A Tide Taken at the Flood (Pike, PG-13) 2/3
<< Part 1
“What the hell’s wrong with me?”
It’s a simple enough question, but it’s been oddly difficult to get anyone here to answer it. Pike can guess the reason: they are professionally reticent to say what they don’t know, conscious of patient morale, maybe even under orders not to divulge anything until Pike has received his overdue debriefing. Whatever it is, he trusts McCoy not to feed him chirpy, optimistic bullshit.
“I haven’t been actively involved in your case for two days, but I can tell you what I think I know.” Pike nods for him to proceed. “When the creature attacks Vulcanoids, it goes right for the brain stem, where it secretes a neurotoxin that shuts down the parts of the brain responsible for what you might call the intellect-judgment, volition, and so forth. The host continues to eat, sleep, and do whatever’s necessary to stay alive for a few weeks while the creature gets ready to…reproduce. At that point, it severs the spinal cord and gives birth to its young, who have a nice, fresh meal waiting for them.” McCoy doesn’t apologize and Pike doesn’t wince, although he takes a moment to remind himself that it’s gone, they killed it, McCoy had it out before we left the ship.
“How delightful,” Pike says, tilting his chin up a little so McCoy won’t think he’s about to lose it.
“Human physiology may have confused it. It caused significant damage to your spinal cord, and on the way, esophageal perforation, a collapsed lung, and other internal damage. The neurotoxin itself dissipated within about 12 hours and doesn’t seem to have had any permanent effect. But the spinal cord…it was, well, chewed.” He winces a little, quite a tell for a hard-as-nails doctor.
“And what’s the upshot of all that?” Pike asks calmly.
“You’re stable and recovering well, captain.” McCoy says. “You’re past the window for infection or complications. But the question is whether the spinal cord damage can be repaired. If it can’t-“ McCoy spreads his graceful doctor’s hands in apology “-we just don’t have the ability to completely replace spinal cords. There’s research, but I'd call any actual procedures slightly better than experimental.”
“I wonder what the Romulans do, when they get one of these things.”
McCoy frowns. “Don’t know much about them, but I don’t get the sense they have a lot of respect for individual lives.” He clasps his hands together, thoughtful. “They’ve got the top people from the Adelman Institute reviewing your case, sir. If anything can be done-“
“Yes, doctor, I’m sure they’re doing it.” Pike gives McCoy what he hopes passes for a smile. It’s not McCoy‘s fault that Pike’s probing has found uncertainty instead of cover-up. To change the subject, he says, “Did the brass really give Kirk a mauling or was he exaggerating?”
McCoy looks no happier with the new line of questioning. He runs a hand through his black hair and glances at the ceiling. “I’m pretty sure that’s just Jim being unreasonable, sir. I told him he can’t expect any different when the whole sector’s in an uproar. He’s convinced they’re going to try to pin something on him to cover their-well, he thinks he’s a convenient scapegoat.”
“And what do you think?” McCoy seems to weigh his answer for a moment. He’s got a spotless academic record along with what appears to be considerable professional integrity. Divided loyalties don’t seem to come easy for him.
“Nothing the admirals asked me led me to that conclusion. Jim's sleep deprived and stressed. For some reason, after everything that’s happened, his mind’s still stuck in that disciplinary hearing. Maybe it’s some kind of coping mechanism. Or maybe he just doesn’t know how to let things go.” McCoy shrugs, wrapping his arms around himself. “Maybe that’s what happens when someone’s been trying to kill you since the day you were born.”
+++++
“Last chance if you’re coming along, sir.” The ensign with the manifest PADD gestures toward the transport shuttle, which is vibrating as it powers up its thrusters.
“No, I’m staying put.” Pike waves them off. He’s supposed to be at the Admiralty in the morning, but it won’t be hard to find some pretext to justify his absence. He’s getting sick of meetings, sick of anything that isn’t on the vector of progress. Since the Enterprise began looking like herself, he hasn’t wanted to be anywhere but in Riverside.
Pike watches the shuttle bay doors close with more than just a sense of personal satisfaction, as if cosmic wheels have been set in motion. It’s likely a sentimental fancy. The kid could wash out during Orientation and be back here working odd jobs by next week. If that happens, Pike thinks, at least he’ll have done his best by George Kirk’s DNA. In all his research, the months he spent poring over the Kelvin records, reading about George Kirk’s background, trying to get inside his head, he somehow never wondered what happened to the son who was born in the middle of that battle. If he thought about it at all, he assumed the boy must be living offworld with his mother, maybe enrolled earthside in a Federation school, but that in any case, Starfleet would have taken care of him. The son born in space, the father who died to save him, were always a big part of the Kirk legend’s appeal. Last night Pike came face to face with the unintended consequences of that sacrifice. The boy lived, but he grew up without a father, only his father’s reputation looming over him like the half-built hull of the Enterprise. Pike took a risk, using that to bait the hook; maybe unfair, but it worked. How that sacrifice will continue to define Kirk, or whether he’ll create a new legend, is up to him now.
+++++
“Tell me. Don’t make this hard for either of us, Christopher. Just tell me.”
The air is dank and cold, Nero’s breath hot against his cheek. The man’s voice is husky from disuse but covers all the octaves of insanity. Strapped down, long since abandoned by his ship, Pike’s only remaining weapon is time. He’ll do anything, say anything, to buy the Enterprise the time it needs.
“The frequencies, Christopher,” Nero wheedles. “Just give them to me and you can go.” There’s nowhere to go, of course, but that doesn’t mean the idea isn’t alluring. Pike’s not even supposed to be alive at this point. He fully expected to be murdered the moment he set foot on the Narada. But now he has to string it out like Scheherazade, paying his life out breath by breath so the Enterprise can make her escape.
“I can’t tell you,” Pike croaks, as Nero’s hand closes around his throat. “Don’t make me, don’t ask me to!” The leather straps are suffocatingly tight across his body, which aches from his ineffectual struggles. He’s thirsty, tired, and light years from any help. He can’t bear this, not another minute--
“You will. You will tell me!” Nero screams, brandishing something that Pike can’t quite see, but that fills him with icy dread.
