Celebrate the Earth and Sky (3/20)
Celebrate the Earth and Sky II
Jim was in trouble. He was seriously, seriously, in trouble.
“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck- damn it!” He squeezed his hands into fists and violently resisted the urge to punch the control screen. The light at the side blinked the alarming red of an engine gone wrong. “Come on, come on, come on!” His fingers flew over screens as he flipped switches, trying to ignore the rising scent of smoke coming from the back of the plane.
“Come on you motherfucker,” he snarled into his headpiece. “I refuse to die on a fucking routine training mission.”
“Marcos to Kirk. Kirk, do you copy?”
“Fu-uck,” Jim said, “I copy sir, but the transmission’s fuzzy.”
“Kirk, what’s going on? You’re way off course.”
“I think the nav system’s got a bug, sir,” Jim yelled into the comm. The loud drone of static was starting to give him a headache. He flipped another set of switches, and an alarm started to beep.
“I thought you were a computer guy, Kirk,” said Marcos. “Can’t you fix it?”
“I’m trying, damn it!” Jim said. The smell of smoke got stronger. He began to cough.
“Captain, you okay? Captain? I’m losing you here!”
Jim swore, twisting around to look past the cockpit of the small plane.
“Kirk!” came a vague crackle through the headset.
“Sorry, sir!” Jim said. “But it’s not just the navigation - bug got into the engine too- shit!”
There was a loud boom.
“Captain!”
“Sir, the engine’s on fire,” Jim gasped, smoke starting to choke him off. “I’m going down, I’m gonna use my shoot!”
“Kirk? Kirk!”
But the only answer was the steady static of a dead radio.
Spock materialized in the middle of a desert. This was not unexpected. He had chosen what his mother deemed ‘The North American Continent” for his beamdown for several reasons. For one, he was familiar with the language and presumably, the culture. For another, it was the northern hemisphere’s summer, which would ensure Spock’s physical comfort during the first part of his journey. Finally, the vast desert openness of the North American continent was more or less empty.
His mother had gone toe to toe with the High Command when she found out about the particulars of Spock’s mission.
“You’re going to just beam down straight into Death Valley, are you serious?”
“The area is suitably deserted-” Spock attempted to reason.
“And materializing just outside a city is suddenly not an option?” she demanded. “It’s either city or the middle of nowhere?”
Councilmember Solkar cleared his throat. “We cannot take the chance that Spock is seen,” he said. “The mission at hand requires absolute secrecy.”
“Oh, great,” Amanda said.
She was using sarcasm. Spock could tell.
Solkar couldn’t. “It is well that you understand our reasoning, wife of Sarek,” he said, nodding.
Amanda ground her teeth together, but she knew she had walked straight into that one. Ugh, Vulcans!
“Death Valley is called that for a reason,” she said to Spock.
Spock looked vaguely affronted. “Mother,” he said, “I am Vulcan. Death Valley cannot possibly be worse than the Forge. Having studied the environment, I surmise that it will actually be quite comfortable for one with my physiology. And I do not intend to stay there - only to begin there. I shall travel to the closest city and from there, to the capitol of the North American Collective.”
“San Francisco,” reminded Amanda.
“Yes,” Spock said.
“And what are you going to do there?”
Spock blinked his eyes against the yellow of Sol III’s sun. The sky here was a deeper blue than on Vulcan, but the valley in which he had chosen to arrive bore a striking similarity to his home. He could see mountains in the distance, and the land surrounding him was colored many shades of dusty tan, red and brown. He looked up again towards the sky, and noticed a small, silvery crescent.
Spock tilted his head at the sight. Vulcan had no moon. Interesting.
According to his mother’s accounts, and the scans previously taken of the planet, Death Valley was located in the California Province of the North American Collective. Conveniently, the capitol city of the North American Collective was in the same Province. Unfortunately, San Francisco was not the nearest city. San Francisco was to the west, but Las Vegas, of the Nevada region of the Rift Valley Province, was closer.
Spock double checked his mental map and, satisfied with his conclusion, began to head east. Hopefully, he would encounter a town of sorts before Las Vegas (which he surmised to be several days’ journey if he did not locate anyone willing to give him transport). However, his presence in a small town would likely be more noticed. He preferred the anonymity of a larger city.
He journeyed for four hours under Sol’s heat, a comforting dryness blanketing his skin. In case of an (however unlikely) encounter with a local, he wore a piece of cloth tied around his forehead to hide the points of his ears and the Vulcan shape to his eyebrows. He also wore a wide-brimmed hat to complete the disguise. His mother had assured him that a human would not travel the desert without one.
(Although to be completely honest, he had suspicions about her motives. Something in the way she had clapped her hands together and beamed while stating, “I’ve always wanted to dress you like a cowboy,” made him question her choices regarding his attire.)
He could do nothing about the Vulcan cast to his pale skin, or his lack of sweat. If necessary, he supposed he could splash his form with water to simulate the appearance of perspiration. However, the part of him raised to find water nothing short of sacred, rebelled at the idea.
Well, he would do whatever the situation called for. His Vulcan sensibilities would have to be second to the success of the mission.
Estimating no more than three more hours until sunset, Spock pulled out a small compass. Built to his mother’s specifications, it looked as though it was only capable of navigating relative to the planet’s magnetic north.
He pressed on the side and a hologram of Sol III projected above the compass. A blinking red light that matched his implanted transponder showed his exact location on the planet. The compass itself also contained a beacon, which the crew of the Vulcan ship now on its way to Sol V might use to beam the item aboard.
If the compass were in the possession of the VSS Nirak, they would, ideally, be able to locate him. Spock grimaced inwardly. Or at least, locate the transponder. Which, the mission unfolding in the intended manner, would remain in his arm.
According to his mother’s information, Sol III was not the most idyllic of planets. Captain T’Lan had done well in conceiving the backup plan.
A high drone filled the air. Spock froze, before quickly placing the compass back into his bag. He looked around, trying to discern where the sound was coming from. It was getting louder. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something shiny plunging down from the sky.
He swiveled to look and spotted what appeared to be a small craft hurtling towards the mountains at dangerous velocity. Smoke billowed out of the rear. His breath caught as, with seconds to spare, a black dot ejected upwards out of the craft before the doomed vessel smashed into the side of the mountains and exploded.
Spock stood, stunned, unable to avert his eyes from the wreckage in the distance. He blinked, and spotted the black dot he had seen ejected earlier, now connected to some sort of parachute, slowly drifting back down to the earth and out of sight behind a small series of jagged hills.
Well, that was . . . unexpected.
Spock’s lips curved downwards the tiniest bit. He furrowed his eyebrows. There was a high likelihood that the black dot he had seen was a survivor of the crash. The craft’s pilot, perhaps? He- or she- might be injured.
