FIC: A Commotion In The Firmament - Part 2/5
Part One
Jim watched his last rook fall and heaved a mournful sigh. Chess with Spock was one of the few things that required his utmost attention, and with half his mind still formulating possible outcomes from his meeting with Suvat, he was, to put it bluntly, getting his ass handed to him.
Spock had noticed.
“You appear troubled, Captain,” he said delicately.
“Really?”
“Indeed.” There was an expectant silence. Spock added, “That was intended as an indication that I am willing to listen. I believe the Human expression would be, ‘A trouble shared is a trouble halved’.”
Jim waved a hand dismissively. “It’s probably nothing.” He moved a pawn, barely glancing at the board. Then, abruptly: “Well, no. Did you know the High Council’s sent Suvat to assist with the diplomatic process, or however our orders put it, when he’s adamantly opposed to the whole idea?”
“I was not aware of the fact, though I do not perceive any future difficulties arising from it.”
“Spock! I know it’d be illogical for Suvat to let his own feelings influence his actions, but you really don’t see any problem with it? It’s not like you can tell me Vulcans don’t have feelings.”
In the brief pause that followed, Jim debated apologising for that last remark. Neither of them had managed a frank discussion of the Bridge Incident, and Jim had convinced himself that picking away the emotional scar tissue surrounding it would do more to hurt whatever they had between them than simply leaving it be. He was about to open his mouth when Spock spoke.
“That is correct. However, Suvat has greater skill at suppressing his emotions that I am ever likely to attain. I repeat: I foresee no problems.”
Spock’s voice had become more distant, more Vulcan. Jim bit the inside of his lip. Well done, Jim. He offers to listen to your problems and you go remind him of how you emotionally compromised him. Way to go.
“Look, Spock, I shouldn’t have said that. My mouth tends to leave my brain out of the decision-making process sometimes.”
“I accept that you still harbour anger towards me for my actions.”
“What? No! I’m sorry for what happened. I provoked you, it’s hardly your fault for reacting.”
“It is apparently obvious to all that I cannot control my emotions sufficiently.” Spock’s tones were full of ice.
“Fuck. That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Jim let out a long breath. He realised he’d been gripping a bishop hard enough to leave ridges in his palm. Carefully, he set it upright on the board, not looking at Spock until he was done. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re even. We’re a team now, and I don’t want to screw that up just because I’m an idiot who doesn’t know when to shut up.”
The seconds dragged by. Jim resisted the urge to bite his lip again.
Finally, Spock nodded, swiftly, imperceptibly. Jim thought he read an apology in the dark gaze, though for what he couldn’t be sure.
They played on, the awkward silence of having run out of words gradually shifting to one in which there was simply no need to speak. The heat and the quiet, broken only by the rustle of fabric and the click of the chess pieces, began to wrap itself around Jim like a blanket
~
After Ydriss, there comes a long spell of what the captain refers to as ‘milk runs’. Spock finds this in some respects preferable, as he gets to work on his experiments without the constant interruption of a red alert, but in others quite appallingly tedious. He reflects that his father may have been right; Starfleet has turned him into a being who prefers meeting the galaxy head-on to the more proper, Vulcan pursuit of sitting and considering it from a distance. He finds that he does not regret the change, though he is certain this would be labelled as further evidence of his increasing illogic.
On the sixth day out from Illyria 4, the captain invites Spock to join him at chess. Spock thinks he conceals his surprise well, but Kirk laughs and says, “Yeah, I know I don’t look much like the chess-playing type, but I won my share of matches at the Academy. Anyway, it’s fine if you’ve got, you know, science officer-type things to be doing. I’m just bored out my skull and thought it could pass the time.”
Despite Kirk’s diffidence, Spock has the feeling that committing to this chess game is somehow important. It is, of course, an entirely irrational supposition, based on an intuition he claims not to have, but he nevertheless is inclined to heed it.
When their shifts finish, he walks with Kirk to his quarters. While Kirk sets up the board, Spock looks around the room with curiosity. He has never been in the captain’s quarters before, nor has he devoted time to speculating on their contents, but he cannot help but be intrigued by the complete lack of personal mementoes. His experience of human culture has taught him the often-extravagant sentiment attached to insignificant objects, and yet the only items not strictly Starfleet-issue are a collection of polished rocks at one end of a shelf and a small printed photograph of a man, a woman, and a baby. Of course, there would be no images of the Kirk family as a whole, Spock reflects, feeling unexpectedly uncomfortable with the thought. He had not known Kirk had a brother.
Kirk watches his examination with amusement. “Does my room pass muster, Commander?”
It is, of course, a perfectly adequate room for a starship captain, and Spock says so. Kirk bites his lip on a smile.
“So. Chess?”
Some two point five four hours later, Spock is contemplating a board bereft of nearly all his white pieces. He considers his next move carefully, weighs up the probable outcomes, and shifts a rook down one level. Kirk grins widely at him from across the board.
“Are you sure you want to do that, Spock? I’ll let you take it back if you want.”
Kirk’s playing style is one of the most frustrating Spock has yet encountered. He uses a combination of wild unpredictability and an assortment of tricks intended to, as he puts it, ‘psych out’ the opposition. Needless to say, they have little effect on Spock, yet it is curious that Kirk is besting him. He shakes his head sharply and leaves the rook where it is.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
With precise, deliberate clicks, Kirk moves his queen square by square until - “Checkmate.”
Spock scans the board. Improbable as it seems, Kirk is quite correct. He raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps a rematch tomorrow night, Captain?”
~
“Entering the Kitharan system, Captain. Dropping to half impulse.”
“Good work, Sulu. Any luck your end, Uhura?”
She shook her head. “Still broadcasting messages of peace and goodwill to all life-forms in every known language, sir. No response.”
“The Kithara system appears to exert a natural dampening field,” Spock put in. “My sensors show no interference patterns that would indicate a deliberate attempt at jamming. Indeed, they read nothing aside from the usual traces of background radiation and space debris.”
“The Kitharans’d be hard pushed to miss us at this range, Captain,” said Sulu.
Even as he finished speaking, Uhura slapped a hand to her ear and yanked out the earpiece. Giving it a look as though it had bitten her, she said, “I’m getting strong bursts of static. I’m just not sure where…” He hands danced over the console, pulling up new channels and closing off others, trying to isolate the signal. Finally, she turned to Jim. “It’s not being transmitted over the subspace, just over regular radio. No one uses these frequencies for off-world communications anymore.”
