The Czernak Protocol (Kirk/McCoy, PG-13)
Summary: Jim undergoes medically induced amnesia after a disastrous mission.
Warnings: Non-graphic descriptions of torture and its physical and psychological aftermath; memory alteration; trust issues.
Deep thanks to multi-talented beta readers and scifi-loving badasses sail_aweigh and elfsausage.
Exploration of the galaxy is an inherently risky occupation. Besides the usual dangers of space travel, Starfleet personnel are subjected to phenomena beyond the normal range of human experience, and certainly beyond the experience of most psychologists. In just the last few years, human Starfleet personnel on deep space missions have been occupied by incorporeal alien intelligences1, met their parallel universe counterparts2, and divided into their good and evil selves3.
In the general population, such experiences might, depending on the degree of trauma, be treated with memory mitigation therapy with the goal of lessening or eliminating traumatic memories. When Starfleet personnel are the victims, however, this goal may be at odds with the underlying mission, which includes the collection of experiential data, not to mention the development of wide-ranging experience-based skills, particularly those related to command. At the same time, Starfleet recognizes that leaving traumatic memories intact is both inhumane and potentially compromising to long-term viability as an active duty officer. It is for that reason that Starfleet in 2256 added the Czernak Protocol to its standard array of treatments for senior field officers who have undergone the most severe trauma.
--C. Pallas and L. Zalelew, “A Survey of Starfleet Psychotraumatology Protocols,” Journal of Human Cognitive Neuropsychology, CLIII, Vol 2.
Jim knows it’s bad because everyone keeps telling him he’s fine, from the shaky-voiced security officer who wrestles him to the beam-up point to the medic who catches him when he collapses on the Transporter pad.
He tracks his progress through his beautiful ship from his least-favorite angle, lying on his back, medics taking him at a near-run to Medbay. Next thing he knows he’s on the table, lights so bright that he can’t see faces, just three heads bent over him and the pinpoint glow of lasers. Lips press, quick and dry, against his forehead, and there’s the hiss of a hypo with another unenforceable promise: Everything’s going to be okay.
He wants to apologize for causing so much trouble, but his throat is too dry even to ask for water. A moment later he’s floating, not just on a cloud of painkillers but quite literally, a half-meter or more above the table, looking down on a body that’s deathly pale and mottled by splashes of red blood. He figures the body must be gravely injured to need more than one doctor, even though they’re the best Starfleet has to offer. He feels himself start to drift away like a loosely tied balloon pulling loose from its tether and thinks, Whoever you are, good luck.
+++++
He sees the face and says the word “M’Benga.” He doesn’t know what the relationship is, but he guesses that one signifies the other. He knows there are memories attached to that word and that face. He can’t remember but it doesn’t distress him; the words, the face, and the memories are still connected, and he knows he can find one by pulling on another, like lifting a full water bucket out of a well.
He did that, once, on a day full of sunshine; strained his muscles turning the crank, while a female voice laughed and called out, Jim, not so fast, you’ll hurt yourself! But he kept cranking, muscles burning, full of determination, until he saw the bucket appear, brimming with water reflecting the hot, blue sky.
“Jim. That’s my name.” M’Benga nods and raises a hand to his pointed beard. His eyes are slate grey in the white light from the medical displays.
“Yes, that’s right.” M’Benga goes back to tapping a long finger against the screen, and after a few minutes he picks up a hypo and places it against Jim’s neck. The medicine goes in with a sigh.
“Where did I--” The question dies on Jim’s lips, the brief flare of curiosity about his identity and place in the universe quenched by whatever was in the hypo.
“Just rest,” M’Benga says, and Jim immediately starts to feel drowsy. “There’ll be time for questions later.”
There’s the familiar heart-in-mouth feeling of weightlessness that precedes sleep, but it doesn’t stop. It goes on and on and he’s falling, down the well, leaving the bright day behind.
+++++
Some indefinite period of time later, M’Benga and the medic, Chapel, walk him down the empty, curving corridors of the ship to his quarters.
They’re not really his quarters, that much he knows; they’re spacious and bland, a bed with a blue, chevroned bedspread, dark red carpet, beige walls sparely decorated with impressionistic views of San Francisco Bay.
M’Benga nods at Chapel and she gives Jim a watery smile before walking out.
The doctor gestures to the bed and waits as Jim lies down, unbidden. The short walk from the Medical Bay has left him feeling shaky and light-headed, a clue to his condition, he supposes. There’s not a scratch on him but that means little. It could be a disease or the aftermath of surgery or something more outre: time travel or dimensional travel or an excursion into inner space, though there’s a solidity and specificity here that suggest it’s not a dream.
M’Benga perches on the edge of the bed, hands clasped, giving Jim the same penetrating attention that’s been focused on him since he woke up two days ago with large gaps of his life missing. It’s just shy of intimate, but the configuration is familiar somehow: Jim prone, the doctor looking down at him with anxiety hidden behind his smooth forehead.
“So,” Jim says, folding his hands over his stomach, “is it time for the big reveal?” M’Benga has been deflecting his questions with grave courtesy, even though most of them were pro forma, asked out of boredom. The odd truth is that Jim isn’t vibrating with curiosity. He doesn’t exactly feel content; more like in stasis, the harder edges of his intellect swaddled by chemicals or his own malfunctioning brain.
“I’m afraid not. I’m going to start backing you off the aradextron--gradually, over the next day or two,” M’Benga says. “Your memories will start coming back, probably longer-term memories first. It’s important not to force them. Just let them emerge naturally. Don’t worry; they’re all in there.” He taps his own temple in response to Jim’s frown.
“So what am I supposed to do? Stare at three different cheesy views of the Presidio and try not to wonder about who I am?”
M’Benga stands and folds his arms, looking down at Jim like he’s a vexing chess board. “There are a few hundred thousand vids in the ship’s library, and a few million books. That should be enough for a couple of days. You’re confined to quarters, for your own safety. The room is monitored, audio and visual, and I can check your vital signs remotely. Use your comm badge to ask for whatever you want--food, clothing, company. Speaking of which, you’ll be getting some visits.”
The idea of so much inactivity makes him feel instantly restless. “From who? Three spirits? Past, present and future?”
The doctor smiles a fraction too late. “Ah. Not exactly; friends and colleagues. They’ll be instructed not to talk to you about your own past unless you ask them specific questions. I know this all seems very heavy-handed and probably rather sinister, but I ask for your patience. We’re doing the best we can to ensure your complete recovery.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that, won’t I?” Jim stretches a little, feeling an ache his shoulders but keeping it off his face so M’Benga won’t lunge for the hypo. “You know, you haven’t called me by my name once. Interesting. So many clues.”
A shadow of a smile forms on M’Benga’s handsome face. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You usually do.” And then, as if he’s said too much, he nods curtly and vanishes with a swish through the doors.
+++++
Jim lies crosswise on the bed and stares at the ceiling, the faint hum from the engines vibrating through him. It seems quite proper that the only thing he feels in resonance with is a machine. Images float through his mind like dusky birds: corn fields and blue oceans and planets with pearl pink skies.
His body tells a more coherent narrative, if only he knew how to read it. Nothing hurts, but he doesn’t feel well, either. His back and shoulders are tight, and there’s a sporadic ache in his lumbar region. His skin is tight and shiny in patches: he can see two of them ringing his wrists, another visible when he pulls up the sleeve of his black undershirt. His joints feel stiff, his throat raspy, and he can’t stop drinking cold water, getting up again and again to fill his glass from a dispenser in the wall.
He’s Jim, and something bad happened to him, serious enough that the people who seem to care about him won’t tell him themselves. It could be a plot, he supposes, some elaborate deception to trick him into thinking he’s someone he’s not, reveal a secret, but no functionaries have appeared to ask questions with poorly concealed urgency. Maybe they’re not anxious for him to remember. Maybe he killed someone, or brought about some disaster. Maybe when he does remember, he’ll look back on this time of blank unknowing with envy.
The thought plants the first seed of anxiety in him, and as it grows his surroundings begin to look sinister, rife with hidden meaning. Under the shimmering false-blue waters of San Francisco Bay in the holo above him, something dark is lurking.
+++++
Zhang: Dr. Czernak would you mind summarizing your study for the benefit of those committee members who haven’t had a chance to read your report?
Czernak: Of course. The initial study involved 22 human subjects who were invited to video presentations on separate occasions. At each presentation, a member of the audience rose at the midway point and dumped a large beverage into the subject’s lap. Since the beverage was cold, this was an unpleasant experience [laughter]. Immediately after, the subjects were given tailored doses of aradextron to lessen the intensity of the memory, following normal protocols. In our study, however, they were also given emunox and metrosozole.
Zhang: Those are, respectively, drugs that cause temporary memory loss and depersonalization.
Czernak: Broadly speaking, that’s correct. In addition, the subjects received anti-anxiety medication to mitigate the unpleasant effect of the depersonalization experience. Of course reactions to psychoactive drugs vary widely, so they were tailored to the individual psych profile and biochemistry to the best of our ability, given the limited amount of information about the subjects.
Zhang: Of course. And what was the outcome?
Czernak: Forty-eight hours after the initial experience, the subjects were asked to recall the drink-spilling incident.
Zhang: And were they able to?
Czernak: Eighteen of the 22 were able to, yes, almost perfectly.
Zhang: The “almost” having a notable characteristic?
Czernak: Correct. In 11 of those cases, the subjects believed the incident had happened to someone else.
Proceedings of the Starfleet Medical Subcommittee on Human Treatment Protocols, Quarterly Meeting III, 2253.21.
+++++
Given his willingness to obey M’Benga’s injunction against prying for information, Jim considers it almost a mark of distrust on the doctor’s part when his first visitor is a Vulcan.
After a few minutes of stilted conversation, Spock presents a chess board, and Jim welcomes the distraction for the half hour or so it takes Spock to annihilate him.
“Nice going, trouncing the sick guy,” Jim says, clearing the board. “I’m sure you’re very proud.”
“You are capable of playing at a much higher level. I do not believe you were concentrating.” Spock speaks well-enunciated Standard in a light, supercilious baritone.
“You’re right; it’s not like I have anything on my mind. By which I mean, I actually have nothing on my mind, including who I am or what I’m doing here. That couldn’t conceivably be affecting my level of play.”
“Chess is first and foremost a game of strategy.” Spock begins setting up the board again with uncecessary precision. “It does not rely on specific memories.”