Spock bit his lip. This is not your business, he told himself firmly. Mother said that only the military is permitted to fly non-passenger crafts. The pilot most likely communicated his distress to someone. If he is not dead already, he will be rescued.
Probably.
Spock turned his back on the scene, and took a step forward.
“It’s called Death Valley for a reason, Spock.”
He stopped.
Human physiology was more delicate than Vulcan. Humans could rarely last more than three days without water. Their skin was softer. Their muscles were weaker. By the time anyone came to rescue the pilot, it could be too late.
If it’s not too late already, murmured an insidious voice inside his head. He ignored it, biting his lip, thinking.
If he ingratiated himself to a member of the military, his chances of uncovering any information hidden from the general public rose considerably. On the other hand, he would have to identify himself, potentially producing official documents, which was not possible. The VSA’s attempt at forging him papers was admirable, but he highly doubted that they would hold up to any military security check.
Also, he was an alien. He imagined that this fact might make relations with the military somewhat difficult.
Spock took a few more steps forward, away from the crash, then halted again.
Difficulties aside, Surak taught the sanctity of all life forms. Spock’s assistance might mean the difference between the pilot’s survival, and death.
Spock closed his eyes briefly, and exhaled. He pivoted and took off at a light jog towards where he had seen the alien craft go down, hoping that he was not making a huge mistake.
Even at a marginally quicker pace, the sun was close to setting by the time Spock cleared the last of the jagged hills. He approached the cooled remnants of the vessel with caution. Stepping over hunks of twisted, charred metal, he bent to examine what he thought might be the pilot’s cockpit. Spock touched gentle fingers to the fried control panel.
The equipment was barely salvageable. Given a few days and some tools, Spock might have been able to construct a distress beacon out of the raw material. He sincerely doubted however, that any human would be able to do the same. Additionally, his signal would be meant for a much different group of people than the pilot would likely prefer to be rescued by.
Spock glanced around. There was no sign of the pilot. Not even a body. Or the remnants of one.
The sun sank lower in the sky. Spock felt a twinge of concern. If the pilot was not here, then he or she might have survived. That did not mean they were altogether in the correct mental state. Spock did not relish the idea of spending the night in unknown proximity to a frightened, and/or injured, alien. Such emotions often resulted in violence. His coming here was beginning to look less and less like a good idea.
Spock closed his eyes, trying to picture what he had seen of the crash. The black dot had flown upward, away from the craft, which had been heading northeast. The pilot had therefore likely landed southwest of Spock’s current location, behind the hills. Lacking any other viable plan, Spock turned on his heel and started south.
Spock had barely walked twenty minutes before he stumbled, quite literally, over the pilot.
He looked down. The body at his feet, still strapped to the parachute that had likely saved his life, blinked at him with bleary, unfocused eyes.
“Well, would you look at that,” he said in an accent Spock was not quite familiar with. “A miracle.” He smiled vaguely. “I hope you’re not going to kill me, Mr. Miracle,” he said, and fainted.
Spock muttered something suitable to the occasion, and attempted to check the pilot’s pulse. After much fumbling around trying to locate it, he rested gentle fingers on the side of the man’s neck. The beat was slow, much slower than his of course, but comparable to his mother’s, and steady. He knelt down, and put his ear to the man’s mouth to check his breath. Satisfied that he was not going to perish immediately, Spock sat back on his heels. His fingers twitched over the man’s meld points.
It would be a grave violation of rights to meld without permission. Spock knew that better than most. On the other hand, if the man had a brain injury, Spock needed to know.
He felt around the man’s head and upper neck for signs of swelling. He pried open a closed eye and, pulling the compass out of his bag again, flicked a switch and shone a light into the man’s eye. The pupil appeared to dilate accordingly.
“I’m awake,” the man rasped.
Spock started, then controlled himself. “I see,” he said neutrally, removing his hands from the man’s face.
“I can sit up,” the man added. He pushed Spock’s arm back and rose shakily to a sitting position. “Ow,” he said. He poked gingerly at his side. “I might’ve cracked a rib.”
Spock stared at him. “How is your head?”
The man rotated his shoulders, “Didn’t even hit it,” he said, with a disturbing amount of cheerfulness. He frowned. “I think.” He shrugged. “But all in all, not too bad off.”
“You just crashed your aircraft,” said Spock, beginning to reassess his opinion on whether or not the human was, in fact, suffering from brain damage. “You were unconscious.”
“Yeah, that sucked,” the man said, nodding. He grinned, a painful half-grimace, then frowned. “And I wasn’t unconscious,” he added.
“Yes, you were,” Spock said. “You fainted.”
“I did not,” the man protested. “I just- closed my eyes for a sec.”
Spock gazed at him, unblinking.
“All right, fine,” the man grumbled. “But cut me some slack, would you?” He waved his arm in the direction of the crash. “I just missed dying in a plane crash. I’m entitled to be a little delicate for a minute.”
Spock tilted his head, and opened his mouth.
“Didn’t die though! That’s something, isn’t it? Although I gotta admit - crashing sucks like a bitch. They never mention it’s that bad.”
“I . . . suppose,” Spock managed. A bitch? What had a female canine to do with anything? Spock feared he had grossly overestimated his English language skills if he was already having difficulty communicating.
“Plus you showed up, all random,” the man added. “So, pretty lucky. I was starting to worry when the communicator wasn’t working. But here you are. So, where’s your car?”
“Car?” said Spock.
There was a very long pause.
“Um, you do have one, right?” said the pilot, now rubbing his head.
“Negative,” Spock admitted. “I do not.”
The man looked quite taken aback, if Spock was reading the expression correctly. “So you’re just - here. In the middle of nowhere. Without a car. What, did you walk? Do you live here?”
“I do not,” said Spock.
“I think I might’ve hit my head harder than I thought.”
Spock felt a pinprick of alarm. “You said earlier that you had not struck your head.”
The man glared at him. “Yeah, well that was before you told me crazy shit like you just walked into the middle of the desert alone.”
Spock wanted to protest that that was not, precisely, what he had said, but he kept his mouth shut. Adding an explanation of Transporter technology would just make this meeting even more complicated.
“So, what,” the man said. He busied his fingers undoing the straps that held him to the parachute. “Are you some kind of crazy, neo hippie trying to live off the land or something? Are you a religious nut?”
“I am mammalian,” said Spock. “Not a nut.”
The man gaped at him for a moment, then burst into a guffaw, “Ha! Not a nut. Sorry,” he said, wiping moisture from his eye with a grimy hand. “You’re right, I deserved that. So, what are you doing here?”
This, Spock felt as though he could answer. “I am a traveler,” he said. “My eventual destination is San Francisco.”
The man tilted his head, “Frisco?” he queried. “What the hell for?”
“I am interested in,” Spock thought for a moment, “history,” he settled on. “I hear there is a great library there.”