Spock lifted an eyebrow. “Fascinating. It should be possible to compensate for the time-lag using the ship’s computers, if you copy the message to my station, Lieutenant.”
“Already on its way. If I could just get a lock on where on the planet it’s coming from, I might be able to boost the signal from up here.”
Catching sight of Jim frowning at the static, Spock observed, “It is highly improbable that you will decode the message with will power alone, Captain.”
Jim shrugged. “Can’t hurt to try.” Spock gave him the Eyebrow of Sarcastic Disbelief and Jim swung away, smiling. “Carry on, Mr Spock. Any luck in boosting the signal, Uhura?”
“I’ve narrowed it to a ten kilometre radius, but I don’t think I can get it more specific than that.”
Over on the auxiliary science station, Ensign O’Hara said thoughtfully, “If we match it with the scans of the planet, we can see if it corresponds to one of the populated areas. We’re getting enough detail through the sensors to pick out man-made structures now. Redirecting the scans through your console, Lieutenant.”
Thirty seconds later, Uhura let out a pleased hum. “There’s a patch of high-density population to the north that looks like a good bet. Locking on to it.”
“Spock, have you worked out how to adjust for time-delay?”
“Affirmative, Captain. If the Lieutenant sends the boosted signal through my console, it should be comprehensible.”
In a seamless segue, Uhura keyed in a command and sound flooded the bridge. The voice was rippled through with static, but still clear enough for Jim to recognise it as female.
“This is Director Montague of the Beta Kithara Centre for Scientific Research. Federation starship, what is your business in this system?”
Jim shot Spock a look. Non-subspace radio was notoriously accessible for hackers. He suspected the Vulcans would not appreciate having their plans blared across the galaxy by some over-zealous Starfleet reporter with an ear to the ground. “It’s kind of a delicate issue, Director. I’d prefer to discuss it in a more private setting.”
“By which I may infer you’re here on some hush-hush mission of questionable legality?”
“No precisely, Director, but like I said, it is a private matter.”
There was a sigh, or it might have been a crackle of static. “You’ll find your transporters don’t work round here. I’ll send up a shuttle.”
“We could use one of our own.”
“I will send up a shuttle,” Montague repeated firmly.
“All right,” Jim said, surprised by her insistence. “How many of my people can I bring?”
“Eight including yourself. The shuttle will reach you in ninety minutes. Montague out.”
“Well,” said Jim, leaning back in his chair. “That was…”
“Intriguing, Captain?”
“I was going for ‘weird as hell’, but I can work with ‘intriguing’. Why won’t our transporters work?”
“Director Montague’s statement was not strictly accurate; the transporters function perfectly on our end. However, ionic disturbances in the planet’s atmosphere mean that the chances of a successful beam-down are approximately one in six hundred and thirty-eight.”
“And the other six hundred and thirty-seven times, your atoms get scrambled by the clouds. Nice.”
“Indeed.”
~
“Jim, quit staring at Spock like that.”
Jim blinked. Actually, he hadn’t been staring at his first officer, but the bulkhead over Spock’s shoulder was in his line of sight and good for looking vaguely at while wondering how best to open proceedings with Director Montague. “Sorry. Just thinking.”
“If it’s that painful, you should probably tell me about it.”
“Hah, funny, Bones. You want me to talk about the expressions you pull when - whoa!”
The little shuttle trembled in the turbulence, but righted herself and continued. McCoy had gone a sickly grey colour.
“When will they learn to put stabilisers in these things?” he gritted out.
“Don’t want to make this worse for you, Bones, but I think they already do. Nearly down now, anyway.”
“You’d make the world’s worst counsellor, Jim..”
“Well, it wouldn’t be fair if I was an expert at everything. Think of it as Nature being even-handed: you get the psychiatry skills; I get to be good at captain-y things like space battles. Afraid I got the lion’s share of the good looks and charm though.”
McCoy snorted. “In your dreams.”
“Oh yeah, why don’t we talk about the lovely Nurse Chapel?” Jim leaned back in his seat, directing his best leer at McCoy.
“Because Chris does not deserve being linked in my mind with that look of yours. It’s just cruel to inflict that on me without warning. And, I might add, she’s far handier with a hypospray than I am, so just you watch yourself.”
“Really, Bones? Threatening your best friend with violence over a girl? You wound me.”
“Not half as much as I’d like to,” McCoy growled.
Jim smirked. “Can’t touch me, I’m the captain.”
“Do the words ‘weekly physical’ mean anything to you?”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Watch me.”
~
The shuttle touched down in a courtyard surrounded by several low, whitewashed buildings. Climbing plants looped around the doorways in splashes of bright, primary colours. A set-up further from an advanced scientific research institute, it was hard to imagine.
“Welcome to Beta Kithara, Captain Kirk.”
The woman who greeted them looked to be in her early thirties - Jim reminded himself that ‘looked to be’ could mean anything on a planet of genetic specialists - and was dressed in faded blue overalls, dirt-stained at the knees. Her hair, a sun-streaked brown in colour, was piled carelessly on the top of her head. She caught Jim’s surprised look and smiled. “I’ve been out in the agri-beds, measuring our new seedlings. You have poor timing, Captain.”
“I apologise, Director. In normal circumstances, we’d have contacted you before setting course to your system, but there seems to be some trouble with subspace communications in this sector…” Jim let his voice trail off with the hint of a question.
“It’s the soil - you won’t find mineral composition like this anywhere else in the galaxy. Brilliant for growing things, but plays havoc with all sorts of technology, including the subspace. I can get you two-way radios to replace your communicators.” She brushed aside his thanks and continued: “But I’d dearly love to know what brings you here with half a dozen Vulcans in tow.”
Jim barely hid a grin at the idea of him being anything like in charge of the Vulcan contingent. Ambassador Suvat looked markedly less happy at the thought.
“The matter is quite complicated… perhaps we could discuss it in greater comfort inside?” And, damn, when had he started talking like a diplomat, all smooth tones and meaningful looks? It was just plain disturbing to open his mouth and hear his Xenocultures professor’s voice.
Director Montague nodded and ducked through one of the low doorways, calling back, “My office is available, Captain.”
~
Unfortunately, this decision can only be made by our full board of directors.
Jim heard the words with a dull lack of surprise. Montague had sounded enthusiastic enough about the benefits of an official trade agreement with the Federation, but she’d been cagey about giving away the Kitharans’ own position. And now, he supposed, they would have to spend who knew how long down here while the proposal was looked at from every possible angle and exploited for any advantage to Kithara.
