fanfic | stxi | leave no soul behind 5.4/?
Title: Leave No Soul Behind 5.4, 9,176 words of 160,000+
Fandom: Star Trek XI, TOS references.
Characters: Kirk/Spock, ensemble, OCs.
Rating & Warnings: Strong R - slash, language, adult themes.
Spoilers: For the 2009 movie mostly.
Disclaimer: Fanfiction and fanfiction only, folks.
Betas: the_arc5 who needs ducks. Eight of them.
Author's Note: This is written for stripedpetunia on trek_exchange.
Apologies for the double length of time between posting, at least it results in a double-length chapter, right? Ahem. The crew of ED996 are caught in the middle of a firefight they're not equipped to handle, hurtling towards a planet that's being torn apart before their eyes, and as if that isn't enough, Nero has an agenda ...
previous
Chapter 5.4
Their entry plane to the planet Aspera is parallel to the ecliptic, the Laplacian at the very worst. Spock had argued that this would give the Stalwart and her two EPAS Prime Division sister ships, the Carpathia and the Atlas, best possible cover from the systems other planetary bodies and numerous asteroid fields. What Nero can't get a line of sight on, he can't shoot. As much as Spock doubts his own military mind, Jim believes wholeheartedly in his worth as a tactician. Spock in the center seat of a Starfleet vessel would be a force to be reckoned with.
Many of the necessary calculations are based on hastily collected data from their previous visit. The displaced Vulcan people, as meticulous as they are, had quite rationally spent little of their space-going resources on charting little used areas of their newly acquired Nu'ri Ah'rak protectorate, focusing instead on establishing trade routes and fortifying their new home world. That means that the Stalwart's navcomps keep throwing out computational errors relating to the haphazard and incomplete spatial data collected during EPAS' brief survey mission on Aspera. While the ship is clearly outdated from the navcomp right through to the last rivet in her hull, not even the Fleet's flagship could have extrapolated between the sparsity of available data points. When Taylor and Harris flounder in the face of this reality, Gaila pipes up from her station in Ops and respectfully suggests they call Ensign Chekov to the bridge and have him do the calculations by hand.
This is met with blank stares, but such things have never really intimidated Gaila, so she simply flexes her burn-scarred fingers in impatience and repeats herself, with an addendum to check with the DivCO if they doubt the whiz-kid's ability to deliver their in-system trajectory accurately.
Spock is paged and shortly thereafter, Chekov arrives on the bridge, data PADD in hand and adorable accent intact. Gaila smilingly makes space for him at an Ops console and blows a kiss a their XO, who looks away hastily.
"Can you do it, baby?"she asks with confidence.
"It is wery difficult," Chekov admits. "Like playing join-the-dots, but only in the dark."
She presses a kiss to his cheek and grins at the blush it earns her. "I'd fly your course blind-folded, kiddo."
Chekov bows his head and enters into the minefield of warp navigation like a fish to water.
Gaila considers her job here done.
-:-
They make it to the Aspera System approximately fifteen minutes earlier than the other two ships, mostly thanks to Scotty's ingenious organic warp matrix. The Points, Pilots and Medics have been suited and ready for about an hour. Nero has been known to employ advanced technology to rip unsuspecting and unprepared ships out of warp without warning. Jim has the unsettling feeling that Scotty is almost wishing they'll be yanked back into sub-light speeds, simply so he can analyze the mechanics of the way it's done. From the slight frown on Spock's face, it appears he also finds the Engineer's enthusiasm a little misplaced.
They arrive unmolested in a blip of light, slowing to impulse in the shadow of Aspera's larger moon. Even strapped in and resting on the hangar deck, Nix's sensors go wild.
"There is so much stuff out there I'm having trouble differentiating life sign readings," Uhura says hurriedly. "I've got maybe one ... no, make that nearly two hundred," she growls in annoyance. "I've got between one and two hundred organic masses within our maximum deployment sphere," she amends, but the tone of her voice tells everyone she's pissed about the lack of accuracy.
"Highest concentration?" Spock wants to know.
"The surface of the planet," Uhura replies, fingers skating over the sensor grids, little lines of light blossoming in their wake. "I can't break through the Narada's jamming to ascertain if the foreign matter is alive or dead."