“Well yeah, I guess,” said the pilot. “If you can get access to it. A lot of it’s restricted for civilians.”
“Restricted?” repeated Spock. “How peculiar,” he could not help adding.
The man frowned, now prodding at his legs. “What do you mean?”
Spock hesitated. “The restriction of knowledge - it is an alien concept to me.” He winced as the word alien left his mouth. Perhaps he would have done better to just keep quiet.
The pilot looked up from his assessment of his injuries. “Really?”
Spock could do nothing but nod. A Vulcan did not lie.
The man cocked his head, an almost calculating look in his eye. “You must have been in the desert a hell of a long time,” he said finally. “What’s your name?”
Spock had thought long and hard about this question. He was somewhat reluctant to use his mother’s family name, for fear her disappearance might be connected to him if his Vulcan nature were to be discovered. However, the name was common enough, and familiar enough, that he had decided to risk it.
The human was studying him more carefully now. Spock realized he had waited too long, in human conversational norms, to answer the question. He cleared his throat.
“I apologize,” he said, swallowing. “I was,” what was the colloquialism again? “I was lost in thought, you might say,” he said. “My name is Grayson.”
“Nice to meet you, Grayson. Do you have a first name?”
“Yes,” said Spock. Of a sorts, he did not add.
“You mind telling me?”
“Um,” Spock said. The name Spock was not a common one on Sol III, he was reasonably certain. Still, it was not outside the range of probability that it existed as a name somewhere on the planet.
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to make one up for you,” said the pilot. He grinned again, but Spock could see the shadow of pain in his expression.
“Spock,” Spock said quickly.
“Spock,” the man repeated. He held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Spock Grayson. I’m Jim Kirk.”
Spock blinked at the hand for a moment, before recalling that he was supposed to shake it. He felt a mild sense of revulsion. This human did not seem to be a bad being by any means, but that did not mean that Spock was up to rather intimate contact with him within less than an hour of their first meeting.
Still, if it was the custom, as his mother had said . . . Steeling himself, and strengthening his mental shields, Spock gingerly shook the pilot’s - Jim Kirk’s, he reminded himself - hand.
“Wow, your hands are really warm,” exclaimed Jim Kirk, pumping his arm up and down as enthusiastically any man who had barely escaped a potentially fatal plane crash, could manage.
Spock finally escaped his grip, and stepped back a pace. “We should seek shelter,” he said. “And I still do not know the full extent of your injuries. If we are to reach a medical facility-”
“Whoa, whoa, time out,” said Jim Kirk, holding up his hands. “I appreciate that you’re apparently trying to help me and all, but honestly? If you don’t have a car, we’re probably not going to get very far. When I flew over, I didn’t notice a lot of towns. Or water. Or, well. Anything.”
Spock clasped his hands behind his back. “What would you suggest?”
Jim Kirk bit his lip. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “My plane’s navigation system was down even before the engine trouble, and I don’t even know exactly where we are.”
“We are in Death Valley, California,” said Spock. “Although I am uncertain of the exact latitude and longitude.” He didn’t add the part about how his compass could certainly inform them as to their exact location. It was better not to reveal too much to this human.
“Huh,” Jim Kirk said. He made as if to stand, then eased himself back onto the ground with a wince. “Death Valley? No wonder Marcos said I was so off course.” He frowned, “They’re never going to find me here,” he half murmured, clearly unaware of Spock’s distinct auditory advantage. “Not with the plane all banged up and exploded.”
Spock crossed his arms. “Mr. Jim Kirk,” he said. “I intend to cross this land on foot. I am somewhat of an expert on desert survival techniques. If you do not believe that any rescue team will know where to find you, then I believe that your best chance of survival lies with me.”
The human drew back and made a face. “‘Mr. Jim Kirk’ sounds weird, man,” he said. “Just call me Jim.”
“Very well,” Spock said. “Jim. I believe that your best chance of survival lies with me.”
Jim looked up at him, blue eyes assessing. “You’re right,” he said finally. He wiped sweat from his brow. “God it’s hot,” he said. “It must be in the upper thirties.”
“Thirties?” Spock queried. His mother had lead him to believe that any temperature below two hundred and seventy three was dangerously cold.
Jim looked at him strangely. “Degrees,” he clarified. “Degrees Celsius.”
“Ah,” Spock said. “I- apologize,” he said. “It has been an arduous day.”
“Right,” Jim said. He stretched his arms, and grimaced at the pain in his side. “You’re telling me.”
Spock recalled that his new companion had just, in fact, been in a crash. “If you would not find it uncomfortable,” he said, “I would prefer to examine your injuries.”
“Are you gonna need me to take off my clothes?” Jim asked with a smile.
“Most probably,” Spock said, completely oblivious.
“Well, just no funny business until after you at least buy me dinner,” Jim said, unzipping the top of his flight suit.
“Funny . . . business?” Spock echoed, looking back up at him.
Jim’s grin faded as he caught Spock’s blank look. “Uh, sorry,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “Just a bad joke.”
“Oh,” Spock said. “Yes, humor. I see.”
Jim continued to unzip his flight suit, moving more slowly now that he was taking it off his legs. His breath caught as he tried to jerk it off his left leg. “Ow,” he said.
Spock was immediately at his side. “Are you injured here?”
Jim wrinkled his nose. “My ankle must be sprained from the landing,” he grumbled. “Damn, walking’s going to be interesting.”
Spock pursed his lips, and poked at Jim’s ankle. “It has begun to swell,” he confirmed. “And appears somewhat discolored. Are you capable of moving your toes?”
Jim wiggled them.
“How about your foot?”
Jim slowly rotated his foot.
Spock got to his feet. He reached down into his bag, and pulled out a folding knife. “It does not appear to be broken,” he said. “I will bind it with some material, for support.” He began to slash at Jim’s parachute.
Jim opened his mouth, about to protest Spock’s treatment of his ‘shoot, then closed it again. The thing had served its purpose after all. It wasn’t like he couldn’t get a new one at the base.
He watched as Spock carefully wrapped his ankle in a piece of the cut-off material. What a strange guy. The shadow of his hat obscured much of the top part of his face, but Jim could tell that his skin was fairly pale, and his eyes dark. His nose was a little too large to be considered attractive, but it somehow fit his face and angular cheekbones. Jim imagined that this had not been so during his mysterious rescuer’s teenaged years.
“We should probably find shelter,” Jim said, after his foot was wrapped.
“Indeed,” Spock said. He seemed to hesitate, then spoke. “I am in possession of a . . . tent, of sorts,” he said. “I do not know if you would prefer . . .”
Jim looked sideways at the bag Spock was carrying. Lord almighty, it was like a woman’s bottomless purse, if he could fit a tent in there.
Spock noticed him looking. “It is very compressible,” he said.