“Unless it happens that I’m a grandmaster, and I’ve literally forgotten more strategy than you’ll ever know.” Jim grabs the white king before Spock can and turns it in his fingers. It’s made of rough stone and seems heavier than it should be.
Spock purses his lips. “You are not a grandmaster.”
“Hey! I got you to tell me something about myself.”
“Not at all. You had ample evidence from which to deduce that yourself.” All the other pieces are now set up, and Spock looks pointedly at the piece in Jim’s hands.
“And you’re supposed to be one of my friends? Either M’Benga has weird ideas about friendship, or I do.”
Spock gives him a sharp look, and for a moment his irritation lapses into something else. Then he reaches out, quick as a snake, and pulls the king from Jim’s hands.
“You may test your theories in a rematch.”
Spock’s browbeating must work on one level, because the second time around Jim concentrates harder and with greater success. It takes them almost an hour and a half to play to a messy draw, during which Spock has the good grace to look mildly concerned and Jim stops thinking about what kind of man has an acid-tongued Vulcan for a buddy.
“There you go,” Jim says, when Spock balks at spending any more time chasing his king around. “Correcting for my impaired mental state, I kicked your ass. Who’s the grandmaster now?”
“I have already corrected for it. I purposely omitted the Attacks of Master Sa’tehn, as they require diligent study, by humans, at least. I have no way of knowing whether you recall them.”
“Or any way of knowing if they actually exist, like the Snipe Postulate.” Jim spends a few gloating moments recollecting the prank and Spock’s fruitless hours of research, before realizing that he remembers those last few months at the Academy in perfect detail.
Spock must realize it, too, because he scans Jim’s face for a long moment before cocking his eyebrow again. “Indeed, it is impossible to prove a negative, which makes a ‘snipe hunt’ a uniquely pointless exercise.”
“You spent two days trying to run down a non-existent postulate because you refused to admit I might know something you didn’t. That was really funny. Which isn’t pointless.”
“It is for me,” Spock says primly, “as I have no sense of humor.”
“Oh, that’s such a lie.”
“Vulcans do not--” They both stop short, Jim with a sense of deja vu that has nothing to do with his fluctuating memory.
“You are my friend,” Jim says, because it’s the truth, then flushes a little because the statement seems so childlike. But it’s all there, the sharp-edged congeniality, the competition that concealed a mutual respect that they don’t quite have words for.
“If you say so.” There’s the slightest quaver in Spock’s voice, and he drops his eyes to the chess board, which is now empty.
“I do.” Jim’s mind scans their history, rapid as a hand reading Braille: the destruction of Vulcan; Spock’s initial determination to stay with his people; his surprising, dogged loyalty once he’d made the decision to go with Jim. They’ve embarked on some grand endeavor, and though Jim doesn’t yet remember it, Spock’s involvement suggests it’s honorable.
“I am glad you remember that, at least,” Spock says, stowing the chess pieces neatly inside their wooden case. “I regret the need to conceal information from you, but I have been assured it’s for your own good.”
“Isn’t it always?” Jim flashes a smile at him and then slumps back in his chair, waves of tiredness washing through him again. “Don’t worry, I’ve gotten used to you knowing more than me.”
“Yes, but you usually do not accept it with such equanimity. May I suggest you lie down? I ought not to have tired you with that second game.” He waits for Jim to stretch out on the bed, then unfolds a blanket, and spreads it over him, to Jim’s drowsy amusement.
He doesn’t want Spock to go, but he doesn’t want to alarm him by asking him to stay. He lets Spock turn the lights down and refill the glass of water by his bed.
“Jim. Before I go, I wish to ask--do you recall anything of Kel-Barei?” Spock’s voice is low and close beside him.
Spots dance before his eyes in the grey gloom, but those words create a beige void in the middle of it. “No, nothing. ‘Night, Spock.”
“Sleep well, Jim.”
Jim curls on his side, clutching the covers tight in his fists, not sure what is waiting for him on the other side of sleep.
There is a mountain, and on top of the mountain there is a fortress, and after that, nothing.
+++++
Jim wakes up, groggy and pasty-mouthed, some time later, and is slightly unnerved to find M’Benga in an armchair a few feet away, hunched over his PADD. There’s a covered tray of food on the side table and another barrage of hypos waiting for him.
M’Benga collects enough data with his tricorder to construct another Jim and insists on probing at his throat and a couple of places on his scalp with his fingers, which Jim finds old-fashioned and a bit eccentric.
“May I see your right forearm?” Jim pulls back his sleeve, and M’Benga skims his fingertips over the shiny skin. “Is the tightness uncomfortable? I can spray it with polygen, if you want.”
“No, thanks, it’s fine.” Jim shifts a little, not because he’s lying, but because M’Benga’s touch feels a little too good. On the one hand it’s a sign of recovery, but on the other Jim has no idea how wildly inappropriate the reaction might be. He doesn’t think the doctor and he are involved; they could be former lovers, could just as easily be step-brothers. M’Benga has been the only consistent thread through the whole experience, and Jim responds to the contact like the social animal he supposes he must be.
“You’re beginning to remember biographical details? Places?” M’Benga stays where he is, seated on Jim’s bed, hand not quite touching his arm.
“Were you monitoring my conversation with Spock? No, it’s all right, I understand,” Jim says when M’Benga drops his gaze to the floor. “You need to know what progress I’m making. Yes, I’m remembering some of those things, but it’s random. For instance, I remember you making me coffee once from a private stash you have, but I can’t remember when we met.”
“I see. Nothing more recent? Nothing involving, say, Kel-Barei?” He says it just the way Spock did, conversationally, as if to suggest it’s not really important.
This time, Jim concentrates a little harder, and says, “Lizards.”
“What kind of lizards?” M’Benga says it so seriously that Jim has to restrain himself from laughing.
“I don’t know. The normal kind, I guess. Blue-green. They were underfoot all the time.” He gets a flash of sandy soil, two suns blazing overhead in a bright blue sky, and the dry scratch of lizard tails brushing over sandy ground, claws long and sharp enough to pierce flesh.
M’Benga nods, as if the answer satisfies him, but he looks uneasy.
“You’re worried about me.” Jim wishes he could stop making these clairvoyant statements, but he needs the confirmation.
M’Benga purses his lips and frowns a little, a crease forming between his eyebrows, and then forces his expression to clear. “Not about your recovery. It’s going well. I only wish your memories would reintegrate more quickly. I’m afraid the process is needlessly adding to your stress.”
“What stress?” Jim holds his palms up. “If there’s anything I’m supposed to be worried about I don’t remember it, and I’ve got nothing to do but watch vids. I’m guessing it’s a lot less stressful than whatever I normally do on this boat, presuming this is where I work.”
“Yes, you’re probably right about that.” M’Benga doesn’t look reassured.
“Hey.” Jim brushes a hand down the blue sleeve of M’Benga’s uniform, figuring that’s safe. “I’m safe and warm and well cared for. That’s more than a lot of people can say.” M’Benga nods, catches his hand, grips it briefly, and then pulls away, as if he’s overstepped some boundary.
“You still haven’t called me by my name. Would you? I’d like to hear you say it.”
“Jim.” He seems even less happy than before. “I’m going off duty in a few hours. Chapel will be in to give you your medication.” He seems to be waiting to be dismissed, so Jim nods at him and watches his broad back vanish through the door.
He’s not sure why, but he trusts the doctor. Maybe it’s just because he needs somebody to trust.
++++
Uhura’s fingers dance along the lyre strings almost too fast for Jim’s eyes to follow. He’s sitting on the floor, back against the bedstead, legs stretched out in front of him, because he’s tired of either lying down or being told to. It's a bare hint of rebellion, his first emergence from the drug-blanked complacency of the last few days.
Jim wonders if that's why M'Benga sent Uhura to visit him. Uhura represents a different level of engagement than Spock; she started to hug him and then didn't, vacillates between prickly and sympathetic. Still, she’s been kind enough to haul out her Vulcan lyre for his ostensible entertainment.
The tinny arpeggios aren’t exactly relaxing, but he appreciates the effort. It’s aesthetically pleasing anyway: Uhura’s face is intent, her eyes half-closed beneath her long lashes, and she leans forward, neck arching, during the difficult passages. He’s paying much more attention to her than to the music, but doesn’t think she’d appreciate him saying so.
Luckily, the air is too full of notes to say anything. When she reaches the end of the piece, her face clears and her shoulders slump with relief.
“I can’t believe I made it through that. It's one of the Twelve Santals of T'Pana; I’ve been practicing for weeks."
“You did great. It sounded really--difficult.”
She manages to keep a straight face for a few seconds, and when she flashes a smile, Jim does too, laughing at his own poor attempt at tact.
“I guess it’s safe to say that one of the things I’m not is a musician. I just hope I’m normally a little more smooth.”
“Decline to answer on advice of counsel.” She slides a soft-looking cover over the lyre and places it, with a thud, on the ground.
“Who’s your ‘counsel’--Spock?” She doesn’t answer, just gives him a wry smile. “I have some memories of you, but they’re mostly about making you annoyed. And the ones with Spock, I’m usually making fun of him. I must be a high-ranking officer, because otherwise it seems like you all should have ejected me into the void a long time ago.”
Uhura looks like she’s considering it for a moment. “Your memory’s pretty selective. There are definitely things in between, but maybe those are the memories you value most.”
“Which would be pretty sad, wouldn’t it?” He arches his back and stretches; the hard floor is doing a number on his tailbone, but he likes the proximity. “You know what would be nice? if the amnesia cancelled out everyone's memories of me, not just mine. That would be so great--completely fresh start, a blank canvas.I can’t say that I’m not a little nervous about not liking the person it turns out I am, but that couldn’t happen, could it? My genes are the same, my past, my moral alignment.”
She slides off the chair and onto the floor in front of him, folding her legs under her. She’s wearing a slim, long-sleeved red tunic gathered at the waist and dark, loose trousers, hair free around her shoulders. Except for M’Benga, who wears surgical scrubs, none of Jim’s visitors have worn anything betraying their rank or profession.
"Everybody's done things they regret. That's part of being human, isn't it? It's how we learn. If the memories were gone, those lessons would be, too. My grandmother used to say, there's knowledge, and then there's wisdom. If I lost my memories I'd remember how to play the lyre, but not the experience of learning it."