Pike snaps awake with a gasp, sweaty and disoriented in the darkness. He gropes with his right hand and finds a wall where a wall shouldn’t be and his level of panic rises before he remembers where he is. It isn’t his own apartment, but the one in the high-rise above the Bay that Starfleet arranged for him so he wouldn’t have to deal with stairs or steep hills. His pillow is half-soaked and he reaches out for the glass of water by the bed only to remember that he hasn’t bothered to put one there.
He’s had this nightmare a half-dozen times. It nettles not only because of the way it jolts him awake in a cold panic, but because it’s inaccurate. Nero never tantalized him with promises of release. Pike never cravenly begged for his pity, not even to draw out the long minutes until he’d be forced to reveal Earth’s defense codes. It’s the sort of thing his Fleet-assigned counselor would have a field day with if Pike deigned to share it, but the man irritates the hell out of him. He’s a moist-eyed Betazoid with an annoying habit of ending his questions prematurely: “And that made you feel--? And then you realized--?” They told Pike he’d been given drugs in those first few days to help prevent the formation of traumatic memories. The expected after-effects of ordinary stress seemed trivial by contrast: nightmares, insomnia, depression. Pike thinks that “nightmares” doesn’t adequately describe the inquisitions that take place in his dreams, the appearance of a succession of Pikes all less brave and less certain that the one who is now part of the official Starfleet record. He knows the apartment is replete with monitoring devices, the price for this bit of freedom. He wonders who at Starfleet Medical, if anyone, will ask him about his suddenly elevated blood pressure and pulse. I was just jerking off, you know, he considers saying. A guy’s got to have some kind of entertainment.
He tosses back the covers so he can swing his legs out of bed before he remembers he can’t. That happens a half-dozen times a day, with no less frequency now than in the beginning. He doesn’t feel like wrestling his uncooperative body into the chair just to go to the fridge. Otenga has been nagging him about getting a dog, of all things. He asked her, with mock incredulity, if that was the best tech Starfleet had to offer. Now he wonders if a dog could fetch a cold beer, maybe take a piss for him. At the very least, it would be some kind of company.
+++++
Ashna Subramanya’s house isn’t large, but it’s in a fantastic location, high in the Sausalito hills, overlooking the Bay. It’s sleekly modern, all white and brushed metal with blinking readouts and efficient storage spaces. Pike’s taste would have run toward a classic Spanish Colonial, but he can’t complain, especially when it’s a gorgeous afternoon, mostly sunny but with the small, fast-drifting clouds making the light dance on the water. They’re sitting on the terrace watching the show, Ashna pouring tea and plying him with biscuits. Ashna is five-foot-not-very-much, with a white streak in the dark hair she keeps tied up in a bun, a hard-set jaw, and a salty tongue. During her tenure as deputy chief of operations, Admiral Subramanya and Pike have disagreed on more things than not, but they remain friends, partly because they forego courtesy and speak frankly to each other. That doesn’t mean Ashna hasn’t treated him with kindness. Inviting him up here for their conversation, for instance, is a welcome escape from the Medical campus that’s been his whole universe for the last month.
“Chris, you son of a bitch,” she sighs without rancor. “I really wish you’d reconsider. Do you have any idea how hard you’re making my job?”
“Filling the chair on the Fleet’s newest, most powerful heavy cruiser? About as hard as giving away million-credit strips, I’d imagine.”
“Don’t be an ass,” she says, dunking a biscuit in her tea. “You were everyone’s first choice, and it still took six months to get the appointment through. This is going to be a nightmare. Half the captains in the Fleet calling in every marker they have, and the other half running in the opposite direction. You could at least put off your decision another month; that would give me some maneuvering room.”
“I’ll consider it,” he says diplomatically. “But it would be more than a bit unfair to the crew. They have their own careers to think about. If there’s a shuffle coming, they deserve to know that.” He doesn’t say that the last thing he wants to do is give Subramanya a chance to hand-pick a candidate.
“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: assuming Medical can’t pull a miracle out of its behind and get you out of that chair, there’s absolutely no reason you can’t serve as captain. I’ve always thought this business of captains beaming down with landing parties is ridiculous.”
“There’s a case to be made for that,” Pike says, and actually thinks there is. “But that’s not the kind of captain I want to be. I’ve never been comfortable asking my crew to do something that I wouldn’t.”
“Evidently,” she says drily. “I’m sure you would have space-jumped onto that drilling platform yourself, if you hadn’t been otherwise occupied.”
“Yeah, I might have,” he says, returning her smile. “And speaking of Kirk-“
“Don’t!” She averts her face and waves a hand at him. “That’s all anybody does any more. Two more months and that boy is out of our hair. I’m thinking of recommending him for first officer on the Chang Heng. That’s a three-year, deep-space stellar cartography mission, and good riddance.” She shakes her head. “He’s as stubborn as you, but twice as reckless and with half your charm.”
+++++
He’s lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the background noise of beeps and chimes as constant as on a starship bridge. Contrary to popular stereotype, hospitals are anything but quiet. Everyone is bustling around and doing things three-handed except the patients themselves. Though Pike is technically resting, his body is alive, itching with strange sensations, sending confused pins-and-needles signals more distracting than pain. He has a control pad at his fingertips he could use to medicate himself. Its internal logic ensures safety, that he can do nothing worse than put himself into low orbit, or to sleep. There’s entertainment, if he wants it, on the monitor above his bed, but anything that he has the energy to follow will only insult his intelligence.
Today he went through the first of his debriefings, with as many members of the the Narada commission as could fit around his bedside. They were polite, almost excessively so; inquired at length after his health and comfort; followed Dr. Otenga’s restrictions to a T; liberally sprinkled the conversation with references to his distinguished service. It ought to have been reassuring, but in his current mood, Pike attributes dark motives to the most innocent questions. Perhaps they’re going easy on him until he’s in better shape. Perhaps they’re trying to lull him into contradicting himself, or one of the other crewmembers. They know so much at this point, so much more than Pike himself, who left his own bridge to become a helpless captive, leaving the real work to children. He abandoned his ship and then betrayed the Federation, and no amount of reassurance is going to change that. Perhaps the worst punishment Starfleet can devise is the one he’s receiving right now, still flat on his back, still helpless, still leaving the decisions to someone else.