“Do you have like, a sleeping bag in there too?” Jim asked, more to see if he could rile Spock up than anything. There was just something about him. He was so- still. So Zen, almost. Like his face was a mask, instead of flesh and bone.
“Potentially,” Spock said, trying to recall if sleeping bag meant something other than what the mental image of the two words provided. He had a foldable pallet, in any case.
Jim raised both eyebrows. “Okay.”
“Perhaps you should rest,” Spock suggested.
“No, I want to see how foldable your tent and stuff is.”
“I would prefer it if you did not,” Spock said, aware of just how bizarre that statement probably sounded.
“What? Why not?” Jim was looking at him strangely again.
“I,” Spock said. He did not want to lie, but neither did he want to tell the truth. He settled for a half-truth. “I do not want you to judge my technique in setting it up. I only came into possession of it recently.”
“Um,” Jim said, his tone indicating that Spock’s response was still a bit on the odd side of confusing. “All right. If you really want. It’s your tent.” Jim closed his eyes, and lay back against the hard earth. What a weirdo.
Spock did not answer. He was too busy yanking the shelter out from his bag. He unfolded it briskly, and felt a moment of gratitude for his mother’s collaboration with the Vulcan Science Academy. The shelter was domed at the top, and unfolded with very little of Spock’s assistance. The material, though developed on Vulcan, mimicked a breathable polyester fabric common to items made on Sol III. Spock was illogically proud of the zipper, which was not an invention found on Vulcan at all. He had it on good authority however, that since the time that Amanda explained its purpose to a panel of VSA specialists, it had already been patented.
Jim turned his head towards Spock, his eyes still shut. “Can I open my eyes yet?”
“Affirmative,” Spock said, after giving the entire structure a critical once over.
Jim opened his eyes, then narrowed them a bit. “You built that tent pretty quick for someone who was worried about it.”
Spock gave himself a mental slap. “To be honest,” he said, with the knowledge that what he was about to say was, in fact, skirting the definition of honest to such a degree that it was in danger of falling into a large sea of outright lie. Barely five hours on Sol III and already his moral code appeared to be unraveling. It was a disgrace. “My mother occasionally told me that I worry in excess.”
This statement had nothing to do with anything that had just transpired, but Spock was hopeful that in his current state, Jim would take no notice.
The pilot gave Spock another look that he was unable to fully decipher, before shrugging. “All right,” he said. “Well, I guess we should sleep then?”
“You may if you wish,” Spock said, in what he hoped was a gracious tone.
Jim cocked his head. “You’re not going to?”
Spock faltered for a moment. As a Vulcan, he needed less sleep than a human. However, the human did not know he was a Vulcan. He did not wish to for the human to find out that he was a Vulcan. Therefore . . .
“Yes,” Spock heard himself say. “I believe I shall retire as well. I only meant to offer you the use of my tent. As a courtesy.”
Jim blinked. “Thank you?”
“You are welcome,” Spock said, confident at least in that rote response.
“Okay,” said Jim, shifting a bit. “So, I guess we’ll just, go to sleep then.”
“Indeed,” said Spock.
Jim looked at Spock. Spock looked at Jim.
“Seriously though. Is there a sleeping bag in that thing?”
“If you mean a foldable pallet,” Spock began.
“A what? A pallet?”
“I apologize, was my use of the word incorrect?”
“No, no.” Jim waved his hand. “It’s just, such an antiquated word is all. Pallet. You get that out of a textbook or something?”
“No,” said Spock.
Jim peered at him. “English isn’t your first language, is it?”
“What makes you think so?” Spock said carefully.
Jim rolled his eyes. Spock was not entirely clear as to the significance of this gesture, but his mother had used it on occasion to indicate exasperation.
“Your accent is funny,” Jim said, voice blunt. “And your speech cadence, or something. Pallet. God.” He snickered to himself. “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you,” he added.
“You are not?” Because clearly, he was. Even Spock could tell.
“No, no,” Jim protested. “Just at what you said. It tickled me for some reason.”
Spock decided not to inquire as to the meaning of that particular colloquialism. “There is a difference?” he questioned instead.
“Kind of,” Jim said.
There was another bit of an awkward pause.
“So,” Jim said. “I’m sorry to ask you this, but can you give me a hand to the tent?” He indicated his swollen ankle. “I don’t think I can walk too well.”
“Oh,” Spock said. “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. How might I assist?” He sincerely hoped that his mother’s explanation of human cultural norms regarding touch and physical contact were accurate. It would be most unfortunate if her information had been incorrect, or distorted.
“Just,” Jim grunted, attempting to maneuver himself up. “Just give me your hand for a second so I can stand up.”
Spock did so, reminding himself that here, such contact meant nothing. It was difficult. Jim’s hands were dry and dusty from dehydration, and his calluses rubbed against Spock’s palm in a most disconcerting manner. He inhaled sharply, but Jim did not seem to notice. Spock hauled him to his feet, and Jim winced, holding his side and balancing on one foot. He lay his arm across Spock’s shoulders.
“Now, we hobble to the tent.”
Spock nodded, and they began their journey. It was only a meter or two, but Jim clearly felt every jolt. Spock began to wonder how they were ever going to be able to walk out of this desert at all.
He helped Jim lay down on his pallet, and sat down beside him, legs crossed. He needed to meditate.
“Man,” Jim said, “I wish we had some ice or something.” He prodded at his ankle. Spock had propped it up on his pack, which was itself resting on a rock.
“Wishes are illogical,” Spock said, not really paying attention.
Jim turned toward him, tilting his head. “Well, I guess so,” he said. “Still, it doesn’t hurt anyone.”
Inwardly, Spock cursed at his own flippant answer. “Indeed,” he said, expression giving away none of his inner turmoil. Humans did not understand logic. Why had he said such a ridiculous thing?
“So,” Jim said. “I guess this is good night? Or were we going to tell ghost stories or something?”
“Good night,” affirmed Spock. Ghost stories? How peculiar.
Jim shifted. “Good night,” he said again. “I hope I don’t wake up to find out you’re actually a crazy person who killed me in my sleep.”
Spock honestly . . . did not know how to reply to that. “That would be highly . . .” he trailed off.
“Illogical?” Jim quipped.
“Yes,” Spock said. “If I had wanted you to die, why would I bother coming to see to your well being?”
“Good question,” yawned Jim. He sighed. “Anyway, not to be rude or anything, but I’ve had a pretty exhausting day. I think I’ll actually sleep now. Sleep well, even though I kind of stole your sleeping bag.”
“All right,” said Spock.
“Good night,” repeated Jim. He closed his eyes.
“Good night,” Spock replied quietly. He did not close his eyes. He breathed in deeply, then exhaled. His gaze came to rest on the form slumped next to him. What a fascinating species, he thought. He took another deep breath, and a third.