"Your grandmother." The word summons her in Jim’s mind, a tall woman with a more piercing version of Uhura's eyes, and he feels her hand, bony and strong, wrapping around his forearm as he helps her to a chair. "I met her, didn't I? At your wedding, at Kiwira River."
"Yes, you did. She liked you; she said you were very polite." Uhura seems to find this amusing. "She's the one who convinced you to wear your dress uniform, do you remember?"
"Yeah, I was afraid I'd stick out like a sore thumb, but there were people from pretty much every continent, plus your cousin's Andorian wife. Of course, I sweated my ass off; God, that Equatorial sun is brutal." He can feel it, the prickle of sweat under the insulating fabric of his uniform, and in his memory he pulls at the sleeves, feeling the scratch of the twin loops of gold braid.
"It all came off later, when we swam in the waterfall. Oh, no." She covers her eyes with her hand, as if hiding the memory from him. "I'm shouldn’t be telling you anything. I'm supposed to let you remember on your own. But it's so hard--that's one of my favorite memories, all my family and friends in one place."
"I hope I count as one of those."
"You do, you do." She puts a hand on his kneecap and rubs it, almost a caress. "I want to tell you something about who you are, so you don't worry about it, think that you're someone other people don't like, someone you don't like."
"But you can't." He covers her hand with his own, lightly, in case she wants to pull it away, but she doesn't. "It's getting kind of frustrating. I wish there was something I could do, to help it along."
"I think the best thing you could do," she says carefully, "is remember Kel-Barei."
He wants to, for her, and to climb his way out of this soft prison. He thinks about the words and something condenses around them, a vague shape, its outlines blurry.
"It's a place, isn't it? A planet? Or a place on a planet. A city?" He looks for clues in her eyes. "I don't think I actually remember it, just the facts from the mission briefing. Geography, population, that kind of thing. Not much about the beings who lived there, except that they weren't supposed to be hostile." He turns his head fast enough to catch Uhura's eye before she looks away. "They did get hostile, didn't they? That's a guess," he adds quickly. "I'm not trying to trick you into telling me. I just want to remember, and for this to be over. Especially if it's bad."
She shifts without disengaging their hands until she's sitting next to him, close enough that their shoulders brush. From this side, they're both staring at the same memory, though only one of them can see it.
"You can go there any time you want, to Kiwira. Mom and dad travel a lot, but Amiri takes care of the farm when they're away. You can sit in the garden and drink tea and listen to my grandmother's stories about when she was a girl." By the time she finishes, her voice is growing scratchy.
"And watch the little yellow sunbirds making their nests. That sounds nice, it really does." If his world has narrowed to the limits of his memory, he can imagine much worse places to be. “Thank you. It’s good to know I have somewhere to go. I’m not trying to sound pathetic,” he adds, seeing her frown.
Her lower lip trembles a bit. "I'd better go. I'm on duty soon," she says, squeezing his hand, and surprises him with a kiss on the cheek. He drifts on the feeling of her warm lips against his skin, half asleep with his back against bed, thinking of yellow birds weaving their nests under a blazing sun.
When he jerks awake with a start, it’s with the image of his mother’s face before him.
+++++
Pursuant to Starfleet Medical Protocol Regulation 116, Section 7, authorization is given to initiate the treatment listed below without prior patient consent. Upon successful completion of the treatment, the patient record will be sealed at Level 5 security clearance.
Constantine Pallas, M.D.
Senior Supervisory Physician
Starfleet Medical
+++++
Jim isn’t sure if he wants to be sleeping more, or less. His dreams are full of revelations but they aren’t exactly restful. He’s woken from his latest with the taste of iron on his tongue and a knot at the base of his neck. He tries to watch a vid, a documentary about cloning the last sehlat, but his attention keeps wandering and he finally clicks it off and stares at the bare wall, upside down, waiting for his own pictures to appear.
He’s in this teenagerish position when Chapel appears with the tray of food, tricorder and med kit.
"Hungry?" she asks, looking at the tray, not at him. Curls of steam rise off the plate, but there's no real aroma, or at least none he can detect.
"Not really. I've been feeling a little nauseous, actually."
She nods and begins efficiently loading a hypo. "I'm not surprised. I can give you something for that."
"I'll bet you can." He swings his legs around so she can access his arm. He's not sure why he's so obedient, except that he has no information to base any suspicions on. "M'Benga’s not back on duty yet?"
"He's taking a shift off. He was very tired."
"I don’t doubt it, since apparently he’s the only doctor on board." At that, the hypo cartridge slips from Chapel’s hand and bounces on the carpet. Jim bends down to pick it up at the same time she does and catches the unguarded look of distress on her face. "I'm sorry, I'm making you nervous. I guess I shouldn't joke, since I have no idea what I'm joking about. I hope Dr. M'Benga's all right?"
"I'd better go, cap-- " Flustered, she stuffs her equipment back into her med kit with much less care than she unpacked it.
"Captain?” She looks more alarmed than ever. “Don’t worry, you didn’t give it away. I've already figured out that I'm captain. Why else would you all be spending so much time on me?"
"We'd do the same for any member of the crew. You'd make sure of that." She finally forces herself to really look at him. There’s more than worry in her eyes, and Jim wonders if there are other ways he might be sick than just in the obvious injuries of body and mind.
“Good. I guess I’m glad to know that.” And because she looks so nervous and unhappy, he adds, “Are you going to ask me about Kel-Barei? I don’t mind. Everyone else has.”
“No,” she says, edging toward the door. “No, I’m not.”
+++++
He feels comfortable with Sulu from the start, maybe because he has specific memories to draw on, or maybe because that’s just how Sulu is. He slouches in the chair across from Jim and grabs a carrot stick off his lunch plate, grinning at him when Jim feigns slapping his hand.
“Doc says we can get out of here for a while, if you want. Just a walk around the ring, but maybe you’d like the change of scenery?”
“Hell, yes.” Jim drops his dry turkey sandwich without a second thought. He actually slept soundly last night and has been thrumming with impatience since he woke up this morning to the third day of his benign captivity. The night had left memories for him like presents: most of his childhood in Iowa, the Enterprise’’s early missions, the pre-mission briefing before Kel-Barei. So far, all of our communications with the T’ch’kans have been mediated, Admiral Castilla had said. We have no idea how they think. However cautious you’re planning to be--be more cautious than that. It would be so easy for something to go wrong.
No shit, Jim had thought, but he was on the path to making it right.
The corridors are as empty as the day Jim arrived, but now he has some inkling why, and he walks with confidence. Beside him, Sulu sets an easy pace, gait fluid, eyes on the way ahead and only occasionally sliding sideways to check on Jim.
“How’s the ship? Everything falling apart without me?” That earns him a double-take.
“You remember you’re captain? Sorry, I guess I should have been calling you ‘sir’, sir.”
“No worries. I’m ‘Jim’ for as long as I’m stuck here, I guess.” They’ve done a full circuit of the ring, something Jim wouldn’t realize if he didn’t know his ship so well. The circular track is an unfortunate metaphor for his current state, and it makes him feel itchy and restless. Remembering Kel-Barei is the key to everything; they’ve all but said it. Try as he might, he can’t force his thoughts past the first diplomatic meeting. He balls his fists and quickens his pace in frustration.
“Sir, you okay?” Sulu pulls up short.
“Fine, fine. I just--it’s the caged animal thing. It’s kind of getting to me, I think.”
“Understandable.” Sulu runs a hand through his hair and looks in both directions, ahead and behind. “We should probably stop anyway. Doc said 20 minutes would be enough, first time out.”
Jim lets Sulu escort him back to his cabin--the cabin--but doesn’t insist he lie down, which is unfortunate in a way because his back and shoulders have started to ache again. He flexes and stretches a little, trying to be subtle, but Sulu knows his biomechanics and winces in sympathy.
“Still stiff, huh? Have you tried balasana?” Sulu, along with a few dozen other things, is the ship’s occasional yoga instructor.
“Guess I should.” He kneels on the carpet and stretches his arms out in front of himself until there’s a satisfying crack in his upper back. When he pulls himself upright, Sulu is smiling at him, encouraging. He’s an easy person to be around, so full of interests and enthusiasms that he molds easily to whatever company he’s in.
“Better?” Jim nods. “I don’t know if you remember, but I’m pretty good at pressure point massage. I could try to loosen up your shoulders, if you want.”
It occurs to Jim that no one has touched him since he got out of sickbay, no one except M’Benga with his light and slightly maddening touches. If it’s on the forbidden list, then no one has told Sulu.
“Sounds good.” Sulu gestures him to the straight-back chair in front of the tiny dining table, where he’s had his solitary meals for the last few days.
Sulu starts with light downward pressure on his shoulders, and Jim breathes deeply and tries to let go of his frustration. Like an injury to the body, this isn’t something he can fight.
Sulu’s thumbs begin to press into the knots above his shoulder blades. “Too hard?”
“No, that’s great.” He sits a little straighter, arches back to the feeling of warm, deft hands loosening the muscles that have been tensed for days, in reaction to what Jim still doesn’t know. “This is mostly why we keep you around the Bridge, you know. Has nothing to do with saving our asses on a practically daily basis.” Sulu chuckles and works his way up the base of Jim’s neck.
Jim knows that endorphins are a powerful drug the body produces itself. He can feel them flowing through his body, and he reflects on how little sensory stimulation of any kind he’s been allowed for the last few days. This isn’t exactly full-contact sparring, but it makes him feel connected, back to his life, back to his ship. No coincidence that it’s Sulu’s hands, the ones that touch his ship more intimately than any other.
Sulu works his way carefully up the back of Jim’s neck, above the ribbed collar to his hairline, the base of his skull. Jim wishes it were possible to stimulate his brain this easily, because he feels that it’s all there, the veil between himself and his memories so thin now it could be easily torn.
When Sulu’s thumbs brush the fine, short hairs on his neck, a shiver goes through him, and Sulu reacts by brushing more firmly, and then Jim is hurtling off a cliff, memory filling his brain to overflowing, a nauseating sick terrifying recollection--
“Bones!” He shouts it as he lurches to his feet, steadying himself on the table as the room tilts away from him. He sounds desperate and helpless and he is, complete in knowledge but powerless to do anything about it.
Sulu is trying to grab him, steady him, but he shoves his hands away, grips Sulu’s biceps tight. “Where is he? Is he even alive? He can’t be alive, not after that.”