“Captain?” The nurse’s voice is like cool water. Pike recognizes him; he comes on for the afternoon shift. “You’re in pain. The point of the meds is to take them before you need them, hmm?” He reaches over with a kind, apologetic smile and taps lightly on the control pad. For a few minutes Pike feels nothing. Then a cottony euphoria wafts through him, easing away thought. He drifts in the space between his ears, grateful that this was one more decision he didn’t have to make.
+++++
Spock walks beside Pike with measured steps, hands behind his back, pretending he is not watching Pike’s progress in his peripheral vision. Pike thinks he’s doing reasonably well with the thought-controlled wheelchair in spite of the tiny hitches and jerks. It seems his brain can’t quit saying “stop” when he gets up any degree of speed, a sad irony for someone who liked to open the throttle to maximum warp on the slightest pretext. He’s asked Spock to accompany him, in part, so Spock can see he’s really recovering. The degree to which Spock is invested in his improving health is as touching as it is mystifying. No one, even on this campus with its myriad losses and cares, has as much to regret as Spock, and no one has been more faithful about visiting him, conferring with him, bringing him news of the outside world. Pike appreciates the fact that he can speak frankly and rationally about his own situation, even if Spock rarely returns the favor. Grief hangs like a weight around him, but he neither mentions it nor betrays it with his eyes or voice. Pike often hears platitudes about the fortunate accident of Vulcan’s victimhood, how well-prepared its people were for the disaster that befell them, and he thinks of Spock, and grits his teeth.
They make their way slowly to the lounge at the end of the hall, the furthest frontier Pike has reached in the last twelve days. It overlooks the courtyard, which is bustling with doctors and a sprinkling of patients clad, like him, in pale green robes. He waves Spock toward a chair, which he obediently takes.
“I haven’t told Starfleet yet. I wanted you to hear it from me first,” Pike says. “I’ve decided to resign my commission as captain of the Enterprise.”
Spock’s spine, already ramrod straight, stiffens infinitesimally. “You had, of course, indicated that you were considering that, captain. May I inquire about the reasoning that led to your decision?”
“You may. I have a pretty good picture of the state of my spinal cord, and the news isn’t great. Basically, it’s like Swiss cheese, and even though they’ve been able to stabilize the deterioration, complete repair is going to be a tricky proposition. It could take months, maybe a dozen operations, and assuming it works, there’ll still be a lot of physical therapy after that.” It’s the essence of what he’s been able to get out of Dr. Hu, the spine god: cautious optimism heavily larded with warnings and disclaimers. Less Olympian certainty, more of the old college try. “Eight months minimum before I’d be back on the line, and weeks’ more recovery before I can get started.”
“This procedure sounds more--“ Spock chooses his words carefully “--experimental than I anticipated. Are you determined to proceed?”
“I haven’t made up my mind. But the alternative isn’t all that promising, either. I can get an upgraded chair, and with some neural amplifiers, I might be able to learn some basic movements, like raising and lowering my knees. But it won’t be enough.”
“I was unaware that bipedal locomotion was a prerequisite for service in Starfleet.”
“It isn’t, but it’s something I’ve grown accustomed to over the years. It’s going to take months, or longer, for me to adjust. And it’s not-“ Pike struggles; it’s hard to articulate in a way that doesn’t sound egotistical. “It’s not me. It’s not the way I envisioned being captain. I don’t want to be an executive officer glued to a chair in the Ready Room.” He pauses. Spock is too damn easy to talk to.
“When circumstances change, it is often necessary to adjust one’s expectations,” Spock says crisply. From anyone else, it’s a banality; given Spock’s circumstances, it’s devastating.
“That’s very true,” Pike says quietly, “but I’m not just considering myself. The galaxy’s gotten a lot more dangerous. I shouldn’t go out there feeling less prepared.” He looks openly at Spock; he is never exactly sure if his telepathic abilities extended to truth detection, but he hopes it doesn’t matter. “Believe me, I’m not doing this as some self-indulgent form of martyrdom. It’s not because I don’t fit the image I have in my head of the heroic captain any more. It’s because the Enterprise deserves the best, and I can’t be that right now. I wish like hell I could, but I can’t.”
Spock nods slowly, eyes never leaving Pike’s. “Then I must accept your decision, captain. No doubt there are many other capacities in which you can provide great value to Starfleet, assuming you wish to continue in service.”
After having rehearsed this conversation so often in his head, it’s a relief to have it over with. Pike feels a faint tremor of aftershock go through him, but there’s satisfaction as well. He’s taken the first step on what’s going to be a very long road, and he hasn’t found himself wanting. He knows Spock has been fighting these internal wars as well, and understands.
“Yes,” Pike says briskly, smacking his hands against his thighs, feeling a distant echo of pressure where sensation used to be. “So that leaves the question of who’s going to take my place. I don’t have to tell you, Spock, that you’re my first choice, and I’m sure everyone else’s as well.”
“I am grateful for your confidence in me, captain,” Spock says slowly. “But there’s a better than 95 percent chance that I will be resigning my commission in favor of a post with the New Vulcan Authority.”
“That high, huh? I’m sure you’ve factored into the equation everything you could do for Vulcan, not mention the rest of the Federation, in command of its flagship.”
Spock’s gaze slides away and he says, with almost practiced certainty, “Vulcan’s needs are much more basic than what a starship can provide: water, shelter, agriculture, communications.” He pauses. “Home. That is what my people need.”
“I understand, of course. But the Federation’s more than willing to provide those things you mentioned, as are a dozen planets. Do you really think you’d serve your people best as a plomeek farmer?” It isn’t a facetious question, and Spock doesn’t take it that way. Instead, he drops his eyes and stares at his hands, which are folded in his lap.
“That is for the Authority to decide. What is apparent is that I am unsuited for the role of captain of a Starfleet vessel.”
