her face. He liked her short brown hair and smiling eyes. He kissed her gently.

They pulled away from the kiss, and for a split second—it passed like thunder—a shadowy look that spoke both of anxiety and hunger crossed his hazel eyes. The look reminded her suddenly of the Kentucky boy that Lincoln spoke about who stubbed his toe while running to see his sweetheart: too big to cry but far too badly hurt to laugh.

“Was it that terrible?” she teased, her hands on her hips.

He wondered what stupid expression had overtaken his features to have elicited that exaggerated response from her. Then he laughed, too. Even as a kid, he had been told that his face telegraphed every thought in his head, and that’s why he had developed a quick and dirty knack for bluffing at poker.

“Sorry,” he half-apologized. “Actually, it wasn’t that bad.” Now he was the one who was teasing.

“They say it’s like riding a bike, Jim.” A very old expression. “You never forget.”

He was really laughing now. It was a real laugh, not tight, not rigid, but free and happy, and very infectious.

Oh absolutely, she would enjoy this evening with him. To hear the captain laugh after so many weeks of silence was a reward she wished could be shared with everyone on the ship. She was pleased, so pleased, he was sharing it with her.

****

After dinner and a shared butterscotch sundae, after a leisurely stroll in the arboretum by ‘moonlight’, after a night cap in the officers’ lounge and a selection of her great-great-great grandpappy’s tales of Lincoln and Lee, James Kirk walked Jackie Munson back to her cabin.

They stood just inside the door in each other’s arms swaying to the soft orchestral music she had left playing in the background. She rubbed the top of his shoulder with one hand, and he closed his eyes.  Even after their relaxing evening, she could still feel tension gathered near the base of his neck.

She whispered in his ear, “You know who’s got the greatest hands on the ship?”

“Yes,” he sighed deeply. “You do.”

She laughed. “No, not me. Mister Spock.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Really, it’s true. Get him to give you a massage some time.”

“All right.” He laid his cheek against hers.

“No, really.”

“All right, neck rubs on the bridge are standard procedure from now on.”

“Jim, I’m serious.”

Now he pulled back enough to look in her face. “Jackie, Mister Spock has more important duties to perform.”

“I think not,” she chided. “What can be more important than the captain’s well-being?”

“Believe me, Jackie, Spock has done more for my well-being than anyone on this ship. Present company excepted.”

She smiled enigmatically. He wants to do something for you, she thought to herself. He’s practically desperate to do something for you. Why won’t you let him?

“Jim, Mister Spock says that he wants to understand more about how human physiology is affected by certain pressure techniques. And does he have a technique! Of course, I immediately volunteered to be the guinea pig.” She kissed his warm, smooth cheek.  “You have to do it. As you see, I’ve already put my body on the line for you.”

“Was it worth it?” he asked, pulling her a little closer.”

“Words fail me. You just have to experience it.” If she wanted to seduce him, she knew she could almost do it now. She cautioned herself to go slower with him. To stop. He was more fragile than he realized, and she was a little mad at herself for her lack of control. But he was so easy to talk to, to flirt with, certainly to desire. He obviously liked their easy banter, the innuendo that was often the best part of foreplay. And so did she.

“I’ll bet you could . . . recreate the experience,” he teased, still playing along.

Yes, of course, I could, she thought. She smiled neutrally at him. Are you seriously thinking about this, Jim? Do you really want it? Are you ready? She knew he wasn’t, but she waited patiently for him to figure it out. He was a sensual guy, he knew the ropes, the timing, the worth of going slow.  But she could also see the hesitation, the smallest hint of anxiety. He would figure it out soon. What was best for him. He was right on the edge of figuring it out.

He had been smiling to himself, and she saw the smile fade, his face taking on a wistful quality. In a few seconds, he stopped dancing with her. As if he had decided, he took her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly. When he drew back, she couldn’t read him exactly. Even with the kiss, his body language was neutral, unassuming. But she was in his arms; he had not let her go. He seemed to be . . . waiting.

She saw his hazel eyes shoot a quick glance over her shoulder to the sleeping area and then return to her face. She wanted him, but she tried, for his sake, not to show it too much. For a split second, she thought she would see a grin, get another quick kiss, and feel him pull her towards the bed.

Instead, he let her go.

His eyes moved away, and he leaned back from her slightly. When he opened his mouth to speak, nothing came out. He looked as though a thousand different apologies were crossing his mind. He had not been waiting; he had already decided.

She spoke to cut the awkward moment.

“I was enjoying the dancing. Let’s not stop.”

“I think I should quit while I’m ahead,” he finally said. He recognized her kindness and knew they weren’t talking about dancing. “I’m afraid I’d disappoint you.  Better here, than—” He glanced at the bed. “Well, you know.”

It had been a brave thing to do, and she gathered him in her arms, hugging him to herself in a brief moment of sisterly affection.

“I’ve enjoyed the evening,” she whispered, “really enjoyed it.  Whatever you need, Jim, I can wait.”

His eyes stayed down.         

“I just don’t know if—” He didn’t know what he should say her, didn’t know what his body would feel in bed, because he didn’t know that much about that side of himself anymore. It was a bad feeling to not be sure of the one thing he had always been sure of.

“If you can forgive me, I’d like to see you again before you leave.” There was something else he wanted her to know.  “You weren’t a test, Jackie.”

“And you didn’t fail it,” she said. She ignored the part about forgiving him. It was ridiculous. “I would love to see you once more, Jim. Let me know.” She sighed. “Goodnight.”

He nodded, kissed her again on the cheek, then turned and walked out of the room.

Jackie Munson stood there a long time, rubbing her lips with one finger where he’d kissed her, her nose filled with the clean, soapy scent of him, wondering if he would ever return. He had left her aching a little, and she thought that perhaps the final look on his face also spoke of a little ache, a small regret. She wondered if she should be worried about him. Should she mention this to McCoy? But this was personal between them. Nothing pathological. He did show the good sense to go slow, for his own sake, and that was a sign that he was determined to heal himself.

He had made the right decision, and best of all, not expected her to make it for him. She wondered what she would have done had he led her to the bed. Talked him out of it? Or pushed full steam ahead, like she wanted to. Maybe tried to stall him, killing the mood with her tactics and blather. Oh, he was a wise captain, hadn’t put her on the spot. Or more importantly, himself. Or maybe she was a fool, and everything would have gone as smooth as Vegan silk. She knew he liked her. She paused once more to think about him before heading off to a good night’s sleep.

I hope he’s all right, she thought. He deserves to be.

  ****  

At 0815 the next morning, Captain James T. Kirk stepped from the turbolift onto the bridge for his first full day of command.  Everyone’s eyes, even Spock’s who sat quietly in the center seat, turned in his direction.

Spontaneously, everyone stood up.  Uhura rushed to him, took his arm, and—protocol be hanged—kissed him on the cheek. Sulu and Chekov leaped up to shake his hand. Ensign Buehler, Lieutenant Raj-Char and several others did the same. A little stunned, he moved through them and stood beside the occupied center seat.

“You are fifteen point seven minutes early, Captain,” Spock said.

“Maybe a little eager, you mean,” Kirk said, grinning.   

When Spock relinquished the chair, Kirk backed up to it, looked around, then settled into it, its contours pressing on his legs and back like the Enterprise herself was hugging him. He swiveled from left to right till he had made eye contact with each of them.  Everyone returned a grin. Then, he faced the front screen again, shifted his weight, and leaned over in the first officer’s direction. He could still feel the Vulcan’s body heat through the leather.

“Thanks for keeping her warm for me, Mister Spock.”

“My pleasure, Captain.” His brown eyes offered Kirk the closest look to a smile. Then Spock relieved Lieutenant Buehler at the science station.

“All right, everyone,” Kirk said to the group. “Thanks for the welcome, but it’s back to work. Sorry if I seem a little rusty for a day or two. Hope you’ll be tolerant.”

Still grinning, the entire bridge crew turned back to their stations, winking and whispering to each other about how healthy the captain looked, how like himself again. A couple of people glanced at Spock to see his reaction, which was only to hunker down over his science scanner as if it were the most fascinating piece of equipment on the ship. Still, they knew he had been pleased to see the captain come out of the turbolift. If anything, the Vulcan’s misery at being forced into the role of acting captain had been in evidence for weeks. After another minute of self-indulgence, the crew finally settled down into the familiar routine.

As James Kirk did, too.

****

Charting star anomalies, analyzing nearby gaseous cloud phenomena, delivering ore samples from one starbase to another were all part of future welcome assignments. In those seven days, James Kirk could feel a difference in himself, a resumed confidence, an easier reacquaintance with the pace and duties of his job, a subtle self-knowledge that he would be all right. He was home again, and Dunbar’s Planet went spinning away from him, just another ordinary hunk of rock, into the distant past.

I guess I’ll live, he laughed to himself after a few days.  It felt good to laugh at himself. From Starfleet Command, he requested shore leave at the nearest appropriate planet for the finest crew in the Fleet, and for the first time in weeks, thought of taking some himself. Waiting for authorization, he returned to the carefree refuge of the blessed routine.

The blessed routine lasted only one week.

Chapter Text

PART II

        The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances:

                        if there is any reaction, both are transformed.

                                                                                   Carl Gustav Jung

                                                                                    Old Earth date

                                                                                    1875 – 1961

Captain Kirk took the message from Sector 9 Fleet Admiral Dawson Spencer in his quarters.

“Jim, I regret to inform you that the request for shore leave for your crew is temporarily denied. I’m afraid another assignment has come up. I’ve forwarded the particulars to your chief medical officer. Doctor McCoy will share them with you.”

“Share them with me?”

“We thought it in your best interest if McCoy were involved first. Don’t take it the wrong way. It’s for your own protection.”

Admiral Spencer, distinguished and avuncular, raised his silver goateed chin.

“Please, Captain Kirk. Doctor McCoy can apprise you of the details.” He sighed. He didn’t like going behind any starship commander’s back. “You’re a valuable member of my organization, Jim. I want you to know that I’ve always believed in you. I hope to see you in person soon, my boy. Spencer out.”

The admiral's face was replaced by the white Fleet insignia on a blue background, and Captain James Kirk tucked in his chin, a bit confused. Having expected to have heard something very different about new orders, he didn’t know how he felt.   

Except that he knew he didn’t feel good.

****

After sending the chief surgeon a cursory message, the captain entered sickbay, and McCoy escorted him into his private office. Kirk didn’t like how this was setting up. Immediately, he could see a serious expression on the doctor’s face.

“Yes, Captain?”

“I just got off the receiving end of a very paternalistic conversation with Admiral Spencer.  He was sympathetic and handled me with a great deal of sensitivity. He says I’m to receive my next assignment from you.  Well, Doctor? What’s this little change in protocol all about?”

At McCoy’s silence, Kirk wondered if he’d better drop the flippancy. He reiterated, “What’s wrong, Bones?”

“Sit down, Jim.”  McCoy sat down on the edge of his desk. “I have some news that may be distressing.”

Kirk did as he was told, a hundred medical emergencies racing through his head. “If something’s wrong with a crewmember, Bones, just tell me.” In the back of his mind, he knew that this was all about him, and he was surprised to see McCoy shake his head.

“I received a priority one Starfleet override message via the medical carrier frequency about an hour ago. They directed it to me because of your recent medical situation, but it’s really intended for you. The Surgeon General and Admiral Spencer wanted to make sure I was here . . . that you weren’t alone when you receive the news.”

“Someone’s dead.”

My mother . . . Peter . . . Shit, who?

“Jim, someone you think is dead may not be.” As McCoy expected, Jim Kirk frowned. He knew the captain wouldn’t like being kept in the dark, but McCoy hated to even repeat the name. “Dost,” he said finally. “The man who assaulted you.”

“That’s impossible. I saw Spock kill him.”

“Starfleet has received a request for assistance from the national police on Dunbar’s Planet. They say that Dokarto al Dost has reappeared on the slave trade scene. There were your reports of his death, of course, but the police never recovered a body. Turns out Dost was not just a slave connoisseur, but a major broker between the Orions and the slave-buying underground for the entire Vilroy system. There was a sting and they managed to arrest this man. They’ve also uncovered what they’re calling a second plot to kidnap you. The police have petitioned Starfleet to send you back to identify him.”  McCoy leaned closer to the silent man seated before him studying him. “No one can make you go if you don’t want to.”

“It’s a mistake. They’ve got the wrong man.”

“All right, I’ll let them know you’re declining.”

Kirk held up his hand. “I didn’t say I wasn’t going.”

“Jim, think about this.  You’re finally feeling better about what happened. You’ve worked hard. This will dredge it up again.”

Fearful for a man who was his friend as well as his patient, McCoy could only attempt to warn Kirk but because this man was also captain of a Federation starship, he couldn’t necessarily dissuade him. Duty, no matter how unsavory, was still duty—even to another authority than Starfleet.  If stopping a slave trader was everyone’s duty, preparing a patient for the psychological worst was his.

“Tell them that Spock and I will come to identify the man, Bones. Come with us if you’re worried about me.”

“Jim,” McCoy said slowly, as though to distance himself with this further news, “Spock has already visually identified the man they’re holding . . . as the man he killed.”

"Dammit, Bones!” Kirk cursed. He lowered his voice from dismay. “That’s impossible. Spock killed the man who assaulted me, who was assaulting me.  No one could have survived that.” Even he, half-conscious and drugged, heard the tell-tale sound of breaking bones, the twisting of a neck, the wrenching of a spinal column. He remembered the look on Dost’s face: incomprehensible pain and the shocked, sure knowledge that he was now a dead man. Of this, Kirk was certain.

McCoy tried to agree. “They can’t have the same man. Let’s just tell them that.”

“Unless there . . . .” Kirk had been thinking, remembering a recent memo. Something about black market clones, an illegal development method created in this sector. Science gone mad. “Two of them.”

“What?”

“Unless, there are two Dosts.” Kirk leaned across the desk and turned to the computer console; he pushed a button. “Kirk to first officer.”

“Spock here.”

“Mister Spock, report to sickbay.”

“Aye sir,” came the low deep voice.

Kirk released the button and knew that his order was as good as done. A minute later, First officer Spock entered McCoy’s office. Kirk was waiting.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I asked him not to,” McCoy piped up.

“Great,” Kirk muttered. “What am I, some kind of helpless child that you both have to protect me? I don’t appreciate it.”

“If my identification of the arrested man was negative, the doctor felt that we could spare you the knowledge of the entire incident,” Spock answered. “However, that did not prove to be the case.”

Kirk looked directly into Spock’s eyes.

“Did you kill Dost or didn’t you?”

Spock placed his hands behind his back and gave his superior officer a direct answer. “I killed the man who was assaulting you. I felt him die.”

Kirk chewed at his lower lip.

“Then maybe the man they have is the ‘original’ Dost, that’s all. We got our names wrong.”

“Captain, the holoscan I identified ‘appeared’ to be the same man I remember.”

“A coincidence. It was a stressful time.  Maybe your memory—” He was grasping at straws. Of course, Spock’s memory would be perfect. Kirk looked away.

Now McCoy and Spock were trading uneasy looks.

“Jim, there’s more,” the doctor finally confessed. “Old prison records—hair and retinal scans—confirm that the man they’re holding is Dost, yet DNA and atomic analysis confirm that the man they’re holding is also the same man who assaulted you.”

Great technology, Kirk thought, but you still need two samples for comparison. Spock certainly hadn’t had time to take samples from the dead man; he’d only had time to sweep up a limp bundle of quivering flesh and get the hell out of that place. “Where did you get DNA samples of the man who attacked me?”

“From you, Jim,” Spock answered.

“I instructed Mister Spock to take scrapings from your skin and nails and samples of the dried blood that was on you,” McCoy said. “He also performed a complete body tricorder scan to record any aberrant DNA patterns. There was one. Certified tricorder readings are admissible in Federation court as virtually identical to actual physical samples.”

Kirk was slumped in his chair, his palms pressed into his temples. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  Dost alive! Not the demon of his dreams, but alive! Damn the ironic, indifferent universe, that it would play such a spirit-killing trick on him! If Dost wasn’t dead, then the rage he’d felt about Spock had all been misplaced. For the life of him, he didn’t know if he still felt like murder or like breaking out in an uncontrollable belly laugh. He raised his head and lowered his hands.

“I have to go.”

“I shall accompany you.”

“No, you won’t. I’m going alone.”

“I, too, am curious.”

Kirk’s eyes flashed. “This isn’t a matter of curiosity. This is a matter of—”

He didn’t know how to finish that sentence. Part of him wanted to say ‘sanity,’ then settled on something less reactionary, “Justice.” And peace of mind. For the rest of my life.

“I’ll go with you, Jim,” McCoy insisted. “If luring you back to Dunbar’s Planet is part of Dost’s plan, then you’re playing right into it.”

“I said, No.” It was a command decision. “Kirk to navigator.”

“Chekov here, Keptin.”

“Plot a return course to the Vilroy system, Dunbar’s Planet. Warp factor four.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Neither Spock nor the doctor continued to argue.

****

Upon reaching the Vilroy solar system, the Enterprise dropped from warp space and downshifted to impulse power.  In an hour, she was orbiting the sixth planet again, as she had been three months before.  Kirk beamed down alone to a maximum-security compound in Shwa City, only ten miles from Holetown by ground vehicle.

When he stepped off the transporter pad, a brown-uniformed man, middle-aged and balding, moved forward to greet him.

“Captain Kirk, I’m Police Commissioner Ohmly Cashion. Appreciate you coming.”

“I hope you plan to fill me in, Commission.” Kirk’s manner was curt. He couldn’t help but notice how dingy the facilities were, how rundown. This whole planet, what he had seen and experienced, was pathetic. The Vilroy system was still reticent about joining the Federation, though it made no sense given the over-all poverty of this dilapidated city, if you could even call it that.

There had been no handshakes and there weren’t going to be. “Come with me then,” Cashion ordered.

The police commissioner walked very fast down a bleak, concrete corridor, turned two dingy corners, and led them into a cluttered office area, then into a smaller room with a hologram pad in the center. Without warning, a near life-size tri-D image of a man, lying on a prison bunk, appeared three feet in front of Kirk. He paused mid-step, frankly stunned.

It was Dost.

A disembodied tinny voice told the man on the bunk to get on his feet. The prisoner rolled lackadaisically off the cot as if he had all the time in the world and knew it. No older than Kirk himself, the man—very blonde, short-choppy hair, shirtless but wearing prison-grey pants and combat boots—stood defiantly, his arms folded across his muscular, hairy chest. When the tinny voice told him to drop his arms, that someone wanted to take a good look at him, he grudgingly complied.

James Kirk stood before the image, sickened by the sight of this man, fighting the irrational impulse to move away before he kicked out the controls at the base of the pad. Though the hologram did not transfer odor, the memory of Dost’s smell, fresh sweat and semen, offended his mind, and to see Dost’s crooked smile, like he had never given anyone a genuine smile in his life, made Kirk’s skin crawl.

Cashion stepped next to the Starfleet officer and touched his shoulder. He had been watching the rising of Kirk’s chest, the clench of his jaw. He wasn’t surprised that Kirk was startled. “That him, Captain?”

He swallowed.

“Yes, it’s him.”

Cashion shifted uncomfortably. “Don’t be afraid of him. He can’t get you where he is.”

Kirk never pulled his eyes from the hologram. “If he’d done to you what he’s done to me, you wouldn’t be ashamed to be afraid.”

Cashion saw the victims of crime every day; most of them were more afraid of their fear than anything else. This one wasn’t. In a moment, the policeman was repeating the necessary information, voicing an identification for recording purposes.

“James T. Kirk, you are identifying prisoner 190457, Dokarto al Dost, as the man who, on days 23 through 30, the month of Jo’hasto, 15 through point 22 Vilroy calendar coordinates, purchased you from Orion kidnappers, held you against your will, and sexually assaulted you in a warehouse called The Block located in Shwa district number twelve, locally known as Holetown.”

Kirk turned his chin, but not his eyes, towards the policeman. He hadn’t known that the hellish building had ever had a name. “I am.”

Cashion nodded to another officer and the holographic image blinked off and became static. Kirk could breathe now.

“We have a suspicion that the man who assaulted you and this man are adult cloned twins from the southern continent or here from off-planet. Illegal, of course. There have been other instances of such people. The ‘twin’ was killed by your first officer, but this one may have assaulted you, too. We cannot say.” Cashion turned to his colleague, a younger, dull-looking man named Sedgeto. “The boy’s dates verify the existence of this one.”

Sedgeto nodded and muttered to himself. “Yeah, the dates and times match up. We think there’s two of ‘em.” He smiled to himself and shrugged.  “Were two of ‘em.”

Kirk felt surprised.  “What boy?”

Cashion looked distracted.  “A boy that this man was keeping. No reason to concern yourself, Captain.”

Kirk held up his hand. “Just a minute. You mean that Dost was holding me and someone else at the same time?”

Sedgeto looked suddenly interested.

“Just a street kid. Nobody important.” Meaning, nobody important like you. “The kid is claiming the same kind of assaults by Dost at the same time you were, but in a different location. That corroborates the two-man theory.”

Cashion spoke up. “If it’s any consolation, if the other one’s dead, this one won’t be far behind.” He began to turn Kirk towards the door. “You can go now.”

“I want to talk to Dost,” Kirk stated clearly. He didn’t know why except that something in his gut told him to insist.

Cashion shook his head at the stupidity of the notion. Or maybe not stupidity. Kirk had been scanned for weapons, but Starfleet technology was far superior to anything they had.  He could be hiding something deadly. “Five minutes, but not face to face. We have a com-pic downstairs.”

On second thought, Kirk decided he couldn’t stand being in the same room with the prisoner. “Agreed.”

Cashion moved the two of them down another flight to another beat-up office, sat Kirk down in front of a display screen, and dialed up another guard. Minutes later, the blank screen was filled with the image of the yellow-haired man now clothed, glaring at Kirk’s intent image on his screen.

“Do I know you?” Dost asked.

“I don’t know, do you?”

“The point is,” he conjectured, “you think I know you.”

“That is the point.”

Dost cocked his head slightly.

“Yeah, of course, you know me,” he said.  Slowly he grinned, a steady delight dawning over his hard, pinched features. He rubbed the stubble at the top of his head as if to conjure the image. “Say, you’re that fresh-faced piece of Fleet meat we had our hands on.”  Literally.  “Jimmy, yes?” He smiled at the memory of how good it felt. “Yeah, I did you, Jimmy.”

Heat rushed to Kirk’s face, a metallic taste to his mouth. “That’s what I wanted to know—if it was you or just the dead man.”

“Try both.”

“Were you the same?”

“We were . . . close enough.”

“Why two of you?”

The man shrugged casually, not from an inability to answer, but from a conscious decision to speak the truth because he felt invincible, even behind bars.

“Better for business. Better for safety.  Much, much better for fun.  You remember how it was. To have anyone we wanted.” He winked at the screen. “Absolutely anyone at all.”

Ignoring the comment, Kirk stated, “I take it, you’re the one who likes teenage boys.” He folded his arms and leaned back in the chair.

“All of us like what we like.” Dost smiled his crooked smile and ran his hand a couple times through the stubble of his yellow hair. “Let’s see? I’ll bet you like beautiful blondes with big tits.” Again, the crooked smile, only slower.  “You see, it’s just . . . personal preference.”

“Which one of you is the original?” Kirk asked.

Dost grinned slyly at Kirk’s naivete. “Why me, of course.”

Kirk studied the face on the screen and for the first time noticed—no, it was a real memory—how blue Dost’s eyes were, like pale, clear aquamarines.  Beautiful really. Compelling. He pulled himself back to the point, which was not beauty, and commented, “Your twin got sloppy.”

Dost nodded. “Yeah, he took you someplace public . . . someplace dangerous. He got off on how important you were but forgot that important people are often very valuable—to other important people.  He wanted you, yes, but that didn’t mean that someone else didn’t want you . . . .” He winked again. “More.”

“This boy they found with you—”

“You want Danny? Take him for now. He’ll come back eventually. Like you have.”

Kirk didn’t respond to the implication. “You think he turned you in. How you ended up here.”

“I’m here because I got sloppy, too.”  Dost felt no need to lie to James Kirk; he could recognize a brave man when he saw one.  “Nevertheless, the reason I’m here is insignificant compared to the reason you’re here.”      

Now it was Kirk’s turn to smile. “I came to identify a criminal. Just doing my civic duty.”

But Dost didn’t buy it.  “You came to cut my throat if you can.”

Kirk shook his head.  “You’re wrong, Dost. I had a curious itch. Now it’s scratched.”

“Oh, I think that’s not quite right, Captain. You’d like to kill me yourself.  That’s why they won’t let you see me in person. They’re protecting me from you.”  A wicked smile snaked across his lightly bearded face as he slapped his thigh and licked his thin lips.  “Hard to imagine that once I only thought of you as a valuable commodity.”  He shook his head.  “Now that I see you again, all shipshape with spit, polish, and that fire in your eyes, I must have you back, Jimmy. You’re the prize that got away.  And frankly, the one that cost me dearly.”  He paused dramatically.  “But here you are again, so close.  You want to be close, don’t you?” He leaned forward a little.  “I heard you have a reputation for stalwartness, Captain, but really, let’s face it—” He lowered his pale eyes seductively, then raised them again with a vulgar brand of certainty. “You’re hardly more than a little tease.”

Kirk wanted to spit out the foulest swear word, but command training took over, clamping down on emotions, substituting controlled detachment.

“You’re a man who ruins lives, Dost. I have to stop you.”

“You don’t look any worse for wear, Jimmy.”

“My life was ruined.”

To say otherwise would have been a lie, and to lie to Dost the height of cowardice.

Dost’s face turned serious, as though he were hearing something new. “Still, Jimmy?”

“Now it’s only changed forever.”

“Then what have you got to lose?” Dost smirked. He eyed the clean-cut, handsome man in the screen, could read his mind from his face.  “You shouldn’t hold such a grudge, you know. Chalk it up to sexual experience instead.  Maybe even sexual awakening.”  Suddenly, his eyes grew wide with appreciation. “Try to think of what we did together as a positive experience.”

James Kirk took in air in a steady, even fashion, determined to keep himself calm, his emotions as controlled as if Spock were standing by his side, a rock-steady influence.  The man on the screen was playing him like he still had his ham-fisted hands around his throat. Well, he didn’t.

“I hope you have a positive experience in jail, Dost,” he said, his tone cold as space.  “For the rest of your life, and then . . . in hell. Don’t think you’re ever getting out of here, because if you do, you’re fair game for me, my friends, and my starship. And most of all, my demons which are not quite in control. Yet.” His tawny eyes glowed with concealed hatred. “Delude yourself all you want that I’ve come back to you. I don’t give a warp-speed shit about your delusions. Now watch me leave.”

With that, he pushed himself away from the screen, stood a moment, and with complete control, walked out of the room.

A moment’s vertigo caught him, then peaked in near ecstatic relief. He felt such freedom that he almost wanted to shout from it. The feeling made him light-headed. Where was the feeling coming from? From just one conversation with an electronic devil speaking to him from the netherworld of the city jail?

Dost. Scum. Dost, confronted. He had conquered the darkness again and claimed the light. He had faced Dost—as equals, man to man, not as a helpless sack of bones and flesh with no control over his yielding body. He was the clear winner, because he was walking out of this dismal place. Going home without a scratch.

Dokarto al Dost—and every salacious bastard like him in the universe—could go straight to hell. And would.

****

“I want to talk to the boy.”

Sargeant Sedgeto spoke up. “I think he’s already gone downtown to the juvenile placement by now.”

“Check for me.”

Now it was Cashion’s turn to speak firmly.

“Captain Kirk, these street kids aren’t children.  Men in boy’s bodies really. Nothing for you to concern yourself with.  Sargeant, please take the captain back to the beam up location.”

Kirk stood at his full height. “I really must insist.”

Cashion looked at Sedgeto, then threw up his hands. He nodded a reluctant approval. The younger man punched up the computer screen, squinted at the list of names, then stuck out his lower lip. “D. Kelny. He’s still here. I’ll take you.”

A few minutes later, Captain Kirk found himself alone in a windowless concrete room with one single bench about two meters long, feeling slightly claustrophobic. The door opened slowly to admit a single teenage boy, his gaunt face down, his gait no more than a gangly shuffle. Nervously, he looked around the room and blinked. Then his nervous eyes settled on the man in gold who rose to meet him.

“Sit down, son.” The boy, shorter than Kirk, lowered himself tentatively at the far end of the bench. “My name is Jim Kirk. You’re Danny.”

“What do you want me for? I don’t know you.”

“We have something in common.”

The boy eyed the meticulous uniform. “What kinda outfit is that? You a cog?”

“I don’t think so. What’s that?”

“Cogs. Catchers. You know, the police.”

“No, I work for Starfleet.”

“No shit.” There was mild surprise in his reedy voice, but his face remained nearly expressionless.

 Kirk smiled. “No shit.”

“You got smokes?”

“Sorry, no.”

The boy’s shoulders sagged. Danny Kelny was slight, thin, looking much younger than fifteen, with brown hair that had been shaved and was just growing out, like Dost’s. His long legs, which he hadn’t yet grown into, indicated that he was in the middle of a growth spurt. He wore a dark tee-shirt and shapeless dark pants with no belt. This was no man in a boy’s body like Cashion had implied. This was only a boy. And Kirk could see bruises fading at the boy’s temple and wrists.