There was no question of a shuttle trip back to the Enterprise - even if Bones hadn’t looked prepared to mutiny at the thought, a vicious ion storm had sprung up outside the biodomes and Montague had insisted the Federation party make themselves at home in the habitat dome.
Not even a comms link back to the Enterprise, Jim thought. Of course Scotty would take good care of her, but it was unnerving to be so utterly cut off from his ship.
Montague stood up beside her desk and offered him a smile containing just the right amount of regret. “I’m sorry, Captain, but even outside the Federation, there’s still bureaucracy to contend with.”
“I won’t be running off here to avoid the paperwork anytime soon then,” Jim said, smiling in turn.
“Best not. Still, I can at least offer a tour of our facilities, so that you don’t feel your trip here has been entirely wasted.”
Which sounded ominously like she knew the Kitharans were going to say no.
~
Spock is hunched over a microscope in the hydroponics lab, making notes on the progress of some new variety of seedlings Sulu’s brought back form shore leave. His face is a mask of concentration, though Jim privately thinks this is complete bullshit - Spock doesn’t get on well with Sulu’s beloved plants. He’s probably only chosen to look at the seedlings because they run the least chance of blowing up the ship if he screws up with them.
Not that Spock will screw up, but the possibility has no doubt been carefully accounted for somewhere in his plans.
Jim stops a short distance away and clears his throat. “So.”
Spock does not actually say So what?, but it’s there in the set of his shoulders.
“I heard about you and Uhura,” Jim says. This is all Bones’s fault, dammit. You should talk to him Jim. He can’t hide from his emotions forever. Screw that, Jim’s been dodging his emotions since he hit puberty, hasn’t done him much harm.
“No doubt the news has spread to the Romulan Empire by now,” Spock says, and Jim doesn’t like the bleak edge to his voice.
“Actually, we’re trying to keep it on the QT. Wouldn’t want to start interstellar war when Uhura’s relatives come looking for you.”
Spock looks up from his seedlings. “You think it was I who terminated our relationship?”
Jim blinks, frowns, does a mental U-turn. “It wasn’t?”
“Ship’s gossip is usually so reliable, no wonder you did not bother to ascertain the truth from the Lieutenant.”
“No, I didn’t ask her because in case you haven’t noticed, she’s not all that fond of me, and I like my head attached to my body.” Bones, I hate you so, so much right now.
“Is there a purpose to this discussion, Captain?” Spock enquires, voice coolly polite.
“Aside from seeing if you’re okay? No, not really. Just, you know, if you wanna talk about it, I’m there.”
“Thank you, Captain. In the unlikely event I wish to talk about my feelings with you, I shall let you know.”
Jim winces. Well. Fine. If that’s how he feels…He walks through the doors without a backwards glance. In future, Bones can do his own damn counselling.
~
Montague led the group into the biodome and stepped aside, looking expectant. Warm, soil-scented air washed over them. Jim barely suppressed a gasp; Uhura and McCoy didn’t even try, both staring about them in delight. Even Spock’s eyes widened fractionally, and someone in the Vulcan contingent whispered something admiring.
“This place is incredible, Director.” In his head, Jim made a rough guess at the costs of such a set-up: biodome construction, atmosphere controllers, not to mention the transport costs of shipping everything out beyond Federation jurisdiction. The sum - and he was pretty sure he’d underestimated - would have outfitted a dozen starships from scratch and probably covered their five-year missions too.
“I concur. Your facilities surpass any I have seen.”
Of course Spock liked it - this was the sort of place scientists had wet dreams about. Nope, not going there. Jim deflected his thoughts with practised ease and focused on the contents of the dome.
For the first hundred metres, a grid of paths divided up the soil beds. Beyond that, the paths converged and disappeared under the canopy of a miniature rainforest. Jim didn’t think the trees would come higher than his head, though the size of the dome was making scale difficult.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Montague said proudly. “These are the agri-beds. I’ve already told you about the Kitharan soil - see for yourself. That one there,” she pointed to a plant bristling with leaves that came up to Jim’s knee, “we planted two days ago as a seedling. Some of it’s the GMing we’ve done, of course, but we’ve tried this on other planets without anything near the success rate we can achieve on Kithara.”
“Other planets?” Jim asked.
“Oh yes.” Montague’s smile turned decidedly mischievous. “Turned out they were a bit too close to home for comfort. Naturally, your Federation soon put us out of business, which is why I assumed you lot weren’t quite on the right side of the law when you came calling. My, how the mighty have fallen.”
“You don’t seem to have done so badly without Federation support,” Jim pointed out.
“No, well, you’d be amazed at the generosity of some of our sponsors.”
At Jim’s side, Spock shifted warningly. Jim took the hint. If it turned out the Kitharans were up to anything downright illegal, there was no way the Kithara Procedure would be sanctioned. Surreptitiously, he glanced at Suvat and saw the Ambassador was watching Montague like she was under a microscope. Jim spared a moment to curse Starfleet’s shifty ethics and even shiftier politics.
Montague ushered them on through the agri-beds into another section of the complex. This area was a closer match for Jim’s mental picture of what a research facility should be: sterile white corridors with regularly spaced doors leading who knew where. Montague palmed the ID pad of one and ushered them inside.
A middle-aged man in emerald-green overalls looked over his shoulder at the interruption.
“Doctor Conway is our foremost bio-engineer.”
Conway acknowledged the party with a smile and turned back to his vivarium. It took up half the lab, a dark patchwork of greenery. In the shadows, Jim caught sight of stealthy movement.
“If you don’t mind me asking, Doctor, what exactly is it you’re working on?” McCoy stopped a respectful distance from the plexiglas wall and peered in.
“Reconstructing a sabre-toothed tiger, at the moment.” Conway turned to him, eyes bright with enthusiasm. “You’re interested in regenetics…?”
“Leonard McCoy. And it’s hard not to be in this place. My God, a sabre-toothed tiger? How long’s that taken you?”
“Three years, give or take. Most of it was spent in jigging the DNA pattern to a workable level - the only samples we could find were horribly degraded. If I’m honest, a good tenth of Dawn here is just educated guesswork.”
“Dawn?” Montague said sharply. “You know the policy on names, John.”
“Of course I do, Kate. I wrote the damn thing, didn’t I? But you try calling that,” he waved towards the vivarium where a tawny-furred cat now stood watching them, “XP-157-DA. She’s too beautiful.” He beamed fondly at the creature, apparently oblivious to the traces of blood on its teeth.