"But they're sentient readings?" Jim butts in.
"Look, I think so," she twists against her harness, angular face intent and angry, "they're definitely biological, but nothing's certain."
Spock clearly respects Uhura's instincts, because he gives the all clear for deployment and Nix is one of the first shuttles propelled into the black.
Spock leans forward on the narrow bench seat to fit his surface boots. They're not standard EPAS Point wear, they're the lightweight, thick-treaded, all-terrain versions. He crosses one ankle lithely over each knee to lace them and doesn't once stop talking into his comm. Jim finishes tightening his own even as Uhura words them up on their ETA, the craft spiralling deceptively casually towards the ionosphere of the planet below.
Many clicks away in their y-plane, but still closer than comfortable, small Romulan attack craft are blinking in the sunlight.
"Stalwart, Stalwart," Uhura comms instantly. "Request immediate cover fire, copy."
Reading you Nix Alpha, we've got your back.
Uhura nods at the confidence in Gaila's voice. She's a crack shot. On cue, the Romulan crafts disintegrate above them, escape pods and shrapnel hammering their shields and hurtling haphazardly towards Aspera's surface, blinking out sight in the ecliptic.
Still monitoring all channels as his immediate duties to the Division, Spock twists in his harness to address his crew just as the outer hull-plating begins to hiss and pop with friction.
"Shuttles are deployed in classic grid formation for surface retrieval. ED996 has been allocated the summit of one of the higher peaks. The descent of the Romulan energy weapon within the planet's atmosphere has resulted in an unpredictable and severe weather system. There is the potential for subzero conditions, winds in excess of one hundred kilometers an hour and falling trees. According to confirmation from Ops sensor sweeps, we can expect approximately one hundred and seventy survivors scattered throughout the northern and eastern arms of this mountain range." Spock pauses for emphasis. "We know from Nero's previous attempts to gain technology and hostages that he will doubtless have soldiers on the planet's surface."
McCoy's bushy eyebrows descend and through the narrow gap that leads to the cockpit, Jim can see Uhura's fingers blanch on the controls. Academically, they all know that this isn't just a simple search and rescue operation, they know that Nero wants any and all materiel that slips between worlds with almost manic intensity. That means enemy troops, and this time there are no Fleet personnel standing in the way.
"Standard EPAS protocols apply," Spock reminds them, his voice particularly firm. "We will not ignore any request for assistance."
"Sure," McCoy nods, still frowning, "but tell me we're prioritizing? If Nero wants his goons back, he can damn well beam them out himself!"
Spock's face is utterly emotionless. "Surface conditions are not conducive to differentiating between species via tricorder readings. We have no political affiliation. We will simply do our duty to the best of our ability."
"Dammit, Spock, who's side are you on? I know what the rule book says, but out here with Nero doing his best to kill us, it's pretty clear where our loyalties lie!"
"Indeed," says the Commander calmly. "It lies with those stranded on the planet's surface enduring inhospitable conditions."
"Inhospitable my ass!" McCoy hisses, characteristically goaded by Spock's attitude. "We're just supposed to save those bastards too? Don't you remember how this got started?"
"It 'got started' with the destruction of the USS Kelvin approximately twenty six years ago, Doctor."
"I'm not talking about the whole goddamn war!" The doctor flings an arm in a wide arc. "Sorry Jim," he interjects, pausing for a pained look in his direction in honor of his father, "but I'm talking about the here and now, about our quiet little aid camp that's going to get blown all to hell because of Nero's obsession with alternate realities!"
There's a pause while Uhura wrestles with the flaps as they hit the perimeter of the weather. The gap in the conversation leaves all three of them in the back waiting for someone else to speak, to acknowledge that the top secret nature of Nero’s presence in their lives isn’t quite so secret. Predictably, it's Jim who breaks the quiet.
"You're not counting the potential gain to Starfleet Intelligence if some of Nero's troops get mixed up in our saves. Not all Romulans are the enemy. What about the poor bastards who fall through space? For all we know, where they come from, Romulus has been part of the Federation since before you were born. I hear what you're saying, Bones, but I know you," he coaxes, "you don't seriously want our Points to just leave people to die."