Kirk decided to drop the pleasantries. “The police are holding a man named Dost. They say you know him.”

The boy looked apprehensive, yet in seconds a streak of real defiance swept over him. “I already told them everything. I ain’t repeatin’ it. If you’re friends with Dost, then you can get us outta here.”

“I’m no friend of his. I’m here to see that he goes to prison, or whatever they do to people like him.” Kirk saw a questioning look cross the boy’s features, and he reached across and tried to touch the boy’s face. “Did he do this to you?”

“What do you care?”  The boy pulled back.

Kirk retracted his hand, then looked into the boy’s pale gray eyes. Remembering how he had hated to be touched after having Dost’s hands all over him, he felt shame that he had tried to touch the boy without asking. “I care, Danny.”

“Cog liar.”

There was a sudden accusatory fire in the boy’s eyes. “Look at you. You got money. You’re perfect. You got—” He pointed to the gold braid on Kirk’s sleeve. “You’re a celebrity, right? I bet you’ve never once been starvin’ or cold. Nobody never hurts you, right? Why would you care about me? I wouldn’t if I was you.”

“I’m not perfect, Danny,” Kirk said softly. He thought of how Dost had turned his neat, ordered life on its head. “I used to think I was, but not anymore.”  Kirk now found himself wondering about this boy, how he had gotten here. “You have family?”

“I had a brother once, but he died on me. Dost found me and he took me in. All he wanted was me to . . . It was all right.”

“I had a brother once. He died on me, too.”

“So who found you?”

Kirk smiled.

“I was lucky. I didn’t need to be found.” While the boy was talking, Kirk noticed that two of his lower teeth were missing. “Does he hit you in the face?”

Again the defiance, less this time. “Hey, never mind. I deserve it.”

“Nobody deserves to be hit.”

“I do sometimes.”

Kirk shook his head. “I doubt that very much.” He saw that the boy seemed surprised by his response. “You go to school?”

“Too old now.”

“How do you live? Make money?”

The boy looked away. “You know.”

“You go with men.”

“There’s nothin’ wrong with that!”

Kirk didn’t know what to say.

“No, there’s nothing wrong with that,” he replied sincerely, “if that’s really what you want to do.”

When Kirk stopped talking, the boy got antsy. “So what do you want?”

“I just wanted to see if you needed anything.”

The boy guffawed, instantly mean and street-smart.

“Matter of fact, I do, gold shirt. I need money for a clean bed and flight money outta this town and some new clothes and nobody beatin’ me up!” The boy noticed that Kirk turned pale. “What’s wrong? You don’t look so good.”

Kirk straightened his tunic and his spine.  “I want you to tell me what Dost did to you.”

The boy stood up.   

“No.” Then, “What for?”   Danny’s eyes flashed with anger.  “They can’t keep him here.  When he’s out, he’ll get me out, and then he’ll kick your Starfleeter’s shiny butt!”

“I already talked to him, Danny.” Kirk knew that Danny was Dost’s 'insignificant reason’. His sloppiness. “I just want to help you,” Kirk insisted. “Believe me, he doesn’t.”

“You want to know about him and me, gold shirt, cause you get off on it!”

“My name is Jim.”

The boy looked momentarily confused but recovered. “For a hundred credits, I’ll tell you enough of the good stuff to get you really hot.” He started to rise.

Kirk roughly grabbed the boy’s thin wrist. Danny froze. Kirk pulled him back down to the bench, then released his arm.

“Who is Dost? What does he mean to you?’ He asked point blank. “Do you love him?”

Danny sent Kirk a sideways glance that said, Who you kidding?

“Don’t need love, gold shirt. Don’t even want it. Love is for babies and losers. He takes care of me, that’s all. He feeds me. We watch the socball games together, get high. We live good.”

“He hits you.”

“Sometimes he’s nice.”

Kirk could feel a chill tear down his spine. “Before he hurts you.”

The boy shook his head. “Only if I screw up.”

Now Kirk shook his head. “No, before he hurts you, he’s nice, isn’t that right?”

The boy looked suspicious but intrigued. How did the gold shirt know?

And Kirk couldn’t help himself, memories flying through his mind and out his mouth. “He lets you sleep, gives you hot food, holds you, tells you how much he likes you. He kisses you. Then he forces himself on you.” Kirk struggled to push the words out without seeing the images in his mind. He failed miserably. “Does he drug you first?”

“Sometimes.”

“All the time.”

“How do you know?” The boy’s voice was incredulous.

“I told you. We have something in common.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe it.”

“It’s only boys like me . . . he wants. I’m bad.”

“He convinced me that I was bad, too, Danny. After it was over, I did bad things to prove that he was right.”

“You’re important,” the boy kept saying. “I’m nobody. He couldn’t have done it to you.”

Kirk scooted to the end of the bench next to the distraught boy.

“I want you to know something, Danny. I want you to know that I know how hard it is for you to talk about Dost. I’m not a celebrity. I’m just like you. He did the same things to me that he does to you. The same things.” The boy’s frown was immediate. “The other one, the Dost clone they’re talking about, liked men in uniform. He paid a lot of money for me. He shared me with the one they’ve go below.”

“You got away.” It was an accusation.

Kirk nodded.

“A friend of mine rescued me. I owe him my life.”

“Some friend, huh.” Danny watched the floor, the look of disbelief still attached to his eyes and downturned mouth.

Oh, yes, Kirk thought. You would be the luckiest boy on the face of this planet if you could claim such a friend.

“Let me help you. I swear I can help.” In the next moment, he put his arm around the boy’s shoulders, but he felt the boy resist and pull away. “Dammit, Danny, you got him busted, didn’t you? And then you told the cogs that he rapes you.”

The boy went pale. “I didn’t mean to do it. I just told a guy, who told a guy. Suddenly the cogs were on us. I didn’t mean it. They made me tell’em the rest.” He shrugged as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders and was tired of the burden. “Anyway, so what.” The last words came out a sigh.

Kirk took in air and spat it out in pure frustration.

“If he ever gets out of here, he’s going to kill you for that—not rescue you!” He watched the boy swallow hard.” Is there any place for you to go, any place I can send you?”

“I don’t know.” Danny turned his face towards the wall.

“There’s nobody you can turn to?”

“I don’t know. No. No!”

Shit.

“All right, don’t worry.” Kirk put his hands square on the thin shoulders. The boy braced himself for a harsh shaking but received a slight squeeze instead. “Look, I don’t have any jurisdiction in this town or on this planet. I’ll have to see what I can do. Just give me a little time. I won’t desert you. I’ll be back for you.”

“Why?”

Why? Wasn’t it obvious?

Because I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

The boy blinked. “You’re wasting your time. It doesn’t matter.” His eyes fell to the floor. “It doesn't matter.”

“It does matter.”

Kirk stood up, shaken himself. He had rarely met a child who had absolutely nothing, barely his name, a child so desperate for love that he would submit to the cruel attentions of a soulless and foul man. He remembered Miri and her friends—with them, only a microscopic virus had decimated their bodies. At least their spirits were free. He had helped Miri,  and he would help this poor, desperate boy, this lost young soul, so like himself. There but for the grace of family, Starfleet Academy, and Spock . . . .

He knocked quickly on the door and the guard let him out, and he felt guilty for being free.

****

Cashion rolled his eyes.

“No, I can’t remand this boy to you.  He’s my star witness. Go back to your ship, Captain. You’re disrupting my investigation.”

“He’s barely fifteen. What’s going to happen to him?”

“Downtown for a few days, a couple weeks maybe. Get him off the streets, off drugs. Then he testifies in court.” He saw Kirk’s frown that said, ‘that’s all?’  “Look this isn’t a rich planet—this isn’t Federation Earth. We do the best we can for boys like him. He got himself in with rough company. Even you couldn’t handle—” Cashion knew he had put his foot in his mouth.

“You never told me he was part of your case.” Though, in hindsight, it had been obvious.

“You may be Starfleet, but I don’t have to lay my cards on the table for you.”

 Kirk rubbed the back of his suddenly aching neck.

“Look, Commissioner, what kind of legal recourse do I have? He’s got no parents. He’s got no one. He’s only got me.”

Cashion eyed the Starfleet officer suspiciously. “Don’t even think about beaming him up to your ship, Kirk.”

Kirk wondered if his face had given away his thoughts.  

"Go back to your ship, Captain,” Cashion said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“The Enterprise isn’t leaving orbit until this is settled.”

“I’ll let you know what I can do,” the policeman reiterated firmly.

Kirk let Sergeant Sedgeto escort him back to the transport station. Uhura seemed relieved to hear him report back in. A moment later, the transporter dissolved James Kirk in a wash of lights and colors, and Sedgeto found himself looking at blank, gray walls again and thinking about . . . possibilities. 

Chapter Text

Kirk fired out demands like a rapid-shot phaser set to kill.

“Find out everything you can on the legal ramifications of adoption, extradition, guardianship, whatever rights I may have as an off-worlder. Also the rights of minors and any local assistance system. If Starfleet has any jurisdiction whatsoever, I want to know. Find out any background information on Danny Kelny. Open a local bank account with a thousand credits in Danny’s name. No paper identification. Find out anything on Dokarto al Dost—where he comes from, his crimes, his prison records. Compile a list of current missing persons—celebrities, artists, sports figures, whatever—who may have been fair game for Dost and his slave suppliers. Find out about the local legal system. I want to know the legal rights of witnesses and methods of acceptable testimony. Find out the judge's name in the Dost case. Find out how the police captured Dost and where. And find out the penalties for kidnapping.”

As though Kirk had pushed his processing button, First Officer Spock turned to the computer and began his assignment.

****

Forty-eight hours later, Lieutenant Uhura knew it was a bad sign when she was the second person to arrive in the engineering briefing room. James Kirk was already waiting. It was common protocol for the bridge officers to be waiting for the captain, but suddenly, he leaned forward and touched her arm, almost unnerving her.

“Captain, I’m not quite sure why I was invited to this meeting. I have no report.”

 His features softened.

“You’re part of my senior staff, and I want your input. Uhura, you know what’s going on.”

Of course she did, he thought. Every communication that came or went from this ship zipped across her console, and she was often privy, literally, to the most top-secret messages meant only for his eyes.  Yet, next to Spock, she was the most discreet officer on the ship. He had often heard that  junior officers or enlisted personnel tried to wangle unreleased information out of her, but she would only teasingly reprimand their curiosity and with a humorous touch, slip away without revealing a thing. She never preannounced him or commented on Starfleet strategy behind his back.

He understood that she had monitored Spock’s coordination of the search for his captain’s kidnappers, knew the contents of the half-dozen subspace messages from McCoy to the Surgeon General, knew the nature of his own messages from the police on Dunbar’s Planet and perhaps even why the fugitive they held might hold a special interest for James Kirk. She didn’t know everything, but she knew enough to string the communications data together and come to a nasty but accurate conclusion about most of it. But her face spoke of none of that knowledge, and it held no judgment or disgust. Just having her in the room with him, made him feel safe.

McCoy and Spock entered the briefing room together, then Misters Scott and Sulu. No sooner had their bottoms hit the chairs than Kirk was ready to start.

“Thank you all for coming.  This assignment is not official but is at my personal behest . . . and need. If any of you feels uncomfortable and wishes to leave, all of us . . . I will understand. No one is obliged to go forward here.”    

He glanced at Uhura, who didn’t move a muscle. Nobody else did either.

“All right, good.” He turned to his first officer.  “It’s been two days, Mister Spock. I presume you’re finally ready.”

Spock knew he was being chastised. “I apologize, Captain. There were many delays both on board the Enterprise and with the information data system on Dunbar’s Planet.”

Scotty tried to intervene.

“I’m afraid I was partly to blame for the delay. I required Misterrr Spock’s help with m’ engine anomaly, Captain. I could nae hae done the calculations as quickly without him. Non-Federation planets like Dunbar’s Dead End is nae the best place in the galaxy to find ourselves in a stranded ship.” He didn’t apologize for using a derogatory term for their location.

Then Sulu spoke up. “The Enterprise computer could find almost nothing on the legal system, Captain. We had to request direct access from the Shwa City central computer. There was a lot of red tape . . . uh, bureaucratic levels to deal with.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Kirk interrupted. “Let’s get on with it, please.”

Spock laid an orange report cassette on the table and folded his hands.

“What I have found out may displease you, Captain. Because Dunbar’s Planet does is not a member of the Federation, Starfleet access and influence is relatively insignificant. You have very few rights, if any. Off-worlders are not allowed to adopt citizens, even orphans, although an internal adoption system is almost nonexistent. There is no legal access to establish guardianship except through blood relationships. There are no extradition laws, so persons accused of crimes, even though committed on neighboring planets or systems, are free from deportation for litigious reasons. Therefore, there is no way to get Mister Dost off this planet or try him in military court nor for you to adopt Mister Kelny.”

Kirk looked grim. “The rights of minors, Mister Spock?”

“Citizens attain legal status at twenty years of age. Until then, children are considered property of the parents. However, parents are held financially accountable for the crimes and any civil damage caused by their children. Children without parents, having no parental ‘buffer’ so to speak, are held financially accountable to pay for damages.  Each city has dozens of work camps where indigent children work and sometimes attend school until they reach the legal adult age. Drugs, truancy, and runaways are rampant in all major cities.”

“I wonder why,” McCoy piped in, nearly appalled.

“Dokarto al Dost, place of birth unknown, is an underground criminal who came into prominence five years ago when he apparently murdered a rival crime syndicate leader who specialized in drugs and slave trade arrangements. His crimes, mostly unsavory ones involving sabotage and scandals of a sexual nature, have been hinted at in a few news communiques. He is a supplier of the rare and beautiful—objects, animals, and unattainable persons of normally unreachable status—to anyone with money. There is nothing on record about his being cloned, an unlawful act, although there are several accounts of such procedures in the planetary medical periodicals. His capture seems to have been arrived at by mere chance.  That is, a police informant recognized him.” He slid the cassette in Kirk’s direction. “While there is no positive means of identifying his victims, this tape contains the names of prominent persons—mostly Federation citizens—listed as missing in this sector in the last six months.”

“And the boy?” Kirk asked.

“Danilo Kelny. Born 15 years ago. Parents have essentially vanished. Older brother died under mysterious circumstances ostensibly in a street brawl. Danny Kelny attended eight years of school off and on, then quit. He is on record as having been interred in one of the aforementioned work camps, again off and on. I was not allowed access to the police computer, so I do not know if this is the first time that he has been apprehended by the authorities.”

Spock paused, dropping his report voice and speaking directly to Kirk. “I opened the bank account as you wished, Jim. There will be credits for him if he is released.”

Kirk dropped his eyes and muttered, “Thanks.”

“As for the rights of witnesses,” Spock continued, “the legal system becomes muddied. Adult witnesses may be paid for their testimony, depending on the needs of the prosecution. Testimony obtained from adults can be entered in person during the trial, on tape, or on holographic recording. That is why you are not required to testify in open court. However, as their accounts are considered unreliable, minors must testify in person.”

“What? That’s backwards, Spock,” McCoy interrupted, angrily.

“I am simply repeating the facts regarding the local legal system, Doctor,” Spock said stonily. “There is something else. Sometimes witnesses upon their apparent release are implanted with subcutaneous transceivers that act like homing devices.  It is a way for the police to find them in lieu of bail. Judge Hugo al Barron will preside over Dost’s upcoming trial. I have requested a hearing with Judge Barron on your behalf, but I have not received an answer to my inquiry.”

“Thank you again, Mister Spock,” Kirk acknowledged, contemplating the cassette now in his hand.

“One last thing, Captain,” Spock said, solemnly raising a brow. Kirk’s eyes met his. “The penalty for kidnapping is death.”

****

The senior staff left James Kirk sitting alone in the briefing room. When they had all departed, he popped the orange cassette into the computer and asked for the last item on the report: the list of missing persons.

Chewing on his thumbnail, Kirk sat reading the names: an opera singer from the Aldebaran system; the Cardiff Ballet’s prima ballerina; Altair VI’s poet laureate, a renown plastic surgeon from one of the Earth colonies, a socball tight-end from the Naranja Tigers team with two galactic championship rings to prove it; an actor (leading man type) from the Portsmouth International Theater Arts Institute, and so forth. Just reading the list made his stomach hurt. He felt a true rapport with these strangers, knew them, feared for them. He had had Spock to rescue him. Who did they have? Who did they have who even understood that they were kidnapped—and not just sick and tired of the rat race or on extended vacation or hiding from their celebrity. He knew how they were suffering, knew their terror.

He didn’t turn when he heard the door behind him swish open. He recognized the sound of the movement.

“Lunch, Jim?”

“Not hungry.”

McCoy, who didn’t care a thing about eating either, looked over the gold shoulder at the screen.

“What that list?” He didn’t recognize the names.

“Missing persons. Possible kidnap victims.”

“You mean, slave trade victims.”

“They’re not just names, Bones.  They’re real people who are being tortured. I know what they’re going through.”

“Jim, maybe we should talk about how involved you’re getting in all of this.”

“These people don’t deserve this.”

“I know, but you can’t save them all, Jim.”

Kirk’s eyes turned bright as though that had never occurred to him. “I have to try, Bones.”

“How are you going to feel when you fail to save them?”

“Look at this,” Kirk countered. “Victoria Oscalassa, prima ballerina for the Jovanovich Ballet. Twenty-five. Missing for two months. A year ago, I saw her perform on Cardiff Prime. She was sublime. Fragile as a twig, yet it was the strongest performance I’d ever seen. To think that Dost has sold her to some cretin. You ask how bad I’ll feel if I can’t save someone like that?” He paused, folding his hands together like Spock often did. “Not half as bad as I will if I don’t try at all.”

“You’re taking on a lot, Jim,” McCoy said gently.

Kirk rose, his fingertips still on the table. “So be it, Doctor.”

“Do you have anything to go on?”

“Just a hunch that if I look, I’ll find something.”

McCoy smiled.

“I guess that’s all you really need to go on. If you don’t mind me tagging along, when your hunch pans out—and it will—I’d be honored to help you look.”

The captain removed the cassette from the computer. “You know I appreciate the help, Bones. Thanks for not trying to talk me out of it."

McCoy only shot back a look that said, What? Who me? That would just never occur to me. 

****  

Commissioner Cashion reluctantly allowed James Kirk to visit the juvenile holds, relenting when Kirk threatened to bring the full force of Starfleet and the local police higher-ups down around Cashion’s head. The Starfleet threat had meant little, but Cashion would just as soon be left alone to do his job than have National Forces people snooping around his operation.

He took Kirk to a dreary room with a long table in the middle. Detainees sat on one side and visitors on the other.  Danny Kelny looked relieved to see him but hung back when Kirk extended his hand.

“Danny, I’m sorry it’s been so long. I can’t seem to get you out of here.”

“Dost would have got me out by now,” the boy remarked sullenly.

“Dost is in jail.” Though maybe what Danny said was true. “You’ve talked to the judge?”

Danny shook his head.

“When you do, what are you going to tell him?”

The boy shrugged.  “Answer his questions, I guess.”

Kirk’s tone turned firm.

“You’re going to tell him how Dost mistreated you. Held you against your will.”

The boy looked at the table. “Whatever you say.”

“Danny, the only way we’re going to get Dost locked up for a long time is if you corroborate my story. Whatever time he gets for attacking me, they’ll double it for his attack on a minor.” Danny said nothing. “Think of it this way. If for nothing else, you’ll be able to pay him back for all the time you’ve spent locked up in here.”

“You don’t have to testify,” he accused.  “You just want me to do your dirty work for you.”

“I’ve already testified.” Kirk’s frustration was starting to boil over. It sounded to him like Danny was trying to protect Dost.  “I’m sorry that the rules are different for me than for you. If I could change them, I would. Don’t let that distract you—”

But Danny wouldn’t listen.

“You’re important. You could change them if you wanted. I’ve heard the guards talk. They say you have a transporter. You just shoot in and out of here. Nobody’s got you caged. Well, take me with you.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“It’s the rules, isn’t it?” The boy’s voice was unforgiving. “They’re so damn important to you. I don’t get it.”

Kirk realized that this was going to be a very hard sell.

“Starfleet officers take an oath not to interfere with other cultures. Dunbar’s Planet, no matter what I personally think of the relative worth of its legal system, has one. I have to let it grind through to our case.  I can’t just beam you away. Try to understand.”

The boy looked over Kirk’s shoulder at the wall. “So, what have you been doing the last four days? Where have you been? What is it that you do anyway?”

Kirk let go of the breath he was holding.  Why did it matter so much what this boy thought of him?

“I’ve been on my ship. We had an engine problem, but we fixed that. My staff has been working with me, trying to help me deal with our case. I’ve got an appointment with the judge this afternoon.” He leaned forward on his arms. “Listen, if for any reason we miss connections, go to the bank across the street for instructions.”

“For money?”

“Some.”

“What do I have to do to get it?”

“Don’t take it out all at once.”

“Is it mine?”

“It’s yours.”

“Then I’ll take it all if I want to.”

Kirk sat back in his chair. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea. He leaned forward again, annoyed.

“Don’t start spending it yet. Maybe the judge won’t like your smartass attitude any more than I do. Only he might decide to keep you in here till you can be civil.”

The captain was already half out of his chair when Danny impulsively reached out and caught his sleeve.

“Don’t go, gold shirt!” He looked apologetic but didn’t say so when Kirk’s frown remained in place.  “Jim, we still have some more time. You’re the only visitor I’ve had.”

Kirk settled down again. Danny looked pathetic, waif-like with his thin arms and soulful eyes. New clothes and a month’s growth of hair might do wonders for this boy’s morale, not to mention appearance. “Don’t you have any friends?”

“Just other kids. Nobody who could come here.”  Danny eyed Kirk skeptically. “You have friends?”

“A few really good ones.”

“The one who saved your life. What’s he like?”

He’s my first officer.” There was no recognition of the term on the boy’s face.  “After me,” Kirk explained, “he’s in command of the ship. Spock is the smartest man on the Enterprise.”

“Then why isn’t he the captain?”

Kirk chuckled softly. “He says he doesn’t want to be. When he does want to be, they’ll give him one.”

“Who gave you a starship?”

“Nobody gave it to me. I worked for it.”

“How?”

“I went to school. I showed an aptitude for leadership and I was promoted.”

“I could never do that.”

“You can do whatever you want,” Kirk said too easily.

“I can’t be like you. Always knowing what you want to be.” As though the concept was as foreign as a different language, he said, “What is there to be?”

Kirk felt mild shock at Danny’s confession, and he sighed at the memories of himself as a child. Even if he hadn’t decided early on that he was going to be a starship captain, he’d always had options.

“When I was a little kid,” he answered, reminiscing, “I was the pirate king of my gang of neighborhood pirate kids—plundering imaginary planets and pretend solar systems for junk, protecting our territory by stealth and a brash kid’s idea of honor. When I got older, I wanted to be a historian like my Uncle William—all those glorious battles and war heroes right on the tip of my tongue.  Then in secondary school, that’s when I decided I wanted to be a Shakespearean actor like Robert Allister Campion—give grandiose speeches to rouse the hearts and souls of men and women to action, or to weeping.” He laughed softly at the irony, at never having made the connection before. “Now, Danny, I’m kind of all three.”

“You must be smart.”

“Smart enough. Mostly I learned a little trick.”

“What trick?”

“The I-think-I-can trick. I think I can be a pirate and a teacher and an actor, and a starship captain, so I can.”

“I don’t think I could—”

“Let’s get you out of jail and I’ll teach you the trick.”

“Promise.”

“I promise you, Danny.”

But Danny stood up and gave him a harsh look. He knew himself and the world well enough. “You can’t really promise that.”

Kirk rose slowly feeling checkmated by a beginner.

Just then the door opened and a guard stepped in. “Captain Kirk, someone from you ship to see you. You can step out.”

“If it’s Mister Spock, I’d like Danny to meet him.”

The guard shrugged. “I’ll check for authorization.”

In another minute, First officer Spock came through the door.

“Captain, I regret the intrusion. However, I have further information on the local legal system, perhaps pertinent to this afternoon’s meeting.”

Kirk waved away the report.

“Never mind that, Mister Spock, but I’m glad you’re here. I want Danny to meet you. Danny Kelny, this is my first officer, Mister Spock.”

Danny gave the man in the blue shirt a once-over from top to bottom; it was obvious he didn’t like what he saw. “He says you’re the smartest man on the ship. Are you?”

Spock raised a brow at the boy’s non sequitur. “I possess the highest intelligence quotient. Yes.”

Danny sent an incredulous glance at Kirk.

“He’s not a machine, is he? I’ve heard of machines that look like regular men. Only he doesn’t even exactly look like anyone I’ve ever seen.”

Disappointed at Danny’s response, Kirk said, “I can assure you that Mister Spock is not a machine.”

Curiosity, an almost fatal flaw in him, nudged Spock forward. He was most intrigued by this chance to query the boy who, like the captain, had been Dost’s victim.

“Mister Kelny, I would appreciate you answering some questions about Captain Kirk’s abduction. Were you ever aware of the captain’s presence in Mister Dost’s enclave?”

What’s an ‘on-klave’?, Danny wanted to ask the green guy, but didn’t bother. “They didn’t let me know nothin’,” he said instead.

Kirk had been half-horrified at Danny’s rudeness and that Spock had answered it by turning the social introduction into an interrogation. Yet the boy’s odd denial also intrigued him.

“May I infer by your use of the double negative that you did know something?”

Kirk glanced sideways at his first officer. “I can assure, Mister Spock, that you may not.”

Spock continued. “Do you know how Captain Krik was obtained by Mister Dost or came to be in the same location as you?”

“They brought people in and out all the time,” the boy answered. “Sometimes there were two or three crates stacked up. I wasn’t allowed to see what was in ‘em.”

Spock turned to his superior officer. “Captain, were you placed in a crate?”

“I don’t remember exactly. Perhaps.” Kirk concentrated, trying to recall an image or sound or texture. “Wherever it was, was small and cramped and hard.”

“Weren’t you curious about the crates, Mister Kelny?” Spock asked pointedly.

“Maybe. So what?”

“You heard people moaning, begging.”

“Sometimes.”

“And you did nothing.”

“What could I do? I’m just a kid.”

“You are nearly a man.” Spock’s tone was harsh.

“Hey! If you’re talking about Captain Gold Shirt here, he has you to save his ass, remember? He didn’t need me to get my head busted.” Danny was shouting now. “You sure wouldn’t’ve cared a shit about me!”

Kirk intervened before somebody got punched. “You are wrong, Danny,” he said softly.’  

“If I had known of your predicament and location, Mister Kelny,” Spock responded, “I would have attempted to rescue you, as well.”

“You’re a liar,” Danny spat back feeling ganged up on.

Kirk looked weary. “Mister Spock never lies.”

“And I’ll be he never takes out that pole he’s got up his butt neither!”

Spock turned to Kirk, his voice neutral though the captain could see the greatest annoyance to the set of his mouth.

“I believe my presence here is accomplishing little, Captain. I shall convey the legal information via communicator at your convenience.” Turning, he went to the door and a guard let him out.

Danny looked smug.  “Why’d he leave? Couldn’t take a little shit-talk from someone like me?”

Kirk also felt utter annoyance but fought it down. “He’s very proud.”

Puzzled, Danny looked again at the very closed door. “That’s not why you like him?”

“That is why I like him, among other reasons.”

Danny rebelled at the idea of gold shirt and this Spock guy as friends.

“He’s green for god’s sake! And those ears! You just brought him here to gawk at me like I’m some kind of freak, when he’s the freak.”

Kirk ‘s features turned hard. He fought down the urge to yell.

“Neither Mister Spock nor you is a freak. I’m sorry I brought him in to meet you. He has better things to do than be insulted by a brat.”

Danny laughed. “Like take orders from you.”

“Shut up right now, Danny.”

“You only like him because he saved your skin. But he’s not from where you came from. He’s not like you and he will never be!”

Kirk wondered at Danny’s hostility and his ignorance. He could forgive the latter though he abhorred it.

“People from different backgrounds can learn to become friends. They can come to know that they have much in common, want the same things, see life the same way, can come to enjoy their differences. That’s what happened between Spock and me.”

Danny relented a little. “That couldn’t happen to us.  You couldn’t be my friend.” His voice came with a small ‘could you’ lift at the end.

Kirk’s face softened.

“It’s a two-way street. People who are friends don’t think about themselves all the time.”

“Then I don’t need any friends.”

“Everyone one needs a friend.”

“What for?” Just someone to . . . . He didn’t know what.

“A friend is someone who cares.”

Danny glanced at the door again.

“Why would he care about you?”

“Because I care about him.”

Danny’s eyes became hard and purposeful. “Dost is my friend.”

“He’s not your friend.  My God, if he were your friend, he wouldn’t be raping you!” Kirk stopped cold; his hand went up to his forehead.

Danny felt an odd hint of alarm. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“You look sick.”

Kirk shook his head.  “Why am I having this conversation with you? This is ridiculous.” He rose to leave.

“You think I don’t know how things work, but I do.”

“You don’t know jack.”

Like Spock, he didn’t look back before asking the guard to let him out, and so he didn’t see the youthful defiance on Danny Kelny’s face turn to slow, confused regret.

For a while, Danny watched the gold shirt walk away, leaving him sitting on the hard chair alone. Soon a guard came and took him back to his cell. He threw himself on the bunk and thought about Dost. And Jim Kirk.

He didn’t know who to believe.

****

“Your Honor, justice is not served by keeping the Kelny boy in jail.”