“And how the hell did you conclude that?”
“During my brief tenure as captain of the Enterprise, I managed to lose my home planet, allowed the enemy to escape, jettisoned the first officer, and instigated a near-lethal fight on the Bridge. Had Lieutenant Kirk not intervened to remove me from command, Earth would likely have been lost as well.” His lips form the thin suggestion of a brutal smile. “Whatever my academic qualifications, I believe my performance record outweighs them.” Pike listens to the litany of self-condemnation and feels ill. Spock, with his unparalleled ability to internalize any problem has chosen to aim this one, like a weapon, at himself.
“You had no way to save Vulcan. You know you didn’t.” Pike is firm, almost harsh.
“On the contrary, I have posited three different scenarios under which, at minimum, I could have provided enough time for at least a partial evacuation of the planet.” His voice is clipped, but Pike can hear the vibration of anxiety beneath it. “I am sure, in time, I will think of others. It should make an excellent training scenario for future generations of cadets.”
“Take this advice from me, Spock,” Pike says with as much gentleness as he thinks Spock will tolerate. “I’ve been down that road, and it leads nowhere. What happened was Nero’s fault and nobody else’s. If anyone can think up the impossible, and convince himself that he should have done it, it’s you. But it would be a terrible waste.”
Spock nods infinitesimally, staring at his hands. He listens to Pike, and Pike isn’t quite sure why, except that despite his vast knowledge, Spock is still a very young man. His father is on Earth now, but perhaps too preoccupied to remove the weight of guilt from his son’s shoulders. Pike wishes there were someone to give him the same absolution, and wonders if he would accept it.
“So here we are,” Pike continues when Spock is able to meet his eyes again. “If neither of us is going to be captain, someone has to.” He tosses the next question out casually, as if there were nothing riding on it. “Who’s your pick?”
Pike can tell right away he knows the answer, and is only considering how to frame his reply. “There are many fine officers in the Fleet deserving of promotion.”
“So there are.”
“A ship of the size and power of the Enterprise, with such a large crew and so vital to Starfleet’s mission, deserves a captain of the highest capabilities and experience.”
“That she does.”
“But in my opinion-“ the hard glint has made its way back into his eyes. “In my opinion, the only logical selection is Lieutenant Kirk.” Pike feels elation and a sharp pang of regret at the same time. If Pike and Spock are thinking the same thing, if they can make it happen, there will indeed be no possibility of Pike ever returning as captain of the Enterprise.
“Logical? Since when is anything about Jim Kirk logical?”
“Lieutenant Kirk is impulsive, undisciplined, and inexperienced,” he says, with the tiniest bit of satisfaction. “He also possesses what humans refer to as instinct, but we call tvi-ozhika-literally, internal logic, a command of reasoning so perfect that one need no longer go through any conscious mental process. It is one of the highest achievements of the Kohlinar, and a dangerous pursuit, as willfulness or egotistical self-regard may often be mistaken for tvi-ozhika. How Kirk came to possess this ability, I have no idea. Nonetheless, he defeated a determined enemy in a more powerful vessel without losing a single life. Had you and I both perished, it would still have been a remarkable achievement. But Kirk demanded nothing short of total victory and methodically executed a plan to attain it. This ability is of such high value that-in my opinion-it overrides the many other objections.” He pauses, and cocks an eyebrow at Pike. “Do you find my assessment accurate?”
“I do,” Pike says with a sigh. “And you’re right, he’s going to need a lot of help, first and foremost getting back into that chair. Starfleet Command is rattled and skittish and not in the mood for taking risks. I’m going to do what I can, but I doubt it will be enough.”
“I am sure your opinion will carry great weight.”
“Let’s hope you’re right. I can get in the door, anyway. Beyond that-your opinion will carry a lot of weight, too, especially given your history with him. What about the Vulcan High Council? Can you get them on board?”
Spock inclines his head, pondering. “It is possible, although their position is somewhat precarious. I doubt, given Vulcans’ reliance on the Federation at present, that they would be eager to intervene in internal Starfleet politics.”
“Then what else can we use?” Now that the worst is past, Pike feels excited, actively engaged for the first time in weeks in something outside the four walls of his hospital room. “We’ve got to move fast. I’ve held off making any formal announcement. Admiral Subramanya thinks it’s so she can built support for her chosen candidate, but I don’t want to give her enough time to do that.”
Spock eyes him narrowly. “I offered you my opinion. I do not recall saying that I was willing to engage in a campaign on Kirk’s behalf.”
Pike returns Spock’s ghost of a smile in full measure. “I’m still captain of the Enterprise, and you’re still my first officer. We owe it to her, Spock. We owe it to her and all the beings whose lives will be safer with Kirk behind the wheel. If you’re not willing to do it for the ship, or for Kirk, I’m asking you to do it for me.”
Spock listens respectfully, then bows his head briefly. “I am, as always, honored by the trust you place in me, captain.”
“Well, then.” Pike is more moved than he expected, and regretful that the relationship between them that has grown by millimeters over the past six years is apparently coming to an end. “What have you got?”
He steeples his fingers. “It might be argued that the improbability of Kirk’s rapid ascent is, in itself, an indication that it is the desired outcome.”
“I hate that whole ‘meant to be that way’ line of reasoning," Pike complains. He’s not alone in feeling deeply uncomfortable with the idea of his other-universe doppelganger; it’s gotten so you can’t get served coffee instead of tea by mistake without someone making a nervous joke about the “timeline trying to right itself.”
“Nevertheless, such an argument might be particularly compelling coming from the ambassador.” Pike knows who Spock is talking about, and gets a little chill. Spock at his most determined is as relentless as Kirk and less humane, particularly to himself.
“You haven’t gotten any…information from him, have you? Is this more than an educated guess?”
The word “guess” has its predictable effect on Spock, who looks slightly affronted. “I have not talked to him at all. However, we can infer from the fact that he incited Kirk to remove me from command that he endorses the idea, at least in those circumstances.”
“All right, so we’ll count the ambassador in. Me and two Spocks? That’s a good start.”