Meditation. Yes, he would meditate on the unexpected events of the day.
Previous Next
Jim was in trouble. He was seriously, seriously, in trouble.
“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck- damn it!” He squeezed his hands into fists and violently resisted the urge to punch the control screen. The light at the side blinked the alarming red of an engine gone wrong. “Come on, come on, come on!” His fingers flew over screens as he flipped switches, trying to ignore the rising scent of smoke coming from the back of the plane.
“Come on you motherfucker,” he snarled into his headpiece. “I refuse to die on a fucking routine training mission.”
“Marcos to Kirk. Kirk, do you copy?”
“Fu-uck,” Jim said, “I copy sir, but the transmission’s fuzzy.”
“Kirk, what’s going on? You’re way off course.”
“I think the nav system’s got a bug, sir,” Jim yelled into the comm. The loud drone of static was starting to give him a headache. He flipped another set of switches, and an alarm started to beep.
“I thought you were a computer guy, Kirk,” said Marcos. “Can’t you fix it?”
“I’m trying, damn it!” Jim said. The smell of smoke got stronger. He began to cough.
“Captain, you okay? Captain? I’m losing you here!”
Jim swore, twisting around to look past the cockpit of the small plane.
“Kirk!” came a vague crackle through the headset.
“Sorry, sir!” Jim said. “But it’s not just the navigation - bug got into the engine too- shit!”
There was a loud boom.
“Captain!”
“Sir, the engine’s on fire,” Jim gasped, smoke starting to choke him off. “I’m going down, I’m gonna use my shoot!”
“Kirk? Kirk!”
But the only answer was the steady static of a dead radio.
Spock materialized in the middle of a desert. This was not unexpected. He had chosen what his mother deemed ‘The North American Continent” for his beamdown for several reasons. For one, he was familiar with the language and presumably, the culture. For another, it was the northern hemisphere’s summer, which would ensure Spock’s physical comfort during the first part of his journey. Finally, the vast desert openness of the North American continent was more or less empty.
His mother had gone toe to toe with the High Command when she found out about the particulars of Spock’s mission.
“You’re going to just beam down straight into Death Valley, are you serious?”
“The area is suitably deserted-” Spock attempted to reason.
“And materializing just outside a city is suddenly not an option?” she demanded. “It’s either city or the middle of nowhere?”
Councilmember Solkar cleared his throat. “We cannot take the chance that Spock is seen,” he said. “The mission at hand requires absolute secrecy.”
“Oh, great,” Amanda said.
She was using sarcasm. Spock could tell.
Solkar couldn’t. “It is well that you understand our reasoning, wife of Sarek,” he said, nodding.
Amanda ground her teeth together, but she knew she had walked straight into that one. Ugh, Vulcans!
“Death Valley is called that for a reason,” she said to Spock.
Spock looked vaguely affronted. “Mother,” he said, “I am Vulcan. Death Valley cannot possibly be worse than the Forge. Having studied the environment, I surmise that it will actually be quite comfortable for one with my physiology. And I do not intend to stay there - only to begin there. I shall travel to the closest city and from there, to the capitol of the North American Collective.”
“San Francisco,” reminded Amanda.
“Yes,” Spock said.
“And what are you going to do there?”
Spock blinked his eyes against the yellow of Sol III’s sun. The sky here was a deeper blue than on Vulcan, but the valley in which he had chosen to arrive bore a striking similarity to his home. He could see mountains in the distance, and the land surrounding him was colored many shades of dusty tan, red and brown. He looked up again towards the sky, and noticed a small, silvery crescent.
Spock tilted his head at the sight. Vulcan had no moon. Interesting.
According to his mother’s accounts, and the scans previously taken of the planet, Death Valley was located in the California Province of the North American Collective. Conveniently, the capitol city of the North American Collective was in the same Province. Unfortunately, San Francisco was not the nearest city. San Francisco was to the west, but Las Vegas, of the Nevada region of the Rift Valley Province, was closer.
Spock double checked his mental map and, satisfied with his conclusion, began to head east. Hopefully, he would encounter a town of sorts before Las Vegas (which he surmised to be several days’ journey if he did not locate anyone willing to give him transport). However, his presence in a small town would likely be more noticed. He preferred the anonymity of a larger city.
He journeyed for four hours under Sol’s heat, a comforting dryness blanketing his skin. In case of an (however unlikely) encounter with a local, he wore a piece of cloth tied around his forehead to hide the points of his ears and the Vulcan shape to his eyebrows. He also wore a wide-brimmed hat to complete the disguise. His mother had assured him that a human would not travel the desert without one.
(Although to be completely honest, he had suspicions about her motives. Something in the way she had clapped her hands together and beamed while stating, “I’ve always wanted to dress you like a cowboy,” made him question her choices regarding his attire.)
He could do nothing about the Vulcan cast to his pale skin, or his lack of sweat. If necessary, he supposed he could splash his form with water to simulate the appearance of perspiration. However, the part of him raised to find water nothing short of sacred, rebelled at the idea.
Well, he would do whatever the situation called for. His Vulcan sensibilities would have to be second to the success of the mission.
Estimating no more than three more hours until sunset, Spock pulled out a small compass. Built to his mother’s specifications, it looked as though it was only capable of navigating relative to the planet’s magnetic north.
He pressed on the side and a hologram of Sol III projected above the compass. A blinking red light that matched his implanted transponder showed his exact location on the planet. The compass itself also contained a beacon, which the crew of the Vulcan ship now on its way to Sol V might use to beam the item aboard.
If the compass were in the possession of the VSS Nirak, they would, ideally, be able to locate him. Spock grimaced inwardly. Or at least, locate the transponder. Which, the mission unfolding in the intended manner, would remain in his arm.
According to his mother’s information, Sol III was not the most idyllic of planets. Captain T’Lan had done well in conceiving the backup plan.
A high drone filled the air. Spock froze, before quickly placing the compass back into his bag. He looked around, trying to discern where the sound was coming from. It was getting louder. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something shiny plunging down from the sky.
He swiveled to look and spotted what appeared to be a small craft hurtling towards the mountains at dangerous velocity. Smoke billowed out of the rear. His breath caught as, with seconds to spare, a black dot ejected upwards out of the craft before the doomed vessel smashed into the side of the mountains and exploded.
Spock stood, stunned, unable to avert his eyes from the wreckage in the distance. He blinked, and spotted the black dot he had seen ejected earlier, now connected to some sort of parachute, slowly drifting back down to the earth and out of sight behind a small series of jagged hills.
Well, that was . . . unexpected.
Spock’s lips curved downwards the tiniest bit. He furrowed his eyebrows. There was a high likelihood that the black dot he had seen was a survivor of the crash. The craft’s pilot, perhaps? He- or she- might be injured.