The judge’s chamber occupied by Hugo al Barron was just as dreary as the rest of the town. Barron was an elderly, grizzled and portly man with bushy white eyebrows and thin lips, who sat behind a dark wooden desk of indeterminable style as big as Kirk’s bunk. He peered at James Kirk above his dirty spectacles.  “Why don’t you let me worry about justice, Captain Kirk.”

“Your Honor, if you would remand the boy to me, I will guarantee that he appears in court.”

Barron had been writing but raised his head. “Would you take him to your ship?”

“Whatever the court allows.”

“And how long do you plan to stay in our orbit?”

“Not long. Until this court case is settled.” It was the wrong thing to say.

Barron frowned, breathing heavily.

“Your Federation Starfleet has no jurisdiction on Dunbar’s Planet whether the police asked you here or not. Your ship can stay till the end of time, and I will get to your case when I get to it, not a minute before.”

“My case against Dokarto al Dost is scheduled to go to trial next week, Your Honor.  Are you telling me that’s no longer going to happen?”

“I’m telling you we don’t like strangers dictating local custom and schedules.”

“But the Dunbar government does like strangers. All kinds. The seedier the better. Because the more strangers there are, the less likely it is that the police will catch a local dealing drugs or slaves. Strangers make far better game. Coming and going.”

“Law breakers are treated equally here.”

“Danny Kelny hasn’t broken any laws, except to get caught with the criminal Dost.”

“He’s a drug user.”

“Drugs Dost forced on him.”

“That has not been determined.”

Exasperated, Kirk tried another tact, becoming less strident. “I’m sorry, Your Honor. I’m just worried about the boy. I want to give him a good home, somewhere. He needs rehabilitation. He’s not getting it in a cell. Allow me to—”

Barron waved his hand magisterially. “I will think on it, Captain Kirk. Now good day.”

As Kirk left the judge’s chambers, he was totally aghast at the haphazard legal system he was encountering. Nothing had prepared him for the red tape, the inefficiency, the indifference that pounded him at every step. Nothing seemed to work right here. No one cared. Perhaps the most shocking aspect of it all was that the gold stripes on his sleeve meant nothing here. No one cared who or what he was.

Except the illegal underground. The slavers, they had cared.

They had cared deeply.

Chapter Text

“What caused the drop in power, Scotty?” the captain asked at a follow-up staff meeting about their recent engine problem.

“The engine anomaly was caused by Rupert ray contamination.”

“The source?”

“Rupert rays occur naturally in space, Captain,” Spock interjected. “In certain asteroid configurations or geologic pockets on the moons of Mulmed V and Panaso Prime, for example.”

“Aye,” Scott concurred.  “The Vegans and Orions use ‘em to stabilize their magnetic warp fields.”

Up till then, Kirk had looked bored; the engine problem was solved, and this meeting was routine procedure.  Now he was suddenly alert. “What did you say, Scotty?”

“Matter/anti matter stabilization is critical—”

“No, about the Orions.” He pursed his lips. “We know that Vegan ships don’t come this far from their system. That means that there was an Orion ship, orbiting Dunbar’s Planet recently—leaking Rupert rays.”

Scott nodded. “A credible source of the contamination.”

Now McCoy spoke up. “But, Scotty, if Rupert rays stabilize Orion warp engines, why would they damage ours?”

“Just a different warp field configuration, Doctor. We use augmented phase inducers cross-connected to the emitter arrays. Once the field is engineered, the emitter fields and Rupert rays become incompatible for different systems.”

Kirk rose.

“Right under our damn noses!” He turned to Spock. “Are there any Orion vessels orbiting the planet now?”

“No, sir.”

“In the solar system?”

“I have no way to scan for that.”

“You just told me you could scan for Rupert rays.”

“Only if the ship is leaking them. If the rays remain in the containment field, our sensors will not register them as separate from the matter/antimatter mixture. There have been no traces of Rupert rays since our arrival.”

“How can we get a list of ships arriving and departing Dunbar’s Planet, let’s say, within the last month?”

Spock shrugged as though the answer were obvious. “The planet’s main computer can supply that information. That is, if someone has bothered to enter it in the first place.”

“Get me the list for the last three months.”

Spock immediately turned to the computer.

“Wait a minute, Spock,” McCoy said. “Isn’t what you’re doing illegal?”

“I am attempting to upload data that is basically public information.”

“Without the government knowing it.”

“Precisely.”

“The names of incoming and outgoing cargo ships—public information?”

“Anyone working or standing, for that matter, at the space dock can see the designations, Doctor.”

“Bones, if I ask the government for these names,” Kirk said, “they’d say it’s none of my business. Well, it is my business.”

“The captain’s right, Doctor,” Scott concurred. “We’re still gettin’ requests to clear out about every two hours. They want us outta their space. The sooner, the better.”

Spock held a computer disk in his hand.  “I have the list, sir. I have also included the list of expected arrivals for the next week.”

Kirk smiled.

“Thank you, Mister Spock. You read my mind.”

“It is the first officer’s job to anticipate the captain.”

Kirk leaned forward and took the  disk from Spock’s hand. He inserted it in his view screen console. A list came up. One date caught the captain’s eye. “The X’latpa, Orion designation, was here the day before we arrived.”

Spock returned to his screen, then looked up suddenly. “I’m receiving planetary verification of an Orion ship entering Dunbar’s merchant space ways.”

“Departing or arriving?’

“Arriving.”

“Are you reading any leakage?”

“Negative.”

“Then this is the second ship! It’s not the one leaking Rupert rays. Those bastards are making regular drop-offs.”

McCoy looked alarmed.

“Jim, this is an open shipping destination. The Vilroy government can authorize anyone to come here. Just because Orions come here doesn’t mean that the ships carry slaves. You’ve got to come up with a connection to the specific ship that brought you here.”

Spock pondered the tabletop, secretly agreeing with McCoy.

Kirk frowned.

“Fine, if that’s what it takes. I know a way to find the connection.” He stood up and met his first officer’s direct gaze. “Mister Spock, come with me.”

****

James Kirk headed straight for his quarters without saying a word. As soon as the door closed behind them, he turned and faced his second in command. Kirk was the captain from head to toe, and Spock could see fire in his eyes. Both men remembered what had happened in this room the last time they were together here. Both men put it out of their minds.

“I know how to connect the crates and ships, Spock, but I need your help.”

Spock raised a brow. He knew what was coming.

Kirk’s demeanor changed from one of hard determination to painful contemplation. He touched his temple. “The crate. I believe it was made of a blue-grey composite material with raised lettering on the outside—probably the ship’s designation or destination.”

Spock cocked his head. “Can you remember the lettering?”

"No.”

“Perhaps under hypnosis, aided with psycho-extending drugs . . . Doctor McCoy could be most useful.”

“I want you to mind meld with me.”

Spock cleared his throat.

“I would prefer not to.”

“You know I can’t be hypnotized. And even with the drugs, there isn’t time for me to work with McCoy. There are people dying right now on those ships. Or they will be soon. We can save them.” He reached out and touched Spock’s arm. “Please. It means a lot to me.”

Spock seemed to sway.

“Jim, I fear that with the last two melds . . . that we are becoming too close. With each meld, it is harder for me to control . . . to separate our minds.  It is not that I find a meld with you offensive or unpleasant. However, at this point, they can be dangerous for you.”

He did not add, For me as well.

“Information that I need to crack this thing is locked up in my head. I need a quick way to get it out.”

Spock looked at the floor, then into his captain’s eyes.

“You can, of course, order me.”

Kirk sighed as though nothing in his life made any sense.

“Of course, I can’t.” He rubbed the back of his neck.  He badly needed a session with Jackie Munson. Without knowing how, he found himself sitting at his desk. He looked up at Spock. “I can only ask you, as a friend.”

Something deep within Spock was moved by the sight of James Kirk sitting alone in his chair. The captain seemed adrift, hopelessly at war with himself, with his own memories, both repulsed and attracted by them, trying to dredge up something stuck in the muck of pain and the muddle of chemicals and fear. The words ‘I need your help’ echoed in his mind. The allied sentiment ‘I need you’ echoed in his head.

“Jim, go lie down.”

Kirk misunderstood. “I’m not that tired.”

“The more relaxed you are, the easier it will be for me. Do as I say.”

Kirk went to the bed, lay down on his back, folded his hands across his stomach, and took a deep clarifying breath. Spock sat on the edge beside him and placed his hands in the meld positions. He uttered the incantation that was his key: “My mind to your mind.” In seconds, the door to Jim’s mind opened and he was somewhere inside.

Immediately, he found the scene of Kirk’s memory, a canvas of spotty impressions: Blackness, aching joints, a pounding heart, ragged breaths, pressure points screaming with pain, palms flat out to wall, nausea, and claustrophobia. Then fresh air like cool water, someone pulling him out. Light. Falling against the crate, hands reaching to steady himself against the solid side. Feeling the letters, raised and rigid. A half-conscious glance back at the block lettering, a vivid wash across his vision. A smear on his memory as he is dragged away.

Spock’s fingers repositioned themselves and replayed the mental tape of Kirk’s impressions. He focused on the letters. In Orion, in Andorian, and last, in Standard.

                                    DIRAC, DFF 189456-09

                        THIS CUBE MAY CONTAIN LIVE ANIMALS

                                                DO NOT TIP

Spock released his hands, rose from the bed, and returned to the captain’s office area.

“Computer, access the Shwa central data console.  Access starship registry for cargo transportation since stardate 4569.11. Locate a match for cargo transport Dirac, registration DFF 189456-09.”

It took mere seconds for the metallic voice to respond.

“Orion craft transport freighter Dirac, registration DFF 189456-09. Arrival at Dunbar planetary space port on stardate 4570.13.”

“Three and a half months ago,” Spock heard behind him. “To the day.”

“Has the Dirac returned to Dunbar’s Planet since then?

“Craft Dirac returned on 4575.28.”

“Six weeks ago.”

Spock frowned in concentration. “Computer, is the Dirac scheduled to return within the next week?”

“Craft Dirac is scheduled to arrive tomorrow, 0735 local time.”

Kirk’s eyes grew bright.

“Maybe her crew will be interested in shore leave? Maybe her captain, too.”

Spock’s warm brown eyes met his.

“Captain, it would be a gross violation of standard Federation non-interference practices for you to board the Dirac without express invitation.”

“I don’t expect an invitation, Mister Spock, but I do expect to board her.” He thought of Danny Kelny, still rotting away in that jail, the jail virtually adjacent to the space port administration facilities. What a lucky coincidence. He could tie up police personnel with a well-timed intruder emergency.

“If you were to visit Danny Kelny in jail and relay a message from me, do you suppose your visit might also create a diversion at police headquarters?”

“It is logical to assume that given the age of the security facility that the intruder alert system is defective or perhaps not working at all.”

“Well,” Kirk said with some humor, “you’ll just have to shoot someone, I guess.”

Spock raised a brow, not sure if he understood correctly. “I shall endeavor to set off the alarms, Captain.”

Kirk nodded and smiled at his great, good fortune to be Spock’s best friend.

****     

“Uhura, are there any other Federation ships in this sector?”

“Not Constitution class, Captain. However, the survey vessel Martel is within subspace range.”

“Send the following message to Captain Arlo on my private frequency.”

“Aye, aye, sir.

A quick series of blips jumped from his station to hers, and then flew out into the cosmos. The USS Martel was now part of James Kirk’s rescue plan.

****

Deep inside the Shwa City jail where the youthful offenders were kept, there came a shimmering vertical light and then a deep voice like doom.

“Mister Kelny, I have brought additional information from Captain Kirk.”

With a start, Danny bolted upright in his bed. He popped straight to the edge. With no warning, Spock had materialized before him, looking to the half-asleep boy, both lean and mean. Maybe this guy ate kids for breakfast. And lunch.

“In case of your early release, you will take half the money, available in the bank account,” the Vulcan continued, “rent a room at the Dunbar Celsior Hotel, 5.5 kilometers from this facility, and wait for the captain to contact you. Order room service if you wish.”

“Just a minute— How’d you get the hell in—”

“The password for the account the captain has set up for you is ‘Iowa’.”

Danny stood up.

“What’s an Ay-Oh-Whaah?” he demanded.

“It is the name of Captain Kirk’s birthplace on Earth. Suitably esoteric.”

Danny folded his arms, gathering up his defiance.  What the hell was this pointed-eared guy talking about? 

"When is Captain Kirk getting me out of here?”

Spock sighed.

“It seems on Dunbar’s Planet, the wheels of justice grind slowly.”

Danny scowled and his tone was sarcastic. 

“I was asking you to give me a date and time, Mister Rock.” He turned his back on his visitor.  “Where’s Kirk? Why didn’t he come himself?”

“Captain Kirk is . . . on assignment. He sent me in his stead.”

Danny wheeled around again.

“Guess I know how important I am to him. He sends his flunky to give me a geography lesson.”

Spock’s chin lifted with the slightest indignation.

“My duties aboard the Enterprise comprise both those of first officer and science officer—”           

“And bodyguard. You’d better get going, Spock. If he didn’t have you to save his butt, he’d be dead ten times already.”

“And vice versa, Mister Kelny.”

A deafening howling suddenly sounded. Danny’s hands went to his ears. Even Spock cringed a little.

“That is my presence having set off the intruder alarms—finally. Deny you have seen me and they will likely think it is equipment malfunction, which is not far from the truth.” Spock opened his communicator. “Spock to transporter. One to—”

“Mister Spock!” Danny spoke up suddenly. He looked anxious, or was it just plain scared? “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to call you a flunky. Tell gold shirt . . . tell Jim to visit me again when he has time. You can come, too.”

“I would be glad to relay that message.” Spock paused. “I believe that the captain would also wish me to convey another message to you, Mister Kelny.” Danny saw that his stern face softened a little. “Do not lose faith.” Then Spock spoke into his communicator. “Mister Scott, one to beam up.”

And he was gone.

****

The chief engineer could do no wrong.

He materialized an unshaven, disguised James Kirk dressed in layers of plain brown cloaks directly into the Dirac captain’s dingy, but empty quarters. Immediately, Kirk attempted to break into the ship’s computer and failed. He hadn’t expected to gain access, but he had to try. Too bad he hadn’t had time to brush up on Orion command-bar interface symbols.

He left the cabin and ran smack into a startled, leather-bound soldier and caught him in the chin with an open palm with all his weight behind it. The man fell to the floor, and he jumped over the body without a backward glance. Hugging the dark walls, he slipped down the cramped, low corridor, past the narrow turbolift, and ducked around a corner into an access shaft lined with rusty metal rungs. He climbed down quickly to the last level and leaned his shoulder into the heavy metal hatch. It opened with a dungeon-like creak.

Needs lubricant, he thought. He looked around. A little light wouldn’t hurt either. From below one of the several layers he was wearing, he pulled out a hand-light and pointed it around the space. He was definitely in one of the lower cargo holds, surrounded by barrels, hampers, and crates, all stacked haphazardly, all made from the same blue-grey implosion-proof plastic composite material. The more he moved the light, the more he realized that the containers were large, some larger than he was. Behind him, a conveyor belt, the length of the far wall, stood empty and silent, disappearing into another compartment. Waving the light overhead, he saw a sizable mechanical arm attached to a crane, long enough to swing over the boxes, clamp on, and load them onto the belt. The crane, too, stood silent.

He moved up to the closest crate, half his height in all directions, pulled out his tricorder, and tried to scan it. A life form registered on the instrument. Not human. Bird or reptile maybe. He touched the crate and followed the form of it around to the other side. There was a raised surface, like writing, and he could read the warnings ‘This Side Up’ and ’Contents are Alive/Beware when Opening’ in Andorian. The crate lid could be sprung from the top, but the tricorder also registered working equipment and a heavy element of an oxygen-nitrogen mixture inside. It dawned on him that this crate was double walled with portable life-support for atmosphere, water, and food. Whatever this box contained could last awhile inside.

He kept moving and found another crate, this one half-again as large. He found the same wording on the outside, only in Standard, Andorian—and oddly, it looked like Pidgin French. He scanned the contents and the tricorder registered another life reading.

Kirk gasped. The readings were human. He turned quickly and scanned another crate. “Animal, a wild dog perhaps. Then another. Human. A fourth. Human.

He pulled out his communicator. “Scotty!” he whispered. “I need McCoy down here.”

After a moment's silence, there was a response. “I’m on my way, Jim,” came the doctor’s solid voice. In seconds, the doctor, also in common Orion clothing, transported down beside him.  McCoy scrunched low near the captain. “Are you all right, Jim?”

“Never mind me. There are human beings inside these crates. I’ve found three so far. I need you to perform the quickest medical exams of your life. We have to get them out of here right now.” He looked around and muttered a question mostly to himself. “Why haven’t the intruder alarms gone off?”

“Could be, they’re not expecting a break in.”

Kirk stood up.

“I’m going to phaser these lids and when they pop, unless nothing on this ship works properly, this room is going to light up like heaven."     

McCoy only half-heard him. He was scanning the crates, trying desperately to assess the condition of their contents.

“Ready, Bones?”

“Ready.”

Kirk found the lock mechanism, aimed his phaser, and fired. There was a loud pop, a hiss as lock absorbers slowly lifted, extending the exterior lids.  Kirk reached in, found the handle to the interior box, turned it, and pulled. It, too, rose up slowly, yielding to McCoy’s frantic push. McCoy jumped over the side and hunched down within the crate. He found a coiled up, naked man inside.

Kirk grabbed for his communicator. “Scotty, does Sulu have the Curie at the rendezvous point?”

“That he does, sir,” Scotty responded.

“Then get ready,” Kirk instructed.

“Aye, sir. On your order.”

McCoy stabilized the half-conscious man with tri-ox and a massive dose of water-soluble nutrients. Quickly, Kirk moved to the next crate, followed by a spry McCoy.

At that instant, strobe lights came on and they could hear ugly sirens in the background. The conveyer belt lurched forward and the crane came alive.  Over their heads, the crane methodically hoisted blue cargo cubes, like a massive hand moves giant chess pieces, onto the belt. Undistracted, Kirk went to the second crate, blew the top cover, and dislodged the inner lid. It, too, popped open with a hiss. McCoy was right behind him. This box contained a long-haired young woman, her limp right leg bloody and torn.  She looked up at him with huge, pleading eyes. Kirk pulled layers of material over his head and threw them over her. He ran back to the third crate and with McCoy discovered another unconscious man. Kirk left that man to McCoy and scanned the rest of the room for other human readings. There were none.

The crane caught the top of this last crate and slammed down the lid, nearly taking McCoy’s arm. It lifted the box into the air.

“Four to beam out of here. Now Scotty!”

The transporter caught the three crates, including the one in the crane’s jaws, and Leonard McCoy and took them all away. As Orion sentries burst into the room, they saw the remaining civilian and rushed him, yelling and waving their weapons. Kirk punched the first one hard in the face, then shoved the next one to take out the third.

“I’m ready now, Scotty,” he said with total assurance. And he, too, disappeared.

****           

“We’re beyond Dunbar’s orbital space, Captain, and have been for over two hours per your orders.”

Scott met Kirk in the transporter room, accompanied him to his quarters where he exchanged his disguise for his captain’s uniform, then moved with him through the ship up to the bridge. Spock slipped out of the center seat and let Kirk take over.

“Location of Curie and Martel, Mister Spock?”

“Mister Sulu has concluded Curie’s last ‘test’ run and is returning to the Enterprise. Martel is 30,000 kilometers beyond the last planet, Vilroy VIII, clearly outside Dunbar’s planetary space lanes and influence.”

“Captain, Dunbar government is hailing us,” Uhura said. Kirk nodded for her to make the connection.

A government agent’s stern face filled the forward screen.

“I am Joseph Blastic, head of Dunbar space port security. Captain Kirk of the Enterprise, space dock reports a high-level break in and the theft of valuable private property this morning from the Orion cargo freighter Dirac.”

“That’s too bad,” Kirk sympathized, seemingly. 

“We consider this a major security breach, and we are recalling all off-world vessels return to port.”

 Kirk’s voice held the edge of indignation. “As you requested, the Enterprise left your planetary space and has been outside this space for several hours.”

“We must inspect all ships recently leaving the planet. Please return.”

“Sorry, Mister Blastic, but we’re stuck out here. Engine trouble again. However, I can assure you, upon my word as captain of the Enterprise, that we have not taken on any cargo from Dunbar’s Planet.”

“We register recent transporter activity as well as extraneous craft activity.”

“Routine testing.”

“Captain, what do you know about a second Federation ship just outside our system?”

“A second ship? Hard to say. Maybe she’s simply intercepted letters to the folks back home describing Dunbar’s Planet as a shore leave paradise.  At least it has been for me.”

“And what is the relationship between your transporter activity and the second ship?”

“If you’re asking if we used our transporter to beam Dirac cargo directly from the planet to the second Federation ship, No, we did not. Federation transporters aren’t technically capable of covering that distance. Now if that answers your question, I must get back to my duties, which include leaving this system completely.”

“Captain, I demand to know the reason the second ship is in our solar system!”

“I’ll investigate, Mister Blastic. Kirk out.”

As Uhura cut off the channel, Kirk and Scotty sighed with relief. “Any word from McCoy?” Kirk asked over his shoulder.

She nodded.

“Doctor McCoy and three humans were beamed directly from the Dirac to the Curie and from there to the Martel. All safely, sir.”

****

“Captain, another incoming transmission from the planet, sir.”

Kirk sat up straight in his chair. “Forward screen, Lieutenant.” A plain-looking man in a plain-looking business suit appeared. He was definitely a civilian.

“Captain Kirk, my name is Linden Lind. I’m the manager of the United Bank of the City of New South Shwa, center court branch. You asked to be informed when the account you set up was claimed. Danilo Kelny was here an hour ago.”

Kirk jumped to the edge of his seat. “An hour ago? I said I wanted to be informed when he was in the bank.”

The officious man looked peeved. “We cannot be expected to drop what we are doing when other customers are waiting. I am informing you now.”

Kirk closed his eyes in frustration.

“Did Danny Kelny indicate where he was going, Mister Lind?”

“I have no idea, Captain.”

“Of course not.” You idiot. “Thank you for your report.”

“One last item, Captain.”

“What is it, Mister Lind?”

“Your account balance is zero.”

Kirk whirled his chair, glared at Uhura, and sliced his hand across his throat in total frustration. She cut off the image on the screen with a jab of one well-manicured finger.

“Lieutenant, I need to speak to the police commissioner now.” He let the chair carry him back to center again.

“Aye, sir.” She turned and in less than a minute, Ohmly Cashion’s disdainful face filled the front view screen.

“Captain Kirk,” he said without care.

Kirk stood up walking along Sulu’s console.

“Did you allow Danny Kelny to break out of jail, Mister Cashion?”

“He was released this morning per Judge Barron’s order. I thought you knew.”

“How the hell would I know that?” Kirk snapped through clenched teeth. “And what of Dost, Commissioner?” He knew in his gut it all about the boy.

Cashion heard the reprimand in Kirk’s tone; his face grew cold. “Dokarto al Dost has also been released. It was an administrative accident, I assure you.”

“You mean he didn’t have to kill anyone.”  Kirk went back to his chair, sat on the edge and rubbed his chin. “Someone on your payroll is working for Dost.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, I think so. Both Dost and Danny out at the same time. How convenient for that maniac.” Kirk squinted at the screen in disgust. “We have to find that boy before Dost does or Dost will kill him. Give me the frequency of the transceiver he’d got in his arm.”

“How do you know—”

“Just give it to me.”

Cashion turned his head and muttered something to a woman in uniform. “Here, Captain. It’s yours.”

“Kirk out.” The screen went blank.

"Mister Sulu, take us back to Dunbar. Just within transporter range. No closer."

"Aye, sir."  Sulu ignited the impulse engines.

Minutes later, Uhura nodded and sent the transceiver information to Spock’s station. Once the ship had returned to Dunbar space, Spock set the scanner for widespread over the 25 square mile city and waited. In moments, he lifted his brow, followed by his head.

“Sensors are picking up a duplicate frequency in the wide grid, but not in the limited range. As I narrow the search, the frequency locator loses its ability to pick up the unit location.”

“Why is that happening?”

“The transceiver may be intermittently inoperative, or it may be subject to local interference. I suspect the latter.” When something caught his eye, he bent down again. “The frequency in the wide grid has disappeared.” Spock bent still closer to the scanner eyepiece. He lifted his head. “Sensor location has changed, in a southwestern direction.”

“They’re on the move,” Kirk said, biting his lip. “He’s got him. He’s on to us. He’s using some sort of electro-magnetic field to jam the frequency.” Kirk’s face turned fiercely intelligent. He looked at his first officer. “Spock, show me a map of the city with the location of this signal in relation to the location where you found me.”

The front screen immediately showed a city street view and two blinking lights, one stationary and one clearly moving away from the other. Kirk frowned and shook his head. “That’s not right. This won’t work.” He rubbed his chin.  “Could the sensors pick up another kind of ‘fingerprint’? Say a DNA reading.”

“We do not have a sample of Danny’s DNA,” Spock replied.

“Not Danny’s. Dost’s.”

Spock raised a brow of approval at Kirk’s logic. “Only from close range, Captain.”

Kirk rose from his chair. It gave him an odd, raw feeling that the sensor blip was moving away from Holetown, as if this were a trick on his intellect at the expense of his intuition. All at once, he understood that he wouldn’t be needing the sensor or the maps any longer. Dost had removed the transceiver from Danny’s arm and was using a decoy to move the signal away from their location. But it was only part of the game. To intrigue him. And it was working all too well.

Dost, you bastard, you know the best place to hide, the worst for me to follow. You bastard.  He thought of Cashion, a second bastard from a planet full of them.

“Spock, never mind the grid sensor. Organize a landing party consisting of Doctor McCoy, Lieutenant Uhura, and Lieutenant Sulu.”

Uhura spoke up. “Captain, Mister Cashion is signaling that if you return to the surface, he expects to receive your landing coordinates.”

“Forget it, Lieutenant.”

A poor bluff, but one that had him going for a while.

“Shwa is a large city, Captain,” Spock offered.

“I know where’s he’s going, Mister Spock. I know exactly.”

As the screen went blank, Kirk notified Engineer Scott to halt any engineering test or overhaul procedures and to take the warp engines from their standby status. He shot a glance at Spock who stood at attention facing him, though Kirk thought he could see dread in the stiffness of his spine.

The captain said as nonchalantly as he could, “You have the conn, Mister Spock.” But as soon as it came out of his mouth, Spock was coming towards him.

“Captain, I request that I be allowed to accompany you.”

“Denied. I need you up here.”

“You need me down there, Jim.”

Kirk could see the others waiting for him in the turbo.

“Dammit, Spock,” he muttered through a clenched jaw. “Can’t you see that the last thing I need is to take you back down there with me? To see you in that place.”

Surely it would break my concentration and, most certainly, my heart.

Spock’s tone was Vulcan forceful yet colored with the human hint of pleading. 

“Jim, he is extremely dangerous. Do not allow what happened months ago to cloud your professional judgment. I do not need protection.”

Kirk’s eyes flashed. “But It do?”

“Yes, most certainly. The circumstances may be emotionally and physically overwhelming.”

Only for that bastard Dost, the captain’s mind spat up like a launched torpedo. Now Kirk was in the first officer’s face, though his voice was low and in its lowness, effectively powerful.

“You will remain on-board the Enterprise in command, Mister Spock. If it’s the last order I ever give you, you will obey it.”

Spock backed down immediately, his brown eyes bolted to the floor. “Understood, Captain.”

Kirk took one step backwards and turned to leave. What could he say to make this any easier? Dost was down there. It was his fight. Spock had already saved him once, but he had undermined Spock’s saving act with his own acts of barbarism and self-loathing. Now only he could save himself again. Beaming down to Dunbar’s Planet would be his last, best shot at redemption. Perhaps his only shot. He had to try or hate himself for the rest of his life.

“Captain Kirk,” called the deep voice, like black velvet sometimes. Kirk turned around slowly dreading the next words from Spock’s mouth: reprimand cloaked in ruthless logic, half-concealed plea, or steely-eyed, dead-on airtight put-down? Their eyes met and locked.

“This could be our last time together in this place, Jim. Do not depart from me in anger.”

Kirk swallowed hard, trying to clear his near-closed throat. He glanced around the bridge, at the people who so diligently monitored their consoles and not their commanding officers.

“No, of course not, Mister Spock. I don’t want that either.” He smiled warmly at Spock and at the conciliation the first officer engendered. “But I have no intention of having this be the last time I find myself on the bridge of the Enterprise. I promise you that.”

He deliberately walked back to the turbo lift, knowing that he was making a lot of promises these days. He hoped like hell he could keep them all.   

Chapter Text

The landing party materialized in a vacant lot at the corner of a busy street, and Kirk found himself looking to see if he recognized anything familiar in the brick, two-story warehouses and shabby store fronts. Though the party from the starship had arrived only a block from the infamous dark building from Kirk’s memory, the images, in the late afternoon sun, did not correspond to the nightmarish blur of lights, sounds, and pain that he remembered from that night over three months ago.

Standing beside Kirk, McCoy focused the tricorder in his hand, turning 360 degrees till the two readings from the computer database and Dost’s DNA matrix converge. “That way, Jim,” McCoy motioned.

A beat-up squad car pulled up behind them and Ohmly Cashion and two beefy policemen stepped out. They joined the Starfleet landing party, Cashion muttering under his breath.