Part 3 >>
“What the hell’s wrong with me?”
It’s a simple enough question, but it’s been oddly difficult to get anyone here to answer it. Pike can guess the reason: they are professionally reticent to say what they don’t know, conscious of patient morale, maybe even under orders not to divulge anything until Pike has received his overdue debriefing. Whatever it is, he trusts McCoy not to feed him chirpy, optimistic bullshit.
“I haven’t been actively involved in your case for two days, but I can tell you what I think I know.” Pike nods for him to proceed. “When the creature attacks Vulcanoids, it goes right for the brain stem, where it secretes a neurotoxin that shuts down the parts of the brain responsible for what you might call the intellect-judgment, volition, and so forth. The host continues to eat, sleep, and do whatever’s necessary to stay alive for a few weeks while the creature gets ready to…reproduce. At that point, it severs the spinal cord and gives birth to its young, who have a nice, fresh meal waiting for them.” McCoy doesn’t apologize and Pike doesn’t wince, although he takes a moment to remind himself that it’s gone, they killed it, McCoy had it out before we left the ship.
“How delightful,” Pike says, tilting his chin up a little so McCoy won’t think he’s about to lose it.
“Human physiology may have confused it. It caused significant damage to your spinal cord, and on the way, esophageal perforation, a collapsed lung, and other internal damage. The neurotoxin itself dissipated within about 12 hours and doesn’t seem to have had any permanent effect. But the spinal cord…it was, well, chewed.” He winces a little, quite a tell for a hard-as-nails doctor.
“And what’s the upshot of all that?” Pike asks calmly.
“You’re stable and recovering well, captain.” McCoy says. “You’re past the window for infection or complications. But the question is whether the spinal cord damage can be repaired. If it can’t-“ McCoy spreads his graceful doctor’s hands in apology “-we just don’t have the ability to completely replace spinal cords. There’s research, but I'd call any actual procedures slightly better than experimental.”
“I wonder what the Romulans do, when they get one of these things.”
McCoy frowns. “Don’t know much about them, but I don’t get the sense they have a lot of respect for individual lives.” He clasps his hands together, thoughtful. “They’ve got the top people from the Adelman Institute reviewing your case, sir. If anything can be done-“
“Yes, doctor, I’m sure they’re doing it.” Pike gives McCoy what he hopes passes for a smile. It’s not McCoy‘s fault that Pike’s probing has found uncertainty instead of cover-up. To change the subject, he says, “Did the brass really give Kirk a mauling or was he exaggerating?”
McCoy looks no happier with the new line of questioning. He runs a hand through his black hair and glances at the ceiling. “I’m pretty sure that’s just Jim being unreasonable, sir. I told him he can’t expect any different when the whole sector’s in an uproar. He’s convinced they’re going to try to pin something on him to cover their-well, he thinks he’s a convenient scapegoat.”
“And what do you think?” McCoy seems to weigh his answer for a moment. He’s got a spotless academic record along with what appears to be considerable professional integrity. Divided loyalties don’t seem to come easy for him.
“Nothing the admirals asked me led me to that conclusion. Jim's sleep deprived and stressed. For some reason, after everything that’s happened, his mind’s still stuck in that disciplinary hearing. Maybe it’s some kind of coping mechanism. Or maybe he just doesn’t know how to let things go.” McCoy shrugs, wrapping his arms around himself. “Maybe that’s what happens when someone’s been trying to kill you since the day you were born.”
+++++
“Last chance if you’re coming along, sir.” The ensign with the manifest PADD gestures toward the transport shuttle, which is vibrating as it powers up its thrusters.
“No, I’m staying put.” Pike waves them off. He’s supposed to be at the Admiralty in the morning, but it won’t be hard to find some pretext to justify his absence. He’s getting sick of meetings, sick of anything that isn’t on the vector of progress. Since the Enterprise began looking like herself, he hasn’t wanted to be anywhere but in Riverside.
Pike watches the shuttle bay doors close with more than just a sense of personal satisfaction, as if cosmic wheels have been set in motion. It’s likely a sentimental fancy. The kid could wash out during Orientation and be back here working odd jobs by next week. If that happens, Pike thinks, at least he’ll have done his best by George Kirk’s DNA. In all his research, the months he spent poring over the Kelvin records, reading about George Kirk’s background, trying to get inside his head, he somehow never wondered what happened to the son who was born in the middle of that battle. If he thought about it at all, he assumed the boy must be living offworld with his mother, maybe enrolled earthside in a Federation school, but that in any case, Starfleet would have taken care of him. The son born in space, the father who died to save him, were always a big part of the Kirk legend’s appeal. Last night Pike came face to face with the unintended consequences of that sacrifice. The boy lived, but he grew up without a father, only his father’s reputation looming over him like the half-built hull of the Enterprise. Pike took a risk, using that to bait the hook; maybe unfair, but it worked. How that sacrifice will continue to define Kirk, or whether he’ll create a new legend, is up to him now.
+++++
“Tell me. Don’t make this hard for either of us, Christopher. Just tell me.”
The air is dank and cold, Nero’s breath hot against his cheek. The man’s voice is husky from disuse but covers all the octaves of insanity. Strapped down, long since abandoned by his ship, Pike’s only remaining weapon is time. He’ll do anything, say anything, to buy the Enterprise the time it needs.
“The frequencies, Christopher,” Nero wheedles. “Just give them to me and you can go.” There’s nowhere to go, of course, but that doesn’t mean the idea isn’t alluring. Pike’s not even supposed to be alive at this point. He fully expected to be murdered the moment he set foot on the Narada. But now he has to string it out like Scheherazade, paying his life out breath by breath so the Enterprise can make her escape.
“I can’t tell you,” Pike croaks, as Nero’s hand closes around his throat. “Don’t make me, don’t ask me to!” The leather straps are suffocatingly tight across his body, which aches from his ineffectual struggles. He’s thirsty, tired, and light years from any help. He can’t bear this, not another minute--
“You will. You will tell me!” Nero screams, brandishing something that Pike can’t quite see, but that fills him with icy dread.