Sulu’s face is drawn with horror and pity. “Fine,” he croaks. “He’s fine. Captain--Jim-- he’s fine. Everything’s all right.”
“You don’t have to lie. I remember everything. The fortress at Kel-Barei--the interrogators, those sharp claws--” Bones' beautiful flesh tearing, the screams that only stopped because he was too exhausted to go on--a calamitous misunderstanding, all his fault, useless to blame Starfleet because there were a half-dozen moments when he might have changed course, taken them off the road that led to a dungeon that burned under the blazing sun for 20 hours a day.
“He’s fine, sir. I wouldn’t lie to you.” Sulu’s eyes are bright, and Jim doesn’t want to know who the tears are for. For him and Bones equally, perhaps. “I’m sure you can see him. I should call Dr. M’Benga first, though. There’s a protocol he’s following, to make sure you remembered on your own. I hope I didn’t screw up.”
“Yeah. Well.” Jim rubs a hand across his face, has a sudden desire to stand in the shower and run cold water over his head, except that it would probably frighten Sulu. “Comm M’Benga and tell him I want to see Bones, and screw the protocol.”
M’Benga arrives a few minutes later, his smoothly reassuring, compassionate bedside manner replaced by naked unease. Sulu takes his cue to vanish and M’Benga drops into the chair opposite Jim with a visible slump in his shoulders.
“I’m sorry to hear the transition happened so abruptly. It must have been very unpleasant.” M’Benga looks longingly at his medical tricorder, but Jim shakes his head.
“Unpleasant. That’s one word for it. Where’s Bones? How serious were his injuries? Is he still recovering?”
M’Benga droops more under the barrage. “He’s completely recovered, captain. He’ll be here shortly. But before he arrives, there are some things I need to tell you.”
“So tell me.” He waves a hand, urging M’Benga along. “All I’ve wanted for the past few days is information.” But it isn’t really information he wants, it’s Bones; Bones, who he last saw on the fraying edge between life and death.
M’Benga moistens his lips with his tongue. “As you know, it’s standard practice to give memory-mitigating drugs to crew members who’ve endured traumatic experiences.”
“Yeah, to lessen the impact of the memories and reduce the chance of post-traumatic syndrome. So that’s what you’ve been giving me? I didn’t think the drugs caused complete amnesia.”
“Usually, they don’t, but there could have been mitigating factors--other drugs or foods you consumed on the planet, extreme stress, or simply variation in physiology.”
Jim finds himself deeply uninterested in medical theory at that particular moment. “What does that have to do with Bones?” Oh. “You’ve given him the drugs too, haven’t you?” More, and stronger, Jim hopes, though with a growing sense of guilt. Bones should be able to remember, so he can hold Jim accountable.
“Yes, well--Dr. McCoy seems to have been similarly affected. His memories of his time in captivity haven’t returned, though all his other memories are intact. The Admiralty has requested that I notify them as soon as I think you’re able to provide a debriefing.”
“It’s pretty fucking obvious what happened, isn’t it? Excuse me, doctor, but I don’t think the Admiralty needs me to tell them that our little failure in communication made the T’ch’kans think we were there to stage a coup. Why they thought Dr. McCoy had anything to do with it--”
“No doubt that’s one of the things they’ll want to ask you about. The point is, captain, that Dr. McCoy’s in the same position you’ve been in the past few days. He has no direct memory of what happened to him at Kel-Barei, and we think it’s best to keep it that way.”
“‘We’?”
“Everything that I’ve done has been in consultation with Starfleet Medical,” M’Benga says, sounding a bit defensive. “Everything has been done according to protocol. I can’t prevent you, of course, from discussing any of these things with Dr. McCoy, but please consider carefully before you do so.”
Jim doesn’t have to consider; he knows that he’ll be grateful if Bones is spared the torment of memories, if not of the experience itself.
“Of course I will. And I know you sincerely believe that everything you’ve done has been in our best interest. But I hope you’ll understand if I reserve judgment on the outcome until I see Dr. McCoy for myself.”
“I understand, captain.” There’s a long, awkward pause in which Jim can feel his heart pounding, and he startles when M’Benga’s comm badge chirps.
“Dr. McCoy is on his way.” It’s Chapel’s voice.
“Thank you, lieutenant.” M’Benga stands and nods, now formal and nervous. “Captain, please let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
“I will.” Jim nods back. “Dismissed.”
The minutes that follow drag out, endless, as he stares at the door, still half disbelieving that Bones is about to walk through it.
And then the doors swish open and there’s Bones, whole and alive and perfect and beautiful as ever, and Jim can’t help the sound that comes out of him.
Bones is in his arms, and it’s the best thing he’s ever felt, dense muscle and hard bone, Bones' breath harsh in his ear and Bones' fingers digging into his his lower back and the scent of him, warm and medicinal and unmistakable.
“I’m sorry,” Jim says, not meaning to but unable to say anything to Bones until he’s said that first.
“For what?” Bones' grip tightens, careful and sure. It’s at that moment that Jim realizes the full extent of Bones' memory loss and resolves to do nothing to interfere. He can live with the guilt, without Bones' forgiveness, if it means Bones won’t realize how much he has to forgive.
+++++
It’s their bed, and their quarters, and Jim goes back on duty tomorrow. The corridors are full of people again and Jim hasn’t seen M’Benga or a hypo in more than two days. Bones is sprawled in his usual manner, taking up too much of the bed, Jim on his side with an arm tossed across Bones' waist. It’s the way they fall asleep most nights, Jim talking until Bones' monosyllables turn into grunts and then deep, even breathing, Jim letting himself drift off in the period of peace and quiet before the snoring kicks in.
He has to accept this for what it is, because as a reward it’s undeserved, even after the four hours he spent getting debriefed by the Admiralty, laying out in excruciating detail the consequences of trusting a diplomatic briefing instead of his own instincts. He’d followed orders to the letter, watching the T’ch’kans get more restive, swishing their vestigial tails and conferring in their hissing, clicking language. When they decided to act it was blindingly fast, too fast to comm for a beam-out, and in minutes the whole party was behind the impenetrable walls of Kel-Barei.
He’d never know why they decided Bones was the leader, except that Jim had to admit that he looked like one, every inch of him, even to eyes that weren’t human.
“Jim?” Bones' voice is low and tentative, and Jim slips a hand under his sleeping shirt to stroke his belly.
“Uh-huh?”
“I have to tell you something. I thought I’d be able to keep quiet, but I can’t.”
Jim forces himself to stay relaxed, keeps stroking with his thumb at the base of Bones' ribs. “Anything. You can tell me anything.”
Bones grips Jim’s forearm and meets his eyes. It’s always hard to think when he looks at Bones’ eyes. “What you remembered--that I was the one who got tortured--it isn’t true. It’s part of the memory modification. You were supposed to think it happened to someone else, anybody except me. That’s why they kept us apart.” He coughs a little to clear his raspy throat, and Jim feels it in his diaphragm. “I tried to tell them that it would eat at you no matter who it was, and I’m right, aren’t I? You’re chewing yourself up with guilt, just like you would be if it had been anyone else in your crew.”
Worse, Jim wants to say. Much, much worse, because he should value Bones' life exactly as much as any other crew member’s, but he doesn’t. Bones is infinitely more valuable, and it’s a secret that compromises his command. If he were in any way an ethical captain he’d have Bones transferred. But he won’t, and things like Kel-Barei will keep happening.
“So who was it, really?” He’s playing along, which Bones can probably guess.
“You, Jim.” He can feel Bones convulse a little under the weight of it, tighten his grip. “Everything happened to you. It took us seven hours to put you back together. Medical ordered the memory drugs almost immediately. It’s standard procedure, sure, but with the added benefit of distracting from their massive fuck-up. Everyone’s been acting like saving Jim Kirk is their number one concern, so they don’t have to talk about how they sent you in there with a script for making enemies of hair-trigger, violence-prone beings.”
Jim knows exactly what Bones is talking about. Their medical records are sealed, but not information about Starfleet Medical protocols in general, and Jim has spent every spare moment reading about them, including the procedure named after the doctor with the Czech name that Jim’s already forgotten. Of course Bones would know about them, much better than Jim.
“They don’t understand command, Jim, and they don’t understand you,” Bones goes on, throat getting more and more constricted. “They sit behind their desks thinking that torture and death are the worst things that can happen to a person, but they don’t know.”
It’s just like Bones to want the truth, no matter what. He lives in a world of absolutes, and Jim loves him for it. But Bones isn’t a commander, and he doesn’t understand the full burden of making decisions for other people. He couldn’t save Bones then, but he can save him now, let him think that it was Jim who suffered and not himself, project whatever memories return onto Jim so that his love and compassion would give them meaning.
It’s the only good thing to come out of suffering. Jim knows that, and Bones knows it, too.
“You have a right to your own memories, Jim.” Bones pulls away and flips onto his side, so they’re eye-to-eye, evenly matched and one and the same, the way it’s always been. “Please believe me. I’d never lie to you.”
“I believe you,” Jim says, pulling him in close, feeling Bones' heart thudding hard and alive against his own. There are truths that are mutable, but this isn’t one of them: he believes in Bones, and Bones needs to believe in himself.
Everything else, he can live without.
+++++
The mutability of human memory was first studied in the 20th century, as biological models replaced psychological ones. While in the popular imagination memory continued to be fixed and permanent as computer storage, scientists realized that the process of memory formation was ongoing, imperfect, and subject to manipulation. In the 21st century, therapeutic memory mitigation became widespread, prompting a lively debate that eventually resolved as ethical guidelines were established. By the late 21st century memory enhancement had become routine. As humanity adjusted to the imperfection of its own memory, institutions, including courts, increasingly relied on more objective means of recording personal events, and the average person accrued exabytes of data during their lifetimes--a more perfect, wholly externalized brain always ready to supplement the deficiencies of human memory. The existence of these objectively verifiable data banks gives us the freedom to craft our own pasts according to what will allow us to function to the best of our abilities.
From the beginning, memory modification has been inextricably bound to the idea of free choice: while our own brains don’t consult us about what to remember and what to forget, we expect our doctors to engage in informed consent. Ultimately, our choices about our memories are like our choices about anything else: freely made, based on the best information available at the time, and rarely perfect.