“I knew the kid would flush him out.”

The doctor and captain looked at each other in astonishment.

“What’s that?” McCoy snapped at Cashion.

Kirk balked at the policeman’s remark and grabbed the front of Cashion’s uniform. “You sonofabloodworm.”

“I let the kid go and Dost took the bait.” Cashion pulled himself roughly from Kirk’s grip. “We’ve been tailing them all day.” He ignored the fact that the Enterprise team had arrived there before him. “Now we’ll get him back and shut down his operation, too.”

“All that talk about transceivers— Dammit, you’ve put that boy in great danger!” McCoy was sputtering in rage. “Cashion, Dost is a psychopath! It’s unconscionable—”

Cashion shook the doctor off.

“Shut up. I’m not interested in what you two think of my methods. I’m only interested in getting Dost, and I’m going to get him now. Since you’re here, I want you to stay out of my way.” The policeman frowned when he picked up a voice, holding more than a hint of Southern sarcasm, mutter “go screw yourself,” before moving out of hearing range.

Furious, Captain Kirk moved on ahead. He had his own reasons for wanting Dost. Better reason than Cashion or the law could ever have.

****

The street in front of The Block was busy, busier than Kirk ever imagined it would be, full of slow-moving vehicles and sullen crowds loitering in store fronts, all needing to make a quick drug sale or a desperate purchase. There was no ground-to-air traffic to quicken the pace, and if people talked at all, they muttered nose-to-ear, as though afraid cogs lurked around every corner, within every group.

“Is this it?” Kirk asked McCoy, who was still reading his tricorder.

McCoy shot him a glance that said, Don’t you know? But obviously Kirk didn’t quite recognize the exact place. McCoy wondered what was going through the captain’s mind, wondered what he remembered, how much he chose not to.

“According to Spock, this is it.”

It was a gray-brown masonry building with three narrow nondescript dark windows across the second story and a stoop leading up to a single weathered wooden door. The door was narrow, wide enough to admit one person at a time, and bolted with three cast-iron locks. Kirk stepped up to it and phasered off the locks with a single stroke, and he wondered how people got in or out of the place. Perhaps it was empty. But McCoy was getting many life readings.

The moment Kirk stepped inside, flashes and fragments of memory and pain slapped him hard. The acrid smell of the place was instantly recognizable, along with the darkness and smoke. Three Starfleet officers and two policemen moved along the long, dingy hallway, following Kirk, who walked with his phaser pistol drawn, its setting on heavy stun. He didn’t want to kill anyone.

Well, maybe one.

In seconds—after their first glimpse and initial revulsion of this disgusting place with its filthy floors and oily black walls—Uhura and Sulu slipped ahead of Kirk, peering into each room first before the captain got to it, wanting to protect him both bodily and psychologically from the ugly sights and sounds, from anyone lurking in the dark to harm him. Without Spock, they knew they had been entrusted with the captain’s life and would gladly place themselves between any danger and Kirk, or die trying. Neither wanted to imagine the horror of having to explain to the first officer that they had failed to prevent the captain’s injury or death.

But Kirk didn’t push ahead again; in a small part of his mind he was grateful for their protection.

Suddenly, a crackling sound system popped to life.

“Captain Kirk, I’m surprised to see you here,” came a scratchy, amplified voice. “I thought for sure you’d send a delegation in your place. You’re certainly the brave one, but then that’s what everyone expects, isn’t it? Anybody less brave . . . well, he’d let us be.”

Kirk called out, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Let you be . . . a loving father to Danny?”

“Not father, Kirk,” came the disembodied words.  “But I can be loving.”

“I’ve been the recipient of that love, Dost.” A chill of hatred like winter moved down Kirk’s spine.  “It’s vicious and it nearly killed me.  I won’t let you rape a helpless boy and call it love.”

Sulu and Uhura exchanged horrified glances, and McCoy was amazed that the captain would speak of the incident in front of two members of the bridge crew. If Uhura had suspicions before, they were verified now, McCoy thought. He heard her gasp beside him. Sulu’s face held the look of total dismay.

“I’m on my way, Dost,” Kirk pushed on. “I expect you to be waiting—with Danny.”

“Whatever you say, little captain,” Dost said smugly. “But, let me warn you, you’re playing with something very hot.  Something that will burn you.” There was a chuckle before the throaty static. “Could be you’re playing with fire.”

Ignoring the warning, they moved ahead slowly, carefully, first Uhura and then Sulu popping into each room, looking for weapons, rousing the people who lay there smoking or sleeping. There were no weapons, and as soon as they left, the customers settled again, as though Starfleet and police uniforms and drawn phasers meant nothing and only alcohol or diamond dust or cig-highs or uppers or lowers meant anything real. Like mud, they oozed back into the same positions as they had been found.

As Uhura and Sulu moved stealthily ahead, a bright white light caught Kirk’s eye and he turned obliquely from them down a short hallway towards a wide concrete room. He squinted and looked around. It wasn’t a real room at all, had never been one, just two high-plain walls, like a theater set, placed at right angles in a much larger open space. Overhead the open ceiling revealed wooden rafters, and there were pieces of long, gauzy cloths hanging from the rafters and other interior walls, like drapery, sadly drooping from soot and stench.

As his eye grew accustomed to the lesser light, Kirk was amazed at the amount of people he could suddenly make out, all silently nodding off, almost like bronze statues or tri-D sculptures. And there was garbage everywhere: faded newspapers, empty liquor bottles, food wrappers, cigarette butts, scraps of clothing, rugs and blankets. Adjacent light and smoke were coming from single low-watt incandescent bulbs, small candles, and oil-burning lamps. He stepped over a couple of bodies and watched McCoy stoop down to see if they still breathed.

But the white light drew him ahead.  It was brilliant and focused straight at him, and he remembered it vividly, remembered how surreal it had made everything seem. In that pure white light, even hurtful things like cuts, welts, and bruises became colorful, shining visions, pulsing with life. He remembered how he had actually seen the green specs in Dost’s aquamarine eyes, the blue and fuchsia of his tattoos, the pink-purple of the scars on his chest, his veins, the red of his blood. All the colors, both pretty and painful. And this pure luminosity, bright as lightning, made everything super-real again, drawing him ahead, compelling him to follow the blazing, beckoning light.

“Captain Kirk,” came the deep voice again.  “You’ve brought so many people with you. Bodyguards, even the local police. Where’s the dark one who saved you before? I hope nothing bad has happened to him.”  The eyes behind the voice could see astonishment on Kirk’s face at the memories they shared. He knew what Kirk was thinking. “It’s compelling, isn’t it? This place. The things that happen here.”

Yes, Kirk remembered that indeed he had been in this exact white-hot place before, in bitter loneliness, with Dost, and then with Spock; when his eye caught the shining braid on his left wrist, he remembered the details of how he had come to be here again. Another trap set.

“You lured me back to Dunbar’s Planet, Dost, and now you’ve used Danny to lure me here.”

There was a moment’s pause as though the body behind the voice gave a knowing, disparaging shrug. "I have people who want you. Still.”

“What people?”

“People with money who want what money can’t buy.”

 Kirk raised his voice slightly. “Sick people who want to dominate.”

“You’re Starfleet. You want to dominate.”

“No, I don’t. I want to lead.”

“Give orders. Make people give you their minds and bodies. There’s no difference really.”

“There is a difference. I don’t want to hurt them.”

“You’re saying that we hurt you?” True amazement colored Dost’s voice, as though Kirk were accusing him of something impossible. “That’s not what happened. We made you strong. The strongest you’ve ever been.”

“Is that what you think I am?”

“I know one thing, little captain: if I’m the one who hurt you, then only I can comfort you now. You know it, too. That’s why you’re here. Send all these extra people away and let me comfort you like I know you know I can.”

Kirk shadowed his eyes with his hand.  How different this man seemed from the man Spock had killed here. That man was an inarticulate brute, who only spoke with his fists; this one seemed thoughtful, eerily sinister, a man who could torture just with words. For the moment, something compelled Kirk to know more about him, what ominous current pulled the two of them together.  Was it only greed and revenge between them, or a greater need to control and corrupt one another: Dost to oppression, Kirk to justice? Then the captain remembered that this was not just about the two of them. Not anymore.

“Tell me why you’re kidnapping all these people,” he demanded. “It’s not like they’re of galactic importance. They’re only important to their art or a few half-dozen worlds. Even starship captains can be replaced.”

Dost paused, as though distracted.

“To show them how unimportant they are.”

Kirk bit the inside of his lip hard and wondered why this place made him want to hurt himself.

“I got the message, Dost.”

“You didn’t get the message, Captain, or you wouldn’t be here now.  You still think you and your pretty uniform and your shiny starship and your galactic space fleet can defeat one dirty, stupid slaver. You still think you can have what you want when you want it because you’re so goddamn important. But you can’t. Because you’re not.”

“And you are.”

“It’s obvious. You’ve come to ask me for what I have.”

Impatiently, Kirk squinted into the light. “Come out where I can see you, Dost.”

A wedge-like muscular figure in a leather vest stepped in front of the light source, slicing it in two. “I’d love for you to see me.”

Suddenly, Ohmly Cashion pushed forward, weapon drawn.

“Dokarto al Dost, you are under arrest for the kidnapping and sale of Vilroy and Federation citizens. All property here and in the connected compound is hereby seized by my authority as police commissioner.  If you have weapons, throw them down and come with me.” He stepped towards the light.

Kirk reached out to stop him, but a single shot—like a gunpowder-propelled bullet—dropped the policeman in mid-step. They all heard Dost laugh. McCoy jumped forward, ran his med-scanner over the fallen man, and touched his throat.

“For the love of heaven, Jim, he’s dead.” There was real fear in his voice. The shot had come from overhead.

Kirk dropped to one knee beside Cashion’s body. Peering up, he could see several men with weapons crouched on wooden catwalks between the rafters. Disgust in his stance, he stood up and angrily reset his phaser to the kill setting.

“You ambush another one of my people, Dost, and I’ll make sure you’re number three.”

What did he care if Kirk knew of their ties?

“That double-crossing cog’s talk of jail didn’t sit well with me.”

“I don’t give a shimmering shit.” The captain had already made the connection between Cashion and Dost. “I only came for Danny. Where is he?”

Kirk took another step forward. When Dost did not reply, the captain called out the boy’s name. He heard the sounds of a muffled cry come from behind Dost. He took two more steps forward.

“Jim!” McCoy tried to stop him with his voice.

“Stay put, Bones,” Kirk said. “Keep everyone behind me!”

Then he moved forward at an angle, towards the concrete wall so that he wasn’t moving directly into the light. His shadow shifted to the right, and he recognized this part of the room as the place where he had been chained, where Spock had found him.

A dark stain dragged his vision to the floor, and he stared at it, a brown, scuffed splash of old blood. In the light, the brown splash turned vivid red  and wet, and James Kirk became lost in that spot. He hesitated, white light chaining him alive in that room.

Now Dost also moved to that part of the room, within four feet of the transfixed man.  Even with a focused scowl on his face, James Kirk was, for any slave trader, a sight to behold. Dost wanted to reach out, to touch this perfect man, but forced his fist, trembling slightly, to remain at his side. Though distracted, the young captain still gripped a fully charged phaser.

“It’s too bad he let you get away,” Dost said, speaking of his other self.  “We could have made you . . . made so much money from you. So many would have paid.”

Kirk heard the vulgarity in the unspoken words and pulled his eyes from the floor. “I doubt it. Your double was killing me.”

“Unfortunately, he and I had a philosophical difference about that. He was highly motivated by his own immediate needs. I am governed more by . . . profit.” A small lie. Now Dost inched closer to the captain. “Again unfortunately, he purchased you directly and shared you only out of the goodness of his heart.”

Not wanting to hear another lascivious word, Kirk demanded again, “Where’s Danny?’

“Ahead. Waiting for us.”

Kirk pushed forward into the brilliant whiteness. His hand went up across his squinting eyes. “Will you turn that goddamn light off before I shoot it off!”

Dost laughed deep in his throat.

“I like the light. It makes everything—especially you, my sweet-assed captain—so fucking pretty. Besides, you don’t know where our little boy is. He could be sitting directly where you’re shooting. No accidents now.”

Kirk had thoroughly lost his patience. “Well, I don’t like it and I don’t like you!”

With fierce agility, he reared back and threw his entire boy forward into the punch. He hit Dost square in the face and the man staggered backwards. The captain recovered, called to McCoy, and ran past the off-balance man towards a back room. He paused long enough to shoot out the brutal flood lamp and another that beat down from overhead. Everything went pitch black, then merely dim as eerie smears of angry candle glow and shafts from single incandescent bulbs cut deep pools through the dark.

Struggling to see, they found Danny shirtless and barefoot, bound and gagged, in one of the back rooms. In seconds, McCoy was scanning him.

"He’s pumped full of a half-dozen different poisons, Jim.”

“Whatever happens, Bones, get him out of here.”

McCoy heard the order and nodded, frantically untying the boy. He set his hypo for a precise stimulant and pressed the sprayer to the boy’s throat.

Behind them, they could hear gunshots and phaser fire. And yelling. Kirk turned to see Dost loom over him, rotate him roughly, knock the phaser out of his hand, and hit him hard in the stomach. McCoy threw himself over the boy. Kirk fell backwards, across McCoy’s back and onto the floor. He scrambled to his feet.

“Get him out of here, Bones!”

Kirk rushed Dost with all his strength, pushing him away from McCoy and Danny towards the open area. It was a dog fight now, Kirk’s fury aiding his speed and strength against the taller, heavier man. Dost returned Kirk’s blows three for one, smacking the side of his head, staggering the captain. But Kirk rushed Dost again, rising into the air and smashing both feet flat into Dost’s chest.

Dost landed hard against a table. Bottles crashed and broke. Oil lamps shattered, splashing fuel around their feet. Dost rose, snarling, grabbed Kirk by the shirt, and threw him half-way across the room. Tables chairs, and candles went flying. Behind Dost, Kirk saw McCoy, Danny limping beside him. The captain gathered himself up.

“You bastard,” he shouted, mostly as a diversion. “It’s a different story when you’re up against a grown man who’s not drugged into a stupor! I’m going to wipe the walls with you!”

A sudden burst of yellow-orange flame shot up one of the hanging drapes behind them. Kirk could hear yelling from above. There was beginning to be smoke. But Dost was not the least bit affected by this little captain’s threats. Reaching forward, he grabbed Kirk’s arm, spun him, and kicked him hard in the back. Whirling around, Kirk came forward with a fury, punching Dost three times in the face with every ounce of his strength and rage. Their battle was taking them farther into the interior of the building.

Danny Kelny suddenly staggered towards them from out of the smoke.

“Let him go.” He pulled hard at Dost’s arm. “Let’s get out of here! I want to go with you!”

Dost shoved the boy back. “I have business with him!”

“He’s not important! Let’s go! Don’t you want me?”

Dost’s eyes narrowed and his mouth formed a cruel line. “Want you, you little pissant? Can’t you see I want him!”

Dost pushed Danny hard, and the boy staggered, then crashed to the floor. He found Kirk’s phaser pistol, picked it up, and hauled himself to his feet. Dost had Kirk by the shirt and was pummeling him again. Danny pointed the phaser at Dost’s head.

“I said let him go!”

Now the boy had Dost’s attention, and the bigger man loosened his grip on the gold velour shirt.

“Danny.” It was Kirk’s voice.

“Shut up! I’m going to kill him.”

Danny gripped the phaser with both hands and straightened and locked his arms, the boy face to face with the man. “Don’t ever push me away!”

“You little piece of street trash!” Dost spat. He stepped away from Kirk. Danny moved with him, keeping the same distance and deadly aim. As Danny’s back turned, Kirk reached around and, with a snap, jerked the phaser out of the boy’s grip.

“Jim!” McCoy yelled, rushing back. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t hold on to him—”

Kirk grabbed the boy’s thin arm and shoved him hard in the doctor’s direction. “Dammit, Bones! Knock him out if you have to!”

“You’re both bastards!” Danny was screaming now. “All you do is use me! I hate the two of you!” But he had no fight left as McCoy took hold of him again.  Like ghosts, they disappeared into the smoke, out of Kirk’s peripheral vision and concern.

The captain took direct aim at Dost again. He wanted to pull the trigger, blast this hateful man straight to hell, but something strong wouldn’t let him perform this last act of separation, this final execution. He started to speak, to order Dost to surrender, when the weapon flew away from him like it had a life of its own. Utterly startled, he gasped at his empty, stinging hand.

Dost laughed at the amazingly accurate shot from above. And then he lunged again.

****

Uhura and Sulu had been pinned down momentarily by the overhead snipers. Uhura picked off one of the men who bounced unceremoniously off a table near the dogfight. Sulu took a bullet in the shoulder, but, through a haze of pain, still had the presence of mind to aim and fire his phaser, eliminating the sniper. In his rush, McCoy could see the blood on Sulu’s sleeve, but Sulu seemed able to walk and there was another sudden, more odious threat. The place was on fire. Smoke thickened the shafts of light, and burning flecks suddenly fell like bright orange snow onto their shoulders and into their hair.

“Come on,” McCoy pushed. “Let’s get out of here now!”

“The captain!” Uhura started to turn back, unwilling to leave without Kirk.    

“He’ll be all right,” McCoy said, grabbing her quickly. “We’ve got orders to leave. Come on! This place is on fire and there’s only one way out!”  Behind them someone screamed, and a body aflame rushed past them, a running torch.

Even through his pain, Sulu didn’t want to go either, but the doctor was insistent, physically pushing them down the long hallway himself. All Sulu could think of was the captain and Dost fighting like crazy men back there. Surely they’d have sense enough to call a truce in order to escape. 

Danny sagged against the doctor but managed to stay on his feet. McCoy kept pushing, herding Danny, Sulu and Uhura and now a few odd bodies who had staggered out of the side rooms ahead of them.

“Fire!” Uhura yelled, going into each room, trying desperately to awaken the sleepers. “Get up! Get out! Follow me!” It was like trying to rouse the dead. Everyone moved in slow motion as the hallway steadily filled with acrid deadly smoke.

Uhura was frantic to get people out.  If she couldn’t help the captain, she focused on these poor unfortunate souls who would die in the flames or from smoke inhalation without her help. She literally pulled them to their feet, pushed them into the hallway, and pointed them to the outside. She went back for several more, pulling and pushing two and three at a time. When some of them turned in confusion, she had to follow them, yelling, turning them around, picking them up as they staggered, knees buckling in their chemical stupors.

At the far end of the hallway, Sulu, his bad arm pressed to his side, shoved people out the door with his good arm. He could see Uhura wending her way back towards the smoke and fire.

“Uhura! Don’t go back!” he called. He could not see the tears streaming down her face from the smoke, but he could sense the fear—not for herself, but for the captain—that tore at her with every step. “He’s right behind you,” Sulu lied. “Come on!”

She couldn’t see a thing, and the smoke was a dense gray wall followed by another impenetrable wall of orange flame. Everything was catching fire—the old wooden furniture, the scraps of rugs, the rafters, the thin walls made of dry wood and paper. She could hear the pop-pop of gas canisters of drugs exploding like old-fashioned corn kernels. In her heart, she wanted to keep going, to find Jim Kirk and drag him out; in her mind, she knew she had to retreat. She turned towards Sulu and ran.

****

“Mister Spock,” It was Lieutenant Perry at Sulu’s station. “Sensors are picking up an unusual heat build-up at the captain’s coordinates. I think the building’s on fire.”

Spock turned the center seat towards Lieutenant Olivia Suarez at Uhura’s station. “Verify that, Lieutenant.”

She deftly tied their communications link to the Shwa City central computer index. Breaking into city services communications was easy. “Verified, Mister Spock. Local emergency authorities have been alerted for a three-alarm incident.”

No one on the bridge knew exactly what that meant except that it didn’t sound good. Spock pushed the button to speak with transporter room one. “Lock onto the captain’s coordinates, Mister Kyle.”

Seconds later, Kyle said nothing.

“Mister Kyle.”

“Sir! I’m having trouble locking onto the captain. His life-signs are fluctuating erratically, and his primary pattern is inextricably joined with a second pattern.”

"Fire suppression units have arrived, Mister Spock,” Suarez reported.

“Sensors estimate temperatures in parts of the building to be 255 degrees Fahrenheit and rising.”

“Beam both parties up, Mister Kyle, now. Security, meet me in transporter room one.”

Spock was on his feet. “You have the conn, Mister Perry.”

****

Even at Spock’s arrival, the transporter pads were empty. Kyle, his brows furrowed with concentration, was resetting the controls. “I missed them somehow the first time, Mister Spock,” he said without looking up. “There’s gross interference at the signal ground source. I just can’t lock onto them.”

“Boosting the overlay grid pattern should stabilize the bi-synchronous beam for ten point five seconds,” Spock said, without physically interfering. “Enough time to bring them in. If you reconfigure the captain’s pattern with reciprocal data from his beam-down and double the number of grid points, the auxiliary pattern should transport with him.”

“Yes, sir.” Kyle punched up new figures, reset the grid, and then pushed the levers down.

They heard the whine of the beam as it caught, wavered, faded for several seconds, then suddenly stabilized and held. Tense moments later, two bodies sprawled across the pads, Dost on top of the captain, his hands around the captain’s throat. Kirk’s face was purple. As soon as they materialized, Dost tightened his grip, but Kirk managed to get his knee between himself and Dost’s chest, and with a harsh groan shove the bigger man off.

Dost had quick reflexed, but Kirk’s reflexes were quicker; he scrambled frantically to get away from the heavy weight before it settled on him again. Fighting to win, Kirk stood over an off-balanced Dost, grabbed the front of his vest, drew back with everything he had, and socked Dost square across the face. Dost’s head snapped with the force of the blow. In a brash move, Kirk took two steps down to his first officer, snatched the phaser pistol from the Vulcan’s hip, and pointed it straight between Dost’s half-opened eyes.

“I told you to turn that goddamn light off!”

Like an unyielding phoenix, Dost rose unsteadily to his feet. He shook off the vicious blow and glared at Kirk who, even in his indignant fury, had started to sway from fatigue. As though he didn’t quite know how the weapon got into his hand, Kirk wavered and glanced down. In that instant, Dost reacted. He reached out, knocked Kirk’s shoulder hard, snatching him back up onto the transport pad. With a feral growl, Dost yanked the captain to his body, his forearms snaking around Kirk’s chest, steel fingers a vise around his chin. The phaser popped to the floor.

In stony, grim silence, First Officer Spock stooped down and calmly picked up the spinning phaser. With a lift of a dispassionate brow and a steady hand, he pointed it square at Dost.

Dost’s blue eyes blazed in the coldest fire. He neatly hoisted Kirk another inch off the floor.

“You take one step towards me, Vulcan, and as much I’d hate to, I’ll snap your pretty captain’s neck!”

Kirk struggled to find solid footing, balancing himself on the ball of one foot. He was too tired to be afraid.

“Don’t let that stop you, Spock,” he grunted. “He’ll do it anyway.”

Spock did not move forward, but defiantly raised his chin.

“That would be most unfortunate, Mister Dost. For the three of us.”

In reply, Dost pressed the captain closer to his body. Kirk’s eyes stayed with Spock, cautioning him to patience, knowing that with a lift of a brow or a blink of an eye they could communicate. Spock’s steady dark eyes never broke the link.

“It is a standoff then,” Spock said evenly. “If you do not break my captain’s neck, I shall not shoot you.”

“Beam us back down, Vulcan,” Dost commanded.

“A return to the fire would be unwise.  Another location perhaps?”

In a suffocating bearhug, Dost held Kirk tighter, his rough cheek against Kirk’s smooth one. He whispered seductively into the rounded ear, “But we’ve never left the fire, have we, little captain?” Yet his blue eyes, like pale flame gems, burned at Spock. “I told you to beam us down.”

Dost’s hot breath at his cheek made the hair on Kirk’s neck prickle in disgust. The remembered terror of Dunbar’s Planet pushed bile up in his throat, but he fought it away, determined to keep not only his head but his life.

Without warning, the corridor door opened to admit two security redshirts, their hand phasers drawn. At the sight of Dost holding the captain, they froze. At the sight of them, Dost, half-turned, pulling Kirk. Kirk’s eyes locked like tractor beams onto Spock’s. He opened his right hand, palm out, reaching for the weapon.

And Spock had seen Kirk’s terror barely held in check, but it was the captain’s terror. The logic of what happens, happens was irrefutable. Life or death for Dost was James Kirk’s decision now. This time he would not interfere. And First Officer Spock accepted the logic.

He rotated the phaser in his hand, widened his stance for balance, and tossed the weapon to the half-strangled Kirk. It arced across the distance between them and snapped as though magnetized to the captain’s right palm. In one fluid motion, Kirk moved the phaser across his body and pressed it into the notch under Dost’s ribs.

“Mister Spock never lies,” the captain snarled. “He told you he wouldn’t shoot you.”

Dost looked stunned, the phaser pushed into bone. He released the captain’s chin, then his chest, slipping away from Kirk’s body like a boa constrictor uncoils from an unsavory prey.

Kirk staggered down towards the transport console, his legs quivering so badly that his knees threatened to give out. Then something uncontrollable welled up in him, some black emotion scratching at his throat. He turned, pointing the phaser straight at Dost’s crotch. “I, on the other hand, would be happy to shoot your balls off.”

Lieutenant Kyle sent a quick Do-Something-Mister-Spock look at the first officer who stood solemnly beside the console. The Vulcan sensed Kyle’s dismay and glanced at him briefly.

“It is the captain’s call, Mister Kyle.”

Dost glowered at James Kirk, knowing that the location of the shot would be both symbolic and deadly.

“Then do it, little captain. Pull the trigger. Kill me dead before I kill you with a kiss!” He chuckled in contempt. “That’s what you think you want—to kill what there is between us.” He shook his head as though Kirk were a fool. “But remember, you had to come back to me to do that. Like all my grateful boys and girls, even the great Captain James Kirk came back.”

The vile words connected in Kirk’s mind like a slap, and Margo Peretti’s supposition: You find yourself in a room with Dost, what do you do? slammed into his brain. He wanted to answer that question with every ounce of hatred in him, with utter violence. Instead, First Officer Spock saw the captain do something he had never seen before. He saw the captain step up to the man and spit in his face.

“I came back all right. To show you the mercy you showed to me.”  With lightning speed, he kicked Dost between the legs and watched him fall as though he’d shot him dead. “That is, none at all.” Then he turned to the security guards. “Get him out of my sight! And you have standing orders to shoot him a piece at a time if he gives you any trouble.”

The security team lifted Dost under the arms, dragging the limp body out, and just as the moment turned to relief, it turned again to an even deeper violence. The door swished open, and the big man was up. A blade hidden in his boot appeared in his hand. There was a shout and a quick scuffle. Captain Kirk turned, his eyes wide.

As he fired the phaser, the blade, already loose from Dost’s hand, came streaking towards him. It hit the far wall and clanked to the floor. The clank was followed by a stunning silence.

****

Dokarto al Dost lay on his back, everyone in the transporter room staring at him as he was dying.

Unharmed, Captain Kirk went to him and knelt.  With effort, the downed man lifted his hand to the captain who stared at it for a moment before pressing the palm to his. He still wanted to know. His last chance to know.  He groped for the words and the complex emotions behind them.

“Why did you lure me back here?" Kirk asked. "Why couldn’t you just let me survive, let me get over it?”

Dost heard the questions, tried to smile. There was so little time how. He could feel the phaser wound eating his life away.

“It was you all along, little captain, who lured me here. You could have killed me down there.” He squeezed the flesh press to his, so alive, so strong. Like the two of them together. “But you couldn’t. You couldn't because you know I lied. I never had you. Because you know the difference between me and him, and you’re grateful to know the difference. That is your Why.”

Shocked, Kirk tried to pull away, but Dost’s grip held him firm as death. He wasn’t finished.

“At the Block, I watched you . . . you endured everything. Like you were waiting for something.” Pain made him pause. “What was it you were waiting for?”

Kirk looked up at Spock.

“Logic instead of lust,” he answered simply.

“Even in chaos, Mister Dost,” Spock said, “reasonable men expect reason.”

“Reason is for business,” Dost whispered. “Not pleasure.”

“I thought I was business,” Kirk said.

He felt Dost’s grip waiver, loosen on his hand. It slid down his wrist, then tightened again like a clamp.

“I wanted to kill him for torturing you. Your Vulcan did it for me.”        

“You had an arrangement,” Spock said, “but you couldn’t control him. You were afraid of him.

I have never been afraid, Dost wanted to say, but couldn’t. To face his other self and not take what he wanted had been cowardly, so he had stepped back into the dark.

“You’re wrong,” he said softly. Had he meant to answer Spock? No, to reveal himself to Kirk.

Dost’s grip tightened on Kirk’s wrist, and he looked up into the hazel eyes.

“If you ask me to stay with you, Jimmy, I will. There’s still so much between us. I can teach you so much about yourself. About a kind of strength you’ve never known.  All it takes is to hear you . . . just once . . . beg me.” He took the front of Kirk’s gold shirt in his other hand. “Beg me to teach you!”

Spock saw the captain grimace and, without a word, pry Dost’s fingers, one by one, from his wrist and yank his shirt from the other clenched fist. For a moment, Dost looked stunned with disappointment, and he had his answer in the physical detachment and brutal silence.  His hands went limp, and slowly . . . fell away.  Then the pale blue eyes closed for good.