Montague tutted resignedly and explained, “Many of our scientists specialise in recreating Earth’s past wildlife. For all people decry the human race as overly destructive, by galactic standards, we’ve done pretty well in preserving our pre-history.”
“So the majority of scientists here are human?” Jim asked.
“Mainly from the colonies,” she admitted. “Earth-borns tend to be squeamish about our… tinkering. Then we have a Deltan specialising in aesthetic gardening - breeding plants for appearance, you know. And two Hartotians working to recreate some of their homeworld’s history, though I don’t think they’re having much luck with it.”
“After the Wars of Succession, I’m surprised there was anything left to reconstruct,” Jim said, grinning quietly to himself at Spock’s eyebrow twitch of surprise. One of these days, Spock was going to stop being amazed that Jim knew anything at all, and then life would be a lot less fun for all concerned.
“Yes, I believe they’re finding the scarcity of data to be a little tricky to work with, but they’ve managed some quite spectacular specimens of algae. They’re hoping to move on to mammals in a year or so.”
“If anyone can do it, Jelath and Katrill can,” Conway put in. “But you don’t want to be looking at algae, do you, Captain Kirk? Show ‘em next door, Kate. That’s where the fun stuff’s happening.”
“‘Fun stuff’?” Suvat enquired acidly. “Might I remind you, Captain, that there is a serious purpose to this mission beyond indulging your interest in the history of your own planet?”
Jim opened his mouth to retort that what else did Suvat plan to do while they waited for the committee to convene, but Montague interceded. “I think you’ll like next door, Ambassador.”
Suvat’s expression spoke volumes as to the unlikelihood of that outcome.
But the contents of the next room did at least distract Suvat from Jim’s inadequacies as a captain - the door opened onto a neatly clipped lawn with a desk sitting incongruously in the middle of it. Beyond that, a head-high tangle of grass and bracken stretched farther than Jim could see.
“This place is insane,” he hissed.
“Thank you, Captain. T’Kal is one of our most recent arrivals, but her work shows great promise.”
“Oh, you are fucking kidding me,” McCoy said quietly.
The desk’s occupant turned and nodded a greeting towards them. Behind Jim, the Vulcan delegation stirred. Montague watched their reactions, struggling not to laugh.
Finally, Spock said, with remarkable calmness, “We were unaware there were Vulcans working on Beta Kithara.”
“The High Council should have been informed,” said Suvat, the anger obvious in his voice.
“Ambassador,” murmured V’Lir, perhaps embarrassed at her boss’s unseemly display of temper.
Everyone’s gaze focused once more on T’Kal, but she ignored them, fingers flying over her computer console and eyes fixed on the screen.
“T’Kal,” Montague said, a little louder than strictly necessary over such a short distance. “Do you mind if I show our guests round?”
“So long as you do not disturb my work.”
Skor, another of the Ambassador’s aides, raised an eyebrow at her lack of courtesy, but Montague smiled and made for a narrow gap in the grass. Jim had to turn sideways to get through - the grass stems were a hell of a lot tougher than they looked. A sticky shower of seeds rattled down on the party and Jim sneezed. Before he could open his eyes, McCoy had jabbed him with a hypo.
“How do you do that?” he complained. “I swear you didn’t even bring a medkit with you.”
“Doctor’s sixth sense,” McCoy said smugly. “And I always bring a medkit, Jim. You have met yourself, right?”
Over McCoy’s shoulder, Jim could see Uhura and Spock trading amused looks. He scowled at them and watched Uhura utterly fail to stop smirking, and Spock’s eyebrows remain at the level of Vulcan Hilarity.
“If the captain has recovered, perhaps we may proceed with the tour?” Suvat said pointedly. As they moved off, Jim frowned. He didn’t think he was imagining the Ambassador’s increased agitation since they’d landed on Beta Kithara. He’d have to ask Spock later.
Up ahead, the grass was beginning to thin out and in a short while the party emerged onto a smooth expanse of rock.
“How much terraforming did you have to do here?” Jim asked, turning to Montague.
“Actually, this valley is a natural formation. Before T’Kal’s arrival, we were using it to model the biosystems of the planet, but it turned out to be the only area under the domes big enough for her project. The indigenous vegetation is remarkably similar to that of prehistoric Vulcan.”
“Indeed?” Skor’s voice had sharpened in interest. “What, precisely, is T’Kal working on here?”
Before Montague could reply, a sound like distant thunder filled the air. On the far side of the valley, a cloud of brown dust rose and hurried its way towards them until it slewed to a halt ten feet from the bottom of the cliff they stood on. Gradually, the dust settled.
“That is - most unusual, Director,” Skor said. “All the research done on Vulcan suggests that sehlat are incapable of the pack mentality. In fact, I do not believe a collective noun exists.”
“Those are not sehlat,” corrected V’Lir. “I would estimate they are at least seventy centimetres longer and in addition possess what appear to be poisonous spurs on their hind legs. A most interesting modification.”
“You’re quite right. They’re not sehlat in the same way that modern humans aren’t Neanderthals. Or rather, in the way that Neanderthals weren’t modern humans. A genetic type discarded by Nature way back down the line. I think we’ve got two or three packs now - T’Kal thought it would be informative to observe the way the different groups interacted.”
“T’Kal sounds an interesting individual,” Spock said.
“T’Kal sounds scary,” Jim muttered.
“And over there,” continued Montague, blithely ignoring the pair of them, “you can see we’ve got a mated pair of pterodactyls. A couple of other labs open onto this valley and some of our projects require more room than a simple vivarium.”
~
On reflection, Spock thinks, he was unnecessarily abrasive in his treatment of the captain. Inept though Kirk may be, he does seem to be acting with good intentions.
It is a fact, though, that Spock’s control has been slipping steadily since Vulcan was destroyed. At first he was inclined to attribute it to the influence of so many volatile humans, all projecting fear and grief in the wake of Nero’s attack, but two months have passed now. Surely his sense of control should be increasing, not diminishing?
Nyota tried to help, but Spock’s sense of shame has been instilled in him from birth and is not so easily shaken off. Easier, so much easier, to cut off all emotions, even the positive ones he experiences in her company, than to risk another outburst like that on the bridge. Small wonder she would now prefer them to be ‘just friends’ - friends do not demand or expect the kind of soul-deep intimacy a Vulcan relationship exacts.