Pike snaps awake with a gasp, sweaty and disoriented in the darkness. He gropes with his right hand and finds a wall where a wall shouldn’t be and his level of panic rises before he remembers where he is. It isn’t his own apartment, but the one in the high-rise above the Bay that Starfleet arranged for him so he wouldn’t have to deal with stairs or steep hills. His pillow is half-soaked and he reaches out for the glass of water by the bed only to remember that he hasn’t bothered to put one there.
He’s had this nightmare a half-dozen times. It nettles not only because of the way it jolts him awake in a cold panic, but because it’s inaccurate. Nero never tantalized him with promises of release. Pike never cravenly begged for his pity, not even to draw out the long minutes until he’d be forced to reveal Earth’s defense codes. It’s the sort of thing his Fleet-assigned counselor would have a field day with if Pike deigned to share it, but the man irritates the hell out of him. He’s a moist-eyed Betazoid with an annoying habit of ending his questions prematurely: “And that made you feel--? And then you realized--?” They told Pike he’d been given drugs in those first few days to help prevent the formation of traumatic memories. The expected after-effects of ordinary stress seemed trivial by contrast: nightmares, insomnia, depression. Pike thinks that “nightmares” doesn’t adequately describe the inquisitions that take place in his dreams, the appearance of a succession of Pikes all less brave and less certain that the one who is now part of the official Starfleet record. He knows the apartment is replete with monitoring devices, the price for this bit of freedom. He wonders who at Starfleet Medical, if anyone, will ask him about his suddenly elevated blood pressure and pulse. I was just jerking off, you know, he considers saying. A guy’s got to have some kind of entertainment.
He tosses back the covers so he can swing his legs out of bed before he remembers he can’t. That happens a half-dozen times a day, with no less frequency now than in the beginning. He doesn’t feel like wrestling his uncooperative body into the chair just to go to the fridge. Otenga has been nagging him about getting a dog, of all things. He asked her, with mock incredulity, if that was the best tech Starfleet had to offer. Now he wonders if a dog could fetch a cold beer, maybe take a piss for him. At the very least, it would be some kind of company.
+++++
Ashna Subramanya’s house isn’t large, but it’s in a fantastic location, high in the Sausalito hills, overlooking the Bay. It’s sleekly modern, all white and brushed metal with blinking readouts and efficient storage spaces. Pike’s taste would have run toward a classic Spanish Colonial, but he can’t complain, especially when it’s a gorgeous afternoon, mostly sunny but with the small, fast-drifting clouds making the light dance on the water. They’re sitting on the terrace watching the show, Ashna pouring tea and plying him with biscuits. Ashna is five-foot-not-very-much, with a white streak in the dark hair she keeps tied up in a bun, a hard-set jaw, and a salty tongue. During her tenure as deputy chief of operations, Admiral Subramanya and Pike have disagreed on more things than not, but they remain friends, partly because they forego courtesy and speak frankly to each other. That doesn’t mean Ashna hasn’t treated him with kindness. Inviting him up here for their conversation, for instance, is a welcome escape from the Medical campus that’s been his whole universe for the last month.
“Chris, you son of a bitch,” she sighs without rancor. “I really wish you’d reconsider. Do you have any idea how hard you’re making my job?”
“Filling the chair on the Fleet’s newest, most powerful heavy cruiser? About as hard as giving away million-credit strips, I’d imagine.”
“Don’t be an ass,” she says, dunking a biscuit in her tea. “You were everyone’s first choice, and it still took six months to get the appointment through. This is going to be a nightmare. Half the captains in the Fleet calling in every marker they have, and the other half running in the opposite direction. You could at least put off your decision another month; that would give me some maneuvering room.”
“I’ll consider it,” he says diplomatically. “But it would be more than a bit unfair to the crew. They have their own careers to think about. If there’s a shuffle coming, they deserve to know that.” He doesn’t say that the last thing he wants to do is give Subramanya a chance to hand-pick a candidate.
“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: assuming Medical can’t pull a miracle out of its behind and get you out of that chair, there’s absolutely no reason you can’t serve as captain. I’ve always thought this business of captains beaming down with landing parties is ridiculous.”
“There’s a case to be made for that,” Pike says, and actually thinks there is. “But that’s not the kind of captain I want to be. I’ve never been comfortable asking my crew to do something that I wouldn’t.”
“Evidently,” she says drily. “I’m sure you would have space-jumped onto that drilling platform yourself, if you hadn’t been otherwise occupied.”
“Yeah, I might have,” he says, returning her smile. “And speaking of Kirk-“
“Don’t!” She averts her face and waves a hand at him. “That’s all anybody does any more. Two more months and that boy is out of our hair. I’m thinking of recommending him for first officer on the Chang Heng. That’s a three-year, deep-space stellar cartography mission, and good riddance.” She shakes her head. “He’s as stubborn as you, but twice as reckless and with half your charm.”
+++++
He’s lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the background noise of beeps and chimes as constant as on a starship bridge. Contrary to popular stereotype, hospitals are anything but quiet. Everyone is bustling around and doing things three-handed except the patients themselves. Though Pike is technically resting, his body is alive, itching with strange sensations, sending confused pins-and-needles signals more distracting than pain. He has a control pad at his fingertips he could use to medicate himself. Its internal logic ensures safety, that he can do nothing worse than put himself into low orbit, or to sleep. There’s entertainment, if he wants it, on the monitor above his bed, but anything that he has the energy to follow will only insult his intelligence.
Today he went through the first of his debriefings, with as many members of the the Narada commission as could fit around his bedside. They were polite, almost excessively so; inquired at length after his health and comfort; followed Dr. Otenga’s restrictions to a T; liberally sprinkled the conversation with references to his distinguished service. It ought to have been reassuring, but in his current mood, Pike attributes dark motives to the most innocent questions. Perhaps they’re going easy on him until he’s in better shape. Perhaps they’re trying to lull him into contradicting himself, or one of the other crewmembers. They know so much at this point, so much more than Pike himself, who left his own bridge to become a helpless captive, leaving the real work to children. He abandoned his ship and then betrayed the Federation, and no amount of reassurance is going to change that. Perhaps the worst punishment Starfleet can devise is the one he’s receiving right now, still flat on his back, still helpless, still leaving the decisions to someone else.