"Don't I?" McCoy is in fine fettle, his face flushed with anger and the desperation they've all been feeling since hearing the news of Robicon IV's destruction. "Seems to me that with Nero knocking on our front door, it's time for us to get a little choosy about who we're patching up and sending back out there into the fight."
"Despite our current mission, we are not a military organization, Doctor, and you are not in command of this fleet," Spock reminds him, clear reprimand in his tone.
"Well, that much is obvious," Bones snarls, "or we wouldn't be wasting our resources on saving them instead of saving human lives!"
In the deadly silence that follows that remark, Jim has a sick feeling. He desperately wants to disengage from the conversation, but he can't seem to tear his eyes away from Spock's face. McCoy's too busy looking thoroughly embarrassed to notice, but there's a tightness around their DivCO's mouth and a sudden stiffness to his posture that speaks of considerable control.
"Spock, I ..." McCoy chokes.
"Silence."
"You know that's not what I meant."
Spock's voice is ice cold. "Not another word, Doctor."
Bones blanches and scooches back in his seat a little. Jim's heart is pounding in his throat, because there's no way Bones actually said that. Has it got so bad that even the most compassionate of men, the most dedicated to their cause, could draw a line between humanity and the rest of the universe? Had life aboard the Stalwart degenerated so finely into us and them?
McCoy decides to be obedient and Spock just sits there being jostled in his harness, staring straight ahead as though his dark eyes can bore holes in the bulkhead. This leaves Jim to battle ugly thoughts amongst the pits and troughs of turbulence. He's not sure how, but he's going to find a way to patch things up between those two. He's still looking for an opening when Uhura vectors in their final approach and the air currents turn from buffeting to downright violent.
"Commander, I don't think I can set us down," she says tightly. "Not without risking some serious wind shear."
"Then hold your position, Lieutenant," Spock acknowledges. "We will use rappels."
"Copy."
"Spock," Jim says softly, forestalling him as his hand reaches for the door control, moments away from the blinding rain and howling wind. The Commander tilts his head in inquiry, his eyes blank, his expression more closed than ever.
"I don't think Bones meant that like it sounded." He eyes Spock earnestly, hoping for some glimmer of understanding, some suggestion that he knows McCoy is better than that, better than all this shit they're living. They're about to leap blindly out of an aircraft that's being pursued by the Federation's most violent enemy. Post-mission reconciliation just may not be an option.
"The drop is approximately thirty meters and the prevailing wind is from the south," Spock informs him as though he hasn't spoken. "Ensure you allow sufficient outward swing to clear the port runner."
Feeling no better, Jim nods. "Understood."
Spock palms the door control and the hinges groan as the wind grips the metal arc like a wing and tries to tip them over into a spiral. Uhura swears mightily and Nix rocks back to the level.
"Make it quick, you guys!"
Spock clips in and launches himself into an outward arc in one fluid movement, disappearing into the maelstrom like a leaf on the wind. Jim grips the handhold and settles the goggles over his eyes. Two seconds later, Spock's voice crackles to life in his hood, giving the all clear. Jim tests his line, squares his shoulders, and falls into darkness and rain.
-:-
"This is bullshit!" Jim exclaims some time later, using the back of one hand to wipe some of the water from his goggles. "We can't see two feet in front of our faces, let alone track survivors in this."
"Faint life signs approximately two hundred meters to the north," Spock replies, his face silhouetted in the rain sparkles created by his hood lamp. "I believe we will be required to scale a considerable ..."
Commander Spock, this is echo delta five nine three, over.
Spock pauses and thumbs his comm. "This is Spock."
Sir, Lieutenant Sanders here, we're encountering significant issues evacuating some of the survivors, over.
"Clarify."
It's the temperature, sir. We're up here on the western spine and it's the tricorders say it's about two seventy one Kelvin. It's bad enough for us, sir, but there are some Vulcan civilians here that just aren't coping and some of Nero's soldiers we've captured. We can't beam them out thanks to the jamming and their body temperature was already dangerously low when we found them. The construction crew ... well, let's just say they haven't exactly pooled their resources.
Spock lets his hand fall from his hood. Jim watches as his lips part slightly, his hotter-than-human breath billowing in the pool of light he creates. It's no secret that Romulans are a Vulcanoid race; Spock will understand better than anybody just how compromising the extreme cold and wind-chill is becoming on desert-bred physiology.