With the greatest effort, James Kirk stood up and staggered from the body to the back of Kyle’s console to the small ledge under the rear control display. He dropped on his haunches and then over on one thigh. The phaser slipped from his hand.

“There was nothing between us, Dost. Nothing you can teach me.” His heart and pulse were pounding. “And I’m not one bit grateful.”

****

Spock nodded for the startled, embarrassed security team to remove Dost’s body; in seconds the transporter room was clear. Chief Kyle let out the breath he was holding, and Spock moved towards the captain, who sat crumpled near the floor.

If Spock had been other than a Vulcan, he would have been aghast at the physical and emotional battle he could see James Kirk waging on that step. The captain still gasped for air, each breath a fight to pull breath to his lungs. Kirk shook badly, trembling from muscle fatigue. But Spock was more troubled by the battle he could see on the captain’s face, the one that spoke of killing an enemy with his bare hands, feeling him die, being glad of it, knowing the triumph and the shame of that triumph.

Kirk’s face was beet red, his eyes bloodshot, his mouth a stuck-open valve where too little air passed in and out. He was staring at his hands, remembering Peretti’s warning that McCoy would never accept another violent act committed on this ship. Well, he had just killed a man on this ship. Had it been self-defense or stark revenge? He honestly didn’t know. He knew only that he had done it. Felt glad of it. Had held on one last, compelling time. Now he suddenly felt sick to his stomach. Some moments later, at last, there was regret.

Spock lowered himself and sat on the step with Kirk, their knees almost touching. Without thinking, Spock put his left hand on Kirk’s arm, on the gold braid just above the wrist. He would have given anything to be touching bare flesh. That he should be alarmed at his own behavior did not enter his mind.

Kirk raised his eyes to stare at his first officer in amazement. Spock, cool as ever, had waited for an opportunity and knew exactly what to do as it came, and when. The words ‘an enormous asset to me’ popped to the forefront of his brain. The first officer had calculated the toss of the phaser—its weight, lift, and arc—to the finest trajectory with the deliberate control of a focused mind and a fine-tuned body.

“Thank you, Mister Spock,” Kirk said hoarsely, each word like a knife stab to his lungs, but a price in pain he would gladly pay to say them.

Suddenly, McCoy’s voice from the planet’s surface bellowed from the intercom. “Spock, the building’s on fire! Beam Jim up to the ship! He’s trapped in there!”

Kirk slipped his hand over Spock’s wrist and steeled himself to be hoisted with a painful jolt. Instead, Spock rose in one fluid motion, lifting the captain gently to his feet, and went himself to the transport console.   

“Are you all right, Doctor?”

“Never mind me, dammit! Get Jim out of there!”

Kirk pulled himself towards the speaker. “I’m up here, Bones, in one piece.”

“Thank god,” McCoy said, half-gasping himself.  “It’s a madhouse down here . . . I’m sorry, Jim.”

Kirk lifted his head. Sorry?  

“What happened? You got Danny out. Uhura, Sulu?”

“Sulu was wounded by one of those thugs in the rafters. Uhura’s not hurt. When I turned to help Sulu, Danny went back into the building. He kept calling your name and—”

When Kirk heard the doctor’s abrupt stop, he finished for him, “And Dost’s.”

Bent over the console, Kirk pressed his forehead down onto the back of his hand, then swiveled his head around to peer at the newly empty transport pad. He could imagine Dost’s sarcastic voice, his scorn. Yes, little captain, I’m afraid my Danny was never yours . . . quite.

Spock saw a look of shear agony bordering on despair cross Kirk’s features.

“Bones, Spock beamed both Dost and me up here out of the fire, and—” He couldn’t quite convey the rest. Was it from sheer fatigue or shame? “Bones, stay put. Help anyone you can. I’ll take care of Danny. Kirk out.”

The captain pulled himself to this full height. “Mister Kyle, beam Danny Kelny up here now.”

Kyle looked a little sick.

“Sir, I barely got you and that other gentleman back here. I believe the ground interference that affected the scanners is affecting the power resonators in the transporter. The intense heat, too. A beam-up would be risky. I’m not sure if I could catch an initial weak signal. If we lose the signal in transit, there’s no getting it back—” He stopped, not having to fill in the rest.

Kirk knew the physics; a beam-down was marginally safer. At least the transducers on the transport pads were operational. The captain closed his eyes and sighed. He rubbed the back of his aching neck, trying to get at the muscles and delicate bones that Dost yanked hard in the scuffle.

“Get me two emergency air packs, Mister Spock. I’m going back.”

“You are exhausted, Jim. I will go.”

Kirk shook his head.

“He won’t come to you. It’s me he needs.”  He was so tired, he didn’t quite know what he was saying. “Danny’ll listen to me.” He could see Spock looking at him as if his first officer couldn’t believe his ears.

“Jim, there is no time for you to reason with him.”

“Nor with you, Mister Spock.” Jim Kirk raised his chin, the captain from head to foot. “Come on, dammit, get me that equipment. That’s an order.”

Obediently, Spock moved quickly to the wall-unit replicator and programmed the packs. They appeared almost instantly. The small, loose masks and filter devices seemed flimsy in his hands. He turned back to the captain.

“These units work fairly well against the smoke, Jim, but not the heat or the flame.”

“I know, I know,” Kirk said, pulling the clear helmet over his face. Spock set the system on open status for the captain, then handed him a phaser. Tucking the small weapon under the back of his shirt, Kirk concentrated on steadying his heartbeat and his rapid breathing. He was only partially successful.

“You have twelve minutes before the filters become affected by the smoke.”

Kirk nodded, reached out, and squeezed Spock’s bicep in farewell. “Do what you can with the transporter, Mister Spock. I’m counting on you to get us back.” Then he stepped up to the pad. “Beam me down, Mister Kyle.”

And he was gone.

****

“Mister Scott, can you create a force field link from the main transporter that can provide protection for two individuals from heat, flame, and oxygen deprivation?”

“Aye, Mister Spock. I suppose I could tie in from the unused brig life-support systems into the emitter conduits of the secondary engine relays and cross-segment to the transporter. When to you need the contraption?”

“Now, Mister Scott.”

“Well then, laddie, I better get to it.”

Chapter Text

Captain Kirk materialized in the middle of the raging fire.  He didn’t recognize the building anymore. About ten feet in front of him, he saw Danny, wearing McCoy’s medical tunic.  Poor Bones, Kirk thought in an instant, freezing his ass off outside while I’m about to get my fillet broiled alive in here. Bent at the waist, Danny was lurching forward through the smoke, waving his hands as though trying to clear the smoke from his face. The boy was yelling but Kirk couldn’t decipher what, but he could guess.

“Danny! I’m behind you!”

The boy turned and Kirk grabbed him, pulling him down to the better air on the floor. He yanked the air pack over Danny’s head, deftly set the system on Go, and then pulled the boy to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get out of here!”

Danny hesitated, then pushed Kirk away. “Go on, Jim! I gotta find Dost. I can’t make it without him!”

Kirk yanked him again with all his strength. “Dammit, no! He’s not here! He’s—”

But Danny was frantic and determined and he shoved Kirk hard. The captain fell backwards, as the boy pulled the phaser off his waistband pointing the weapon at Kirk. Scrambling to his feet, the captain knocked Danny’s hand and the phaser went off, the force of the discharge blasting the nerves in Kirk’s right shoulder. Kirk spun and dropped to his side with a thud. The pain took his breath away. Danny looked shocked and threw the weapon into the smoke. He started to run, but Kirk caught his ankle with his good hand and brought him to his knees. The boy kicked at him.

“You don’t own me!” he yelled. “I’m not yours!”

Kirk reached out and grabbed a handful of the soft blue tunic. “I won’t let you be his!”

He knew Danny hadn’t heard him, wasn’t listening, but he had to make Danny listen. To hear the emotional dependence the boy had for his captor all but broke heart. Dost is waiting for you on the Enterprise, he wanted to say. God, he wanted to say it. Yet he could not lie to a boy who had been lied to all his life. 

From somewhere he found the air to shout, “I’m sorry, Danny. Dost is dead!” A flaming beam crashed behind them. “He tried to kill me. I had no choice!” They were both out of time. “Help me up, Danny. I’m hurt. I need you to help me up!”

The boy froze as even behind the mask his face filled with confusion and grief.

“You killed him? You! You wouldn’t let me do it so that you could!”

Truth. Even if it was the death of him, James Kirk had to tell the truth.

“I didn’t let you kill him because you’d regret it for the rest of your life. Just like I’m going to. Just like Mister Spock is going to. I wanted to spare you!” The boy appeared shocked. “I know it hurts, Danny. I know you want revenge. Take it out on me!”

“I hate you! I’m glad you’re hurt! Don’t you know that I can’t make it without him!” Paradoxical emotions collided in the words.  “What am I going to do now? I can’t make it!”

Filled with despair, Danny pushed Kirk down on his back and began to pummel him. Kirk raised one functioning arm over his face to protect the coupling in the helmet. The blows landed on his chest, at his ribs, at his mid-section; he tightened his stomach muscles to protect his insides. He wanted to roll away but couldn’t. He didn’t have the heart.

He was amazed at how many times the boy hit him, amazed further that he allowed it. He thought of Spock and wondered if his own blows had hurt his friend as much. When he’d finally had enough, the captain grabbed the boy’s arm to stop him.

“You can make it! Help me so that I can help you make it!”

Spock, beam us up now . . . . The heat was bad.

The boy looked terrified, lost, nothing to anchor him. He was crying behind the mask.

Kirk shouted now in near desperation.

“He isn’t what you want, Danny! He can’t be!”

“I don’t know what I want!”

Kirk grabbed another handful of shirt.

“You do know! You’ve got to know!”

He looked up to see the flashing rafter. Burning pieces were raining down on their heads. His uniform sleeve crawled with orange flame. Turning Danny loose, he felt true fear.

“I know I want to die!”

“No, dammit! You want to live!”

He tore the clogged mask off his head and took a deep breath—of acrid smoke.    Then moments before one of the burning beams fell like a rock on top of them, James Kirk heard a familiar redemptive sound.

****

“I’ve got them, Mister Spock!”

The surprise in Kyle’s voice cut through the tense silence. The transporter whined its wild answer to the controls. Spock almost winced at the sound—high-pitched and straining—as though the machine itself, chained to the engines by the additional power drag of the force field, overheated and grimaced with its own brand of muscle fatigue. It tried desperately to reach down and grab onto the captain and Danny and haul them up to the safety of the ship. There was a screech, the beginning of two glittering forms, a groan, then a quick fade, like a silvery fish that slipped the hook.

Kyle slumped in frustration. “Couldn’t hold them. Had a piece. I’ll try again, sir.”

Spock swallowed hard, the only sign of his despair.

****

Kirk ducked, as the falling rafter snapped into huge, flaming chunks around them. They were surrounded by fire, but there was no heat. Kirk heard it first—the sharp whine of the transporter—and his heart caught in his throat. Safety! The beam had them for a second, their argument canceled. Then like a wind gust gone dead, they found themselves whole and dumped back on the hot, hard floor. Kirk groaned and turned on his stomach.

Danny rolled away. He wanted to kick at the gold shirt one last time but didn’t have it in him and wondered why he didn’t. He would be like kicking a dog. No, like kicking a man when he was down. He pushed his hand forward already halfway there to touch Kirk’s shoulder, to pull him up. What was it about this man that made him want to help instead of hurt? What was the point of kicking someone away, when that someone was always coming back?

Suddenly, Danny understood that he truly held a man’s life in his hands: he could kick that life away or lead it to safety. Dost was dead and couldn’t save him. The transporter didn’t work and wouldn’t save them. The fire and smoke was there to kill them. It was up to him. And he had not experienced that kind of responsibility before.  For the first time in his life, he felt both free and accountable, and Danny Kelny took as deep a breath as the thickening filter would allow, and he began to yell.

“I’m glad he’s dead! He can’t hurt us anymore! Let’s go, Jim. Let’s get out of here!”

Though Kirk moved with such effort he could barely move at all, the boy could see that he still tried. Danny’s own heart pounded erratically in his chest, and he felt dizzy with struggle and smoke.  But he, more than anything, wanted now to be like Captain Kirk.

Come on! his mind shouted to Kirk, though he had no air for words. Come on Jim! I won’t let you die. I want you to live! Come on!

With one tremendous effort, Danny grabbed the captain around the shoulders and hauled him to his feet. Between them they dragged each other, sometimes only on their knees, sometimes on all fours, towards the freedom of the outside.  They moved like that down the hallway, blinded and baked, but moving. When a blast of cold water hit them, Kirk knew that that was the direction of the exit.  He pulled desperately at Danny through water and smoke, and the boy groped for the steadiness of the wall, dragging Kirk beside him.

Suddenly, Danny stopped, a pale and disruptive look falling flat across his face, and Kirk began to black out with his own pain and exhaustion. He could see Danny shutting down, and he was afraid that he was next.

“Come on, Danny! Try! I promise you can make it! Try!”

He pulled the boy behind him down the hallway, a one-armed man lugging the dead-weight of a half-conscious body. Water blasted them again, pushing them back. Then from out of the smoke, orange-slickered firefighters surrounded them and yanked them to their feet, passing them along a lifeline like limp life-sized dolls.

With a slap, Kirk found himself outside in the cold night air, staggering through the crowd, with Danny slung over his one good shoulder. Sirens blared like banshees. Flashing lights knifed his eyes with each strobe. He dropped hard to his knees, and it took two weak tries before he could pull the clear helmet off the boy’s head. He gasped for air, his lungs racked with deep, stabbing coughs.

Uhura saw him first, a blackened, drenched figure with a white face, his wet hair plastered to his head, gagging from the smoke.

“Captain! Doctor McCoy, it’s the captain!”

McCoy, wearing only his black tee-shirt against the cold, turned and ran to them helping the staggering men away from the smoking building and into the safe fresh night air. Jim Kirk was almost down, and his right arm hung limply at his side. His face, streaked with soot, couldn’t hide the pain. The captain looked bad.

But Danny Kelny looked worse.

Working methodically, McCoy scanned Kirk’s shoulder, but the captain’s eyes were on the boy. McCoy pressed a tri-ox hypo into Kirk’s neck and decided to let it go at that. He turned to the boy, scanned him, then dropped the scanner. He popped open his medikit and pulled out a small blue vial. As the doctor injected something directly into the boy’s chest, Kirk moved around so that the boy’s limp head lay on his lap. Then McCoy took another reading.

Kirk was moaning between words.

“Bones, he saved my life . . . don’t let him die.” Whether from pain or grief McCoy didn’t know, but the look on Kirk’s face told him that the captain was starting to break down. Kirk’s eyes beseeched him to please, Bones, save this boy. I promised. . . .

Frantically, McCoy fished in his kit for the palm-size defibrillator, yet he gently pushed the captain aside, handing him off to Uhura, who tried to lead him away; but James Kirk was a shocked, weary specter who moved aside only a couple feet before planting himself like a rock.

McCoy placed the small but potent device on the boy’s chest and after a short, steadying count, the doctor sent the current directly to his heart. His body spasmed but the readings remained null.  He repeated the procedure. Still nothing. He injected him again. McCoy realized that it was hopeless, had been from the start, but he knew that Kirk needed to see that everything was being done that could be. When the boy’s body remained still, McCoy sat back on his heels for a moment to catch his breath. Then he leaned forward, felt manually for a pulse, and finally shook his head.  For a few seconds, even the sirens and flashing lights faded to silent nothing. No one heard the Block’s roof caving in behind them with an angry, violent crash.

“What happened?’ the captain almost sobbed.

“The fight with Dost and the last effort it took to go back into the building. All those damn drugs. The smoke didn’t help. His heart, Jim. Could have been a congenital defect. Maybe that’s what killed his brother.  His heart just gave out. I’m sorry.”

McCoy gathered up his medi-kit and turned to Kirk, who had slumped next to Uhura. She had her arm around his shoulder. The medical scanner showed intense disruption to Kirk’s nerves and some tissue damage.  McCoy did not have equipment to deal with phaser burns down here. Kirk was trembling badly, going into shock. The doctor gave him an injection for pain and motioned for Uhura to let him go. As he tried to gather Danny’s body with his good left arm, Krik sat slumped, his head down on his chest. McCoy reached across and helped him hold the boy for a moment.

“Doctor McCoy.” It was Spock’s command voice coming from the discarded communicator. McCoy picked it up. “Ground interference has sufficiently dissipated. The transporter is now fully operational.”

Illogically, McCoy nodded at the device, saying nothing, as behind him, like magic, Christine Chapel materialized with blankets and another medical kit in her hands. She ran to the shivering crew huddled around the fallen boy and placed the blanket around the captain’s shoulders.

“Christine will look after Danny, Jim.” She was already covering the body. “Come on. Come with me.” Kirk’s eyes were closed with grief. “I have the captain, Mister Spock,” McCoy finally responded, hauling the younger man to his feet. “Two to beam up.”

In seconds McCoy and the captain were back on the ship, and like months earlier, Jame Kirk hobbled all the way to sickbay under his own power, even climbed onto the exam table this time, before somebody out of compassion or standard medical procedures, put a hypo to his throat and knocked him out.

****

Twelve hours later although still confined to sickbay himself, James Kirk limped quietly into an adjacent recovery ward. Hikaru Sulu lay pale under the red blanket, his eyes closed, a tissue regenerating device strapped across his upper right chest. As Kirk approached, he opened his eyes and smiled at the sight of the captain. Kirk, arm in a wrap-sling, listed to one side as he walked, but other than that he looked well enough.

“Captain Kirk,” Sulu responded, affection in his very deep voice.

Kirk could hear the good tidings in the injured man’s tone. “Mister Sulu, how are you feeling?”

Sulu moved and winced.

“Oh, can’t say I’ve never felt better, sir, but it was all worthwhile.  Now I’m a bit of a celebrity.” He saw Kirk frown, not getting it. “Seems like I’m the only man around here who’s ever been shot by a real bullet.”

Kirk smiled uneasily.

“A singular distinction, Mister Sulu.”

“Doctor McCoy says he’s saving the slug for me.”

Kirk took in air.

“It’s nice to have a trophy for your efforts once in a while.”

The captain looked up at the diagnostic panel, stable for the most part except for little spikes of pain.

“I . . . I came to say thank you. You and Uhura were the best security team a captain could ever ask for. You gave me courage . . . courage that I desperately needed.”

Sulu’s brows came together. He remembered the terrible secret that he learned about what had happened to James Kirk on Dunbar’s Planet, and he could only imagine what kind of courage it must have taken for the captain to face the man who had savaged both his body and his spirit. He was glad to help, honored to have been chosen by the captain to walk by his side on that hellish journey. But there was one thing he wanted to know, so he asked in all sincerity.

“Captain Kirk, why did you choose me for the landing party? I’m just a little guy who sits on his butt all day pushing buttons. I’m not big and brawny. You have a department full of security guards.” He paused. “And you have Spock.”

The corners of Kirk’s mouth turned up at the question. It was fair, and he would answer it truthfully. He looked across the room before pulling his eyes to the man on the bed.

“I wanted the best beside me, Mister Sulu. Small or big didn’t matter. I wanted you because you’ve got heart, and I wasn’t so sure of my own at the moment.” His gaze shifted away. “As for Spock. He had been at that place with me before, and he had already sacrificed for me in that place. I couldn’t ask him to do it again. I had to ask someone else for the sacrifice.” Kirk’s eyes bore back into Sulu’s. “I’m sorry, but you were the best man for the job.”

“And Uhura, the best woman.”

Kirk smiled, a little easier this time. “The very best.”

“Captain Kirk, I’m honored that you chose me to accompany you. I wish we could have saved the boy. We all tried hard.”

Kirk blinked several times, his eyes burning.

“Yes, we all tried hard.” He held out his hand and firmly shook Sulu’s good one.  “Thank you again, Lieutenant. Get some rest now, and I’ll make sure McCoy saves that bullet for you.”

“Take care of yourself, sir,” Sulu, said solicitously.

“I’m concentrating on that if you'll do the same.

James Kirk turned and walked away from Sulu’s bed, his spine stiff with pride. Who were these people that they would honor him so? That they would sacrifice for him, just because he needed them? Could he ever return their faith? Ever hope to? He could offer them commendations and promotions and dinners in their honor, but no matter the professional recognition, he could never give them what they gave to him, their undying trust. He swore he would honor that trust for the rest of his life.

As he walked back to his own bed, he held his head high, blinking back tears. Sometimes, for James T. Kirk, being the captain of the Enterprise was an honor too splendid to bear.

****

Lieutenant Uhura heard the buzzer, pushed the arm of the reader away from her face, and sat up on the edge of the bed. Sulu was in sickbay, and Chekov was pulling extra duty. Doctor McCoy checking up on her? She smiled at the idea of a visit from her favorite Southern gentleman. “Come,” she called out.

But it wasn’t Leonard McCoy. It was James Kirk who stepped over the threshold into her private quarters. She smiled uneasily to think that she hadn’t been expecting him. She should have been.

He stood just beyond her bedroom area, his right arm in a sling cradled to his side by his left. “Huri?” he said tentatively, using a nickname from over a year ago. “Can I come in?”

Uhura stood up slowly, smoothed her off-duty outfit of soft midnight-blue pants and a lavender scooped-neck top, and turned off the reader. The love sonnets of Oslo Rivera could wait.

As she came toward him, in flowing gauze and barefoot, he was amazed at how tiny and beautiful she looked. He watched her approach him as though she didn’t believe it was really him. He dropped his good hand to his side and looked down at her, everything on his face saying that he needed to see her, needed to talk to her, needed . . . her. Would she ever understand how much.

Of course, she understood.

She moved in front of him and placed her arms under his sling, sliding them around his back, up towards his shoulders, tipping him forward a little so that he knew it was all right to melt into her. She was afraid to hurt his wounded shoulder, but at her gentle urging he lowered his face into the sweet softness of her neck. He took a deep breath and held it in his lungs, letting her perfume saturate the raw places where smoke had etched the tender linings. She held him for a while, and he moved his lips to her cheek. She raised her mouth and let him kiss her gently. She felt the edge of surprise when the kiss didn’t turn more fervent, remaining tender and soft as though he only wanted to feel human flesh pressed to his to remind him that he, too, was human.

She could count on one hand the times she and Jim Kirk had been together like this: the first time, on shore leave when his hotel reservation had gotten lost and she invited him to share her accommodations—both up for a romantic adventure and had made it so; and once after a deep space New Year’s Eve party when they were inebriated on Rigellian bubbly and, no doubt, the celebratory spirit of the season—she still didn’t remember exactly what had happened, but, she suspected, neither did he; and the last time, after she’d been smacked around by one of that hideous bastard Khan’s thugs and he had been worried about her even though he’d almost been suffocated to death as an inducement for the crew to mutiny. They had made love with such tenderness that it had remained one of her fondest memories. Beyond that, they had become fast friends on the bridge, sharing flirtatious glances and teasing smiles that said, I like you a lot and I wish I had more time for you, but I don’t.

“Jim,” she sighed at him. “My poor, poor Jim.” She turned him towards the bed. “Come lie down.” She felt him hesitate. “It’s all right. Come on.”

I didn’t come for . . . sex, he wanted to say. Please, don’t think that. But he had certainly come for comfort as well as to fulfill the duty he felt towards her.

“We’ll talk, Jim. There’s a lot I want to tell you.” She released him and got an extra pillow from the closet, fluffing it up behind him so that he could lie back and sit up at the same time.  She eased him down, and he watched her slide in next to him, her head propped up on her arm. “Better?”

But it was he who needed to talk to her, to say the things that were in his heart, to tell her how important she was to him. There was nothing he wanted more than to sink into that pillow, that bed, into her, and not have to talk about what happened to all of them on the planet, but he owed it to her. As much as he owed it to Sulu, he owed it to her. Maybe more.

“Uhura, please, let me talk. I came to thank you for everything you did on Dunbar’s Planet, and up here. Thank you for your protection.”

“I didn’t do anything Jim.” She still felt rotten that she had left him behind in the flames.

“You went with me.”

“I didn’t stay.”

He looked surprised. “Of course you did.”

“The flames drove us out. When I tried to go back for you. I couldn’t find you. I was frantic.”

“You were all under orders to leave the area.”

“I thought you were dead in there, Jim! That it was my fault for abandoning you.”

“Oh, Huri.” He pulled her to him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how bad it was for you.”

She sat up. Bad for her? No, no, that’s not what she had meant. Oh, Jim.

“When I found out what that barbarous bastard had done to you, I couldn’t bear the idea that you were even in that place. I desperately wanted to take you away, anywhere but there.”

“But Huri, didn’t you already know?”

“I heard the coms, but I never put it all together, except that you were seriously hurt, psychologically hurt. I never thought it was because you had been . . . .” She looked down at the bedspread. “Dammit, I can’t say it. Saying it makes it true.”

He changed the subject. He didn’t want her feeling sorry for him. He would talk about another friend.

“Sulu wanted to know why I picked the both of you to go with me and not a regular security team.”  At the time, he hadn’t thought it unusual, hadn’t analyzed his motives. He’d just given an order and they had obeyed. But what had he really wanted back then? Needed?  “I guess I needed . . . .”

She read his mind.  “You needed your friends with you.  Not strangers.”

“I abused your friendship. I was selfish.” He meant more selfish than usual. “I made you learn things that I should have kept to myself. Made you responsible.”

But aren’t we all responsible for each other? she wondered. Isn’t that what duty aboard a starship means? Maybe she could explain.

“In the turbolift, Sulu and I were so excited. We love those landing party assignments. To be chosen for a mission with the captain. It’s the best feeling in the world.”

Kirk looked skeptical.

“Jim, you’ve been on starships a long time. You’ve felt those things for other captains, for other men. Why do you think it so strange that we feel those things for you?” She let him stew a moment. In a minute, he would see how obvious it all was; it’s just that in his misery, in his pain for the Kelny boy’s death, he had forgotten. “Both Sulu and I, yes, we wondered why you picked us. I remember sending Sulu a questioning look while you were arguing with Mister Spock.”

Kirk rubbed the bridge of his nose. Oh, shit. Us arguing?

He didn’t remember it that way. Spock had been the picture of professional stoicism. Well, not exactly. On second thought, there had been more than a little misery on both their parts. And Uhura knew the two of them all too well. What was he thinking that she didn’t exist unless he was looking straight at her? She worked beside Spock every day of her life; they chatted, traded quiet jokes, managed not to roll their eyes when he was on a tirade or chewing the scenery with another impassioned speech. Hell, maybe they even flirted. Perhaps she had more in common with Spock than she could ever have with him.

“He wanted to come, didn’t he?” she prompted. She remembered that behind her excitement she knew something was wrong between them.

“Yes,” Kirk admitted. “But I didn’t want him to.” He couldn’t want to talk about that now, yet he felt an obligation to be truthful. But it was so complex. “I was afraid to relive what happened to me down there, afraid for him to relive it. I couldn’t bear the thought of him anywhere near me, where Dost could hurt . . . us.  And something had already happened. After I recovered enough to return to part-time duty . . . something happened between us. It was bad. It was my fault. Don’t ask me. But it was bad.”

She touched his arm. “He forgives you.”

She heard dismay and disbelief in his voice. “Why does everyone always forgive me?”

Her big dark eyes grew even bigger.

“Because you’re our captain. Because we’d follow you to hell and back just for the privilege of being by your side. Because there’s no place we’d rather be than on this ship, under your command, following you into the unknown. Jeezus, Jim, it’s so obvious.”

He was speechless. Thunderstruck. He had forgotten. Being the captain had changed his perspective. He’d forgotten the deep and moving feelings when it was he who followed Brice Garrovick into space, even to his doom, how the Farragut was his home and Garrovick his father and his reason for getting up in the morning. He would have done anything for that man. With everything else pressing in on him, he had forgotten. Now Sulu and Uhura were reminding him of what a singular honor they bestowed on him, would continue to bestow. These were the finest people in the Fleet and their first duty, in their hearts and minds and souls, was to protect and serve him. All he had to do was be their captain: be exactly who he  was. They didn’t want more, but they expected no less. He must never forget that again.

He stroked her hair. He was moved by his affection for her and by her keen understanding of who and what he was. "Huri, I mean this with all my heart. I want to marry you someday.”

Her dark eyes sparkled with mirth. “Really, Jim? When?”

“I don’t know. After—”

She giggled softly.

“Jim Kirk, today you’re Starfleet’s baby starship captain. You mean after they make you their baby commodore? Their baby admiral? By that time, I’ll have been transferred to ten different ships and sit twenty million light years on the other side of the moon.”

“Wait for me,” he teased.

“That’s quite a wait, sir,” she said, returning the favor.

“You’ll wait,” he said.

“Oh, really.” Damn you, Jim Kirk. “You’ll make everyone wait, won’t you?” Decades. Damn you.

“I won’t mean to.”

“You never mean to hurt people, Jim, but you do.” She winked at him. “You will.”

He sighed at her intimate knowledge of him. At his failings. “I won’t mean to,” he repeated.”

“We know, Jim. That’s why we forgive you.”

He leaned over and kissed her. “Forgive me again, Huri.”

God, he was a devil. No matter what the future brought them, she was his, but only partly; other people on this ship were his, too. Yet she smiled to herself knowing that in his mind, Jim Kirk knew, as well as he knew anything, that he would always in some fashion belong to her. She shook her head. No matter who belonged to whom, they could not stay together, not in space, and she refused to fall desperately in love with him, maybe not with any man. But Captain James T. Kirk was hard to ignore. Hard to push out of her life. Maybe because, as much as she wanted him, Lieutenant Uhura wanted her own ship. To be like him.