--Erzsébet Czernak, “Loftus Memorial Lecture,” University of California-Terra Beta, 2251.113.
Warnings: Non-graphic descriptions of torture and its physical and psychological aftermath; memory alteration; trust issues.
Deep thanks to multi-talented beta readers and scifi-loving badasses sail_aweigh and elfsausage.
Exploration of the galaxy is an inherently risky occupation. Besides the usual dangers of space travel, Starfleet personnel are subjected to phenomena beyond the normal range of human experience, and certainly beyond the experience of most psychologists. In just the last few years, human Starfleet personnel on deep space missions have been occupied by incorporeal alien intelligences1, met their parallel universe counterparts2, and divided into their good and evil selves3.
In the general population, such experiences might, depending on the degree of trauma, be treated with memory mitigation therapy with the goal of lessening or eliminating traumatic memories. When Starfleet personnel are the victims, however, this goal may be at odds with the underlying mission, which includes the collection of experiential data, not to mention the development of wide-ranging experience-based skills, particularly those related to command. At the same time, Starfleet recognizes that leaving traumatic memories intact is both inhumane and potentially compromising to long-term viability as an active duty officer. It is for that reason that Starfleet in 2256 added the Czernak Protocol to its standard array of treatments for senior field officers who have undergone the most severe trauma.
--C. Pallas and L. Zalelew, “A Survey of Starfleet Psychotraumatology Protocols,” Journal of Human Cognitive Neuropsychology, CLIII, Vol 2.
Jim knows it’s bad because everyone keeps telling him he’s fine, from the shaky-voiced security officer who wrestles him to the beam-up point to the medic who catches him when he collapses on the Transporter pad.
He tracks his progress through his beautiful ship from his least-favorite angle, lying on his back, medics taking him at a near-run to Medbay. Next thing he knows he’s on the table, lights so bright that he can’t see faces, just three heads bent over him and the pinpoint glow of lasers. Lips press, quick and dry, against his forehead, and there’s the hiss of a hypo with another unenforceable promise: Everything’s going to be okay.
He wants to apologize for causing so much trouble, but his throat is too dry even to ask for water. A moment later he’s floating, not just on a cloud of painkillers but quite literally, a half-meter or more above the table, looking down on a body that’s deathly pale and mottled by splashes of red blood. He figures the body must be gravely injured to need more than one doctor, even though they’re the best Starfleet has to offer. He feels himself start to drift away like a loosely tied balloon pulling loose from its tether and thinks, Whoever you are, good luck.
+++++
He sees the face and says the word “M’Benga.” He doesn’t know what the relationship is, but he guesses that one signifies the other. He knows there are memories attached to that word and that face. He can’t remember but it doesn’t distress him; the words, the face, and the memories are still connected, and he knows he can find one by pulling on another, like lifting a full water bucket out of a well.
He did that, once, on a day full of sunshine; strained his muscles turning the crank, while a female voice laughed and called out, Jim, not so fast, you’ll hurt yourself! But he kept cranking, muscles burning, full of determination, until he saw the bucket appear, brimming with water reflecting the hot, blue sky.
“Jim. That’s my name.” M’Benga nods and raises a hand to his pointed beard. His eyes are slate grey in the white light from the medical displays.
“Yes, that’s right.” M’Benga goes back to tapping a long finger against the screen, and after a few minutes he picks up a hypo and places it against Jim’s neck. The medicine goes in with a sigh.
“Where did I--” The question dies on Jim’s lips, the brief flare of curiosity about his identity and place in the universe quenched by whatever was in the hypo.
“Just rest,” M’Benga says, and Jim immediately starts to feel drowsy. “There’ll be time for questions later.”
There’s the familiar heart-in-mouth feeling of weightlessness that precedes sleep, but it doesn’t stop. It goes on and on and he’s falling, down the well, leaving the bright day behind.
+++++
Some indefinite period of time later, M’Benga and the medic, Chapel, walk him down the empty, curving corridors of the ship to his quarters.
They’re not really his quarters, that much he knows; they’re spacious and bland, a bed with a blue, chevroned bedspread, dark red carpet, beige walls sparely decorated with impressionistic views of San Francisco Bay.
M’Benga nods at Chapel and she gives Jim a watery smile before walking out.
The doctor gestures to the bed and waits as Jim lies down, unbidden. The short walk from the Medical Bay has left him feeling shaky and light-headed, a clue to his condition, he supposes. There’s not a scratch on him but that means little. It could be a disease or the aftermath of surgery or something more outre: time travel or dimensional travel or an excursion into inner space, though there’s a solidity and specificity here that suggest it’s not a dream.
M’Benga perches on the edge of the bed, hands clasped, giving Jim the same penetrating attention that’s been focused on him since he woke up two days ago with large gaps of his life missing. It’s just shy of intimate, but the configuration is familiar somehow: Jim prone, the doctor looking down at him with anxiety hidden behind his smooth forehead.
“So,” Jim says, folding his hands over his stomach, “is it time for the big reveal?” M’Benga has been deflecting his questions with grave courtesy, even though most of them were pro forma, asked out of boredom. The odd truth is that Jim isn’t vibrating with curiosity. He doesn’t exactly feel content; more like in stasis, the harder edges of his intellect swaddled by chemicals or his own malfunctioning brain.
“I’m afraid not. I’m going to start backing you off the aradextron--gradually, over the next day or two,” M’Benga says. “Your memories will start coming back, probably longer-term memories first. It’s important not to force them. Just let them emerge naturally. Don’t worry; they’re all in there.” He taps his own temple in response to Jim’s frown.
“So what am I supposed to do? Stare at three different cheesy views of the Presidio and try not to wonder about who I am?”
M’Benga stands and folds his arms, looking down at Jim like he’s a vexing chess board. “There are a few hundred thousand vids in the ship’s library, and a few million books. That should be enough for a couple of days. You’re confined to quarters, for your own safety. The room is monitored, audio and visual, and I can check your vital signs remotely. Use your comm badge to ask for whatever you want--food, clothing, company. Speaking of which, you’ll be getting some visits.”
The idea of so much inactivity makes him feel instantly restless. “From who? Three spirits? Past, present and future?”
The doctor smiles a fraction too late. “Ah. Not exactly; friends and colleagues. They’ll be instructed not to talk to you about your own past unless you ask them specific questions. I know this all seems very heavy-handed and probably rather sinister, but I ask for your patience. We’re doing the best we can to ensure your complete recovery.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that, won’t I?” Jim stretches a little, feeling an ache his shoulders but keeping it off his face so M’Benga won’t lunge for the hypo. “You know, you haven’t called me by my name once. Interesting. So many clues.”
A shadow of a smile forms on M’Benga’s handsome face. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You usually do.” And then, as if he’s said too much, he nods curtly and vanishes with a swish through the doors.
+++++
Jim lies crosswise on the bed and stares at the ceiling, the faint hum from the engines vibrating through him. It seems quite proper that the only thing he feels in resonance with is a machine. Images float through his mind like dusky birds: corn fields and blue oceans and planets with pearl pink skies.
His body tells a more coherent narrative, if only he knew how to read it. Nothing hurts, but he doesn’t feel well, either. His back and shoulders are tight, and there’s a sporadic ache in his lumbar region. His skin is tight and shiny in patches: he can see two of them ringing his wrists, another visible when he pulls up the sleeve of his black undershirt. His joints feel stiff, his throat raspy, and he can’t stop drinking cold water, getting up again and again to fill his glass from a dispenser in the wall.
He’s Jim, and something bad happened to him, serious enough that the people who seem to care about him won’t tell him themselves. It could be a plot, he supposes, some elaborate deception to trick him into thinking he’s someone he’s not, reveal a secret, but no functionaries have appeared to ask questions with poorly concealed urgency. Maybe they’re not anxious for him to remember. Maybe he killed someone, or brought about some disaster. Maybe when he does remember, he’ll look back on this time of blank unknowing with envy.
The thought plants the first seed of anxiety in him, and as it grows his surroundings begin to look sinister, rife with hidden meaning. Under the shimmering false-blue waters of San Francisco Bay in the holo above him, something dark is lurking.
+++++
Zhang: Dr. Czernak would you mind summarizing your study for the benefit of those committee members who haven’t had a chance to read your report?
Czernak: Of course. The initial study involved 22 human subjects who were invited to video presentations on separate occasions. At each presentation, a member of the audience rose at the midway point and dumped a large beverage into the subject’s lap. Since the beverage was cold, this was an unpleasant experience [laughter]. Immediately after, the subjects were given tailored doses of aradextron to lessen the intensity of the memory, following normal protocols. In our study, however, they were also given emunox and metrosozole.
Zhang: Those are, respectively, drugs that cause temporary memory loss and depersonalization.
Czernak: Broadly speaking, that’s correct. In addition, the subjects received anti-anxiety medication to mitigate the unpleasant effect of the depersonalization experience. Of course reactions to psychoactive drugs vary widely, so they were tailored to the individual psych profile and biochemistry to the best of our ability, given the limited amount of information about the subjects.
Zhang: Of course. And what was the outcome?
Czernak: Forty-eight hours after the initial experience, the subjects were asked to recall the drink-spilling incident.
Zhang: And were they able to?
Czernak: Eighteen of the 22 were able to, yes, almost perfectly.
Zhang: The “almost” having a notable characteristic?
Czernak: Correct. In 11 of those cases, the subjects believed the incident had happened to someone else.
Proceedings of the Starfleet Medical Subcommittee on Human Treatment Protocols, Quarterly Meeting III, 2253.21.
+++++
Given his willingness to obey M’Benga’s injunction against prying for information, Jim considers it almost a mark of distrust on the doctor’s part when his first visitor is a Vulcan.
After a few minutes of stilted conversation, Spock presents a chess board, and Jim welcomes the distraction for the half hour or so it takes Spock to annihilate him.
“Nice going, trouncing the sick guy,” Jim says, clearing the board. “I’m sure you’re very proud.”
“You are capable of playing at a much higher level. I do not believe you were concentrating.” Spock speaks well-enunciated Standard in a light, supercilious baritone.
“You’re right; it’s not like I have anything on my mind. By which I mean, I actually have nothing on my mind, including who I am or what I’m doing here. That couldn’t conceivably be affecting my level of play.”
“Chess is first and foremost a game of strategy.” Spock begins setting up the board again with uncecessary precision. “It does not rely on specific memories.”