After a few seconds, Spock thumbs his comm again decisively. "Sanders, stand by." He takes two steps towards Jim, his face set in concentration, his expressionlessness shattered by the effort to think in the driving storm. Even here, sheltered by a ledge in the lee of the mountain, each of them is buffeted and grabbed as if by cold hands.
"What are you thinking?" Jim asks, recognising the beginnings of a plan in his eyes.
"Have the proposed orbital weather platforms been deployed?"
"Deployed, yes," Jim confirms, "but not activated, and they're only designed to stabilize upper atmospheric conditions directly over the aid camp. They're no match for the disturbances being created by the drill platform."
"Can you interface with them?" Spock wants to know, ignoring the objections.
Jim's hands go to the PADD in his thigh pocket. "Well, yeah, theoretically it's possible." He pulls it out into the rain, the firm, spongy texture of the protective covering easy to hold even with slippery gloves. "There are going to be issues with security, though. They make these things pretty hard to hack, especially on a cold boot routine. What are we trying to do?"
"Approximate duration of this storm center," Spock snaps. "Predicted wind direction in fifteen minute intervals." He's shouting over the storm, already readying his harness for the gruelling climb ahead of them.
Jim hunkers down, putting his back to the worst of it and runs the preliminary shell he'll use to initiate the satellites. "Don't ask for much, do you?"
"If ED593's saves have been exposed to these temperatures for a prolonged period of time without appropriate attire or shelter, then it is possible that we have very little time to extract useful information before they become irrevocably compromised."
Jim looks up, squinting against Spock's lamp. "You mean it will kill them."
"As I am unsure of their current status, it is unwise to speculate."
Spock drives the first spike into the cliff face, anchoring their line. Jim's fingers are flying over the screen, but he spares a worried glance for the slight stiffness in the Commander's movements. He has thermals and an EVA suit to shield him, but Jim's human and it's fucking cold. The longer they stand around here waiting for an uplink to the weather platforms, the more Spock's ability to climb safely will be affected.
A spectacular gust of wind drives the rain in an arc, hammering up under Jim's crouch to blast water into his face. His goggles protect his eyes, but he's left coughing and spluttering by the sheer force of it. Luckily, the PADD flashes green with the news they have full access to climatic controls. Chekov would be proud.
"We're in business!" he crows, glancing up and smiling through numb lips.
The climbing rope whips like an angry snake around its sole anchor point and Spock is nowhere to be seen.
-:-
Above Aspera's surface, the Stalwart slingshots around the secondary moon to avoid incoming fire from a Romulan aggressor. Taylor hangs grimly to the arms of the captain's chair, his eyes determined even though his lips tremble as the old ship barely makes the turn in time. Sparkling prisms of green brush the aft shields and sail into the black to detonate harmlessly against the system's inner asteroid field.
Gaila gently looses the breath she's been holding and forces herself back into the flow of her own work. Along with sixteen other Ops techs strewn around the semi-circle that makes up Bridge Tactical, she's not only keeping an eye out for her own personal crew, ED996, but also monitoring incoming ordinance and the position of every other vessel that crosses her designated flight area. When a ship blips out of her zone, she automatically forwards it to the right Ops tech with a flick of her finger across the touch screen.
"Nix, your Ops here. Guard your six, incoming by two, your advantage in atmo."
Copy that. Going low. Uhura's voice is tense but steady as she flips the rescue shuttle into a steep dive and re-enters Aspera's exosphere based on Gaila's advice.
The Romulan fighters follow as low as the F-range before breaking off to address easier pickings. Gaila relaxes for a split second before Jim Kirk's frequency demands her attention.
Ops, this is Kirk. Gaila, Spock just fucking disappeared. I need his twenty, over.
Her stomach drops but she hurries to comply, sweeping their assigned search area and then doing it again when it comes up blank the first time. Frustrated and panicked, she widens the scan, cursing under her breath as the electrical storms and distortion from Nero's jamming makes the task practically impossible.
Gaila, his twenty!
She takes a split second to force herself to breathe before replying. "I can't find him, Jim. What the hell happened?"
There's silence on the other end of the line, then a burst of wind and rain as Jim activates the comm, says nothing and then deactivates it again.
"Nix Point One, sitrep, over," she demands, knowing they're losing precious seconds to assess the situation.