Part Three
For all warnings and other info, see Part One.
Jim watched his last rook fall and heaved a mournful sigh. Chess with Spock was one of the few things that required his utmost attention, and with half his mind still formulating possible outcomes from his meeting with Suvat, he was, to put it bluntly, getting his ass handed to him.
Spock had noticed.
“You appear troubled, Captain,” he said delicately.
“Really?”
“Indeed.” There was an expectant silence. Spock added, “That was intended as an indication that I am willing to listen. I believe the Human expression would be, ‘A trouble shared is a trouble halved’.”
Jim waved a hand dismissively. “It’s probably nothing.” He moved a pawn, barely glancing at the board. Then, abruptly: “Well, no. Did you know the High Council’s sent Suvat to assist with the diplomatic process, or however our orders put it, when he’s adamantly opposed to the whole idea?”
“I was not aware of the fact, though I do not perceive any future difficulties arising from it.”
“Spock! I know it’d be illogical for Suvat to let his own feelings influence his actions, but you really don’t see any problem with it? It’s not like you can tell me Vulcans don’t have feelings.”
In the brief pause that followed, Jim debated apologising for that last remark. Neither of them had managed a frank discussion of the Bridge Incident, and Jim had convinced himself that picking away the emotional scar tissue surrounding it would do more to hurt whatever they had between them than simply leaving it be. He was about to open his mouth when Spock spoke.
“That is correct. However, Suvat has greater skill at suppressing his emotions that I am ever likely to attain. I repeat: I foresee no problems.”
Spock’s voice had become more distant, more Vulcan. Jim bit the inside of his lip. Well done, Jim. He offers to listen to your problems and you go remind him of how you emotionally compromised him. Way to go.
“Look, Spock, I shouldn’t have said that. My mouth tends to leave my brain out of the decision-making process sometimes.”
“I accept that you still harbour anger towards me for my actions.”
“What? No! I’m sorry for what happened. I provoked you, it’s hardly your fault for reacting.”
“It is apparently obvious to all that I cannot control my emotions sufficiently.” Spock’s tones were full of ice.
“Fuck. That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Jim let out a long breath. He realised he’d been gripping a bishop hard enough to leave ridges in his palm. Carefully, he set it upright on the board, not looking at Spock until he was done. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re even. We’re a team now, and I don’t want to screw that up just because I’m an idiot who doesn’t know when to shut up.”
The seconds dragged by. Jim resisted the urge to bite his lip again.
Finally, Spock nodded, swiftly, imperceptibly. Jim thought he read an apology in the dark gaze, though for what he couldn’t be sure.
They played on, the awkward silence of having run out of words gradually shifting to one in which there was simply no need to speak. The heat and the quiet, broken only by the rustle of fabric and the click of the chess pieces, began to wrap itself around Jim like a blanket
~
After Ydriss, there comes a long spell of what the captain refers to as ‘milk runs’. Spock finds this in some respects preferable, as he gets to work on his experiments without the constant interruption of a red alert, but in others quite appallingly tedious. He reflects that his father may have been right; Starfleet has turned him into a being who prefers meeting the galaxy head-on to the more proper, Vulcan pursuit of sitting and considering it from a distance. He finds that he does not regret the change, though he is certain this would be labelled as further evidence of his increasing illogic.
On the sixth day out from Illyria 4, the captain invites Spock to join him at chess. Spock thinks he conceals his surprise well, but Kirk laughs and says, “Yeah, I know I don’t look much like the chess-playing type, but I won my share of matches at the Academy. Anyway, it’s fine if you’ve got, you know, science officer-type things to be doing. I’m just bored out my skull and thought it could pass the time.”
Despite Kirk’s diffidence, Spock has the feeling that committing to this chess game is somehow important. It is, of course, an entirely irrational supposition, based on an intuition he claims not to have, but he nevertheless is inclined to heed it.
When their shifts finish, he walks with Kirk to his quarters. While Kirk sets up the board, Spock looks around the room with curiosity. He has never been in the captain’s quarters before, nor has he devoted time to speculating on their contents, but he cannot help but be intrigued by the complete lack of personal mementoes. His experience of human culture has taught him the often-extravagant sentiment attached to insignificant objects, and yet the only items not strictly Starfleet-issue are a collection of polished rocks at one end of a shelf and a small printed photograph of a man, a woman, and a baby. Of course, there would be no images of the Kirk family as a whole, Spock reflects, feeling unexpectedly uncomfortable with the thought. He had not known Kirk had a brother.
Kirk watches his examination with amusement. “Does my room pass muster, Commander?”
It is, of course, a perfectly adequate room for a starship captain, and Spock says so. Kirk bites his lip on a smile.
“So. Chess?”
Some two point five four hours later, Spock is contemplating a board bereft of nearly all his white pieces. He considers his next move carefully, weighs up the probable outcomes, and shifts a rook down one level. Kirk grins widely at him from across the board.
“Are you sure you want to do that, Spock? I’ll let you take it back if you want.”
Kirk’s playing style is one of the most frustrating Spock has yet encountered. He uses a combination of wild unpredictability and an assortment of tricks intended to, as he puts it, ‘psych out’ the opposition. Needless to say, they have little effect on Spock, yet it is curious that Kirk is besting him. He shakes his head sharply and leaves the rook where it is.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
With precise, deliberate clicks, Kirk moves his queen square by square until - “Checkmate.”
Spock scans the board. Improbable as it seems, Kirk is quite correct. He raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps a rematch tomorrow night, Captain?”
~
“Entering the Kitharan system, Captain. Dropping to half impulse.”
“Good work, Sulu. Any luck your end, Uhura?”
She shook her head. “Still broadcasting messages of peace and goodwill to all life-forms in every known language, sir. No response.”
“The Kithara system appears to exert a natural dampening field,” Spock put in. “My sensors show no interference patterns that would indicate a deliberate attempt at jamming. Indeed, they read nothing aside from the usual traces of background radiation and space debris.”
“The Kitharans’d be hard pushed to miss us at this range, Captain,” said Sulu.
Even as he finished speaking, Uhura slapped a hand to her ear and yanked out the earpiece. Giving it a look as though it had bitten her, she said, “I’m getting strong bursts of static. I’m just not sure where…” He hands danced over the console, pulling up new channels and closing off others, trying to isolate the signal. Finally, she turned to Jim. “It’s not being transmitted over the subspace, just over regular radio. No one uses these frequencies for off-world communications anymore.”