Spock bit his lip. This is not your business, he told himself firmly. Mother said that only the military is permitted to fly non-passenger crafts. The pilot most likely communicated his distress to someone. If he is not dead already, he will be rescued.
Probably.
Spock turned his back on the scene, and took a step forward.
“It’s called Death Valley for a reason, Spock.”
He stopped.
Human physiology was more delicate than Vulcan. Humans could rarely last more than three days without water. Their skin was softer. Their muscles were weaker. By the time anyone came to rescue the pilot, it could be too late.
If it’s not too late already, murmured an insidious voice inside his head. He ignored it, biting his lip, thinking.
If he ingratiated himself to a member of the military, his chances of uncovering any information hidden from the general public rose considerably. On the other hand, he would have to identify himself, potentially producing official documents, which was not possible. The VSA’s attempt at forging him papers was admirable, but he highly doubted that they would hold up to any military security check.
Also, he was an alien. He imagined that this fact might make relations with the military somewhat difficult.
Spock took a few more steps forward, away from the crash, then halted again.
Difficulties aside, Surak taught the sanctity of all life forms. Spock’s assistance might mean the difference between the pilot’s survival, and death.
Spock closed his eyes briefly, and exhaled. He pivoted and took off at a light jog towards where he had seen the alien craft go down, hoping that he was not making a huge mistake.
Even at a marginally quicker pace, the sun was close to setting by the time Spock cleared the last of the jagged hills. He approached the cooled remnants of the vessel with caution. Stepping over hunks of twisted, charred metal, he bent to examine what he thought might be the pilot’s cockpit. Spock touched gentle fingers to the fried control panel.
The equipment was barely salvageable. Given a few days and some tools, Spock might have been able to construct a distress beacon out of the raw material. He sincerely doubted however, that any human would be able to do the same. Additionally, his signal would be meant for a much different group of people than the pilot would likely prefer to be rescued by.
Spock glanced around. There was no sign of the pilot. Not even a body. Or the remnants of one.
The sun sank lower in the sky. Spock felt a twinge of concern. If the pilot was not here, then he or she might have survived. That did not mean they were altogether in the correct mental state. Spock did not relish the idea of spending the night in unknown proximity to a frightened, and/or injured, alien. Such emotions often resulted in violence. His coming here was beginning to look less and less like a good idea.
Spock closed his eyes, trying to picture what he had seen of the crash. The black dot had flown upward, away from the craft, which had been heading northeast. The pilot had therefore likely landed southwest of Spock’s current location, behind the hills. Lacking any other viable plan, Spock turned on his heel and started south.
Spock had barely walked twenty minutes before he stumbled, quite literally, over the pilot.
He looked down. The body at his feet, still strapped to the parachute that had likely saved his life, blinked at him with bleary, unfocused eyes.
“Well, would you look at that,” he said in an accent Spock was not quite familiar with. “A miracle.” He smiled vaguely. “I hope you’re not going to kill me, Mr. Miracle,” he said, and fainted.
Spock muttered something suitable to the occasion, and attempted to check the pilot’s pulse. After much fumbling around trying to locate it, he rested gentle fingers on the side of the man’s neck. The beat was slow, much slower than his of course, but comparable to his mother’s, and steady. He knelt down, and put his ear to the man’s mouth to check his breath. Satisfied that he was not going to perish immediately, Spock sat back on his heels. His fingers twitched over the man’s meld points.
It would be a grave violation of rights to meld without permission. Spock knew that better than most. On the other hand, if the man had a brain injury, Spock needed to know.
He felt around the man’s head and upper neck for signs of swelling. He pried open a closed eye and, pulling the compass out of his bag again, flicked a switch and shone a light into the man’s eye. The pupil appeared to dilate accordingly.
“I’m awake,” the man rasped.
Spock started, then controlled himself. “I see,” he said neutrally, removing his hands from the man’s face.
“I can sit up,” the man added. He pushed Spock’s arm back and rose shakily to a sitting position. “Ow,” he said. He poked gingerly at his side. “I might’ve cracked a rib.”
Spock stared at him. “How is your head?”
The man rotated his shoulders, “Didn’t even hit it,” he said, with a disturbing amount of cheerfulness. He frowned. “I think.” He shrugged. “But all in all, not too bad off.”
“You just crashed your aircraft,” said Spock, beginning to reassess his opinion on whether or not the human was, in fact, suffering from brain damage. “You were unconscious.”
“Yeah, that sucked,” the man said, nodding. He grinned, a painful half-grimace, then frowned. “And I wasn’t unconscious,” he added.
“Yes, you were,” Spock said. “You fainted.”
“I did not,” the man protested. “I just- closed my eyes for a sec.”
Spock gazed at him, unblinking.
“All right, fine,” the man grumbled. “But cut me some slack, would you?” He waved his arm in the direction of the crash. “I just missed dying in a plane crash. I’m entitled to be a little delicate for a minute.”
Spock tilted his head, and opened his mouth.
“Didn’t die though! That’s something, isn’t it? Although I gotta admit - crashing sucks like a bitch. They never mention it’s that bad.”
“I . . . suppose,” Spock managed. A bitch? What had a female canine to do with anything? Spock feared he had grossly overestimated his English language skills if he was already having difficulty communicating.
“Plus you showed up, all random,” the man added. “So, pretty lucky. I was starting to worry when the communicator wasn’t working. But here you are. So, where’s your car?”
“Car?” said Spock.
There was a very long pause.
“Um, you do have one, right?” said the pilot, now rubbing his head.
“Negative,” Spock admitted. “I do not.”
The man looked quite taken aback, if Spock was reading the expression correctly. “So you’re just - here. In the middle of nowhere. Without a car. What, did you walk? Do you live here?”
“I do not,” said Spock.
“I think I might’ve hit my head harder than I thought.”
Spock felt a pinprick of alarm. “You said earlier that you had not struck your head.”
The man glared at him. “Yeah, well that was before you told me crazy shit like you just walked into the middle of the desert alone.”
Spock wanted to protest that that was not, precisely, what he had said, but he kept his mouth shut. Adding an explanation of Transporter technology would just make this meeting even more complicated.
“So, what,” the man said. He busied his fingers undoing the straps that held him to the parachute. “Are you some kind of crazy, neo hippie trying to live off the land or something? Are you a religious nut?”
“I am mammalian,” said Spock. “Not a nut.”
The man gaped at him for a moment, then burst into a guffaw, “Ha! Not a nut. Sorry,” he said, wiping moisture from his eye with a grimy hand. “You’re right, I deserved that. So, what are you doing here?”
This, Spock felt as though he could answer. “I am a traveler,” he said. “My eventual destination is San Francisco.”
The man tilted his head, “Frisco?” he queried. “What the hell for?”
“I am interested in,” Spock thought for a moment, “history,” he settled on. “I hear there is a great library there.”