I'm transmitting my exact co-ordinates now, Jim says tensely. I only looked away a split second and he was gone. It must have been a transporter; if he'd been blown off the cliff we'd still be able to read his signal. He must be out of range or somewhere shielded.
"You're saying Nero beamed him out?" Gaila jams a finger into her earpiece as though she couldn't possibly have heard correctly. "Jim, it's a nightmare out there, locking onto a specific person without knowing their transponder frequency is impossible, especially with Nero playing hide-and-seek with us."
Future tech, Jim spits, and she can tell even across the shitty line that he's furious. Also, the Commander has a pretty distinctive biosign reading, wouldn't you agree?
Gaila devotes half her attention to Jim's theory and the other half to ensuring Navigation have the most up to date telemetry on the Narada which is moving to engage the Stalwart again when they emerge from their lunar orbit. "Okay, so let's say Nero's got Spock," she allows, "you're now the DivCO, what do we do?"
We get him the hell back.
"Seconded, but how?"
Make a list of anything that was in the area with sufficient shielding to interfere with an EPAS transponder at the time Spock disappeared, then deliver it to my PADD.
"Working on it."
-:-
Jim feels the rope bite deeper into his right arm as he inches over the edge of the cliff. The wind buffets him, grabbing at him with murderous hands, but he resolutely leans out into the darkness, fighting down his fear of heights to play the scanner one more time over the deadly drop below. It bleeps at him in the negative. No life signs. Definitely no non-native biological signs. Wherever Spock is, he's not smashed dead on the rocks below. The thought should be cheerier than it is, but he's very much aware that the alternative might be even less pleasant. Nero isn't famous for his hospitality, plus he has a special dislike reserved for Vulcans, one in particular.
His PADD vibrates in its holster, alerting him that Gaila has once again compiled data in record time.
Using the rope to guide him to safety, Jim scans the alarmingly long list with rising panic until one entry leaps out at him. He thumbs the comm and selects the Stalwart command channel first.
"This is Div Point One for Captain Taylor, priority one, over."
Acknowledged, Lieutenant Kirk. Patching you through.
A brief pause and then Taylor's voice. Kirk, what do you want?
"Sir, they've taken Spock. Prime Division is encountering localized aggression from Nero's ground troops but we're holding our own for now. Request permission to retrieve Commander Spock and disable the drill platform, over.”
If you can deliver on that, son, you go right ahead, Taylor replies instantly. With that platform out of action, we might be able to raise the incoming Robii fleet and advise them of the situation before they get stuck in the middle of this.
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Kirk, out."
Jim has never been more grateful in his life for a quick decision from Taylor. He flips to Nix's channel immediately. "Kirk to Uhura, one to beam out."
Where's Spock? Is her instant demand.
"Don't worry," he grins fiercely. "He’s way ahead of us."
-:-
Spock turns his stagger into a shoulder roll as he unexpectedly rematerializes. His instincts serve him well, allowing him to duck two stun bolts before the third clips him in the arm, numbing half his body and sending him toppling to the deck. Sweeping aside the knot of primal fear at being incapacitated, he uses brute strength to flip onto his back one-armed. Whatever is coming next, he wants to stare it in the face.
A tattooed Romulan looms over him with a kind of fascinated sneer. "Ta-krenn! Hnafirh'au-d?"
Another soldier steps forward, stun pistol still warm in his hand from gunning Spock down. "Rha," he grins. "Hnafirh'rau te yyaio."
Spock glances around the small transporter bay and realizes where he is. He feels the absence of the chilling wind as a pseudo warmth on his face even as the knowledge that he will most likely not survive this encounter envelops him. Rainwater drips down from his hood, forming rivulets across his goggles.
Yes, the second Romulan, the superior, had said. Let me have a look at the dead one.
-:-
"What's the situation?" Jim demands, feeling like urgency has forced him to speak before his molecules are even properly reassembled.
"Ridiculous!" McCoy growls. "I just had a Klingon in my medbay, bleating at me in perfect Standard about whether or not we'd saved her human husband! Just what the hell kind of universe are these people coming from?"
"Sounds like a better one than ours," Jim grits out, catching himself on the bulkhead to lean into the cockpit. "Uhura, coordinate what cover we can from the Stalwart's phaser banks and take us in hard."