Spock lifted an eyebrow. “Fascinating. It should be possible to compensate for the time-lag using the ship’s computers, if you copy the message to my station, Lieutenant.”
“Already on its way. If I could just get a lock on where on the planet it’s coming from, I might be able to boost the signal from up here.”
Catching sight of Jim frowning at the static, Spock observed, “It is highly improbable that you will decode the message with will power alone, Captain.”
Jim shrugged. “Can’t hurt to try.” Spock gave him the Eyebrow of Sarcastic Disbelief and Jim swung away, smiling. “Carry on, Mr Spock. Any luck in boosting the signal, Uhura?”
“I’ve narrowed it to a ten kilometre radius, but I don’t think I can get it more specific than that.”
Over on the auxiliary science station, Ensign O’Hara said thoughtfully, “If we match it with the scans of the planet, we can see if it corresponds to one of the populated areas. We’re getting enough detail through the sensors to pick out man-made structures now. Redirecting the scans through your console, Lieutenant.”
Thirty seconds later, Uhura let out a pleased hum. “There’s a patch of high-density population to the north that looks like a good bet. Locking on to it.”
“Spock, have you worked out how to adjust for time-delay?”
“Affirmative, Captain. If the Lieutenant sends the boosted signal through my console, it should be comprehensible.”
In a seamless segue, Uhura keyed in a command and sound flooded the bridge. The voice was rippled through with static, but still clear enough for Jim to recognise it as female.
“This is Director Montague of the Beta Kithara Centre for Scientific Research. Federation starship, what is your business in this system?”
Jim shot Spock a look. Non-subspace radio was notoriously accessible for hackers. He suspected the Vulcans would not appreciate having their plans blared across the galaxy by some over-zealous Starfleet reporter with an ear to the ground. “It’s kind of a delicate issue, Director. I’d prefer to discuss it in a more private setting.”
“By which I may infer you’re here on some hush-hush mission of questionable legality?”
“No precisely, Director, but like I said, it is a private matter.”
There was a sigh, or it might have been a crackle of static. “You’ll find your transporters don’t work round here. I’ll send up a shuttle.”
“We could use one of our own.”
“I will send up a shuttle,” Montague repeated firmly.
“All right,” Jim said, surprised by her insistence. “How many of my people can I bring?”
“Eight including yourself. The shuttle will reach you in ninety minutes. Montague out.”
“Well,” said Jim, leaning back in his chair. “That was…”
“Intriguing, Captain?”
“I was going for ‘weird as hell’, but I can work with ‘intriguing’. Why won’t our transporters work?”
“Director Montague’s statement was not strictly accurate; the transporters function perfectly on our end. However, ionic disturbances in the planet’s atmosphere mean that the chances of a successful beam-down are approximately one in six hundred and thirty-eight.”
“And the other six hundred and thirty-seven times, your atoms get scrambled by the clouds. Nice.”
“Indeed.”
~
“Jim, quit staring at Spock like that.”
Jim blinked. Actually, he hadn’t been staring at his first officer, but the bulkhead over Spock’s shoulder was in his line of sight and good for looking vaguely at while wondering how best to open proceedings with Director Montague. “Sorry. Just thinking.”
“If it’s that painful, you should probably tell me about it.”
“Hah, funny, Bones. You want me to talk about the expressions you pull when - whoa!”
The little shuttle trembled in the turbulence, but righted herself and continued. McCoy had gone a sickly grey colour.
“When will they learn to put stabilisers in these things?” he gritted out.
“Don’t want to make this worse for you, Bones, but I think they already do. Nearly down now, anyway.”
“You’d make the world’s worst counsellor, Jim..”
“Well, it wouldn’t be fair if I was an expert at everything. Think of it as Nature being even-handed: you get the psychiatry skills; I get to be good at captain-y things like space battles. Afraid I got the lion’s share of the good looks and charm though.”
McCoy snorted. “In your dreams.”
“Oh yeah, why don’t we talk about the lovely Nurse Chapel?” Jim leaned back in his seat, directing his best leer at McCoy.
“Because Chris does not deserve being linked in my mind with that look of yours. It’s just cruel to inflict that on me without warning. And, I might add, she’s far handier with a hypospray than I am, so just you watch yourself.”
“Really, Bones? Threatening your best friend with violence over a girl? You wound me.”
“Not half as much as I’d like to,” McCoy growled.
Jim smirked. “Can’t touch me, I’m the captain.”
“Do the words ‘weekly physical’ mean anything to you?”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Watch me.”
~
The shuttle touched down in a courtyard surrounded by several low, whitewashed buildings. Climbing plants looped around the doorways in splashes of bright, primary colours. A set-up further from an advanced scientific research institute, it was hard to imagine.
“Welcome to Beta Kithara, Captain Kirk.”
The woman who greeted them looked to be in her early thirties - Jim reminded himself that ‘looked to be’ could mean anything on a planet of genetic specialists - and was dressed in faded blue overalls, dirt-stained at the knees. Her hair, a sun-streaked brown in colour, was piled carelessly on the top of her head. She caught Jim’s surprised look and smiled. “I’ve been out in the agri-beds, measuring our new seedlings. You have poor timing, Captain.”
“I apologise, Director. In normal circumstances, we’d have contacted you before setting course to your system, but there seems to be some trouble with subspace communications in this sector…” Jim let his voice trail off with the hint of a question.
“It’s the soil - you won’t find mineral composition like this anywhere else in the galaxy. Brilliant for growing things, but plays havoc with all sorts of technology, including the subspace. I can get you two-way radios to replace your communicators.” She brushed aside his thanks and continued: “But I’d dearly love to know what brings you here with half a dozen Vulcans in tow.”
Jim barely hid a grin at the idea of him being anything like in charge of the Vulcan contingent. Ambassador Suvat looked markedly less happy at the thought.
“The matter is quite complicated… perhaps we could discuss it in greater comfort inside?” And, damn, when had he started talking like a diplomat, all smooth tones and meaningful looks? It was just plain disturbing to open his mouth and hear his Xenocultures professor’s voice.
Director Montague nodded and ducked through one of the low doorways, calling back, “My office is available, Captain.”
~
Unfortunately, this decision can only be made by our full board of directors.
Jim heard the words with a dull lack of surprise. Montague had sounded enthusiastic enough about the benefits of an official trade agreement with the Federation, but she’d been cagey about giving away the Kitharans’ own position. And now, he supposed, they would have to spend who knew how long down here while the proposal was looked at from every possible angle and exploited for any advantage to Kithara.