She snuggled closer, her head on his shoulder, her fingers sneaking up under his shirt. God, wouldn’t that be something.

Chapter Text

It was late afternoon. After signing a dozen status reports and two requests for additional supplies, James Kirk slipped out of his chair and went to stand near the science console. He said the familiar name, this time with the lightest edge of seduction in his voice.

“Mister Spock.”

Spock lifted his head from the eerie blue light that always played against black hair and sat down at his seat, his hands folded gracefully on his lap. The captain leaned casually against the console.

“I think you owe me one.”

Spock raised a puzzled brow. “Owe you, Captain?”

“I hear you’ve been giving everyone on the ship free massages. It’s my turn, don’t you think?”

“Not everyone on the ship, Captain. For example, Lieutenant Appleby in Stores has not had one.”

Kirk chuckled very softly and leaned forward an inch.

“I also hear that Jackie Munson’s classes are so popular that she’s conducting another one tomorrow night. I know you’re an expert, but I’m not and I need a partner to sign up for the class.”

“I would be pleased for the opportunity to continue my research on the techniques associated with human muscular rehabilitation with you as my subject.”

“Partner, Spock. I get to practice on you, too.” Spock said nothing. “Just out of curiosity, why are you doing this?”

“I wish to know more about humans.” His dry tone conveyed the obvious: I am a scientist.

Kirk laughed at what to him was irony in Spock’s point of view.

“I would think that after years of a barrage of human foibles would have made you sick of us by now.”

“Not at all, Captain. I find you all fascinating.” He saw Kirk’s mock frown, and he raised a responsive brow that conveyed, You of all humans must surely know this as you are the most fascinating of all.

“I should have guessed,” Kirk said agreeably.

“Tomorrow night then,” Spock said, turning back to his station.

He did not see Kirk’s soft smile nor the gratitude on his face—not for Spock’s acquiescent participation in Nurse Munson’s last class, but that they were still friends, could still communicate so easily on the bridge, still have their intimate moments of humor and quiet looks that said, I know exactly what you mean, I even know how you feel.

And for that, he would be eternally grateful.

****

The day had been a hectic one for Kirk: new assignments from Starfleet, a discovered wrong shipment of sonic torque wrenches instead of replicator coils, an incorrect star chart that had Spock’s astro-telemetry department searching frantically for two ‘missing’ planets, a locked-up turbolift, and perhaps the worst, a central food synthesizer that brewed up cups of peppermint tea with cream and sugar for every request for hot black coffee.  To top it off, twenty minutes before end of alpha shift, two of Scotty’s technicians had gotten into a squabble halfway up a ladder over the mutual affections of a shore leave barkeep and had fallen to the deck, each breaking a much-needed leg. Kirk had had to march into sickbay to read the riot act to two bruised and chagrined junior engineers. It was The-Captain’s-Got-a-Headache kind of day.

After enduring his own tough guy act in sickbay, Kirk ducked back to his quarters for a shower and change of clothes, maybe a little dinner if he felt like it. He stepped in and out of the sonics, found a set of gym clothes, then sat down at his desk. His stomach growled. He thought of dinner. Nothing sounded good.

He couldn’t wait to relax. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and then his whole face vigorously trying to wake himself up before going to relax himself down in Jackie Munson’s class.  Maybe a cup of coffee would get his heart going. Crossing his fingers, he tried the newly installed food servitor and got tea. He clenched his fist to pound on the panel but remembered McCoy’s warning: “You can’t argue with a machine.” He brought the mug back to his desk in time to catch the door buzzer squawking at him.

He sighed before answering it. A captain’s work is never done.

McCoy stuck his head in.

“Just checking up on you, Captain. You looked ten time more frazzled than those two banty roosters you just had to give hell to.”

“Very funny.” Kirk pushed the mug in the doctor’s direction. “Care for some tea, Bones? I brewed it specially for you.”

“Food prep still busted?” He watched Kirk make a face and nod and had to grin himself. “Let’s see if I still remember the Great Man’s words on the subject.  Ahem. ‘If this is coffee, please bring me some tea.  If this is tea, please bring me some coffee.’”

Kirk burst out laughing. “Abe Lincoln. One of the very few presidents with any sense of humor.”

“They still think having one disqualifies them for office,” McCoy drawled.

 Kirk rubbed his eyes. “Was that a history test?”

“Just wondering if Jackie Munson was rubbing off on you.”

Kirk peered up, smiling still. “Is she putting you up to this, Bones?”

McCoy play-frowned.

“Hardly. Everyone in the medical departments acts like the captain’s made out of eggshells. Munson’s so protective of your privacy, you’d think she was your mother.”

Now Kirk smiled absently.

“She’s nice. I like her. It’s just that . . . well, I haven’t exactly felt like . . . you know, socializing.”

“You seem a bit distracted.  Too distracted to even ask your over-solicitous family doctor to sit down. So I’ll just invite myself.” McCoy pulled up a chair and took his time getting into it. “You still thinking about Danny?” he finally asked. He’d been thinking about Danny, too. Didn’t much like losing a patient like that . . . someone so young.

Kirk considered an attempt at evasion but decided again it.

“I’m plagued by that boy, Bones. I promised him so much. How could Dost have been more important to him  than . . . .”

Me, he didn’t finish.

“Their relationship was in place long before you even met Danny. Maybe Dost did love the boy.”

“People like that can’t love.”

“It’s something else then . . . something strong. For your sake, I think you should accept that what Danny felt for Dost was a kind of love.”

James Kirk wanted to object but couldn’t counter what McCoy was saying with fact.  If that was the case, he had killed the man that Danny Kelny loved. Just what the hell could he say about that?

McCoy simply watched him thinking.

“There’s something else, Bones.” The captain looked truly troubled. “Margo Peretti warned me about how you felt about the violence, about bringing any more of it up to the ship. Well, that’s exactly what I did, didn’t I? I killed a man in front of two security guards, the transporter chief, and my first officer.”

“I heard you did everything you could not to kill him.”

“Nevertheless, it happened.  If you still feel you have to relieve me of duty, I understand.”

“Jim, Dost brought the violence to the Enterprise. Not you. That’s the way I see it.”

Kirk pushed the tea away. There was violence and cruelty aboard this ship, and he had been in the middle of it.  Was it more cruel to turn one’s revenge outward, to strike out against another or turn it inward upon oneself? He thought of Spock and Danny. The innocent were hurt either way.

“I really thought he’d give up once we got here, Bones. You know, one man against a ship full of phasers. A slight miscalculation on my part.” He sighed deeply. “So, I guess, I deserve that court martial you were an inch away from booting me into. In addition to killing Dost, my beaming illegally onto any Orion ship and stealing cargo, no matter what or who’s inside, isn’t exactly conduct becoming a Starfleet officer.”

McCoy leaned forward as though to touch James Kirk.

“You think Starfleet Command is going to bust you for that? I see a medal coming your way.”  When Kirk didn’t reply, he continued. “Tell me something, would you do it again?”

The hazel-brown eyes caught hold of his blue ones, and without reservation, a calm voice said, “Yes.”

“And I’d be right there beside you again.” McCoy raised a brow of vindication. “There’s no way I’m going to relieve you either because you stepped on some Orion slave trader’s toes or because you miscalculated how hard you needed to step on Dost’s. I’d say that this time, the end justifies the means.”

Kirk stopped, hearing the forgiveness in the doctor’s voice, wondering if Spock would fault the doctor’s logic.

“It’s a hard thing to kill a man, Bones. Even one that you hate.”

“Maybe ‘cause it’s hard for you to hate, Jim.

Not so hard, Kirk thought. Perhaps he wasn’t who McCoy thought he was.

“Since Dunbar’s Planet, there hasn’t been day that I don’t wonder one thing: if I’m really an explorer—a Magellan, an Armstrong, an Eskard Garth—how did this happen to me? Captured, tortured, nearly executed. Those things don’t happen to benign explorers.” He paused to consider.  “But if I’m really a soldier, a general, well, then I’m just a casualty of war. Forget those other pretty words: diplomat, philosopher, adventurer. Substitute tactician, conqueror . . . murderer.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “I have to deal with what I do for a living. What this job makes me and what I deserve to endure.”     

“You didn’t deserve this.”

“Deserve it? Maybe I asked for it.”

“Jim . . . .”

McCoy knew the intimacy of what the captain was telling him down to his toes. James Kirk could be the harshest man on himself. Was being that now. McCoy sat back in his chair. Perhaps this news would make things better.

“The real reason I came to see you is that I just received a message from the Endeavor.” The three Dirac victims had been transferred there from the Martell.  “Victoria Oscallassa wants to meet you.”

What the doctor thought would make Kirk delighted, made him groan instead. “I can’t do that, Bones. Face her. What could I say?”

McCoy raised a Spockian eyebrow. “I don’t follow. She’s—”

“She lost her leg, didn’t she?”

McCoy nodded in mutual sympathy. “You know we have excellent prosthetics. She’ll be walking soon.”

“Dancing?”

“Probably not professionally.”

“Then why shouldn’t she hate me.”

“My god, Jim, you saved her life! Saved her from more torture! She’s grateful. She wants to thank you!”

Kirk pushed his index finger across the desktop, making small figure eights. “I could have done more. Been quicker. Saved a great artist’s career. Could have if I hadn’t been so self-absorbed.”

“You’re a hero to a lot of people you’ve never even met. Thanks to you, the Federation is stopping those ships. So far, they’ve located another dozen missing persons. And two more in Dost’s hideout, not to mention the two we found with Oscallassa. Three police insiders have been arrested, and Dost’s entire operation is being dismantled. Because of you, these men won’t hurt anyone else. It cost you a lot to do this.”

Eyes flashing, Kirk spat out his thoughts without raising his voice. “What it cost was Spock’s dignity.”

McCoy remembered the ugliness that Jim referred to. “It cost you a lot,” McCoy repeated. “Both of you. But you, Spock, and these people survived it. That’s something to be grateful for.”

Jim looked disgusted with himself.

“You’re forgetting someone. Danny Kelny didn’t survive it. I should have beamed him off the planet the first chance I got.” He knew if he had, McCoy would have spotted his heart defect. Saved his life.

“You couldn’t.”

“Why did I play by the rules when it came to him?”

“Because you know the rules about interfering with planetary governments are there for a reason. You did everything right. Stop second guessing yourself. Yes, it turned out other than what you wanted, but you did do everything right. Maybe that final choice was never yours to make. To save him. Maybe he didn’t want to be saved.”

“Maybe he was afraid that he couldn’t be.”

“Maybe he just plain couldn’t be,” McCoy insisted. “Not even by you.”

 Kirk’s eyes widened. What? James T. Kirk can’t save the universe? Well, the universe, maybe, but not one lonely boy.

What a bitter pill to swallow for someone like him, someone ambitious and confident that he could make things happen, things that no one else could make happen.

“I wanted to send him to school, so that he could grow up to become something.”

“It would have been a daunting task for him to try to be like you.”

“Dammit, Bones, that’s not what I mean. I just needed to save him from that man, that life. Like Spock saved me. Instead I pushed him back into Dost’s hands.” He held out his own hands, then dropped them to the desk. “Somehow I got saved and he got lost. He used to say that I was important.  But no one’s that important.”

The diamond-bright blue eyes drilled into James Kirk like the captain was made from the softest, most precious ore, not yet hardened with the alloy of self-forgiveness. With complete certainty, McCoy responded, “You are, sir.”

The captain wanted to say ‘No, I’m not,’ but he remembered what Sulu had told him, and Uhura. How could it be true? How?        

McCoy stood up. There was one more thing on his mind.

“Jim, I know you’ve learned that the way to heal your own wounds is to heal someone else’s first, but there’s something more you have to learn. To accept love from people who know how to love you.”

He wouldn’t name names. Maybe the list was too damn long anyway. More than a little embarrassed, the doctor found himself noisily clearing his throat. He slowly backed away, like a small ship pulls away from a great one. “Goodnight, Captain.”

Kirk smiled as best he could, watching the doctor move past the door. In silence, he sat pondering McCoy’s words: the comparison of the worth of his life and Danny Kelny’s life; McCoy’s saying that Danny from the beginning was a lost, sad cause; his turning his whole story that had started in pain and the despair of the most unbecoming conduct into a story about the kinds and choices of love.

Kirk stared at his tea for a while, as the steam rose in lazy swirls. Great mugs. Made from an insulator that just wouldn’t quit. He took a still-hot sip, letting it ease down his throat, soothing his with the heat. Folding his hands in front of him, he put his head down on his wrist. Just for a moment. He was fighting off a headache, and sometimes closing his eyes helped divert the worst of it.

For just a minute.           

            . . . he found himself at the end of a long line. Something being passed from man to man. When it came to him, a box or ball—both at once—black and bright at the same time, he took it. It was a long moment before the pain registered. It burned his hand, shooting agony up his arms, behind his eyes.  Startled, he passed it to the man after him, and the pain moved out of him on down the row. But he was at the end of the line again, and the pain was coming towards him. When it was his turn to take it, he did. It was terrible and he struggled to stay on his feet. He passed the ball as best he could to someone who was dreading it as much as he was. In seconds, he was at the end of the line again, and he could see it coming, the black pain bearing down on him. The anticipation was as bad as the pain itself. He ground his teeth.

            . . . then he was standing around with different people, in a tee-shirt and gym shorts, listening to Jackie Munson’s instructions about broad muscle groups, differing pressure, stroke rotation. “ . . . need a guinea pig . . .” And his eyes napped forward, away from the dreaded line of pain. She patted the tabletop. “Captain Kirk, climb aboard.”

            He moved toward the table, but she touched his arm like he was a dope. “Get undressed first, Captain.” There was disembodied chuckling.

            Here? You want me to drop my drawers here? Munson and Spock held up a sheet. Transparent, of course. While he rustled behind it, she turned back to the group.  “. . .usually, you and your partner are on intimate terms . . . .” He felt cold. With a flourish, Munson spread the sheet over the naked body on the table.

            “Spock will do the honors, I will explain techniques, and Jim—” He saw her looking down at him and there was no sheet. “Your job . . . report exactly how it feels.”

            He couldn’t reply. Couldn’t relax. Couldn’t move.

            Spock pulled back the now-there sheet to the hips. He placed the flat of his hands on either side of Kirk’s spine across the broadest part of his back. He pressed down. The air rushed out of the naked man on the table. Kirk could hear Munson talking, could feel people’s eyes upon his bare skin, and the air going in and out like he was a bellows. And the hands on his back were the kindest, most sure things in the universe, going to the pain before he could speak to send them there . . . truly the best damn hands on the ship.

Then the best damn hands on the ship went away, replaced by an irritating noise. He heard the persistent buzzer. Ignored it. Heard it again. Heard someone call his name. He raised his face from his wrist. “Come,” he said, his mouth dry as dirt.

Spock walked in. “Jim, are you all right? You failed to attend Lieutenant Munson’s class.”

Kirk moaned.

“It’s over?”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain kinked his neck and chuckled in dismay. Damn. “I fell asleep. I really meant to come. Only put my head down for a minute. I was even dreaming about it.”

“Indeed?”

Kirk stretched his arms over his head, a little embarrassed. “I really meant to come.” He hoped that he hadn’t offended Jackie Munson again . . . how many times now? He looked into Spock’s eyes. Was he also seeing disappointment there?

“I believe you, Jim.” Spock raised a telltale brow. “Perhaps next time? I shall see you in the morning on the bridge. Goodnight then.”

Kirk settled back in the chair.

“Don’t go, Spock. Stay and talk a while.” He waited as Spock sat down. Was it only out of polite obedience? “You were in my dream, you know. You were giving me a massage.” Kirk looked across at his friend, then smiled.  “I just realized something. Something completely obvious. Why you’re so good at giving them.”

Spock’s face softened, but he remained silent.

“You can read our minds. You just tap right in and adjust as you go. Higher, lower, softer. More of this, less of that. You know exactly where it hurts. You’ve got the advantage, Mister Spock.”

“I do not mean to have the advantage, Jim.” He actually touched his long, tapered fingers together and studied them. “I perceive the physical sensations and respond in kind. It is, after all, only a trick.”

“Some trick. Reading minds.”

Spock heard a longing in the voice and in the sigh that followed. Longing for what? Spock raised a brow in response. Then he stood up quietly for a moment more and moved around behind the desk chair. He watched Kirk’s face look up at him, a thing so open and telling in its combination of expressions, that even a psy-null blind man could read all the emotions encapsulated there.

When Spock got behind him, Kirk closed his eyes, opening everything that he was to Spock’s hands. Spock placed his palms on the captain’s shoulders and began to knead the large muscles there. In seconds, he found the tension and knew the source.

“Danny Kelny,” Spock whispered. “You feel great sorrow for his loss.” 

“Only us at the funeral,” Kirk sighed. “Did you see his friends out of the corner of your eye, afraid to pay their last respects.”

“I saw them.”

Spock’s fingers moved on to Kirk’s shoulder blades, finding the knots, focusing on them, willing them to dissolve. The long fingers continued in steady, purposeful circles and pressure.

“Jim, I have something to tell you.” Holberg 917G. “A confession.” He sighed with regret. “Once I removed a memory from your mind . . . without your permission.” Kirk glanced up but nothing more. “At the time, I believed that because the memory of an impossible love was painful for you, to remove the source of that pain was what you wanted. Now I understand that removing someone’s pain and taking it upon yourself is not the same as offering comfort. This time the pain is yours. I have no right to it.” He pulled his lower lip through his teeth, wondering if he should continue. “However, I should like to offer comfort.”

Kirk sighed deeply. “Help yourself.” Then he moaned, whether from Spock’s touch or the thoughts Spock touched in his mind he couldn’t tell.

Spock raised a brow in utter surprise. He had not expected to discover such a scene.

“Danny Kelny saved your life on Dunbar’s Planet?” He could see the two of them in the fire, the effort, the exhaustion, and final toll of that effort. He closed his eyes in tribute. “I shall always be grateful.”

“Why could he do that for me, Spock, pull that strength from somewhere, yet not have enough for himself?"

“McCoy told you the answer,” Spock said cryptically, also knowing that conversation. “Danny wanted for you what we all want, Jim . . . for you to live.”

Kirk shook his head. “I can’t ever really know what he was thinking, can I.” It was a statement that he could barely accept.

Spock’s hands returned to the shoulders, kneading, turning the hard muscles like putty, like taffy, like ice melting through his fingers.

“You know, Jim.” An echo of the same words that Jim said to Danny in the fire.

“I want to believe it, Spock, but Dost . . . .” There again in his mind, always intruding, taking over, dominating like the bully he was in life.  The old pattern: Dost rising from the grave to defeat him again. He sighed deeply and hung his head. “How can I ever know what really happened?”

Exactly like another time in another place, three months before . . . Spock set his hands on the back of Jim Kirk’s neck. He let the Vulcan heat of it penetrate the corded muscles. Very slowly, he rotated his thumb.

He had just been in mental contact with the captain, read the surface of his mind. That was easy. Now for a more impressive trick. He concentrated on the touch of his hand, sent his mind directly into the muscles, where the bones met the skull, where thought and thought could mesh, blend, make a place to live. He deliberately put the thoughts beneath immediate memory, as though still percolating up from Jim’s unconscious. Relax, he sighed, softly. Know what I know. Know this. 

            . . . Danny Kelny saved your life, Jim, like any of us on the Enterprise would have done. He was your shipmate, as sure as us. He was your last lifeline to freedom, as sure as I would have been had I been there. He made that choice of his own free will: to save you even at the dearest cost. Danny Kelny became everything you promised he could be: a valiant heart to your fearless one. Believe it, Jim . . . .  

Spock lifted his hand momentarily, and James Kirk, aware only of the physical sensations, took that for a signal that they were done. He rotated his head in a circle. He felt so much better. Looser. Relaxed.

“Thanks.” He got up, padded to his bed, and lay down on his back with one arm behind his head. “I wanted . . . .” A dull wave of emotion moved across his perfect face. “I promised . . . .” His eyes fell closed.

Spock followed him to the bunk and stood at the foot.

Kirk forced his eyes open again, wanting to sort it all out, to know the reality of the triangle of himself, Dost, and Danny. He hated the idea of never understanding. Weren’t they all simply men like him with hearts like his, with needs, at the core, like his? He suspected, if he only thought about it long enough, it would all make sense.  Even if it cost him everything, here was a way to make it make sense.

"Do you mind leaving me alone now?” the captain asked. He felt the need for solitude, to brood. “I’ve got a lot of things to think about. About promises I did and did not keep.”

Spock nodded silently, but he felt as if Kirk were speaking just of him.

Forcing himself from his reverie, Jim Kirk smiled, tender teasing in his eyes.

“About that memory you erased from my mind.” He saw Spock tense for a reprimand. “We’ll talk about it sometime. Until then, don’t do it again.” He lifted his head and shifted to a more comfortable position. “Goodnight, Mister Spock.”

“Goodnight, Captain.”

“And thank you for everything.” He smiled, just a little with his mouth but mostly his eyes. “You have been a great comfort to me.”

Spock glanced away. “There is no need.”

“If thanks are in order, there is always a need.”

****

As Spock walked out of the room and stood a moment on the other side of the door, he pondered the captain’s words. What kind of need? One does not thank logic. Or thank emotion that does not exist.  He recognized the implicit if/then statement that the captain had made. Jim was thankful for emotion that, for him did exist. Ironic that the captain thought his Vulcan first officer could fulfill any such need.

As he entered his own quarters and brushed along his desk, he transferred his thoughts to Danny Kelny, and he hoped that what he had just placed in Jim Kirk’s mind was really the truth. He had no way of knowing. It was only a guess. Yet Vulcans never guessed, never had need to . . . .

Except about emotions.

Truth was always truth. Except about emotions: love, hate, revenge, and the return to love. Perhaps from the transporter room during the fire, he had willed Danny to save the captain in his stead. But that was impossible, even for the most desperate Vulcan. In the flame and smoke, in the last moments of his short life, Danny knew the right thing to do, and he did it. He was a brave and honorable man. Believe it, Spock told himself with as much fortitude as he had told Jim. For everyone’s sake, believe it.

When Spock entered his sleeping alcove, his eye was drawn to something pale propped against his pillow. He picked it up in wonder. Where had it come from? But of course. The captain, who had access to his quarters, had left the rose for him. Though cut flowers held no specific meaning in Vulcan culture, Spock knew that this beauty, rare especially here, held a myriad of meanings for the human beings aboard this ship. The white rose offered only a wisp of fragrance as Spock put it up to his nose. When he touched the stem with his thumb, he felt its prick. It had thorns. Hooks, microscopically sharp. 

As Spock undressed and lay down on his side in his bunk, the white rose beside him, he thought about many things before he too went to sleep. He thought about this great ship and all the people aboard her, and how coming here had changed his life. He thought of love and whether he knew it or it knew him. He thought of fathers and sons, and brother-in-arms, and how sometimes he was all three, and certainly Jim was.

But most of all, he thought of the one last thing that often armed him with human hope when sometimes all he owned was icy Vulcan logic: he knew that he, Spock of Vulcan—with all his soul, with all his intellect, and with unqualified yet barely realized rejoicing—truly believed in the utter absolute reality of valiant hearts.

Chapter Text

And as he said he would, James Kirk thought about the promises he did and did not keep. About oaths, obligations, responsibilities, and duty. About trust. About what it meant to be a Starfleet officer. About what it meant to be a friend. About what it meant to be afraid and conquer that fear.

            Upon my honor. My word on it. I forswear.

All good words that he and every other officers had uttered with hands over, and hope in, their hearts. But no words could make what he had done after his return from Dunbar’s Planet really go away. He had tried to compensate, to work around it, maybe to ignore it. But he knew, as sure as he knew anything that there was something missing from his life—something he used to have, but had lost.

Honor.

He could have no honor until he paid the price for what he’d done. But who did he pay to? And what did he pay with? Lying in bed, or working out, or staring at a computer screen, he’d spent hours coming to this sole conclusion: he could not go on with the weight of this dishonor on his shoulders. He owed a debt to his oath but more so to his conscience, and he must pay that debt with the one thing he held dearest.

And once Captain James T. Kirk decided to pay the price, he felt the burden lifted from his heart.

****

“What’s this about, Jim?”

Like Spock, Leonard McCoy had been unexpectedly summoned to the captain’s quarters in the middle of the afternoon. As the captain motioned for him to sit down next to the first officer, the physician’s keen eyes squinted at the absolute calm and purpose he saw in the captain’s body language. His handsome face was almost beatific, the rise and fall of his chest even and relaxed. In fact, he hadn’t seen the captain look that serene in months.

“This is about me, Bones,” Kirk answered simply. The captain folded his hands on his desktop. “I want you both to know first—before it gets out among the crew—that I’ve tendered my resignation to Admiral Spencer effective as soon as we arrive at Starbase 12. Mister Spock, I’ve recommended that you finish the mission as captain of the Enterprise.”

McCoy’s mouth dropped open. No, Jim, not after all you’ve been through . . . . He shook his head hard. “Jim, this isn’t right.”

“I believe it is, Doctor.”

Spock’s deep voice remained Vulcan steady, but he, like McCoy, had been caught off-guard.

“May I ask on what you are basing this decision, Captain?”

“On a lot of hard thought, Mister Spock, about what happened between us in this room, and about what you said in a court of law about me three years ago: that it wasn’t in my nature to act out of panic or malice.” Jim looked down at the floor and sighed, as if it were the last breath he would ever take. “We all know that you were very wrong. What I did in this room was done purely from malice, and definitely from panic. I panicked here. You have all tried to help me, tried to turn it into something else . . . a moment’s weakness, a stupid over-reaction, a drunken tantrum. It was none of those thing. Or ever worse, all of them.” He looked out over their shoulders, perhaps trying to comprehend his own history. “A starship captain cannot be a man who would lose control like that. A starship captain would never—under threat, duress, or torture—do such a thing.”

McCoy wet his lips, his mind in turmoil trying to think of the right thing to say.

“Jim, so much has happened. You’re depressed about Danny.”

The captain held up the flat of his hand.

“I tried to redeem myself through Danny. I failed because none of this could be about him. This is about one act against one man.”

“I forgive you, Jim,” Spock said, almost pleading.

“I betrayed those words you said about me at the court martial. After Dunbar’s Planet, I betrayed those wonderful words and then I betrayed you. Resigning from Starfleet is the only way I know to make sense of it, to make it right. I can’t command this ship, this crew, anymore. I don’t deserve to. A dishonorable man cannot command.”

“You were traumatized,” McCoy said, trying to convince, “and whatever you did was a reaction to that. Resigning makes absolutely no sense at all.”

Kirk almost smiled.

“It does to me, Bones. It’s the only thing that does.”

In frustration, McCoy turned to the man beside him as if the first officer held the key to this argument.

“Dammit, Spock, talk him out of this. This is crazy!”

To gain some emotional distance, Spock stood up and walked behind his chair. He could not believe that what he had said in earnest in a courtroom years ago would somehow become the catalyst for the captain’s resignation now.

“Captain, the betrayal is mine. It was within my power to have stopped you. I chose not to because I thought your immediate emotional need was more important than any harm that could come to me. I bear a good deal of the responsibility for this dire situation. I never considered—”

Kirk stood up and folded his hands in front of him.  “It’s done, gentlemen.” He stood up behind his desk. “Now if you will excuse me.”

“Jim, what will you do?” McCoy asked, dumbfounded.

Kirk hesitated. He had never even considered that.

“Surely a person with my skills and experience can find honest employment somewhere in the Federation, Doctor.”

“You’re a starship captain!” There was bitter anger in McCoy’s voice. He stood up. “You talk about betrayal. What about the four hundred people who signed on this ship to follow you!”

“They can follow someone else.”

“Dammit, Jim!”

“Dismissed, Doctor.”

Stunned, McCoy actually stopped, turned, and walked out without another word, leaving Spock standing alone, almost hiding, in the shadows.

“I shall go with you,” he whispered.

For the briefest moment, Kirk’s eyes flashed in disapproval, then serenity wavering like a flickering light.

“No, you won’t. You’re going to keep her for me. Keep her safe. That’s the only thing you’re going to do.”

Standing at attention, Spock could only nod without a word.

“Now get out of here, please." The captain cocked his head in the direction of the door. “Go see if Bones is all right. He needs you.”

The captain watched Spock slowly turn away, as though the first officer, if even more reluctantly than McCoy, did not wish to leave the room. At the sound of the closing door, James Kirk sat back in his chair, and for the next hour, he stared out, creeping loneliness his only company—at absolutely nothing at all.

****

When Spock entered the doctor’s quarters, McCoy was already drinking.

“He’s throwing his career away. He doesn’t have to resign. He can get more help—psychological treatment, retraining, a leave of absence, a goddamn desk job.”

“There is no remedial class in command ethics.”

“This isn’t about command!”

Spock frowned at the doctor’s lack of understanding, furthermore at the lack of his most renowned attribute: empathy. But the human doctor always empathized; he always felt too much and sometimes that impaired his judgment. Spock suspected that’s what was happening now.

“The captain is correct. Everything he does is about command.”

“That’s not fair! No one can live up to those standards.”

“If his conscience tells him to, he must resign, Doctor.”