"Destination?" she asks steadily, already comming through Jim's request.
Jim stares out the viewport at the tiny twinkle on the planetary horizon. "There," he says, pointing. "The orbital weather satellite control platform. That's where they've taken Spock."
"How do you know?"
"Trust me," he grins, licking his lips, "he's there."
"Jim Kirk, I am not taking this shuttle and everyone aboard on some wild goose chase backed by a hunch, so damn well tell me how ..."
"Moments before he was taken we were working on hacking the satellites. Spock had a plan, I don't know what it was, but they must have intercepted my transmission. I didn't have time to encrypt it. Nero's not an idiot, he has extensive files on key Federation personnel, that much we know from what little intelligence we have on his operation. He knows who Spock is, what he's capable of, better than anyone. If I were Nero, I wouldn't want a brilliant Vulcan launching a counter offensive on my little sneak attack, would you?" He stops to breathe, hands clenched at his sides. Some of it's a cover but Uhura doesn't have sufficient clearance for the truth and the basis of his assumption is unaffected.
"Tenuous at best," she challenges. "We haven't got the resources to waste with shadows and guesswork. If Nero took Spock, why wouldn't he be on the Narada? It's more secure, it's more defensible, and if he's such a valuable prisoner, wouldn't Nero want to question him personally?"
Jim grits his teeth in frustration, feeling the ache in his jaw. "If you were an alien lunatic genius, would you want Spock at the beating heart of your operation or somewhere more peripheral where he could do less damage?"
"He's one Vulcan, against who knows how many Romulan foot soldiers. How dangerous can he be?" Uhura barely finishes the question before her expression shifts to one of reluctant admission. "Okay, so Nero doesn't trust him, doesn't trust his own soldiers to contain him. We know Spock, we know what he's capable of, what makes you think Nero understands the lengths he'd go to in order to end this war?"
Jim's eyes are hard and very blue as he turns Uhura around by the shoulder to face her controls again. Fuck the Security Council and fuck Uhura's clearance; the time of plausible denial is long gone.
"Nero knows Spock, too."
"What?" she exclaims, but she's already plotting a course and laying it in. "Since when?"
"Since a universe ago."
"Jim, what the hell?"
"Shut up and fly!" he shouts, but instantly contrite, he grips her shoulder in apology. "We don't know how much time we have."
"He better be there," she mutters, somewhat mollified.
"He is," Jim whispers. "I know it."
Moments pass where the only sounds in the shuttle are the constant prattle of DivCO updates in Jim's comm and McCoy's tense muttering. Then Jim has an epiphany.
"I know what Spock was planning!" he crows. "God damn it, he's brilliant!"
"Plan? What plan?" Bones growls impatiently.
"Uhura," Jim says excitedly, ignoring the doctor in his haste to set things in motion. "Get Chekov to the Stalwart's auxiliary transporter room along with an armed Security escort, as many as Taylor will spare."
"The brawn I understand," she nods. "But Pavel?"
"I need his wery impressive brain," Jim grins, waggling his eyebrows.
-:-
The temperature differential creates a billow of steam and the docking hatch hits the wall with a clang. Jim is first through the porthole, as befits a Point, with Security and Uhura close behind. McCoy hangs in the rear, weighed down by his medkit and disadvantaged in the hypothetical firefight Jim is really hoping to avoid.
"Secure us a path to the bridge," he commands, gesturing at their armed guard. "Scan for Spock's biosigns as you go and forward your findings to me. Defend yourselves but don't start anything. The longer they don't know we're here, the greater our chance of success."
The Security troops salute crisply and quickly advance into the main corridor, their phasers held low but the safeties off.
"Hello, Lieutenant," Chekov salutes him with one finger as he materializes inside the docking bay. "You mind telling me what we're doing?"
Jim claps him on the shoulder and steps out into the installation proper. "We're going to get Spock back and then we're going to see which way the wind is blowing."
"You are not as funny as you think you are," Chekov informs him, but pulls his phaser and follows seamlessly, Uhura and Bones bringing up the rear.