There was no question of a shuttle trip back to the Enterprise - even if Bones hadn’t looked prepared to mutiny at the thought, a vicious ion storm had sprung up outside the biodomes and Montague had insisted the Federation party make themselves at home in the habitat dome.
Not even a comms link back to the Enterprise, Jim thought. Of course Scotty would take good care of her, but it was unnerving to be so utterly cut off from his ship.
Montague stood up beside her desk and offered him a smile containing just the right amount of regret. “I’m sorry, Captain, but even outside the Federation, there’s still bureaucracy to contend with.”
“I won’t be running off here to avoid the paperwork anytime soon then,” Jim said, smiling in turn.
“Best not. Still, I can at least offer a tour of our facilities, so that you don’t feel your trip here has been entirely wasted.”
Which sounded ominously like she knew the Kitharans were going to say no.
~
Spock is hunched over a microscope in the hydroponics lab, making notes on the progress of some new variety of seedlings Sulu’s brought back form shore leave. His face is a mask of concentration, though Jim privately thinks this is complete bullshit - Spock doesn’t get on well with Sulu’s beloved plants. He’s probably only chosen to look at the seedlings because they run the least chance of blowing up the ship if he screws up with them.
Not that Spock will screw up, but the possibility has no doubt been carefully accounted for somewhere in his plans.
Jim stops a short distance away and clears his throat. “So.”
Spock does not actually say So what?, but it’s there in the set of his shoulders.
“I heard about you and Uhura,” Jim says. This is all Bones’s fault, dammit. You should talk to him Jim. He can’t hide from his emotions forever. Screw that, Jim’s been dodging his emotions since he hit puberty, hasn’t done him much harm.
“No doubt the news has spread to the Romulan Empire by now,” Spock says, and Jim doesn’t like the bleak edge to his voice.
“Actually, we’re trying to keep it on the QT. Wouldn’t want to start interstellar war when Uhura’s relatives come looking for you.”
Spock looks up from his seedlings. “You think it was I who terminated our relationship?”
Jim blinks, frowns, does a mental U-turn. “It wasn’t?”
“Ship’s gossip is usually so reliable, no wonder you did not bother to ascertain the truth from the Lieutenant.”
“No, I didn’t ask her because in case you haven’t noticed, she’s not all that fond of me, and I like my head attached to my body.” Bones, I hate you so, so much right now.
“Is there a purpose to this discussion, Captain?” Spock enquires, voice coolly polite.
“Aside from seeing if you’re okay? No, not really. Just, you know, if you wanna talk about it, I’m there.”
“Thank you, Captain. In the unlikely event I wish to talk about my feelings with you, I shall let you know.”
Jim winces. Well. Fine. If that’s how he feels…He walks through the doors without a backwards glance. In future, Bones can do his own damn counselling.
~
Montague led the group into the biodome and stepped aside, looking expectant. Warm, soil-scented air washed over them. Jim barely suppressed a gasp; Uhura and McCoy didn’t even try, both staring about them in delight. Even Spock’s eyes widened fractionally, and someone in the Vulcan contingent whispered something admiring.
“This place is incredible, Director.” In his head, Jim made a rough guess at the costs of such a set-up: biodome construction, atmosphere controllers, not to mention the transport costs of shipping everything out beyond Federation jurisdiction. The sum - and he was pretty sure he’d underestimated - would have outfitted a dozen starships from scratch and probably covered their five-year missions too.
“I concur. Your facilities surpass any I have seen.”
Of course Spock liked it - this was the sort of place scientists had wet dreams about. Nope, not going there. Jim deflected his thoughts with practised ease and focused on the contents of the dome.
For the first hundred metres, a grid of paths divided up the soil beds. Beyond that, the paths converged and disappeared under the canopy of a miniature rainforest. Jim didn’t think the trees would come higher than his head, though the size of the dome was making scale difficult.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Montague said proudly. “These are the agri-beds. I’ve already told you about the Kitharan soil - see for yourself. That one there,” she pointed to a plant bristling with leaves that came up to Jim’s knee, “we planted two days ago as a seedling. Some of it’s the GMing we’ve done, of course, but we’ve tried this on other planets without anything near the success rate we can achieve on Kithara.”
“Other planets?” Jim asked.
“Oh yes.” Montague’s smile turned decidedly mischievous. “Turned out they were a bit too close to home for comfort. Naturally, your Federation soon put us out of business, which is why I assumed you lot weren’t quite on the right side of the law when you came calling. My, how the mighty have fallen.”
“You don’t seem to have done so badly without Federation support,” Jim pointed out.
“No, well, you’d be amazed at the generosity of some of our sponsors.”
At Jim’s side, Spock shifted warningly. Jim took the hint. If it turned out the Kitharans were up to anything downright illegal, there was no way the Kithara Procedure would be sanctioned. Surreptitiously, he glanced at Suvat and saw the Ambassador was watching Montague like she was under a microscope. Jim spared a moment to curse Starfleet’s shifty ethics and even shiftier politics.
Montague ushered them on through the agri-beds into another section of the complex. This area was a closer match for Jim’s mental picture of what a research facility should be: sterile white corridors with regularly spaced doors leading who knew where. Montague palmed the ID pad of one and ushered them inside.
A middle-aged man in emerald-green overalls looked over his shoulder at the interruption.
“Doctor Conway is our foremost bio-engineer.”
Conway acknowledged the party with a smile and turned back to his vivarium. It took up half the lab, a dark patchwork of greenery. In the shadows, Jim caught sight of stealthy movement.
“If you don’t mind me asking, Doctor, what exactly is it you’re working on?” McCoy stopped a respectful distance from the plexiglas wall and peered in.
“Reconstructing a sabre-toothed tiger, at the moment.” Conway turned to him, eyes bright with enthusiasm. “You’re interested in regenetics…?”
“Leonard McCoy. And it’s hard not to be in this place. My God, a sabre-toothed tiger? How long’s that taken you?”
“Three years, give or take. Most of it was spent in jigging the DNA pattern to a workable level - the only samples we could find were horribly degraded. If I’m honest, a good tenth of Dawn here is just educated guesswork.”
“Dawn?” Montague said sharply. “You know the policy on names, John.”
“Of course I do, Kate. I wrote the damn thing, didn’t I? But you try calling that,” he waved towards the vivarium where a tawny-furred cat now stood watching them, “XP-157-DA. She’s too beautiful.” He beamed fondly at the creature, apparently oblivious to the traces of blood on its teeth.