“Unless it happens that I’m a grandmaster, and I’ve literally forgotten more strategy than you’ll ever know.” Jim grabs the white king before Spock can and turns it in his fingers. It’s made of rough stone and seems heavier than it should be.
Spock purses his lips. “You are not a grandmaster.”
“Hey! I got you to tell me something about myself.”
“Not at all. You had ample evidence from which to deduce that yourself.” All the other pieces are now set up, and Spock looks pointedly at the piece in Jim’s hands.
“And you’re supposed to be one of my friends? Either M’Benga has weird ideas about friendship, or I do.”
Spock gives him a sharp look, and for a moment his irritation lapses into something else. Then he reaches out, quick as a snake, and pulls the king from Jim’s hands.
“You may test your theories in a rematch.”
Spock’s browbeating must work on one level, because the second time around Jim concentrates harder and with greater success. It takes them almost an hour and a half to play to a messy draw, during which Spock has the good grace to look mildly concerned and Jim stops thinking about what kind of man has an acid-tongued Vulcan for a buddy.
“There you go,” Jim says, when Spock balks at spending any more time chasing his king around. “Correcting for my impaired mental state, I kicked your ass. Who’s the grandmaster now?”
“I have already corrected for it. I purposely omitted the Attacks of Master Sa’tehn, as they require diligent study, by humans, at least. I have no way of knowing whether you recall them.”
“Or any way of knowing if they actually exist, like the Snipe Postulate.” Jim spends a few gloating moments recollecting the prank and Spock’s fruitless hours of research, before realizing that he remembers those last few months at the Academy in perfect detail.
Spock must realize it, too, because he scans Jim’s face for a long moment before cocking his eyebrow again. “Indeed, it is impossible to prove a negative, which makes a ‘snipe hunt’ a uniquely pointless exercise.”
“You spent two days trying to run down a non-existent postulate because you refused to admit I might know something you didn’t. That was really funny. Which isn’t pointless.”
“It is for me,” Spock says primly, “as I have no sense of humor.”
“Oh, that’s such a lie.”
“Vulcans do not--” They both stop short, Jim with a sense of deja vu that has nothing to do with his fluctuating memory.
“You are my friend,” Jim says, because it’s the truth, then flushes a little because the statement seems so childlike. But it’s all there, the sharp-edged congeniality, the competition that concealed a mutual respect that they don’t quite have words for.
“If you say so.” There’s the slightest quaver in Spock’s voice, and he drops his eyes to the chess board, which is now empty.
“I do.” Jim’s mind scans their history, rapid as a hand reading Braille: the destruction of Vulcan; Spock’s initial determination to stay with his people; his surprising, dogged loyalty once he’d made the decision to go with Jim. They’ve embarked on some grand endeavor, and though Jim doesn’t yet remember it, Spock’s involvement suggests it’s honorable.
“I am glad you remember that, at least,” Spock says, stowing the chess pieces neatly inside their wooden case. “I regret the need to conceal information from you, but I have been assured it’s for your own good.”
“Isn’t it always?” Jim flashes a smile at him and then slumps back in his chair, waves of tiredness washing through him again. “Don’t worry, I’ve gotten used to you knowing more than me.”
“Yes, but you usually do not accept it with such equanimity. May I suggest you lie down? I ought not to have tired you with that second game.” He waits for Jim to stretch out on the bed, then unfolds a blanket, and spreads it over him, to Jim’s drowsy amusement.
He doesn’t want Spock to go, but he doesn’t want to alarm him by asking him to stay. He lets Spock turn the lights down and refill the glass of water by his bed.
“Jim. Before I go, I wish to ask--do you recall anything of Kel-Barei?” Spock’s voice is low and close beside him.
Spots dance before his eyes in the grey gloom, but those words create a beige void in the middle of it. “No, nothing. ‘Night, Spock.”
“Sleep well, Jim.”
Jim curls on his side, clutching the covers tight in his fists, not sure what is waiting for him on the other side of sleep.
There is a mountain, and on top of the mountain there is a fortress, and after that, nothing.
+++++
Jim wakes up, groggy and pasty-mouthed, some time later, and is slightly unnerved to find M’Benga in an armchair a few feet away, hunched over his PADD. There’s a covered tray of food on the side table and another barrage of hypos waiting for him.
M’Benga collects enough data with his tricorder to construct another Jim and insists on probing at his throat and a couple of places on his scalp with his fingers, which Jim finds old-fashioned and a bit eccentric.
“May I see your right forearm?” Jim pulls back his sleeve, and M’Benga skims his fingertips over the shiny skin. “Is the tightness uncomfortable? I can spray it with polygen, if you want.”
“No, thanks, it’s fine.” Jim shifts a little, not because he’s lying, but because M’Benga’s touch feels a little too good. On the one hand it’s a sign of recovery, but on the other Jim has no idea how wildly inappropriate the reaction might be. He doesn’t think the doctor and he are involved; they could be former lovers, could just as easily be step-brothers. M’Benga has been the only consistent thread through the whole experience, and Jim responds to the contact like the social animal he supposes he must be.
“You’re beginning to remember biographical details? Places?” M’Benga stays where he is, seated on Jim’s bed, hand not quite touching his arm.
“Were you monitoring my conversation with Spock? No, it’s all right, I understand,” Jim says when M’Benga drops his gaze to the floor. “You need to know what progress I’m making. Yes, I’m remembering some of those things, but it’s random. For instance, I remember you making me coffee once from a private stash you have, but I can’t remember when we met.”
“I see. Nothing more recent? Nothing involving, say, Kel-Barei?” He says it just the way Spock did, conversationally, as if to suggest it’s not really important.
This time, Jim concentrates a little harder, and says, “Lizards.”
“What kind of lizards?” M’Benga says it so seriously that Jim has to restrain himself from laughing.
“I don’t know. The normal kind, I guess. Blue-green. They were underfoot all the time.” He gets a flash of sandy soil, two suns blazing overhead in a bright blue sky, and the dry scratch of lizard tails brushing over sandy ground, claws long and sharp enough to pierce flesh.
M’Benga nods, as if the answer satisfies him, but he looks uneasy.
“You’re worried about me.” Jim wishes he could stop making these clairvoyant statements, but he needs the confirmation.
M’Benga purses his lips and frowns a little, a crease forming between his eyebrows, and then forces his expression to clear. “Not about your recovery. It’s going well. I only wish your memories would reintegrate more quickly. I’m afraid the process is needlessly adding to your stress.”
“What stress?” Jim holds his palms up. “If there’s anything I’m supposed to be worried about I don’t remember it, and I’ve got nothing to do but watch vids. I’m guessing it’s a lot less stressful than whatever I normally do on this boat, presuming this is where I work.”
“Yes, you’re probably right about that.” M’Benga doesn’t look reassured.
“Hey.” Jim brushes a hand down the blue sleeve of M’Benga’s uniform, figuring that’s safe. “I’m safe and warm and well cared for. That’s more than a lot of people can say.” M’Benga nods, catches his hand, grips it briefly, and then pulls away, as if he’s overstepped some boundary.
“You still haven’t called me by my name. Would you? I’d like to hear you say it.”
“Jim.” He seems even less happy than before. “I’m going off duty in a few hours. Chapel will be in to give you your medication.” He seems to be waiting to be dismissed, so Jim nods at him and watches his broad back vanish through the door.
He’s not sure why, but he trusts the doctor. Maybe it’s just because he needs somebody to trust.
++++
Uhura’s fingers dance along the lyre strings almost too fast for Jim’s eyes to follow. He’s sitting on the floor, back against the bedstead, legs stretched out in front of him, because he’s tired of either lying down or being told to. It's a bare hint of rebellion, his first emergence from the drug-blanked complacency of the last few days.
Jim wonders if that's why M'Benga sent Uhura to visit him. Uhura represents a different level of engagement than Spock; she started to hug him and then didn't, vacillates between prickly and sympathetic. Still, she’s been kind enough to haul out her Vulcan lyre for his ostensible entertainment.
The tinny arpeggios aren’t exactly relaxing, but he appreciates the effort. It’s aesthetically pleasing anyway: Uhura’s face is intent, her eyes half-closed beneath her long lashes, and she leans forward, neck arching, during the difficult passages. He’s paying much more attention to her than to the music, but doesn’t think she’d appreciate him saying so.
Luckily, the air is too full of notes to say anything. When she reaches the end of the piece, her face clears and her shoulders slump with relief.
“I can’t believe I made it through that. It's one of the Twelve Santals of T'Pana; I’ve been practicing for weeks."
“You did great. It sounded really--difficult.”
She manages to keep a straight face for a few seconds, and when she flashes a smile, Jim does too, laughing at his own poor attempt at tact.
“I guess it’s safe to say that one of the things I’m not is a musician. I just hope I’m normally a little more smooth.”
“Decline to answer on advice of counsel.” She slides a soft-looking cover over the lyre and places it, with a thud, on the ground.
“Who’s your ‘counsel’--Spock?” She doesn’t answer, just gives him a wry smile. “I have some memories of you, but they’re mostly about making you annoyed. And the ones with Spock, I’m usually making fun of him. I must be a high-ranking officer, because otherwise it seems like you all should have ejected me into the void a long time ago.”
Uhura looks like she’s considering it for a moment. “Your memory’s pretty selective. There are definitely things in between, but maybe those are the memories you value most.”
“Which would be pretty sad, wouldn’t it?” He arches his back and stretches; the hard floor is doing a number on his tailbone, but he likes the proximity. “You know what would be nice? if the amnesia cancelled out everyone's memories of me, not just mine. That would be so great--completely fresh start, a blank canvas.I can’t say that I’m not a little nervous about not liking the person it turns out I am, but that couldn’t happen, could it? My genes are the same, my past, my moral alignment.”
She slides off the chair and onto the floor in front of him, folding her legs under her. She’s wearing a slim, long-sleeved red tunic gathered at the waist and dark, loose trousers, hair free around her shoulders. Except for M’Benga, who wears surgical scrubs, none of Jim’s visitors have worn anything betraying their rank or profession.
"Everybody's done things they regret. That's part of being human, isn't it? It's how we learn. If the memories were gone, those lessons would be, too. My grandmother used to say, there's knowledge, and then there's wisdom. If I lost my memories I'd remember how to play the lyre, but not the experience of learning it."