“Captain?” The nurse’s voice is like cool water. Pike recognizes him; he comes on for the afternoon shift. “You’re in pain. The point of the meds is to take them before you need them, hmm?” He reaches over with a kind, apologetic smile and taps lightly on the control pad. For a few minutes Pike feels nothing. Then a cottony euphoria wafts through him, easing away thought. He drifts in the space between his ears, grateful that this was one more decision he didn’t have to make.
+++++
Spock walks beside Pike with measured steps, hands behind his back, pretending he is not watching Pike’s progress in his peripheral vision. Pike thinks he’s doing reasonably well with the thought-controlled wheelchair in spite of the tiny hitches and jerks. It seems his brain can’t quit saying “stop” when he gets up any degree of speed, a sad irony for someone who liked to open the throttle to maximum warp on the slightest pretext. He’s asked Spock to accompany him, in part, so Spock can see he’s really recovering. The degree to which Spock is invested in his improving health is as touching as it is mystifying. No one, even on this campus with its myriad losses and cares, has as much to regret as Spock, and no one has been more faithful about visiting him, conferring with him, bringing him news of the outside world. Pike appreciates the fact that he can speak frankly and rationally about his own situation, even if Spock rarely returns the favor. Grief hangs like a weight around him, but he neither mentions it nor betrays it with his eyes or voice. Pike often hears platitudes about the fortunate accident of Vulcan’s victimhood, how well-prepared its people were for the disaster that befell them, and he thinks of Spock, and grits his teeth.
They make their way slowly to the lounge at the end of the hall, the furthest frontier Pike has reached in the last twelve days. It overlooks the courtyard, which is bustling with doctors and a sprinkling of patients clad, like him, in pale green robes. He waves Spock toward a chair, which he obediently takes.
“I haven’t told Starfleet yet. I wanted you to hear it from me first,” Pike says. “I’ve decided to resign my commission as captain of the Enterprise.”
Spock’s spine, already ramrod straight, stiffens infinitesimally. “You had, of course, indicated that you were considering that, captain. May I inquire about the reasoning that led to your decision?”
“You may. I have a pretty good picture of the state of my spinal cord, and the news isn’t great. Basically, it’s like Swiss cheese, and even though they’ve been able to stabilize the deterioration, complete repair is going to be a tricky proposition. It could take months, maybe a dozen operations, and assuming it works, there’ll still be a lot of physical therapy after that.” It’s the essence of what he’s been able to get out of Dr. Hu, the spine god: cautious optimism heavily larded with warnings and disclaimers. Less Olympian certainty, more of the old college try. “Eight months minimum before I’d be back on the line, and weeks’ more recovery before I can get started.”
“This procedure sounds more--“ Spock chooses his words carefully “--experimental than I anticipated. Are you determined to proceed?”
“I haven’t made up my mind. But the alternative isn’t all that promising, either. I can get an upgraded chair, and with some neural amplifiers, I might be able to learn some basic movements, like raising and lowering my knees. But it won’t be enough.”
“I was unaware that bipedal locomotion was a prerequisite for service in Starfleet.”
“It isn’t, but it’s something I’ve grown accustomed to over the years. It’s going to take months, or longer, for me to adjust. And it’s not-“ Pike struggles; it’s hard to articulate in a way that doesn’t sound egotistical. “It’s not me. It’s not the way I envisioned being captain. I don’t want to be an executive officer glued to a chair in the Ready Room.” He pauses. Spock is too damn easy to talk to.
“When circumstances change, it is often necessary to adjust one’s expectations,” Spock says crisply. From anyone else, it’s a banality; given Spock’s circumstances, it’s devastating.
“That’s very true,” Pike says quietly, “but I’m not just considering myself. The galaxy’s gotten a lot more dangerous. I shouldn’t go out there feeling less prepared.” He looks openly at Spock; he is never exactly sure if his telepathic abilities extended to truth detection, but he hopes it doesn’t matter. “Believe me, I’m not doing this as some self-indulgent form of martyrdom. It’s not because I don’t fit the image I have in my head of the heroic captain any more. It’s because the Enterprise deserves the best, and I can’t be that right now. I wish like hell I could, but I can’t.”
Spock nods slowly, eyes never leaving Pike’s. “Then I must accept your decision, captain. No doubt there are many other capacities in which you can provide great value to Starfleet, assuming you wish to continue in service.”
After having rehearsed this conversation so often in his head, it’s a relief to have it over with. Pike feels a faint tremor of aftershock go through him, but there’s satisfaction as well. He’s taken the first step on what’s going to be a very long road, and he hasn’t found himself wanting. He knows Spock has been fighting these internal wars as well, and understands.
“Yes,” Pike says briskly, smacking his hands against his thighs, feeling a distant echo of pressure where sensation used to be. “So that leaves the question of who’s going to take my place. I don’t have to tell you, Spock, that you’re my first choice, and I’m sure everyone else’s as well.”
“I am grateful for your confidence in me, captain,” Spock says slowly. “But there’s a better than 95 percent chance that I will be resigning my commission in favor of a post with the New Vulcan Authority.”
“That high, huh? I’m sure you’ve factored into the equation everything you could do for Vulcan, not mention the rest of the Federation, in command of its flagship.”
Spock’s gaze slides away and he says, with almost practiced certainty, “Vulcan’s needs are much more basic than what a starship can provide: water, shelter, agriculture, communications.” He pauses. “Home. That is what my people need.”
“I understand, of course. But the Federation’s more than willing to provide those things you mentioned, as are a dozen planets. Do you really think you’d serve your people best as a plomeek farmer?” It isn’t a facetious question, and Spock doesn’t take it that way. Instead, he drops his eyes and stares at his hands, which are folded in his lap.
“That is for the Authority to decide. What is apparent is that I am unsuited for the role of captain of a Starfleet vessel.”