“Well yeah, I guess,” said the pilot. “If you can get access to it. A lot of it’s restricted for civilians.”
“Restricted?” repeated Spock. “How peculiar,” he could not help adding.
The man frowned, now prodding at his legs. “What do you mean?”
Spock hesitated. “The restriction of knowledge - it is an alien concept to me.” He winced as the word alien left his mouth. Perhaps he would have done better to just keep quiet.
The pilot looked up from his assessment of his injuries. “Really?”
Spock could do nothing but nod. A Vulcan did not lie.
The man cocked his head, an almost calculating look in his eye. “You must have been in the desert a hell of a long time,” he said finally. “What’s your name?”
Spock had thought long and hard about this question. He was somewhat reluctant to use his mother’s family name, for fear her disappearance might be connected to him if his Vulcan nature were to be discovered. However, the name was common enough, and familiar enough, that he had decided to risk it.
The human was studying him more carefully now. Spock realized he had waited too long, in human conversational norms, to answer the question. He cleared his throat.
“I apologize,” he said, swallowing. “I was,” what was the colloquialism again? “I was lost in thought, you might say,” he said. “My name is Grayson.”
“Nice to meet you, Grayson. Do you have a first name?”
“Yes,” said Spock. Of a sorts, he did not add.
“You mind telling me?”
“Um,” Spock said. The name Spock was not a common one on Sol III, he was reasonably certain. Still, it was not outside the range of probability that it existed as a name somewhere on the planet.
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to make one up for you,” said the pilot. He grinned again, but Spock could see the shadow of pain in his expression.
“Spock,” Spock said quickly.
“Spock,” the man repeated. He held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Spock Grayson. I’m Jim Kirk.”
Spock blinked at the hand for a moment, before recalling that he was supposed to shake it. He felt a mild sense of revulsion. This human did not seem to be a bad being by any means, but that did not mean that Spock was up to rather intimate contact with him within less than an hour of their first meeting.
Still, if it was the custom, as his mother had said . . . Steeling himself, and strengthening his mental shields, Spock gingerly shook the pilot’s - Jim Kirk’s, he reminded himself - hand.
“Wow, your hands are really warm,” exclaimed Jim Kirk, pumping his arm up and down as enthusiastically any man who had barely escaped a potentially fatal plane crash, could manage.
Spock finally escaped his grip, and stepped back a pace. “We should seek shelter,” he said. “And I still do not know the full extent of your injuries. If we are to reach a medical facility-”
“Whoa, whoa, time out,” said Jim Kirk, holding up his hands. “I appreciate that you’re apparently trying to help me and all, but honestly? If you don’t have a car, we’re probably not going to get very far. When I flew over, I didn’t notice a lot of towns. Or water. Or, well. Anything.”
Spock clasped his hands behind his back. “What would you suggest?”
Jim Kirk bit his lip. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “My plane’s navigation system was down even before the engine trouble, and I don’t even know exactly where we are.”
“We are in Death Valley, California,” said Spock. “Although I am uncertain of the exact latitude and longitude.” He didn’t add the part about how his compass could certainly inform them as to their exact location. It was better not to reveal too much to this human.
“Huh,” Jim Kirk said. He made as if to stand, then eased himself back onto the ground with a wince. “Death Valley? No wonder Marcos said I was so off course.” He frowned, “They’re never going to find me here,” he half murmured, clearly unaware of Spock’s distinct auditory advantage. “Not with the plane all banged up and exploded.”
Spock crossed his arms. “Mr. Jim Kirk,” he said. “I intend to cross this land on foot. I am somewhat of an expert on desert survival techniques. If you do not believe that any rescue team will know where to find you, then I believe that your best chance of survival lies with me.”
The human drew back and made a face. “‘Mr. Jim Kirk’ sounds weird, man,” he said. “Just call me Jim.”
“Very well,” Spock said. “Jim. I believe that your best chance of survival lies with me.”
Jim looked up at him, blue eyes assessing. “You’re right,” he said finally. He wiped sweat from his brow. “God it’s hot,” he said. “It must be in the upper thirties.”
“Thirties?” Spock queried. His mother had lead him to believe that any temperature below two hundred and seventy three was dangerously cold.
Jim looked at him strangely. “Degrees,” he clarified. “Degrees Celsius.”
“Ah,” Spock said. “I- apologize,” he said. “It has been an arduous day.”
“Right,” Jim said. He stretched his arms, and grimaced at the pain in his side. “You’re telling me.”
Spock recalled that his new companion had just, in fact, been in a crash. “If you would not find it uncomfortable,” he said, “I would prefer to examine your injuries.”
“Are you gonna need me to take off my clothes?” Jim asked with a smile.
“Most probably,” Spock said, completely oblivious.
“Well, just no funny business until after you at least buy me dinner,” Jim said, unzipping the top of his flight suit.
“Funny . . . business?” Spock echoed, looking back up at him.
Jim’s grin faded as he caught Spock’s blank look. “Uh, sorry,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “Just a bad joke.”
“Oh,” Spock said. “Yes, humor. I see.”
Jim continued to unzip his flight suit, moving more slowly now that he was taking it off his legs. His breath caught as he tried to jerk it off his left leg. “Ow,” he said.
Spock was immediately at his side. “Are you injured here?”
Jim wrinkled his nose. “My ankle must be sprained from the landing,” he grumbled. “Damn, walking’s going to be interesting.”
Spock pursed his lips, and poked at Jim’s ankle. “It has begun to swell,” he confirmed. “And appears somewhat discolored. Are you capable of moving your toes?”
Jim wiggled them.
“How about your foot?”
Jim slowly rotated his foot.
Spock got to his feet. He reached down into his bag, and pulled out a folding knife. “It does not appear to be broken,” he said. “I will bind it with some material, for support.” He began to slash at Jim’s parachute.
Jim opened his mouth, about to protest Spock’s treatment of his ‘shoot, then closed it again. The thing had served its purpose after all. It wasn’t like he couldn’t get a new one at the base.
He watched as Spock carefully wrapped his ankle in a piece of the cut-off material. What a strange guy. The shadow of his hat obscured much of the top part of his face, but Jim could tell that his skin was fairly pale, and his eyes dark. His nose was a little too large to be considered attractive, but it somehow fit his face and angular cheekbones. Jim imagined that this had not been so during his mysterious rescuer’s teenaged years.
“We should probably find shelter,” Jim said, after his foot was wrapped.
“Indeed,” Spock said. He seemed to hesitate, then spoke. “I am in possession of a . . . tent, of sorts,” he said. “I do not know if you would prefer . . .”
Jim looked sideways at the bag Spock was carrying. Lord almighty, it was like a woman’s bottomless purse, if he could fit a tent in there.
Spock noticed him looking. “It is very compressible,” he said.