The weather control platform is dimly lit, still running on minimal power. As yet, Jim still can't be one hundred percent sure he's guessed correctly, but something tells him he has and that Spock is here somewhere, his signal dampened by the heavy duty electromagnetic shielding designed to protect the satellite's delicate innards. It's more than a hunch but less than a certainty and he really would have hoped for something more concrete. He's the one leading them all into Nero's figurative clutches, regardless of the loyalty they all feel for their DivCO. He imagines what Spock will say when they find him, the disapproval in response to Jim's reallocation of essential resources to save one life instead of the many on the planet below. How to explain that it was no choice at all? That abandoning Spock to Nero was an impossibility, both for him and Nix's crew?
Resolutely, Jim pushes his doubts aside, all of them. Spock is here, somewhere, and it's up to them to find him before Nero extracts his pound of flesh.
-:-
"Divisional Commander Spock."
The deep gravel of that voice is laced with humor and hatred, both. It gives Spock the strength he needs to lift his head, one side of his face still numb from the stun blast. The visage that greets him on the viewer is hauntingly familiar. Prime's memories flood his visual cortex, overlaying many perspectives and incarnations of that face.
"Nero," he names him, the words somewhat distorted by his left-sided weakness.
The Romulan commander turns an accusatory stare on his underlings. "What have you done to him? I told you to acquire him in pristine condition!"
Spock's senior captor makes a subservient gesture. "He was difficult to subdue, my lord."
"Yes," Nero hisses. "He would be."
"What do you want with me?" Spock manages, trying to lessen the degree he is leaning on the junior Romulan, his mind roiling with the fear, adrenaline and violence of the other's touch.
"With you?" Nero sounds surprised. "Why, nothing, my treacherous friend." He bares his teeth in a vicious parody of a smile. "My revenge is already exacted upon your tainted soul. The loss of your planet is sufficient recompense for your own sins, if not for the sins of the greater Federation whole."
Spock feels a wave of grief wash over him, normal control impaired by the circumstances and the stun blast. The only thing that saves him, that reforms him, is the tiny kernel of insight gifted to him by his counterpart.
"You yearn to lay the blame for the destruction of Vulcan at my feet, but wishing will not make it so," he says calmly. "You are guilty of a greater crime than my counterpart, for the deaths you cause are fuelled by rage and intent, each and every one of them a blight of revenge upon your katra that you will never erase." He pauses for breath. "Not if you search your whole life, and certainly not by punishing me."
Nero laughs dismissively, his whole face filled with derision except for his eyes which burn with white-hot anger. "How poetic, and if I may say so, how uncharacteristically dramatic, Spock. You surprise me." He claps condescendingly as one might at a live performance. "How human you are in this universe, how governed by your feelings and your prejudice."
Spock remains silent and watchful. Nero has yet to reveal his purpose. Whatever it may be, he doubts it is merely their conversation. Mad he may be, and unpredictable, but Spock has never believed him careless or casual. There is a purpose to his abduction, one greater than the balm to Nero's vanity. Additionally, every second they talk is a moment longer for Spock to evaluate the possibility of escape, and another chance for EPAS to hold fast and protect Aspera and the incoming Robii fleet.
"I am not ashamed of my humanity," he returns, pleased when it elicits an emotional response from the Romulan, even if it is not the one he expects.
Nero throws his head back and laughs, deep and rich in a way that speaks more of hatred than humour. "You lie well for a Vulcan."
"Was that a compliment?"
"It is an unusual skill to have cultivated," Nero continues, the smile still playing along his tattooed lips. "I wonder what motivated you? Certainly the Spock I knew only told me one lie." His face contorts in remembered grief and he brings a fist down on something hard out of the camera's line of sight. "It was the day he promised to save Romulus and instead let us die in flames!"
"He fully intended to save your planet."
"How could you possibly know that?" Nero demands wildly, then pauses, eyes narrowing. "He is here? In this world?"
Spock cannot suppress the sudden clench of his jaw. Defending Prime was a miscalculation and one that may cost him and his counterpart most dearly. Silence is his only defense.
Nero leans forward, his scarred face filling up the small viewscreen. "Tell me where he is and I will spare your life."
The senior Romulan pulls his weapon and presses it hard into Spock's temple.
"I do not know my counterpart's current location," he says, because it is true, and also, he may be Vulcan but instinct demands he eke out every last possible second of his life.