"Your grandmother." The word summons her in Jim’s mind, a tall woman with a more piercing version of Uhura's eyes, and he feels her hand, bony and strong, wrapping around his forearm as he helps her to a chair. "I met her, didn't I? At your wedding, at Kiwira River."
"Yes, you did. She liked you; she said you were very polite." Uhura seems to find this amusing. "She's the one who convinced you to wear your dress uniform, do you remember?"
"Yeah, I was afraid I'd stick out like a sore thumb, but there were people from pretty much every continent, plus your cousin's Andorian wife. Of course, I sweated my ass off; God, that Equatorial sun is brutal." He can feel it, the prickle of sweat under the insulating fabric of his uniform, and in his memory he pulls at the sleeves, feeling the scratch of the twin loops of gold braid.
"It all came off later, when we swam in the waterfall. Oh, no." She covers her eyes with her hand, as if hiding the memory from him. "I'm shouldn’t be telling you anything. I'm supposed to let you remember on your own. But it's so hard--that's one of my favorite memories, all my family and friends in one place."
"I hope I count as one of those."
"You do, you do." She puts a hand on his kneecap and rubs it, almost a caress. "I want to tell you something about who you are, so you don't worry about it, think that you're someone other people don't like, someone you don't like."
"But you can't." He covers her hand with his own, lightly, in case she wants to pull it away, but she doesn't. "It's getting kind of frustrating. I wish there was something I could do, to help it along."
"I think the best thing you could do," she says carefully, "is remember Kel-Barei."
He wants to, for her, and to climb his way out of this soft prison. He thinks about the words and something condenses around them, a vague shape, its outlines blurry.
"It's a place, isn't it? A planet? Or a place on a planet. A city?" He looks for clues in her eyes. "I don't think I actually remember it, just the facts from the mission briefing. Geography, population, that kind of thing. Not much about the beings who lived there, except that they weren't supposed to be hostile." He turns his head fast enough to catch Uhura's eye before she looks away. "They did get hostile, didn't they? That's a guess," he adds quickly. "I'm not trying to trick you into telling me. I just want to remember, and for this to be over. Especially if it's bad."
She shifts without disengaging their hands until she's sitting next to him, close enough that their shoulders brush. From this side, they're both staring at the same memory, though only one of them can see it.
"You can go there any time you want, to Kiwira. Mom and dad travel a lot, but Amiri takes care of the farm when they're away. You can sit in the garden and drink tea and listen to my grandmother's stories about when she was a girl." By the time she finishes, her voice is growing scratchy.
"And watch the little yellow sunbirds making their nests. That sounds nice, it really does." If his world has narrowed to the limits of his memory, he can imagine much worse places to be. “Thank you. It’s good to know I have somewhere to go. I’m not trying to sound pathetic,” he adds, seeing her frown.
Her lower lip trembles a bit. "I'd better go. I'm on duty soon," she says, squeezing his hand, and surprises him with a kiss on the cheek. He drifts on the feeling of her warm lips against his skin, half asleep with his back against bed, thinking of yellow birds weaving their nests under a blazing sun.
When he jerks awake with a start, it’s with the image of his mother’s face before him.
+++++
Pursuant to Starfleet Medical Protocol Regulation 116, Section 7, authorization is given to initiate the treatment listed below without prior patient consent. Upon successful completion of the treatment, the patient record will be sealed at Level 5 security clearance.
Constantine Pallas, M.D.
Senior Supervisory Physician
Starfleet Medical
+++++
Jim isn’t sure if he wants to be sleeping more, or less. His dreams are full of revelations but they aren’t exactly restful. He’s woken from his latest with the taste of iron on his tongue and a knot at the base of his neck. He tries to watch a vid, a documentary about cloning the last sehlat, but his attention keeps wandering and he finally clicks it off and stares at the bare wall, upside down, waiting for his own pictures to appear.
He’s in this teenagerish position when Chapel appears with the tray of food, tricorder and med kit.
"Hungry?" she asks, looking at the tray, not at him. Curls of steam rise off the plate, but there's no real aroma, or at least none he can detect.
"Not really. I've been feeling a little nauseous, actually."
She nods and begins efficiently loading a hypo. "I'm not surprised. I can give you something for that."
"I'll bet you can." He swings his legs around so she can access his arm. He's not sure why he's so obedient, except that he has no information to base any suspicions on. "M'Benga’s not back on duty yet?"
"He's taking a shift off. He was very tired."
"I don’t doubt it, since apparently he’s the only doctor on board." At that, the hypo cartridge slips from Chapel’s hand and bounces on the carpet. Jim bends down to pick it up at the same time she does and catches the unguarded look of distress on her face. "I'm sorry, I'm making you nervous. I guess I shouldn't joke, since I have no idea what I'm joking about. I hope Dr. M'Benga's all right?"
"I'd better go, cap-- " Flustered, she stuffs her equipment back into her med kit with much less care than she unpacked it.
"Captain?” She looks more alarmed than ever. “Don’t worry, you didn’t give it away. I've already figured out that I'm captain. Why else would you all be spending so much time on me?"
"We'd do the same for any member of the crew. You'd make sure of that." She finally forces herself to really look at him. There’s more than worry in her eyes, and Jim wonders if there are other ways he might be sick than just in the obvious injuries of body and mind.
“Good. I guess I’m glad to know that.” And because she looks so nervous and unhappy, he adds, “Are you going to ask me about Kel-Barei? I don’t mind. Everyone else has.”
“No,” she says, edging toward the door. “No, I’m not.”
+++++
He feels comfortable with Sulu from the start, maybe because he has specific memories to draw on, or maybe because that’s just how Sulu is. He slouches in the chair across from Jim and grabs a carrot stick off his lunch plate, grinning at him when Jim feigns slapping his hand.
“Doc says we can get out of here for a while, if you want. Just a walk around the ring, but maybe you’d like the change of scenery?”
“Hell, yes.” Jim drops his dry turkey sandwich without a second thought. He actually slept soundly last night and has been thrumming with impatience since he woke up this morning to the third day of his benign captivity. The night had left memories for him like presents: most of his childhood in Iowa, the Enterprise’’s early missions, the pre-mission briefing before Kel-Barei. So far, all of our communications with the T’ch’kans have been mediated, Admiral Castilla had said. We have no idea how they think. However cautious you’re planning to be--be more cautious than that. It would be so easy for something to go wrong.
No shit, Jim had thought, but he was on the path to making it right.
The corridors are as empty as the day Jim arrived, but now he has some inkling why, and he walks with confidence. Beside him, Sulu sets an easy pace, gait fluid, eyes on the way ahead and only occasionally sliding sideways to check on Jim.
“How’s the ship? Everything falling apart without me?” That earns him a double-take.
“You remember you’re captain? Sorry, I guess I should have been calling you ‘sir’, sir.”
“No worries. I’m ‘Jim’ for as long as I’m stuck here, I guess.” They’ve done a full circuit of the ring, something Jim wouldn’t realize if he didn’t know his ship so well. The circular track is an unfortunate metaphor for his current state, and it makes him feel itchy and restless. Remembering Kel-Barei is the key to everything; they’ve all but said it. Try as he might, he can’t force his thoughts past the first diplomatic meeting. He balls his fists and quickens his pace in frustration.
“Sir, you okay?” Sulu pulls up short.
“Fine, fine. I just--it’s the caged animal thing. It’s kind of getting to me, I think.”
“Understandable.” Sulu runs a hand through his hair and looks in both directions, ahead and behind. “We should probably stop anyway. Doc said 20 minutes would be enough, first time out.”
Jim lets Sulu escort him back to his cabin--the cabin--but doesn’t insist he lie down, which is unfortunate in a way because his back and shoulders have started to ache again. He flexes and stretches a little, trying to be subtle, but Sulu knows his biomechanics and winces in sympathy.
“Still stiff, huh? Have you tried balasana?” Sulu, along with a few dozen other things, is the ship’s occasional yoga instructor.
“Guess I should.” He kneels on the carpet and stretches his arms out in front of himself until there’s a satisfying crack in his upper back. When he pulls himself upright, Sulu is smiling at him, encouraging. He’s an easy person to be around, so full of interests and enthusiasms that he molds easily to whatever company he’s in.
“Better?” Jim nods. “I don’t know if you remember, but I’m pretty good at pressure point massage. I could try to loosen up your shoulders, if you want.”
It occurs to Jim that no one has touched him since he got out of sickbay, no one except M’Benga with his light and slightly maddening touches. If it’s on the forbidden list, then no one has told Sulu.
“Sounds good.” Sulu gestures him to the straight-back chair in front of the tiny dining table, where he’s had his solitary meals for the last few days.
Sulu starts with light downward pressure on his shoulders, and Jim breathes deeply and tries to let go of his frustration. Like an injury to the body, this isn’t something he can fight.
Sulu’s thumbs begin to press into the knots above his shoulder blades. “Too hard?”
“No, that’s great.” He sits a little straighter, arches back to the feeling of warm, deft hands loosening the muscles that have been tensed for days, in reaction to what Jim still doesn’t know. “This is mostly why we keep you around the Bridge, you know. Has nothing to do with saving our asses on a practically daily basis.” Sulu chuckles and works his way up the base of Jim’s neck.
Jim knows that endorphins are a powerful drug the body produces itself. He can feel them flowing through his body, and he reflects on how little sensory stimulation of any kind he’s been allowed for the last few days. This isn’t exactly full-contact sparring, but it makes him feel connected, back to his life, back to his ship. No coincidence that it’s Sulu’s hands, the ones that touch his ship more intimately than any other.
Sulu works his way carefully up the back of Jim’s neck, above the ribbed collar to his hairline, the base of his skull. Jim wishes it were possible to stimulate his brain this easily, because he feels that it’s all there, the veil between himself and his memories so thin now it could be easily torn.
When Sulu’s thumbs brush the fine, short hairs on his neck, a shiver goes through him, and Sulu reacts by brushing more firmly, and then Jim is hurtling off a cliff, memory filling his brain to overflowing, a nauseating sick terrifying recollection--
“Bones!” He shouts it as he lurches to his feet, steadying himself on the table as the room tilts away from him. He sounds desperate and helpless and he is, complete in knowledge but powerless to do anything about it.
Sulu is trying to grab him, steady him, but he shoves his hands away, grips Sulu’s biceps tight. “Where is he? Is he even alive? He can’t be alive, not after that.”