“And how the hell did you conclude that?”
“During my brief tenure as captain of the Enterprise, I managed to lose my home planet, allowed the enemy to escape, jettisoned the first officer, and instigated a near-lethal fight on the Bridge. Had Lieutenant Kirk not intervened to remove me from command, Earth would likely have been lost as well.” His lips form the thin suggestion of a brutal smile. “Whatever my academic qualifications, I believe my performance record outweighs them.” Pike listens to the litany of self-condemnation and feels ill. Spock, with his unparalleled ability to internalize any problem has chosen to aim this one, like a weapon, at himself.
“You had no way to save Vulcan. You know you didn’t.” Pike is firm, almost harsh.
“On the contrary, I have posited three different scenarios under which, at minimum, I could have provided enough time for at least a partial evacuation of the planet.” His voice is clipped, but Pike can hear the vibration of anxiety beneath it. “I am sure, in time, I will think of others. It should make an excellent training scenario for future generations of cadets.”
“Take this advice from me, Spock,” Pike says with as much gentleness as he thinks Spock will tolerate. “I’ve been down that road, and it leads nowhere. What happened was Nero’s fault and nobody else’s. If anyone can think up the impossible, and convince himself that he should have done it, it’s you. But it would be a terrible waste.”
Spock nods infinitesimally, staring at his hands. He listens to Pike, and Pike isn’t quite sure why, except that despite his vast knowledge, Spock is still a very young man. His father is on Earth now, but perhaps too preoccupied to remove the weight of guilt from his son’s shoulders. Pike wishes there were someone to give him the same absolution, and wonders if he would accept it.
“So here we are,” Pike continues when Spock is able to meet his eyes again. “If neither of us is going to be captain, someone has to.” He tosses the next question out casually, as if there were nothing riding on it. “Who’s your pick?”
Pike can tell right away he knows the answer, and is only considering how to frame his reply. “There are many fine officers in the Fleet deserving of promotion.”
“So there are.”
“A ship of the size and power of the Enterprise, with such a large crew and so vital to Starfleet’s mission, deserves a captain of the highest capabilities and experience.”
“That she does.”
“But in my opinion-“ the hard glint has made its way back into his eyes. “In my opinion, the only logical selection is Lieutenant Kirk.” Pike feels elation and a sharp pang of regret at the same time. If Pike and Spock are thinking the same thing, if they can make it happen, there will indeed be no possibility of Pike ever returning as captain of the Enterprise.
“Logical? Since when is anything about Jim Kirk logical?”
“Lieutenant Kirk is impulsive, undisciplined, and inexperienced,” he says, with the tiniest bit of satisfaction. “He also possesses what humans refer to as instinct, but we call tvi-ozhika-literally, internal logic, a command of reasoning so perfect that one need no longer go through any conscious mental process. It is one of the highest achievements of the Kohlinar, and a dangerous pursuit, as willfulness or egotistical self-regard may often be mistaken for tvi-ozhika. How Kirk came to possess this ability, I have no idea. Nonetheless, he defeated a determined enemy in a more powerful vessel without losing a single life. Had you and I both perished, it would still have been a remarkable achievement. But Kirk demanded nothing short of total victory and methodically executed a plan to attain it. This ability is of such high value that-in my opinion-it overrides the many other objections.” He pauses, and cocks an eyebrow at Pike. “Do you find my assessment accurate?”
“I do,” Pike says with a sigh. “And you’re right, he’s going to need a lot of help, first and foremost getting back into that chair. Starfleet Command is rattled and skittish and not in the mood for taking risks. I’m going to do what I can, but I doubt it will be enough.”
“I am sure your opinion will carry great weight.”
“Let’s hope you’re right. I can get in the door, anyway. Beyond that-your opinion will carry a lot of weight, too, especially given your history with him. What about the Vulcan High Council? Can you get them on board?”
Spock inclines his head, pondering. “It is possible, although their position is somewhat precarious. I doubt, given Vulcans’ reliance on the Federation at present, that they would be eager to intervene in internal Starfleet politics.”
“Then what else can we use?” Now that the worst is past, Pike feels excited, actively engaged for the first time in weeks in something outside the four walls of his hospital room. “We’ve got to move fast. I’ve held off making any formal announcement. Admiral Subramanya thinks it’s so she can built support for her chosen candidate, but I don’t want to give her enough time to do that.”
Spock eyes him narrowly. “I offered you my opinion. I do not recall saying that I was willing to engage in a campaign on Kirk’s behalf.”
Pike returns Spock’s ghost of a smile in full measure. “I’m still captain of the Enterprise, and you’re still my first officer. We owe it to her, Spock. We owe it to her and all the beings whose lives will be safer with Kirk behind the wheel. If you’re not willing to do it for the ship, or for Kirk, I’m asking you to do it for me.”
Spock listens respectfully, then bows his head briefly. “I am, as always, honored by the trust you place in me, captain.”
“Well, then.” Pike is more moved than he expected, and regretful that the relationship between them that has grown by millimeters over the past six years is apparently coming to an end. “What have you got?”
He steeples his fingers. “It might be argued that the improbability of Kirk’s rapid ascent is, in itself, an indication that it is the desired outcome.”
“I hate that whole ‘meant to be that way’ line of reasoning," Pike complains. He’s not alone in feeling deeply uncomfortable with the idea of his other-universe doppelganger; it’s gotten so you can’t get served coffee instead of tea by mistake without someone making a nervous joke about the “timeline trying to right itself.”
“Nevertheless, such an argument might be particularly compelling coming from the ambassador.” Pike knows who Spock is talking about, and gets a little chill. Spock at his most determined is as relentless as Kirk and less humane, particularly to himself.
“You haven’t gotten any…information from him, have you? Is this more than an educated guess?”
The word “guess” has its predictable effect on Spock, who looks slightly affronted. “I have not talked to him at all. However, we can infer from the fact that he incited Kirk to remove me from command that he endorses the idea, at least in those circumstances.”
“All right, so we’ll count the ambassador in. Me and two Spocks? That’s a good start.”
Part 3 >>