“Do you have like, a sleeping bag in there too?” Jim asked, more to see if he could rile Spock up than anything. There was just something about him. He was so- still. So Zen, almost. Like his face was a mask, instead of flesh and bone.
“Potentially,” Spock said, trying to recall if sleeping bag meant something other than what the mental image of the two words provided. He had a foldable pallet, in any case.
Jim raised both eyebrows. “Okay.”
“Perhaps you should rest,” Spock suggested.
“No, I want to see how foldable your tent and stuff is.”
“I would prefer it if you did not,” Spock said, aware of just how bizarre that statement probably sounded.
“What? Why not?” Jim was looking at him strangely again.
“I,” Spock said. He did not want to lie, but neither did he want to tell the truth. He settled for a half-truth. “I do not want you to judge my technique in setting it up. I only came into possession of it recently.”
“Um,” Jim said, his tone indicating that Spock’s response was still a bit on the odd side of confusing. “All right. If you really want. It’s your tent.” Jim closed his eyes, and lay back against the hard earth. What a weirdo.
Spock did not answer. He was too busy yanking the shelter out from his bag. He unfolded it briskly, and felt a moment of gratitude for his mother’s collaboration with the Vulcan Science Academy. The shelter was domed at the top, and unfolded with very little of Spock’s assistance. The material, though developed on Vulcan, mimicked a breathable polyester fabric common to items made on Sol III. Spock was illogically proud of the zipper, which was not an invention found on Vulcan at all. He had it on good authority however, that since the time that Amanda explained its purpose to a panel of VSA specialists, it had already been patented.
Jim turned his head towards Spock, his eyes still shut. “Can I open my eyes yet?”
“Affirmative,” Spock said, after giving the entire structure a critical once over.
Jim opened his eyes, then narrowed them a bit. “You built that tent pretty quick for someone who was worried about it.”
Spock gave himself a mental slap. “To be honest,” he said, with the knowledge that what he was about to say was, in fact, skirting the definition of honest to such a degree that it was in danger of falling into a large sea of outright lie. Barely five hours on Sol III and already his moral code appeared to be unraveling. It was a disgrace. “My mother occasionally told me that I worry in excess.”
This statement had nothing to do with anything that had just transpired, but Spock was hopeful that in his current state, Jim would take no notice.
The pilot gave Spock another look that he was unable to fully decipher, before shrugging. “All right,” he said. “Well, I guess we should sleep then?”
“You may if you wish,” Spock said, in what he hoped was a gracious tone.
Jim cocked his head. “You’re not going to?”
Spock faltered for a moment. As a Vulcan, he needed less sleep than a human. However, the human did not know he was a Vulcan. He did not wish to for the human to find out that he was a Vulcan. Therefore . . .
“Yes,” Spock heard himself say. “I believe I shall retire as well. I only meant to offer you the use of my tent. As a courtesy.”
Jim blinked. “Thank you?”
“You are welcome,” Spock said, confident at least in that rote response.
“Okay,” said Jim, shifting a bit. “So, I guess we’ll just, go to sleep then.”
“Indeed,” said Spock.
Jim looked at Spock. Spock looked at Jim.
“Seriously though. Is there a sleeping bag in that thing?”
“If you mean a foldable pallet,” Spock began.
“A what? A pallet?”
“I apologize, was my use of the word incorrect?”
“No, no.” Jim waved his hand. “It’s just, such an antiquated word is all. Pallet. You get that out of a textbook or something?”
“No,” said Spock.
Jim peered at him. “English isn’t your first language, is it?”
“What makes you think so?” Spock said carefully.
Jim rolled his eyes. Spock was not entirely clear as to the significance of this gesture, but his mother had used it on occasion to indicate exasperation.
“Your accent is funny,” Jim said, voice blunt. “And your speech cadence, or something. Pallet. God.” He snickered to himself. “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you,” he added.
“You are not?” Because clearly, he was. Even Spock could tell.
“No, no,” Jim protested. “Just at what you said. It tickled me for some reason.”
Spock decided not to inquire as to the meaning of that particular colloquialism. “There is a difference?” he questioned instead.
“Kind of,” Jim said.
There was another bit of an awkward pause.
“So,” Jim said. “I’m sorry to ask you this, but can you give me a hand to the tent?” He indicated his swollen ankle. “I don’t think I can walk too well.”
“Oh,” Spock said. “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. How might I assist?” He sincerely hoped that his mother’s explanation of human cultural norms regarding touch and physical contact were accurate. It would be most unfortunate if her information had been incorrect, or distorted.
“Just,” Jim grunted, attempting to maneuver himself up. “Just give me your hand for a second so I can stand up.”
Spock did so, reminding himself that here, such contact meant nothing. It was difficult. Jim’s hands were dry and dusty from dehydration, and his calluses rubbed against Spock’s palm in a most disconcerting manner. He inhaled sharply, but Jim did not seem to notice. Spock hauled him to his feet, and Jim winced, holding his side and balancing on one foot. He lay his arm across Spock’s shoulders.
“Now, we hobble to the tent.”
Spock nodded, and they began their journey. It was only a meter or two, but Jim clearly felt every jolt. Spock began to wonder how they were ever going to be able to walk out of this desert at all.
He helped Jim lay down on his pallet, and sat down beside him, legs crossed. He needed to meditate.
“Man,” Jim said, “I wish we had some ice or something.” He prodded at his ankle. Spock had propped it up on his pack, which was itself resting on a rock.
“Wishes are illogical,” Spock said, not really paying attention.
Jim turned toward him, tilting his head. “Well, I guess so,” he said. “Still, it doesn’t hurt anyone.”
Inwardly, Spock cursed at his own flippant answer. “Indeed,” he said, expression giving away none of his inner turmoil. Humans did not understand logic. Why had he said such a ridiculous thing?
“So,” Jim said. “I guess this is good night? Or were we going to tell ghost stories or something?”
“Good night,” affirmed Spock. Ghost stories? How peculiar.
Jim shifted. “Good night,” he said again. “I hope I don’t wake up to find out you’re actually a crazy person who killed me in my sleep.”
Spock honestly . . . did not know how to reply to that. “That would be highly . . .” he trailed off.
“Illogical?” Jim quipped.
“Yes,” Spock said. “If I had wanted you to die, why would I bother coming to see to your well being?”
“Good question,” yawned Jim. He sighed. “Anyway, not to be rude or anything, but I’ve had a pretty exhausting day. I think I’ll actually sleep now. Sleep well, even though I kind of stole your sleeping bag.”
“All right,” said Spock.
“Good night,” repeated Jim. He closed his eyes.
“Good night,” Spock replied quietly. He did not close his eyes. He breathed in deeply, then exhaled. His gaze came to rest on the form slumped next to him. What a fascinating species, he thought. He took another deep breath, and a third.
Meditation. Yes, he would meditate on the unexpected events of the day.
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