For the first time, Spock understood that he agreed with the captain’s decision. Morality, honor, Federation principles . . . all those abstract words that one read about in books had become suddenly too real in Jim’s life, and now his. Then he remembered Jim’s direction that McCoy needed him, but he did not know how to comfort the doctor.

“The captain is exceptionally calm about leaving,” he heard himself finally offer, grasping at straws.

McCoy’s fiery blue eyes flew up into the brown ones.

“Yes, Spock, like the suicide is calm right before he blows his head off.”  It was a mean thing to say, and from the dire look in Spock’s eyes, maybe the Vulcan didn’t know he was just being sarcastic. If he was. “There’s no denying he’s committing professional suicide.” The doctor almost snorted in derision. “I don’t understand. Him or you. I haven’t understood this whole thing. How can honor be more important than this ship, than all of us?”

“Honor is everything to him now.”

McCoy just kept shaking his head, lost in the waste and uselessness that James Kirk was making of his life. “Maybe the old man can talk him out of it, since you’ve given up so completely.” Then chagrined, McCoy realized what had probably just transpired in James Kirk’s quarters and sent an apologetic look Spock’s way. “You tried to resign, too, didn’t you?”

“He will not allow it.”

“You’re telling me that we’re supposed to just let him go off alone?”

Spock felt the illogical need to return to the captain’s cabin and try again. But he knew it would be a useless act. As useless as he felt.

“I have no choice. I must remain in command of the Enterprise.”

McCoy’s voice was filled with despair and accusation.

“Spock, why are you helping him do this?”

“For the same reason I have helped him through all of this, perhaps even into all of this: because he needs me to.” Spock raised his chin, at his own sudden understanding. “I cannot help what I am, as he cannot help what he is. He is alone with his dishonor, and neither you nor I can bring it back.”

But McCoy could only look at the floor and shake his head. “My god, I’ve let him down. I had no idea it could ever come to this.”

“Do not blame yourself, Doctor. If anyone is at fault, I am.”

“You saved his life, Spock. You did so much for him on Dunbar’s Planet. Nobody else in Starfleet could have found him the way you did.”

“Yet ironically, I too have failed him.”

McCoy hung his head in grim disbelief.

“Dammit, Spock. Dammit.”

As a substitute for hot, bitter tears, Leonard McCoy up-ended his second shot and felt the liquor burn all the way down to his gut.

****

“Admiral, it’s my right to resign at any time. I have given you suitable notice.”

James Kirk was in his quarters speaking to Admiral Dawson Spencer who was somewhere out in space.

“Suitable notice? I say, minimal notice.” The commanding officer’s tone was stern and demanding.  “Do you actually think Starfleet is going to—that I’m going to allow starship Captain James T. Kirk to resign his command without knowing why.”

“You have my statement.”

“What’s in here tells me nothing. Vague references to unbecoming conduct—of which I see no direct evidence.” He folded his hands in front of him, hesitating. He would try another tact. “Let me in on it, son,” he said. “Maybe I can help.”

“I’ve made up my mind, sir.”

Spencer bristled.

“I haven’t. Your request is denied. I’m transferring to the Azimov and will rendezvous with the Enterprise in 72 hours. I expect to meet with you and talk you out of this foolishness—or I’m going to know why I can’t. Is that clear?”

“Very clear, sir.”  Kirk raised his chin. “Sir?”

“What is it?”

“It’s been an honor serving under you.”

Spencer scowled.

“You still serve under me, Captain Kirk. Nothing has changed.  Remember that. Spencer out.”

James Kirk watched the screen turn blank, then flash to the blue and white Starfleet insignia; he stared at it for several seconds, knowing that in just three days that insignia—his entire life until now—would never again be a welcoming sight.

****

It was the middle of the ship’s night, and the bridge had been quiet for hours. They were on their way to their next assignment five days from the last of the Federation colonies. Stars filled the forward view screen like fireflies.

“Sir, I’m getting something.”

“Lieutenant Commander Stefan Ewlett, third shift in charge of the conn, heard the slight alarm in the lifting of the communications officer’s voice. Working impossibly late, First Officer Spock had just left the bridge.

“What is it, Lieutenant?”

“A distress call.”  Lieutenant Lotti Johansen looked up, her hand to her earpiece, trying to hear. “Parts of it anyway.” She dropped her hand. “I believe it came from a Federation ship the Asimov. It’s gone now.”

“Play it back, Lieutenant.”

Static and garbled voices filled the bridge. Everyone could hear the tension in the sounds, in the dire tone of the voices.

“Boost the signal,” Ewlett commanded.

It came again, pieces of a message. Cut off. Terse. Hurried. Desperate.

“Any coded messages?”

“No, sir.”

“Boost it again. Let’s hear something we can recognize. And get a fix on it.”

She worked her controls again. This time it was almost there.

“This is Captain Soren –son of . . . Asimov. Rom—ips! Surrounded –prise, if you read.    –need help— They’re fir—ing! –prise!”

Ewlett punched his console. “Ewlett to Mister Spock.”

A moment later.

“Spock here.”

“Sir, we’ve picked up a distress message from the command yacht USS Asimov. Sounds like a Romulan attack.”

“Do you have a location?”

Ewlett turned to Johansen. She nodded.

“Yes, sir, we do.”

“I will return shortly. Notify the captain.”

Ewlett’s eyes slowly met everyone’s in the room as they turned to look at him. It was 0200 hours. It had been two days since the entire crew, reacting with shock, had heard the scuttlebutt about Kirk’s resignation. Spock had been working double shifts. Ewlett was hoping to avoid bothering . . . .

“Yes, sir.”

He pressed another button and sighed.

“Bridge to Captain Kirk.”

****

Spock entered Kirk’s quarters without knocking.  Kirk was sitting on the edge of the bed in his underwear. He looked a bit disheveled and had been awakened from a fitful sleep. He smoothed down his hair with his hand.          

“Report, Spock.”

“Distress call from a Federation ship. The message spoke of a Romulan attack.”

Kirk shook his head absently.

“I can’t.”

“You must.”

“I want you to handle it.”

Spock blinked.

“No.”

“Dammit, I meant what I said!”

“It is the Asimov.”

Kirk frowned and rubbed his forehead.  It had taken all his strength of will to make the decision to give up command, and now it would take all of his will to reverse himself. He didn’t know if he could even do it, yet he knew now that he must try to do it.

“Admiral Spencer’s on that ship.” He stood up and headed to the wardrobe. “I’m on my way.”

****

Like a phoenix reborn, James T. Kirk was all business as the turbo door opened onto the bridge. 

“Thank you, Mister Ewlett,” he said, swinging into the instantly vacated center seat. “Let me hear that message.”

The distressing sounds filled the bridge again. Kirk rubbed his chin. “What do you make of it?” he said to Spock.

Spock bent over his scanner.

“We are not within sensor range, but I concur with Lieutenant Commander Ewlett’s assessment that the Asimov has come under Romulan attack. Exact number of ships unknown.”

“Is she damaged, destroyed?”

“I cannot say, Captain.” He raised his head. “We should expect the worst.”

Kirk bit his lip.  If the Asimov had been destroyed, Admiral Spencer was dead because of him. The admiral was only in that area of space to intercept him, to talk him out of resigning face-to-face.

“At warp factor five, what’s our ETA?”

“Forty-five minutes, sir.”

“Let’s cut that down.” It was not a suggestion.

Kirk spent the next half hour with his chin in his hand waiting for the first officer’s sensors to pick up something.  Finally, he heard Spock’s deep voice respond.

“Long-range sensors active, Captain."

“Slow to impulse, helm.”

“Sensors picking up debris,” Spock said. “90,000 kilometers ahead.”

“Nature of debris?”

“Titanium hull. Matter/antimatter residue. Radiation fluxes. No survivors.”

Kirk slumped in his chair. Besides Spencer, the Asimov had a crew of ten.  All lost because of him.

“Other ships?”

He could feel Spock’s concentration behind him. “Three Romulan ships, decloaked, bird-of-prey design, moving away.”

Three!

“Let’s get them before they cross back into the neutral zone. Yellow alert, Lieutenant. Shields up.”

The navigator and helmsman swallowed in unison. Even Spock raised a brow.

“Captain, we cannot hope to fight off three fully armed Romulan vessels with cloaking capabilities and possible plasma energy weaponry.”  While he and the captain had stolen the cloaking technology and had used it to escape from the Romulan predators, Engineer Scott had been forced to disengage the device for Starfleet scrutiny when they were safely back in Federation space. “We no longer have a cloaking capability of our own.”

“Can we manufacture a device?”’ the captain asked.

“Insufficient time.”

The captain leaned forward.

“Then if we can’t fight off three ships, one will have to do, Mister Spock. Open a channel, Lieutenant. Let’s tell them we’re here.”

Someone interrupted them.

“Jim, what the hell’s going on? It’s too early in the morning for wargames."

“Prepare the sickbay for casualties. Not wargames, Bones. War.”

“Who with?”

“Romulans.”

“Jim, you’d better think twice about—”

“Do your duty, Doctor. Kirk out.”

His reticence gone, Kirk’s warrior's eyes blazed at the control console ahead of him. Ewlett now sat at the helm, Tania Barrows—only her second bridge rotation—at the navigator’s station. The captain swallowed, knowing what he had to do.

“Channel open, sir,” Johansen responded.

"Romulan ship, this is Captain James T. Kirk of the Federation starship Enterprise. You are in Federation territory and have destroyed a Federation vessel and her crew.  Surrender your ship and prepare to be boarded or I’ll shoot you out of the stars.”

When none of the three ships—all brightly painted, almost garishly—stopped or even slowed, Kirk ordered the helm to fire photons. The steady blast raced from the ship and found its target—though not a killing blow. At his attack, as Kirk knew they would, the two forward alien ships rippled, then disappeared into the cosmos. Couldn’t be helped. There was no way the Enterprise could destroy all three of them at once.

A minute later, the stern face of a mature Romulan warrior appeared on the forward view screen. He was all angles and gleaming black eyes; he had the look of the hawk in his face, the predator’s glint in his stare.

“I am Field Commander Torgott S’chell. Fire on my ship again and I will kill the hostage.”

“What hostage?”

“This one.”

The view screen was filled with the Romulan’s big hand pulling up a tired, bloodied goateed face so that it filled the entire screen; then it was roughly torn away.

“You have Admiral Spencer,” Kirk said calmly. “Let me speak to him.”  If only he could lower the shields to beam the admiral back to safety, but he didn’t dare.

“So you can communicate with your Federation secret codes? I think not.”

Kirk shifted in his seat.

“I give you my word that we won’t use any codes.”

Defiantly, Spencer pulled up next to the commander so that his face came into view.

“Are you all right, sir?” Kirk asked.

“They haven’t hurt me.”

Torgott cut off the exchange. “Yet!”

“You’re taking him back to Romulus?”

“Of course.”

“Of course, I can’t allow that.”

“Three against one, Kirk, or perhaps you hadn’t noticed.”

“I noticed.”

“Then notice this also."

Between the Enterprise and Torgott’s ship, the two missing warships shimmered back into sight. At the astonishing vision of the highly decorated green hulls, Kirk signaled to Johansen to cut off communications.

Kirk came out of his chair, heading for Spock’s station.

“Get Sulu up here. And Scotty. I need them.”

Spock stood up, his hands behind his back.

"Have you a plan?”

“Half of one.”

The captain rubbed his lips with one finger as he often did when he was preoccupied.  Behind them, McCoy entered the bridge. Sometimes he just had to be where the action was.

Ignoring the doctor, Spock said to the captain, “May I suggest a trade? Me for the admiral.”

Brown and hazel eyes met almost surreptitiously, as McCoy’s blue eyes widened in surprise. “The Federation doesn’t trade for hostages,” the doctor interjected. “Jim wouldn’t even consider it.”

But the captain would consider it.

“Go on,” Kirk said, intrigued.

“Admiral Spencer is valuable to the Federation,” Spock said without emotion. “I am valuable to the Romulans.”

“Exactly why should they go for it?” Kirk asked.

But he already had his suspicions.

“Torgott S’chell. I recognize the appellation. He is related to our Romulan Commander. It is now a matter of family honor. He will, as you say, ‘go for it’.”

Their Romulan commander.

Kirk remembered her well. He and Spock had humiliated her—stolen her technology, deposited her on a Federation starbase, where she was released and sent home in disgrace, only after Starfleet intelligence was through with her—and Spock had compromised, not only her command stature, but her heart, which had probably been the worst humiliation of all. Kirk knew that if the Romulans were half as duty-bound to family honor as the Klingons, there were definite axes to grind when it came to Spock, and to himself. A shiver ran the length of his body at just the thought of how much Torgott S’chell would like to bring them home, if only to be tortured to death for sport.

A look of bitter compromise coursed across the captain's face, as he yielded to the logic of having a very poor hand in a very high-stakes game. With the nod of his head, he motioned for Johansen to open a channel.

McCoy took his arm, hard. “You can’t be serious.”

“I don’t have much choice.  Maybe we can parlay it into something less dangerous.”

“Jim, no! It’s unethical. You can’t trade people like holo-cards!”

“Shut up, Doctor. As you know, ethics isn’t my strong suit.”

As Kirk pushed past McCoy, the stars on the screen were replaced with a fierce enemy’s hawk-like face. The captain reseated himself so that his face alone appeared in the middle of the Romulan screen.

“I have a deal for you, Torgott. My first officer for the admiral.”

“An exchange?” The Romulan commander wasn’t stupid. “Exactly what does the admiral know, Kirk, that’s worth your own first officer?”

Kirk’s demeanor was one of nonchalance.

“Not much about this sector really. He’s only a desk-bound bureaucrat in charge of ships’ personnel. But you know how it is: he’s our bureaucrat.”

“If he is so very trivial, Captain, why do we find him here so far from his ‘desk’?”

Kirk looked embarrassed. Only half an act.

“He was coming to talk me out of resigning my commission. So, you see, it’s personal. He had no military reason at all for being here.”

“The infamous Captain Kirk resign? You jest.”

Spock stepped forward to stand at the captain’s right.

“It is no jest, Torgott. I have been in command for several days. I am Spock.”

Torgott seemed to loom larger on the screen.

“Yes, the half-breed spy. I have heard of you . . . your duplicity. Traitor to your own blood. You prostitute your intellect and certainly your deepest feelings for the Earthers’ military.”

Spock cut him off with a sharp lift of his brow.

“Again, Torgott. Me for the admiral. It is an equitable exchange. Accept it and become a hero to your homeworld and to your entire . . . family. An asteroid planetoid nearby will provide a suitable environment. We can make the physical exchange there.”

“No asteroid. You wish to lure me near them and destroy me with your more maneuverable ship!”

Kirk replied easily, while considering the interesting slip. Enterprise, the larger vessel, should be less maneuverable, not more. Perhaps the cloaking device took its toll on their engines.  “That never occurred to me with the admiral on board.”

“Three to one, Kirk. I can simply take the traitor.”

“And I can simply destroy the Enterprise before you get the chance.”

“That still leaves me with the admiral.” Torgott cocked his head as if he had just thought of something sweet. “But what of you? You and the lascivious traitor for the admiral?"

Again, the screen went blank.

Stiffly—and Kirk thought he could see the tips of his ears blush green—Spock turned his lean body in towards the center seat.

“Send me first,” Spock said.

“No, then he’s got both of you. I’ve got to get rid of those two ships.” The captain chewed at his thumbnail. “We need a diversion, and we need it now.” He remembered something Spock had mentioned.  “Could we use the tractor beam to move one of your asteroids, Mister Spock?”

“That depends on the size of the mass we are moving and the distance you want it moved, Captain.”

“Not distance, speed. I want it to go as fast as a shuttle at full impulse for about two minutes.”

“I have never performed such a calculation.”

“Do it now, please.” Kirk watched Spock turn immediately to his work. He moved back towards Lieutenant Johansen. “Get me Lieutenant Uhura.” In seconds, he heard her sleepy answer.

“This is the captain, Uhura. Think you can remember how to pilot a shuttlecraft before breakfast?” He could imagine her bolting upright. “Meet Sulu in shuttle bay two.”

“Yes, sir! On my way!”

Kirk then made the same call to Sulu, then to Scotty.

“Mister Scott, I’m going to need you to be in two places at once: engineering and auxiliary control.”

“Well, laddie, that would pose a slight problem in physics, but I can monitor m’ engines from Aux Control, I suppose.”

“I’ll need pinpoint accuracy and instant response from weaponry—both photons and phasers.”

“I’ll put my best people on it. And I suppose you’ll be needin’ deflectors at maximum.”

“And the tractor beam. Also the Galileo configured for autopilot and the Curie readied for manual launch.”

“Aye, sir.” Scott wondered exactly what Kirk had in mind that would take damned near every subsystem on the ship but food prep—and that fancy shuttle with the transporter mechanism ta boot. “I suggest we shut down life support on decks 19 through 24. I could divert the extra power to the shields.”

“You’re in charge, Mister Scott.” After disconnecting from Scotty, Kirk turned to Johansen. “Put me on ship-wide, Lieutenant.” In moments, everyone on the ship who was asleep was awake.

“Captain Kirk to all personnel. We have encountered three Romulan battleships, which have crossed from the neutral zone into Federation space. We are attempting to retrieve Starfleet Admiral Dawson Spencer, whom the Romulans are holding hostage. In ten minutes, decks 19 to 24 will be shut down completely, including life support. Extra shift personnel must report to sickbay. This is a red alert. Man all battle stations. I need everyone to look sharp. Kirk out.” He turned again to the first officer, as the klaxons began to wail. “Mister Spock, your job is to backtrack the cloaked vessels so that we can anticipate their trajectory.”

“A most logical strategy, Captain, however, I must point out that—”

Kirk didn’t want to hear it.

“They have warp signatures, and they have matter-antimatter residue trails, and you’ll know where they are when they decloak before they can fire. That should be enough.”

But the Romulans could cloak again and change positions almost instantaneously. Both Kirk and Spock knew that.

“However, they will fire, and there is a 67 percent probability that I will not be successful.”

Kirk bit the inside of his cheek.

“That’s not so good. Let’s increase the odds in our favor.”  The captain had been studying maps of the area. “I believe that asteroid cluster you mentioned might have more than one use.”

“It has an ordinary configuration,” Spock offered. “Approximately one hundred thousand square kilometers with three moon-size spheres. The composition is common planetoid materials: iron-nickel, magnesium, various silicates—”

“I get the picture.”

“But Torgott said that they wouldn’t come after us in there,” McCoy interjected.

Kirk uncrossed his legs, bracing himself.

“He’ll come. Three to one, remember. He can’t lose.” Kirk addressed his console. “Weapons section prepare to fire.”

Instead, the Enterprise was rocked with a direct hit to the aft engineering decks. It was obvious that Commander Torgott had decided he was quite finished with negotiations. 

Immediate alarm flashed across Kirk’s face. He swiveled around in his command chair. “Get that Romulan ship back now, Lieutenant!”

Even Spock paused at hearing the high level of distress in the captain’s voice, and more than one set of eyes were now on the Johanson’s back as she struggled with her panel. Seconds passed becoming an excruciating long minute.

“Lieutenant!”

“I’m trying, sir. They’re not responding.”

“Dammit!”

No one on the bridge but the captain knew what he was upset about. He swiveled back to face the front, the blood clearly gone from his face. He slid forward to the edge of his seat; in an unconscious gesture of support, McCoy stepped closer to the command chair. Suddenly the front view screen was filled again with Torgott’s angular features.

Kirk’s grim tone was rife with certainty. “You shot him, didn’t you.”

Torgott’s dark head turned to his right and then dropped.

“Your bureaucrat met with an unfortunate accident.” With amazing strength, Torgott hauled a limp Dawon Spencer, bleeding from the head, into viewer range. “Fortunately or not, my guard is . . . was . . . a very poor marksman.” He dropped the body with a thud. “Now you, Captain Kirk, and that dishonorable mongrel beside you seem all the more intriguing.”

Ignoring the insults, Kirk demanded, “Is the admiral alive?”

Torgott looked annoyed.

“For the moment. However, more misfortune. We Romulans have no medical facilities for humans.”

Kirk bit his lip. McCoy moved even closer, whispering into his ear.

“Jim, I’m going over.”

“No, you’re not.”

“That’s a Starfleet admiral over there. I can save him if you just let me go! Since you were planning to rescue the one of him anyway, now you can just rescue the two of us.”

Kirk rubbed his forehead. Goddammit to hell! He cleared his throat. Tonia Barrows shot McCoy a look of dismay. She had personal feelings for the man.

“Torgott, if you allow me to beam over a doctor, you’ll have two hostages. If not, you won’t even have one.”

Torgot glanced down at the Starfleet garbage on the floor.

“There is an expression in your language, Kirk. It pertains to commercial transactions, I believe.” He raised a disdainful brow. “Absolutely no refunds.”

“I understand. Now give me your coordinates.”

“In three minutes, there will be a fifteen-second window. Transport your physician then, and we will intercept his particle wave.”

“I can’t allow—”

The view went dark again.

“I’ll get my supplies, Jim.” McCoy turned immediately, heading for the turbo.

“Bones!"

But the doctor didn’t look back. In frustration, Kirk gripped the arm of his console.  "Kirk to Kyle. Begin a three-minute countdown. Stand ready to beam out Doctor McCoy.”

“Coordinates, sir?”  

Kirk swallowed hard.

“Straight up, over our heads. Your discretion at distance.”  He glanced over his shoulder at Spock. They’d have to drop their shields to beam McCoy out. “First officer, you’ll coordinate the deflector/transporter timing sequence.”

“Affirmative.”

Like clockwork, three minutes later, Chief Kyle reported that McCoy was gone, and just as predictably, the Enterprise was hit from phaser fire exactly ten seconds later.

Ignoring the concussion and the sickening thought that he’d just sent his chief medical officer and friend to his death, Kirk steadied his breathing in an attempt to ready himself for battle. No time to worry. No time to sweat. He wiped a tiny bead from his upper lip and relaxed just enough to keep his edge. “Got a fix, Spock?”

Spock hunkered over his scanner.

“Minor damage to the aft section. Deflectors at 95 percent. I now have telemetry on Romulan ship number one. Forwarding coordinates to weapons.”

“Fire when ready. Scatter array.”

A dozen torpedoes flew from the Enterprise. Most of them exploded in empty space, but some of them found their target.

Spock raised his head in clear, unVulcan surprise. “One enemy ship disabled, Captain.”

Kirk only looked more determined.

"The rest won’t be that easy.” He leaned forward. “Mister Ewlett, skirt the edge of the asteroid cluster and head behind it, bearing 1291 mark 4. Don’t let them get below us.  Ensign Barrows, as we pass, use the tractor beam to project an asteroid the size of the shuttle directly behind the Galileo. Use the momentum and direction of its trajectory to boost our beam.”

Ewlett and Barrows quickly set to work.

“Tractor beam settings confirmed, Captain,” she said clearly; then just as clearly, “Incoming.”

They were hit again and hit hard. Spock was knocked back against the red railing and Kirk lifted from his bucking chair. Spock scrambled back to his station.

“Deflectors at 65 percent.”

Kirk pressed a button on his console.

“Scotty, launch shuttle Galileo. Uhura and Sulu take out the Curie. Sulu, leave the Romulans to us while you get into position. As soon as we’ve dispatched the other ship, beam the admiral and Doctor McCoy aboard from the remaining ship. You’ll only have seconds before she re-cloaks.”

Sulu’s voice sounded far away. “If we only get one of them, sir?”

“You heard my orders, Mister Sulu.”

“Aye, Captain. Orders received.”

Kirk nodded. He had full confidence in Sulu and Uhura. They would not fail him.

“Shuttles launched,” Barrows reported. “Galileo heading portside ascent. Curie aft descent. Top speed.

“Tractor beam on the asteroid,” Kirk commanded. “Swing it towards the Galileo.” The entire bridge crew heard the distinctive whine of the particle stream conductor. Only the engineering crew and Spock could calculate the forces it took to change direction of an object the size of a shuttle, but two hundred times heavier.

Within seconds, as Kirk knew they would, the second Romulan ship had taken the bait; the Galileo was debris. They had mistaken the shuttle streaking from the Enterprise and the subsequent asteroid for incoming weaponry, decloaked, and fired at them, giving the Enterprise a clear, clean shot.

Kirk was on the edge of his seat.

“Fire phasers!”

Moments later, the second Romulan ship was a billion bits of spiraling, burning metal.

“Navigator, take us away from the asteroid cluster, heading 222 mark 9. Helm full impulse. Steady.”

“Torgott’s ship is cloaking now,” Spock said.

Everyone's thoughts were with the Curie.

“Even if she attempts to run,” Kirk said, “there’s only two humans on that ship.”

Though the visible ship was rippling away, she was firing staccato-high-intensity plasma bursts behind her. The Enterprise took another hit, then another.

His knuckles white on the chair arms, Kirk yelled, “Hang on!”

“Shields at 28 percent,” Spock reported. “Direct hits to decks 20, 21, and engineering. Possible engine compromise.”

“Scotty!” Kirk called down.

“Engines are overheatin’, Captain,” Scotty called up. “I’ve got to take her offline!”

“No, Scotty! Push the limit. Just another few seconds.”

Spock’s voice had become a countdown.

“Shields at 15 percent.”

Kirk turned to Lieutenant Johansen, only one question in his eyes. She shook her head. Then something whispered in her ear. Odd static, then a coded message encrypted in the captain’s personal telegraphy. “Message confirmed from the Curie. Admiral Spencer . . . and Doctor McCoy aboard!”

Kirk suppressed a satisfied smirk as Torgott’s angry face filled the forward screen.

“I will simply take my hostages back, human, plus the shuttle crew, and the Enterprise will be rubble!”

Kirk didn’t like hearing another threat.

"It’s one to one now, Torgott. So try it, damn you, try it.”

Behind him Spock voice sounded like doom, and Kirk cringed to hear it.

“Shields at eight percent.”

Kirk didn’t wait. They had to protect the Curie. Torgott had all but confessed that his ship wasn’t as maneuverable. He gave the command.

“Navigator, set course 1204 mark 6. Orloff’s maneuver. Tight about. Fire everything we’ve got, Scotty. Scatter torpedoes and phasers. Mister Spock’s best guess.”

There was nothing visible to fire at and they were hit again by weapons unleashed before the warbird disappeared. Yet as they passed, photon spray from the Enterprise—from Vulcan-precise calculations or from James T. Kirk’s inestimable luck—found their target, and Romulan Commander Torgott’s pretty painted ship blew up in a series of green-orange explosions that even James Kirk found hard to watch.

Apparently stunned, the warbird paused in mid-air before the concussion broke it apart in three major chunks. The backdrop of stars obliterated, spitting, twisting fire preceded the brilliant explosions that ripped the larger pieces into a million red-orange bits. After the flames came the purple-pink gases of a warp-core dispersion. Then all the flaming wreckage and gasses died completely away, and the myriad sparkling stars replaced them on the forward view screen.

When it was all over, the bridge personnel released a huge collective sigh of relief. Ewlett and Barrows shook hands. Many of them touched their chests to still the pounding of their hearts. The adrenaline rush had them wide-eyed.

“Power down, Mister Scott,” they heard their captain say.

Scotty’s voice mirrored everyone’s relief.

“Aye, Captain, aye!”

But instead of the exhilaration that everyone else on the ship felt, James Kirk felt anguish. After he had come to the hard-fought decision to leave the Service, it had taken all he had to report to the bridge psychologically prepared for battle. The mental and emotional fatigue was nearly overwhelming now.

He bit his lip to fight down nausea. Yes, three Romulan attackers were destroyed and Admiral Spencer and Doctor McCoy rescued, but now the entire ship would be reporting system failures, hull damage, injuries, casualties. All reported to the captain of the Enterprise. To him.

No, not this time. He called over his shoulder without turning his head.  “Mister Spock.” When Spock appeared at his side, it was all he could do to mutter, “You have the conn.”

“Captain, I believe I am needed in engineering.”

“Handle it. Get Bones and Spencer on board.” Kirk looked pale. “Just handle it.”

Two seconds later, he was gone from the bridge.

****

For the men and women of the Enterprise, the adrenaline rush lasted a while longer as during the next few hours they ignored the need for food and rest to clean up the mess and bandage the wounded.  Now it was time for doing their jobs: overall inspections, engine repairs, vital systems reconfiguration, computer reprogramming, and surgery.  All of them did their parts; all were at their stations.

Save one.

Chapter Text

Leonard Mccoy asked tentatively, “May we come in, Jim?”

It had been eight hours since their battle with the Romulans. Distracted, James Kirk looked up from his hands—thinking of nothing and of everything—to see Chief Surgeon McCoy and First Officer Spock cautiously enter his quarters.

The two men stood for a moment in awkward silence.

“We thought perhaps you would be interested in the ship’s status,” Spock said finally.

Wearily, Kirk allowed his hands to unfold.

“Yes, of course, I’m curious.”

McCoy reported first.

“Three dead as the result of Romulan phaser fire, 27 injuries, varying from concussions to severe burns. Admiral Spencer suffered a nasty head wound, a pulled shoulder and broken leg, but Starfleet brass have hard heads and the break was clean and should heal with no lasting effects.” He suppressed a tight smile. “And by the way, I’m all right, too.”

Now it was Spock’s turn.

“Decks 19 through 21 sustained considerable hull and life support damage and must remain sealed until we reach starbase 12. Impulse power is unaffected, but warp drive will be limited to factor 2 point 4. Shields are down. Estimated time for repair 70 hours. The Marie Curie is intact, but the Galileo II has been lost.”