Sulu’s face is drawn with horror and pity. “Fine,” he croaks. “He’s fine. Captain--Jim-- he’s fine. Everything’s all right.”
“You don’t have to lie. I remember everything. The fortress at Kel-Barei--the interrogators, those sharp claws--” Bones' beautiful flesh tearing, the screams that only stopped because he was too exhausted to go on--a calamitous misunderstanding, all his fault, useless to blame Starfleet because there were a half-dozen moments when he might have changed course, taken them off the road that led to a dungeon that burned under the blazing sun for 20 hours a day.
“He’s fine, sir. I wouldn’t lie to you.” Sulu’s eyes are bright, and Jim doesn’t want to know who the tears are for. For him and Bones equally, perhaps. “I’m sure you can see him. I should call Dr. M’Benga first, though. There’s a protocol he’s following, to make sure you remembered on your own. I hope I didn’t screw up.”
“Yeah. Well.” Jim rubs a hand across his face, has a sudden desire to stand in the shower and run cold water over his head, except that it would probably frighten Sulu. “Comm M’Benga and tell him I want to see Bones, and screw the protocol.”
M’Benga arrives a few minutes later, his smoothly reassuring, compassionate bedside manner replaced by naked unease. Sulu takes his cue to vanish and M’Benga drops into the chair opposite Jim with a visible slump in his shoulders.
“I’m sorry to hear the transition happened so abruptly. It must have been very unpleasant.” M’Benga looks longingly at his medical tricorder, but Jim shakes his head.
“Unpleasant. That’s one word for it. Where’s Bones? How serious were his injuries? Is he still recovering?”
M’Benga droops more under the barrage. “He’s completely recovered, captain. He’ll be here shortly. But before he arrives, there are some things I need to tell you.”
“So tell me.” He waves a hand, urging M’Benga along. “All I’ve wanted for the past few days is information.” But it isn’t really information he wants, it’s Bones; Bones, who he last saw on the fraying edge between life and death.
M’Benga moistens his lips with his tongue. “As you know, it’s standard practice to give memory-mitigating drugs to crew members who’ve endured traumatic experiences.”
“Yeah, to lessen the impact of the memories and reduce the chance of post-traumatic syndrome. So that’s what you’ve been giving me? I didn’t think the drugs caused complete amnesia.”
“Usually, they don’t, but there could have been mitigating factors--other drugs or foods you consumed on the planet, extreme stress, or simply variation in physiology.”
Jim finds himself deeply uninterested in medical theory at that particular moment. “What does that have to do with Bones?” Oh. “You’ve given him the drugs too, haven’t you?” More, and stronger, Jim hopes, though with a growing sense of guilt. Bones should be able to remember, so he can hold Jim accountable.
“Yes, well--Dr. McCoy seems to have been similarly affected. His memories of his time in captivity haven’t returned, though all his other memories are intact. The Admiralty has requested that I notify them as soon as I think you’re able to provide a debriefing.”
“It’s pretty fucking obvious what happened, isn’t it? Excuse me, doctor, but I don’t think the Admiralty needs me to tell them that our little failure in communication made the T’ch’kans think we were there to stage a coup. Why they thought Dr. McCoy had anything to do with it--”
“No doubt that’s one of the things they’ll want to ask you about. The point is, captain, that Dr. McCoy’s in the same position you’ve been in the past few days. He has no direct memory of what happened to him at Kel-Barei, and we think it’s best to keep it that way.”
“‘We’?”
“Everything that I’ve done has been in consultation with Starfleet Medical,” M’Benga says, sounding a bit defensive. “Everything has been done according to protocol. I can’t prevent you, of course, from discussing any of these things with Dr. McCoy, but please consider carefully before you do so.”
Jim doesn’t have to consider; he knows that he’ll be grateful if Bones is spared the torment of memories, if not of the experience itself.
“Of course I will. And I know you sincerely believe that everything you’ve done has been in our best interest. But I hope you’ll understand if I reserve judgment on the outcome until I see Dr. McCoy for myself.”
“I understand, captain.” There’s a long, awkward pause in which Jim can feel his heart pounding, and he startles when M’Benga’s comm badge chirps.
“Dr. McCoy is on his way.” It’s Chapel’s voice.
“Thank you, lieutenant.” M’Benga stands and nods, now formal and nervous. “Captain, please let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
“I will.” Jim nods back. “Dismissed.”
The minutes that follow drag out, endless, as he stares at the door, still half disbelieving that Bones is about to walk through it.
And then the doors swish open and there’s Bones, whole and alive and perfect and beautiful as ever, and Jim can’t help the sound that comes out of him.
Bones is in his arms, and it’s the best thing he’s ever felt, dense muscle and hard bone, Bones' breath harsh in his ear and Bones' fingers digging into his his lower back and the scent of him, warm and medicinal and unmistakable.
“I’m sorry,” Jim says, not meaning to but unable to say anything to Bones until he’s said that first.
“For what?” Bones' grip tightens, careful and sure. It’s at that moment that Jim realizes the full extent of Bones' memory loss and resolves to do nothing to interfere. He can live with the guilt, without Bones' forgiveness, if it means Bones won’t realize how much he has to forgive.
+++++
It’s their bed, and their quarters, and Jim goes back on duty tomorrow. The corridors are full of people again and Jim hasn’t seen M’Benga or a hypo in more than two days. Bones is sprawled in his usual manner, taking up too much of the bed, Jim on his side with an arm tossed across Bones' waist. It’s the way they fall asleep most nights, Jim talking until Bones' monosyllables turn into grunts and then deep, even breathing, Jim letting himself drift off in the period of peace and quiet before the snoring kicks in.
He has to accept this for what it is, because as a reward it’s undeserved, even after the four hours he spent getting debriefed by the Admiralty, laying out in excruciating detail the consequences of trusting a diplomatic briefing instead of his own instincts. He’d followed orders to the letter, watching the T’ch’kans get more restive, swishing their vestigial tails and conferring in their hissing, clicking language. When they decided to act it was blindingly fast, too fast to comm for a beam-out, and in minutes the whole party was behind the impenetrable walls of Kel-Barei.
He’d never know why they decided Bones was the leader, except that Jim had to admit that he looked like one, every inch of him, even to eyes that weren’t human.
“Jim?” Bones' voice is low and tentative, and Jim slips a hand under his sleeping shirt to stroke his belly.
“Uh-huh?”
“I have to tell you something. I thought I’d be able to keep quiet, but I can’t.”
Jim forces himself to stay relaxed, keeps stroking with his thumb at the base of Bones' ribs. “Anything. You can tell me anything.”
Bones grips Jim’s forearm and meets his eyes. It’s always hard to think when he looks at Bones’ eyes. “What you remembered--that I was the one who got tortured--it isn’t true. It’s part of the memory modification. You were supposed to think it happened to someone else, anybody except me. That’s why they kept us apart.” He coughs a little to clear his raspy throat, and Jim feels it in his diaphragm. “I tried to tell them that it would eat at you no matter who it was, and I’m right, aren’t I? You’re chewing yourself up with guilt, just like you would be if it had been anyone else in your crew.”
Worse, Jim wants to say. Much, much worse, because he should value Bones' life exactly as much as any other crew member’s, but he doesn’t. Bones is infinitely more valuable, and it’s a secret that compromises his command. If he were in any way an ethical captain he’d have Bones transferred. But he won’t, and things like Kel-Barei will keep happening.
“So who was it, really?” He’s playing along, which Bones can probably guess.
“You, Jim.” He can feel Bones convulse a little under the weight of it, tighten his grip. “Everything happened to you. It took us seven hours to put you back together. Medical ordered the memory drugs almost immediately. It’s standard procedure, sure, but with the added benefit of distracting from their massive fuck-up. Everyone’s been acting like saving Jim Kirk is their number one concern, so they don’t have to talk about how they sent you in there with a script for making enemies of hair-trigger, violence-prone beings.”
Jim knows exactly what Bones is talking about. Their medical records are sealed, but not information about Starfleet Medical protocols in general, and Jim has spent every spare moment reading about them, including the procedure named after the doctor with the Czech name that Jim’s already forgotten. Of course Bones would know about them, much better than Jim.
“They don’t understand command, Jim, and they don’t understand you,” Bones goes on, throat getting more and more constricted. “They sit behind their desks thinking that torture and death are the worst things that can happen to a person, but they don’t know.”
It’s just like Bones to want the truth, no matter what. He lives in a world of absolutes, and Jim loves him for it. But Bones isn’t a commander, and he doesn’t understand the full burden of making decisions for other people. He couldn’t save Bones then, but he can save him now, let him think that it was Jim who suffered and not himself, project whatever memories return onto Jim so that his love and compassion would give them meaning.
It’s the only good thing to come out of suffering. Jim knows that, and Bones knows it, too.
“You have a right to your own memories, Jim.” Bones pulls away and flips onto his side, so they’re eye-to-eye, evenly matched and one and the same, the way it’s always been. “Please believe me. I’d never lie to you.”
“I believe you,” Jim says, pulling him in close, feeling Bones' heart thudding hard and alive against his own. There are truths that are mutable, but this isn’t one of them: he believes in Bones, and Bones needs to believe in himself.
Everything else, he can live without.
+++++
The mutability of human memory was first studied in the 20th century, as biological models replaced psychological ones. While in the popular imagination memory continued to be fixed and permanent as computer storage, scientists realized that the process of memory formation was ongoing, imperfect, and subject to manipulation. In the 21st century, therapeutic memory mitigation became widespread, prompting a lively debate that eventually resolved as ethical guidelines were established. By the late 21st century memory enhancement had become routine. As humanity adjusted to the imperfection of its own memory, institutions, including courts, increasingly relied on more objective means of recording personal events, and the average person accrued exabytes of data during their lifetimes--a more perfect, wholly externalized brain always ready to supplement the deficiencies of human memory. The existence of these objectively verifiable data banks gives us the freedom to craft our own pasts according to what will allow us to function to the best of our abilities.
From the beginning, memory modification has been inextricably bound to the idea of free choice: while our own brains don’t consult us about what to remember and what to forget, we expect our doctors to engage in informed consent. Ultimately, our choices about our memories are like our choices about anything else: freely made, based on the best information available at the time, and rarely perfect.
--Erzsébet Czernak, “Loftus Memorial Lecture,” University of California-Terra Beta, 2251.113.