Montague tutted resignedly and explained, “Many of our scientists specialise in recreating Earth’s past wildlife. For all people decry the human race as overly destructive, by galactic standards, we’ve done pretty well in preserving our pre-history.”
“So the majority of scientists here are human?” Jim asked.
“Mainly from the colonies,” she admitted. “Earth-borns tend to be squeamish about our… tinkering. Then we have a Deltan specialising in aesthetic gardening - breeding plants for appearance, you know. And two Hartotians working to recreate some of their homeworld’s history, though I don’t think they’re having much luck with it.”
“After the Wars of Succession, I’m surprised there was anything left to reconstruct,” Jim said, grinning quietly to himself at Spock’s eyebrow twitch of surprise. One of these days, Spock was going to stop being amazed that Jim knew anything at all, and then life would be a lot less fun for all concerned.
“Yes, I believe they’re finding the scarcity of data to be a little tricky to work with, but they’ve managed some quite spectacular specimens of algae. They’re hoping to move on to mammals in a year or so.”
“If anyone can do it, Jelath and Katrill can,” Conway put in. “But you don’t want to be looking at algae, do you, Captain Kirk? Show ‘em next door, Kate. That’s where the fun stuff’s happening.”
“‘Fun stuff’?” Suvat enquired acidly. “Might I remind you, Captain, that there is a serious purpose to this mission beyond indulging your interest in the history of your own planet?”
Jim opened his mouth to retort that what else did Suvat plan to do while they waited for the committee to convene, but Montague interceded. “I think you’ll like next door, Ambassador.”
Suvat’s expression spoke volumes as to the unlikelihood of that outcome.
But the contents of the next room did at least distract Suvat from Jim’s inadequacies as a captain - the door opened onto a neatly clipped lawn with a desk sitting incongruously in the middle of it. Beyond that, a head-high tangle of grass and bracken stretched farther than Jim could see.
“This place is insane,” he hissed.
“Thank you, Captain. T’Kal is one of our most recent arrivals, but her work shows great promise.”
“Oh, you are fucking kidding me,” McCoy said quietly.
The desk’s occupant turned and nodded a greeting towards them. Behind Jim, the Vulcan delegation stirred. Montague watched their reactions, struggling not to laugh.
Finally, Spock said, with remarkable calmness, “We were unaware there were Vulcans working on Beta Kithara.”
“The High Council should have been informed,” said Suvat, the anger obvious in his voice.
“Ambassador,” murmured V’Lir, perhaps embarrassed at her boss’s unseemly display of temper.
Everyone’s gaze focused once more on T’Kal, but she ignored them, fingers flying over her computer console and eyes fixed on the screen.
“T’Kal,” Montague said, a little louder than strictly necessary over such a short distance. “Do you mind if I show our guests round?”
“So long as you do not disturb my work.”
Skor, another of the Ambassador’s aides, raised an eyebrow at her lack of courtesy, but Montague smiled and made for a narrow gap in the grass. Jim had to turn sideways to get through - the grass stems were a hell of a lot tougher than they looked. A sticky shower of seeds rattled down on the party and Jim sneezed. Before he could open his eyes, McCoy had jabbed him with a hypo.
“How do you do that?” he complained. “I swear you didn’t even bring a medkit with you.”
“Doctor’s sixth sense,” McCoy said smugly. “And I always bring a medkit, Jim. You have met yourself, right?”
Over McCoy’s shoulder, Jim could see Uhura and Spock trading amused looks. He scowled at them and watched Uhura utterly fail to stop smirking, and Spock’s eyebrows remain at the level of Vulcan Hilarity.
“If the captain has recovered, perhaps we may proceed with the tour?” Suvat said pointedly. As they moved off, Jim frowned. He didn’t think he was imagining the Ambassador’s increased agitation since they’d landed on Beta Kithara. He’d have to ask Spock later.
Up ahead, the grass was beginning to thin out and in a short while the party emerged onto a smooth expanse of rock.
“How much terraforming did you have to do here?” Jim asked, turning to Montague.
“Actually, this valley is a natural formation. Before T’Kal’s arrival, we were using it to model the biosystems of the planet, but it turned out to be the only area under the domes big enough for her project. The indigenous vegetation is remarkably similar to that of prehistoric Vulcan.”
“Indeed?” Skor’s voice had sharpened in interest. “What, precisely, is T’Kal working on here?”
Before Montague could reply, a sound like distant thunder filled the air. On the far side of the valley, a cloud of brown dust rose and hurried its way towards them until it slewed to a halt ten feet from the bottom of the cliff they stood on. Gradually, the dust settled.
“That is - most unusual, Director,” Skor said. “All the research done on Vulcan suggests that sehlat are incapable of the pack mentality. In fact, I do not believe a collective noun exists.”
“Those are not sehlat,” corrected V’Lir. “I would estimate they are at least seventy centimetres longer and in addition possess what appear to be poisonous spurs on their hind legs. A most interesting modification.”
“You’re quite right. They’re not sehlat in the same way that modern humans aren’t Neanderthals. Or rather, in the way that Neanderthals weren’t modern humans. A genetic type discarded by Nature way back down the line. I think we’ve got two or three packs now - T’Kal thought it would be informative to observe the way the different groups interacted.”
“T’Kal sounds an interesting individual,” Spock said.
“T’Kal sounds scary,” Jim muttered.
“And over there,” continued Montague, blithely ignoring the pair of them, “you can see we’ve got a mated pair of pterodactyls. A couple of other labs open onto this valley and some of our projects require more room than a simple vivarium.”
~
On reflection, Spock thinks, he was unnecessarily abrasive in his treatment of the captain. Inept though Kirk may be, he does seem to be acting with good intentions.
It is a fact, though, that Spock’s control has been slipping steadily since Vulcan was destroyed. At first he was inclined to attribute it to the influence of so many volatile humans, all projecting fear and grief in the wake of Nero’s attack, but two months have passed now. Surely his sense of control should be increasing, not diminishing?
Nyota tried to help, but Spock’s sense of shame has been instilled in him from birth and is not so easily shaken off. Easier, so much easier, to cut off all emotions, even the positive ones he experiences in her company, than to risk another outburst like that on the bridge. Small wonder she would now prefer them to be ‘just friends’ - friends do not demand or expect the kind of soul-deep intimacy a Vulcan relationship exacts.
Part Three
For all warnings and other info, see Part One.