Kirk nodded, accepting the facts.

“Any signs of more of our friends?”

“No further sign of enemy activity.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your consideration, Mister Spock. And you, too, Doctor McCoy.”

Almost gingerly, McCoy shifted his weight.

“Jim, I just want to say that . . . well, the whole ship’s talking about your battle strategy. Using a shuttle and an asteroid to confuse the Romulans. That was one for the textbooks.”

“I, too, wish to congratulate you,” Spock concurred.

Kirk smiled bleakly at his friends’ attempt to cheer him up. He wasn’t really in the mood for compliments or congratulations, but he forced himself to turn to his credenza and pull out a decanter and three glasses. He would try hard to sustain the lighter moment.

“One last drink to one last victory, gentlemen?”

McCoy stiffened noticeably. He had no desire to celebrate what he would ultimately call an unmitigated disaster for Starfleet, if not for himself and his friends.

“No, not for me. I won’t drink to that.” He started to leave but paused for a long moment. He couldn’t suppress the words or his feelings. “You’re throwing your life away, Jim. There’s no way in hell I’m going to drink to that.”

Both men watched him go, and James Kirk slumped back hard in his chair. He hadn’t wanted this last time together to end on a sour note. Finally, he pulled his eyes up to Spock.

“So you going to leave in an indignant huff, too?”

Spock remained on his feet, hands behind his back.

“What would you have me say, Jim, that I am pleased that you are resigning? I am not. You know that. But I also know how difficult it was for you to return to the bridge, to recover your sense of ownership of this vessel, your sense of resolve of command after your decision to resign.”

“You can’t imagine,” Kirk muttered. He could feel himself becoming overwhelmed with the emotional loss. He turned his gaze way. “Just get us to starbase 12 so that I can get the hell off this ship, Spock. Just do that for me.”

Spock dropped his eyes to the floor.

“If that is what you desire.”

Deliberately, Kirk removed the decanter’s stopper, deciding that liquor couldn’t hurt anything now.

“Odd word, that one. I don’t have any idea what I ‘desire'. I only know that I don’t belong here anymore.”

Spock raised his eyes.

“That is not true. This is your home. What you did today proves that you are one with this ship, with this way of life. It is what you were born to do, what you are destined to do.”

“In your opinion.”

Spock’s dark eyes narrowed at the low blow of these words, an echo of Prosecutor Shaw’s deliberate trivialization of his testimony on the captain’s behalf in the Finney case. But Spock knew that James Kirk had only meant to demean himself with those words, to label the highest praise that the first officer had stated as fact as no more than hyperbole.

“As today’s battle confirmed, my opinion of your personal attributes has borne up well.”

Kirk gave him an odd last look.

“I was a different man then, a better man. I want to be that man again. This is the only way I know how to do it.”

Spock paused, creating a moment where the tone of his voice remained intimate.

“Jim, I will not ask you to rescind a decision that has come so hard for you, though it is not reasonable for you to bind yourself to it. I only wish you would listen to us, your friends who care for you. Listen to me. You are responding to emotion when you should be listening to reason.”

“But you’re my reason. Spock. I betrayed you. What I did after you rescued me . . . .  The mind meld lessened the guilt but that doesn’t erase the dishonor.”

“I am not your reason. I am your excuse.”

But Kirk didn’t want to hear that. He poured himself a drink and one for Spock. He wouldn’t listen to reason or any other damn thing. He had made his decision. He had made it. Training and temperament aside, his life here was over. He would pay the price of dishonor. Not gladly, but he would pay it. He lifted his glass in the air.

“Here’s to the Enterprise and her crew. The finest ship in the fleet.” When Spock didn’t pick up his glass, Kirk pushed it forward with his fingertip. “Drink with me, please.” He watched Spock deliberately pick up the glass as though it held radioactive waste. When Kirk put his glass to his lips, Spock reluctantly mirrored the movement.

As the liquor burned its way down his closing throat, James Kirk stood and met Spock’s piercing gaze. There was still more to say.

“We’re near the end of the first four years. Here’s to the successful completion of the final year. I have no doubt it will be just as successful—with her new captain in command.” Kirk lifted the glass again.  “To logic.”

With those words, Spock set down his glass.

“There is no logic here, and I will not drink to illogic—one that destroys everything good whose source is your own best nature.” The first officer felt the bitter reverberation of McCoy’s revulsion and knew that at times, the doctor was completely right. He ground his teeth to keep from speaking, but even that illogical physical display could not keep him silent. “Damn you, Jim. Damn you for doing this to us.”

And he, like McCoy, stiffly left the room.

James Kirk drank the liquor, in two quick shots, then slowly sank down to his seat. Part of him wanted to feel elation at having beaten the enemy, but he felt little of that. He’d used what resources he’d had at hand, and nothing more. He was good at that.  But the best part of what he’d done today was to have lived through it—to be able to walk away clean. He knew that Spock and McCoy wouldn’t understand his feelings. How could they? But the lifting of the burden of command returned the calm sensation that he’d known, one that he so desperately wanted to keep. He had gone into battle and won. Now it was time to step away from the fight and return to peace, in whatever form he could find it.

****

The next day seemed endless.

Sickbay was quiet as Doctor McCoy had no patients and sat morosely at his desk, uninterested in his usual lab experiments or medical journals. Nurse Chapel stayed clear, and no one from the bridge rotation or other departments came by to say hello or for medical care with either an accidental broken bone or a pesky hangnail. Admiral Spencer was resting in the guest quarters with McCoy’s orders to stay off his feet. Spock sat stone-faced in the center seat, his dark eyes focused in hard-won concentration on the forward screen or on the continual stream of data padds that were placed in his hands for sign-off.

Everyone understood that there was no use bothering James Kirk who sat at his desk all day, his face buried in his steepled hands. He had no tasks, no reason to leave his quarters. He had given it all the up. Try as he might to remain calm and relaxed, he thought the tightness in his shoulders would shoot his head straight off his body. He had not eaten dinner or lunch or breakfast. As right as his decision still seemed to him, it all felt wrong.

Locked away in his quarters, he didn’t realize that everyone else on the starship Enterprise felt wrong, too. 

****

That evening, James Kirk went to his sleeping area, removed his gold tunic, and arranged it carefully across his bunk. Dressed all in black now, he stared at the shirt, trying to make sense of a distant memory of courtrooms and lawyers that haunted him. So lost in the braid and the insignia and the symbolism of command gold and courts of law that he didn’t hear his buzzer. When Admiral Dawson Spencer in full uniform appeared in his quarters, James Kirk was taken aback. He immediately came to attention.

“Sir!”

The admiral limped in and surveyed the room. “As you were, Captain.”

Instead, Kirk came towards the desk and offered the injured Spencer a chair.

Sporting a neo-derm bandage that covered half his forehead, Spencer eyed the seat as though he longed to take it, but he raised his gaze to the man before him, squared his shoulders like the old warrior he was, and instead remained standing.

“Sit down, Captain.” 

His tone was dura-steel and trilithium. He ordered Kirk seated so that there was clearly no lack of intimidation that rightfully came with rank, no matter if he was bruised, stitched up, and half-lame. Even injured, he looked formidable with his silver hair and goatee and shoulders that looked like they’d never slumped a day in his life. 

“I just came from the bridge.  Commander Spock said I would find you here. I want to know why you aren’t up there.”

Looking up, Kirk answered with a neutral tone, trying to keep defiance out of his voice, if not his words.

“With all due respect, Admiral, we have already had this conversation. I have resigned my commission. Commander Spock is in charge.”

“We began this conversation, but we didn’t finish it. You cannot abandon your duties or your mission until I accept your resignation. That hasn’t happened and it isn’t going to until I know the reasons behind this brash decision.”

When Kirk remained silent, Spencer didn’t allow the silence to remain.

“On the bridge,” Spencer resumed, “your first officer reported that during the battle, deflectors were down to eight percent.”

Kirk seemed distracted by Spencer’s change of subject.

“True, sir, but they held.”

Spencer’s eyes glistened with purpose and wisdom.

“I want you to be like your deflectors, James. I want you to hold on. Starfleet is not in the habit of bestowing the captaincy of their starships to men who quit. Like your deflectors, you will not quit.”

“You did read—”

“I read your letter. It said nothing.”

“I believe getting captured, tortured, and raped are enough reasons, even for Starfleet Command.”

“But not for you.”

“I’ve just reached the end of my tether.” It hurt to say these words. “The unknown . . . I’m afraid of it.”

Spencer wanted to guffaw at the ridiculous statement, but understood that for the moment, James Kirk actually thought it to be true.

“I saw absolutely no fear of the unknown when you went head-to-head with three Romulan warships, concocted an elaborate tactical strategy to get me back, red-lined every system on the Enterprise including life support and deflectors, then blew those sons-of-Klingons out of the sky.”

Kirk stared at the desktop.

“My last hurrah. I owed you that. It was because of me that you were—”

“That I’m here now. In one piece.”

“That you were nearly killed.”

Spencer couldn’t help but chortle in disbelief.

“Nonsense! The Romulans had a little something to do with it. Haven’t you asked yourself why they were on this side of the neutral zone?”

Kirk nodded. Actually he had, but he figured he’d never know for sure.

“I wondered,” he answered. “And I wondered why you were the only one of your crew that was deliberately captured.”

“That weighed on my mind, too. Then I overheard a transmission between Torgott and an obvious Orion pirate.”

Suddenly, the entire scheme became clear: there was a strong connection between the Romulans and the Orions.

“James, the Romulans were happy to supply the slavers with the appropriate ‘cargo’ easily obtained by their cloaked and heavily armed vessels, and a Starfleet admiral who stumbled into their path was definitely the ‘appropriate’ cargo.”

“In exchange for?”

“Technology. The kind that created your friend Dost.” Spencer watched Kirk’s eyes widen in apparent horror, and the horror of that thought affected him, too. If Dost was a Romulan creation, not Orion, how many more Dosts were out there on different planets, in different systems? Spencer considered. Romulans were far more technologically sophisticated than Orions. At least Kirk and his Mister Spock had dispatched two of them and three of the Romulan ships who supplied them. “It was you who saved me from ending up on all fours at the end of some pervert’s leather strap, from literal depravity and death.”

“Doctor McCoy—”

“Doctor McCoy is a brave man and a skilled surgeon, but it was your tactical achievements that saved both our lives.”

To steady himself, he put his hand against the chair back. He needed to get to the point.

“What’s this really about, James?”

Kirk tried to swallow the stone in his throat. He would not tell Spencer the details, but he would try to tell him the truth. Somehow.

“Sir . . . after I was rescued from Dunbar’s Planet, I did something . . . .”

Spencer saw him bite his lower lip.

“That you’re ashamed of.”

Kirk closed his eyes and nodded.

Spencer straightened his spine. He didn’t need to know the details to acknowledge the critical essence of a shameful act.

“I’ve talked to Commander Spock,” he began. When he saw Kirk’s hazel eyes widen with dismay, Spencer knew for the first time that all this had something to do with the Vulcan first officer, the one-man army who had rescued his captain months earlier. Even with this knowledge, he wisely didn’t linger there.  “And to Doctor McCoy, as well. But Mister Spock doesn’t want command. He wants to work for you. And the doctor says you’ve recovered in full.”

“I betrayed a friend . . . someone I admire.  A Starfleet officer would never—  I haven’t recovered.”  

Spencer considered Kirk’s naked confession, and he would get to that later. Perhaps James Kirk wasn’t entirely aware of the Big Picture and perhaps that is why he continued to undervalue his own worth. He eyed the younger man before him, and his voice turned firm and focused. He was beginning to grow weary of this discussion, and somehow he knew it would not be won by reason, but by emotion—the emotion of one man’s love for his vessel, for his life aboard her, and perhaps for a certain person who greatly needed him to continue in command.

Finally, as if giving in to the emotion of what was in his own heart, Dawson Spencer lowered himself stiffly into the chair. Even for him, this was hard to admit, as a lifetime of political compromises flashed across his mind.

“To be an officer,” he continued slowly, "doesn’t mean that we turn into machines—conduits, relays, circuits inside human bodies. We’re not perfect. None of us.” He paused to consider the subtext of his own choice of words. “Even Starfleet officers sin, James. That is what you’re calling it, isn't it?"

For the moment, the admiral felt like a crusty old Irish priest hearing a repentant parishioner’s confession, but he surely balked at that idea. He was only an old-fashioned secular-humanist authority figure trying to place an honorable man’s guilt and remorse into black and white Federation perspective. He’d been a starship commander himself in his younger days. He hadn’t lasted long—perhaps he’d never been suited—before being kicked upstairs. Was this one heading for the same fate or far worse? This one who was so talented, so idealistic, and so stubbornly self-judgmental. It was common knowledge that Kirk was a man who bent the rules, but not so when it came to his own personal conduct.

“As you know," Spencer began, “I’m not sanguine about categorizing sins against someone else’s idea of a supreme being, but like you, I do believe you can sin against people . . . against friends . . . even against the people you love. If that’s what you did, James, you’ve been forgiven a thousand-fold. I can see that in the way everyone aboard this ship responds to you.” He paused for emphasis, and he didn’t hold back. “Everyone, especially your Mister Spock. Now forgive yourself. Let it go, son. Redeem your honor by being who you are.” His voice was low, paternal, soothing. His leg was beginning to ache, but he ignored it.  “We can’t afford to lose you, Captain James Kirk. You’re the best we’ve got.”

“I’m not— Spock can command—”

“The very best,” Spencer reiterated, overriding Kirk’s deflection. He could see that the younger officer didn’t want to listen to him anymore and that filled him with frustration. “If Spock could command this ship as well as you, he would be doing it, not waking you up in the middle of the night to take over against three Romulan warbirds. Spock is an exceptional first officer who knows his limitations. He also knows your abilities. It is from those abilities that I owe you my life, and this sector owes you its safety.”

Spencer pulled himself to his feet. He towered over the junior officer who still sat behind the desk.

“Captain James Tiberius Kirk, as your immediate commanding officer, I reject your request for resignation. I see no justification for such an action. You displayed exemplary ability and tenacity in the face of an overwhelming enemy onslaught. You overcame nearly impossible technical odds to rescue a hostage secured within the confines of the enemy squadron—with your ship and your crew intact.  As her lawful captain, you will remain in command of this vessel, and you will complete the last year of a five-year mission. If I have to throw you in the brig, you will command this ship from there. Is that clear?”

Kirk blinked, and then a hint of stunning realization crossed his face. Command from the brig?  Maybe he could actually do it . . . .

“Do you mean that you won’t accept—"

There was wonder in the words, like it came from someone who had just received a pardon a mere two steps from the guillotine. Even a hard-core officer of the line like Dawson Spencer was taken aback by this simple lack of guile.

“I won’t allow James Kirk to resign. I wouldn’t allow any honorable man to resign. Honor isn’t an abstraction. Any man willing to give up everything, everyone he loves, his career, for principle . . . well, that’s a man who has already proven that he has honor.” Spencer lowered his voice and said with as much sincerity as he could deliver. “Redeem your honor by being who you are, James. You are needed here on the Enterprise, on that bridge up there. Don’t think that Spock can take your place. He can’t. He’s your additional brain power, maybe even half your heart, but he can’t take your place. Spock, like the rest of us, needs you so that we all can be at our best. Take back command and fulfill your destiny, and honor will come with it.”

A slight frown crossed Kirk’s features as he considered the implications of the older man’s words. Watching the exhausted Dawson Spencer lower himself once more to the chair, all the words the admiral had said were slowly sinking in, becoming real.

He was tired of the fight, and this was absolution. He'd been so blind to the truth about himself. Spencer had said he could only redeem his honor by being who he was, and who he was was captain of the Enterprise. 

Taking a deep breath and letting its cleansing air wash over him, James Kirk’s stunning relief could now accept the admiral’s words: Honor could be his again, his personal honor as a man and an officer.  Perhaps being needed could erase dishonor, could mitigate its tarnish, its pitted surface. Spencer said he was needed, and he could only fulfill that need as captain on the bridge of his ship . . . with a Vulcan at his side. 

            Spock . . . .

            Spock needed him . . . my Mister Spock needs me . . . needs me.

He stood up slowly, feeling light-headed. There was going to be a future, an actual future he could hold in his hands, see before him, taste like clear clean water, feel along the length of his body like a lover’s sweet caress. Yet there was no honor without Spock, and Spock needed him. 

“Permission," he almost whispered, "to withdraw my resignation.” He would fulfill his destiny. 

The admiral smiled to himself.

“Granted, Captain.

Spencer nodded brusquely. At the look of beatific happiness in James Kirk’s tear-filled eyes, he absently stroked his goatee forgetting where he was.

“I believe your Mister Spock requires relief. From what I hear he’s been doing his job and yours for quite a while.” Spencer waved his hand as though trying to chase Kirk from behind the desk. “Now leave an old man alone. That’s an order. I need some time to myself to think about how only a few hours ago I came this close to being ashes and atoms.”

Spencer watched Kirk head for the door.

“Captain,” Spencer called out. The admiral nodded towards the sleeping area. “You’re out of uniform.”

Like a man on a mission, James Kirk shimmied into his shirt, gave it a quick tug, and moved past his superior officer again. He stopped just short of the door to wipe his eyes. “Thank you, Admiral,” he said with deepest gratitude. “I lost my way, but you’ve restored it."

Spencer guffawed again. “Don’t thank me. I believe you owe your poor, overworked first officer a thank you. Now get to it.”

Kirk smiled to himself as he entered the corridor. And he was still smiling when the turbo-lift took him directly to the bridge.           

****

In command, acting captain Spock was sitting—noticeably slouched—in the center seat, and for the first time, James Kirk noticed how stooped his posture was and how sharp the lines of his shoulder blades jutting out of his back. The Vulcan was so fatigued, so lost in concentration at the dizzy columns of numbers of the fuel consumption report that he held in his hand, that he hadn’t even noticed Kirk’s arrival on the bridge. The captain felt completely responsible for that fatigue. Spock needs me . . . He stepped up beside the command chair.

“I’m here to relieve you, Mister Spock. Go grab yourself a hot meal and a few hours’ sleep.”

“Jim!”

Spock bit his lower lip to keep from smiling as he immediately vacated the chair. Both men recognized the millisecond of joy, the flash of emotion emanating from the tired brown eyes; it reminded them of another moment of joy and relief. Recovering his composure, the first officer tugged at the hem of his blue science tunic and cleared his throat. “To what do we owe this recent change of plans, Captain?”

Kirk smiled, the old smile.

“Admiral’s orders.”

“Ah . . . yes.  The persuasive power of rank.”

“Someday I’m going to have that power.”  Kirk gave Spock another quick grin. “But not for a while. Right now, I just want things to be normal, the way they used to be.” His ears perked up at the quiet blips and beeps of the bridge arrays, and, of course, the view screen full of moving stars. “I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“You were, Jim. And now, you are doing the right thing again.”

The captain saw Spock actually sway on his feet, and he reached out to touch his arm.

“Are you all right?”

“I am fine. Now.”

“Go on. Get out of here before you drop. Don’t come back until tomorrow. I’ll hold down the fort.”

Spock could hardly believe that there could be a tomorrow—one where everything was normal. It had been so very long. Though they were far from Dunbar’s Planet, its legacy had followed them through the stars. But no more. He would finally rest now, because the captain was back. He longed for sleep, and he longed for quiet dreams. Two things now within reach.

Suddenly, very much within his reach.    

****

Tomorrow came to the starship’s bridge crew, and like the first officer had wished, everything was finally running normally: Uhura monitored communications; Scotty supervised the warp engines; Chekov and Sulu were at helm and navigation; Spock himself was bent over his science scanner—all ever vigilant. And James T. Kirk, captain of the Enterprise, calmly signed requisitions, monitored all functions, and supervised them all. The forward screen showed a field of fast-moving, blurry stars as they sped towards the nearest starbase to effect repairs and take on cargo.

Uhura, lifting her earpiece from her ear, was the first to see the turbo door swish open. “Admiral on the bridge,” she announced crisply.

Kirk glanced up, then down again. Then up. He had expected a visit to the bridge from their guest—who no doubt had come to offer shore leave options. Thank goodness. The captain knew everyone was tired of the grind and the anxiety. Kirk handed off the req tablet to Yeoman Oliver. He unwound himself from his chair and stood beside it.

“Welcome, sir. May I show you the bridge?”

“Captain Kirk, there are other matters concerning me.”

Kirk could hear an edge of something odd—disapproval? —in the saying of his name.

“Of course, Admiral Spencer,” he acknowledged.

Spencer approached the captain so that they stood facing one another.

“Captain Kirk, the current assignment of the starship Enterprise is to probe and evaluate the stellar phenomenon Estrella-Azul nebula, catalog and map star systems AE109 through AE112, and conduct spectral-analysis on the recently discovered Lost Dutchman’s wormhole. You are currently behind on such assignments.”

Technically all of that was true.

“Yes, sir.”

“Furthermore, these assignments do not—nor have they ever—required interference with the internal security of legitimate planetary governments not yet aligned with the Federation or their constituency.”

At this unusual tone, Spock raised his head, as Uhura and Scott also turned theirs. Frowning, Chekov and Sulu glanced at each other wordlessly.

“Unfortunately, the Federation and Starfleet in particular have acquired a galactic reputation—however unwarranted and against our own guiding principles—as presumptuous meddlers into the internal affairs of free planets. You, Captain Kirk, as a highly visible Starfleet representative, have done nothing but encourage such a perception.  In the past four years, my office alone has received numerous complaints describing this behavior, and now again from the legitimate and sovereign government of Vilroy VI, also known as Dunbar’s Planet.”

My god, what a blunder! Kirk thought. Not shore leave options. A reprimand, from the one person he’d risked his ship to save. The old man didn’t even mind blasting him to space debris in the presence of his entire bridge staff. Bastard. Kirk could feel the heat in his face. His hands became fists at his sides.

But Spencer wasn’t finished.

“Consider this a strong reprimand towards such behavior and an even stronger admonition against repeating it in the future. Because of your own unbridled disregard for the good reputation of Starfleet, all Enterprise personnel—as a command-level disciplinary measure—will forego any accrued shore leave and continue its scientific mission for the next four solar weeks.”

Kirk could feel eyes burning into the back of his head. He slowly filled his chest to calm himself, but his heart pounded in shame.

“Admiral Spencer, I accept responsibility for all my decisions concerning Vilroy VI. However, I ask that punishment affect only me. Spare my crew.”

“As you are responsible for their actions, Captain Kirk, they are affected by yours. The disciplinary measure stands.”

“Acknowledged, sir.”

“Captain James Tiberius Kirk,” Spencer continued. “Because your personal behavior has resulted in the able assistance of Dunbar security forces and in the recovery of nearly two dozen Federation citizens from deprivation of their individual freedoms, future torture, and almost certain death—including this officer—expect a commendation and citation for valor from both this office and the Dunbar government.”

Though Kirk looked at the floor, one corner of his mouth involuntarily turned up. He briefly pulled his eyes to Spencer’s face. “Thank you, sir.”

Having turned the gloom to redemption, Admiral Spencer’s bushy brows moved apart. He, too, suppressed a smile.  Not such a bastard after all.

“Now, my boy, you and your ship be on your way. The stars await.”

With that, he turned and disappeared inside the turbolift.

A distinct vacuum remained after he left, which nobody wanted to be the first to fill. Everyone had their eyes on James Kirk’s bent head.  Only the beep-beep-beep of the bridge monitors cut into the awkward silence. Deliberately, the embarrassed captain thumbed a switch on his console.

“Captain to all personnel.” He cleared his throat. “We have just received new orders to continue our mission. Shore leave has been delayed for one month. I know we’re tired and due for leave now. As your commanding officer, I take full responsibility for the extension of our workload.” He paused, filled with pride. “You are the finest crew of the finest ship in the Fleet, and I know you all will continue to do your best. I’ll make it up to you somehow. Kirk out.”

Kirk tripped the switch and just looked at it. Behind him, Scotty and Uhura, having caught each other’s eyes, stood up and began to clap. They, too, were filled with pride to be occupying the same bridge with this man. The others joined in; even Spock stood up. Kirk didn’t realize he was still holding on to his command chair, and now he let it go. He allowed himself a small smile.

“Back to work everyone,” he said. “The fuss is over.” He climbed back into his chair, his leaden legs suddenly light again.

Something briefly squeezed his shoulder. Someone.

He didn’t look up. He knew who it was from the warmth, from the strength.

Even with a reprimand, James Kirk knew that everything was right—in his soul, he felt it. The stars blazed up before him, the sounds of the working bridge more like music than mechanics, and the space around him was filled with definite vibrations—of kindness and forgiveness. Before him, the galaxy stretched out endlessly, so bright and wide, simply there for him to take. Waiting for him.

As the noise died down and everyone returned to work, the captain closed his eyes, took in a deep, redemptive breath, and let the Enterprise carry him away, as she always did . . . into the arms of the comforting stars.

Chapter Text

                                    How heavy do I journey on the way

                                    When what I seek (my weary travel’s end)

                                    Doth teach that ease and that repose to say

                                    ‘Thus far the miles measured from thy friend.’

                                                           
                                                                                    William Shakespeare

She watched him for a while in the aft officers’ lounge, as silently, with rapt attention as though he’d never seen such a spectacle before, he gazed at the stars passing forever and beyond the great, moving starship. She could feel the vibration of the engines, knew he felt it, too. She came up behind him, then stood  beside him.

“Jim.”

He heard his name and pulled his eyes from the startling sight of the stars. He smiled at the newer sight of her.

“Hello, Doc.”

“Margo.”

“Haven’t seen you for a while. Have you been well?”

She laughed at his teasing. “Just fine. You?”

“Life’s taken a turn for the better.  Or maybe it’s just that I know a couple doctors who between them can cure a supernova in progress.”

She smiled, caught his eye, then followed him as his gaze returned to the stars. She noticed that he laid the palm of his hand against the hull. A touch . . . a comfort . . . a caress. For the very first time Margo Peretti heard the ship’s song, the same low melodic hum that the Enterprise sang to James Kirk every day.  For a moment, she could feel the pull.

“There’s an old cliché,” she said, breaking the silence “that starship captains don’t love anything but their ships. I’ve always wondered if that were true.” She deliberately did not pose a question.

He knew from her tone that she wasn’t playing the doctor now. They were just talking friend to friend, maybe a little more intimate than that. He felt close to her, was comforted by her closeness. His tone was soft, like he would use with a lover.

“They say that you can’t love a machine,” he answered, “but I think you can. I freely admit to loving my ship, my career commanding her, my life in space. If what I feel isn’t love, Margo, then I have no idea what love is.” His expressive brows knitted together in deep consideration. “Maybe that’s the answer any good starship commander would give you.” 

When his expression softened further, and she took it to mean ‘and by the way, I’m a very good starship commander.’

His gaze dropped momentarily. “Beyond that, for me anyway, there is something else here. Some unique something.”

Straightening, he inclined his head as though a familiar presence had suddenly called out to him. Slowly, he moved his hazel eyes to the rear of the room. In the shadows, First Officer Spock stood near the entrance at attention, as though patiently waiting for his captain to summon him.

Peretti turned, silently acknowledging the quiet Vulcan, who briefly returned the gaze before briefly lowering his somber eyes.  Then from behind them, Spock, too, brought his eyes up and out to the stars, deferring to Margo Peretti’s place and right, for the time being, beside his captain.

The angles of Jim Kirk’s face visibly sharpened, as if he were willing to finally speak of personal things.

“Don’t ask me to explain, Margo. I’ve been standing here thinking about it. There are no words for it. What I feel inside sometimes. About this ship. About my crew. About him. I just care for him, that’s all.” A smile moved to touch his eyes, so large in the starlight. “There’s no word. I wish there was.  I would use it.”

“But there is a word,” she said quietly. “Ask Spock to tell it to you sometime.”

He nodded, not quite understanding, but he believed her. “I will.”

For a moment she was lost in thought; then she reached down and put something in his hand.

“I saved this for you.”

He looked at what she had given him. A bit of gold ribbon, the one he had torn from his own uniform sleeve . . . in her office so very long ago.

He laughed softly. “A souvenir?”

“I didn’t think that you’d want me to throw it away.”

He kept his smile.

“You were right. Even ragged and dirty, it’s me.”

Her brown eyes glistened up at him.

“Look at it, Jim, how it sparkles.”

“That’s remarkable.” He crunched the wad in his hand and watched it expand in his palm the moment he let it go. “It really does still shine.”

With that, she briefly put her hand on his arm.

“Like the stars.” Then she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. She couldn’t help herself. “Goodnight, Jim. Sleep well.”

Leaving the lounge, she passed the first officer, who from the shadows stepped forward without hesitation as soon as she approached. Spock’s voice was low, as though in a church.

“Your prediction was quite correct, Doctor Peretti.” He watched her brows dip and nearly touch. A slight confusion. He made his voice soft, as deepest space. “Everything has turned out all right.”

She paused to smile up at him. Then he moved beyond her and she, out of deference to their privacy, continued on, the door swishing closed behind her.

Once out in the corridor, she sighed.

Margo Peretti would have given anything to see the look on James Kirk’s face as Spock approached. But that fine moment, by now, had come and gone, as the great hazel eyes belonging to the young captain of the Enterprise returned—once more to the comforting stars.

And of that loving look—well, now she would just have to imagine it.

                                                            The End