"Lies!" Nero roars and the weapon is ground more firmly into Spock's skull. "Tell me the truth and your death will be painless!"
Seconds tick away and Spock can see no way out. The satellite's shielding will conceal his location, in his weakened state he is no match for Romulan strength, lies serve him poorly but he cannot give an honest answer for fear of jeopardising the incoming Vulcan fleet and Tat'sar support. As hopeless as it is, there is only one avenue open to him.
So it is that Spock straightens as much as he is able. "I would not help you with the last breath in my body," he proclaims, then lashes out viciously with the side of his palm and breaks the senior guard's neck with a satisfying crack. The weapon discharges and his head fills with excruciating heat. The last sound to reach his ears is Nero's manic laughter.
-:-
Spurred into action by the sound of weapons fire, Jim bursts into the communications room to find Spock flat on his back, arms and legs splayed, the floor splashed with copious amounts of green blood. One wall of the room contains a smoking ruin where a viewscreen once stood.
"Spock!" The sound is torn from his throat, raw and terrified.
Jim's headlong sprint continues across the deck. He has his phaser in hand, eyes flicking left and right, up and down, but centring always on the three bodies. The other two are Romulan, that much is evident from the extensive tattooing. One is missing most of his face and the other lies on the deck with his neck at an impossible angle. Bones and Chekov filter into the room behind him, but it hardly registers because Jim has just spotted the shallow rise and fall of Spock's chest.
His knees hit the deck hard enough to bruise, but it gets him to Spock's side a fraction faster, so it's worth it. The steady thrum of a Vulcan heartbeat is easily perceptible through the thin EVA suit. Jim's other hand is patting him down, searching for the source of all the blood. It's sticky and cloying, gluing his fingers together like honey and it smells terrifying and fecund, like water from an old kettle.
"I am not wounded" Spock says, blinking his way back to consciousness, attempting to push upright. "Jim, the blood is not mine."
"Some of it damn well is!" He glances over his shoulder, face set, eyes burning. "Bones!"
Spock raises a hand to his face and is surprised to see his glove come away warm and green. He has a flash of recollection, of the split second whine of a weapon about to discharge at extremely close range. He remembers the burn and the flash, blinding light ...
"Easy," Jim advises, clutching at him as he lunges up.
"Dammit Jim, hold him still!" Bones growls, adjusting his tricorder with angry flicks of his fingers.
Jim doesn't have much to do; Spock's body is tense, wire taut but obedient. Chekov is ostensibly covering the door with Uhura, but he keeps turning his head, glancing towards the injured Commander with wide, fearful eyes. To him, it must be as though the impossible has happened. The paleness of his cheeks and the utter disbelief make it clear that his world has been flung from its axis. Jim understands; Spock looks like a reanimated corpse he's covered in that much gore, which has happened before, but normally it's not green. Spock cannot be fatally wounded, it is an unwritten law amongst Prime Division.
"Point blank energy burn," McCoy notes under his breath, the adds almost to himself, "a fraction to the right and we wouldn't be having this conversation."
"Will he be okay?"
McCoy pulls a face as he sets to work with a dermal knitter. "There are documented synaptic disturbances associated with near-misses like these, but in reality," he leans back on his haunches and the light dies from his instruments, "most of it will be shock."
"Doctor, Lieutenant, may I remind you that I am present and conscious?" Spock snaps, tightly controlled.
"Why you ungrateful, arrogant ..." McCoy mutters, pushing to his feet and holstering his equipment with more force than necessary. "Come on, kid," he growls at Chekov, "best learn when you're not wanted." He turns to Jim, his expression still torn between concern and irritation. "Coming or what?"
Stiffly, Spock pulls out of Kirk's hold, moving himself up onto one elbow. "I take it you have ascertained the purpose of gaining control of the weather platform and associated satellites?"
Jim nods, but all he says is, "we need to get you out of here, back to the ship."
Spock frowns but the effect is somewhat ruined by the paleness of his face and the blood still oozing slightly from McCoy's ten second patch up. "Lieutenant Kirk, you must complete the mission. I will stay here and guard the approach."
Jim stares down into those dark eyes, and feels the shaky burn as the adrenaline starts to leave him. Spock's gaze is insistent, almost pleading. It seems this is about more than the people on the station. It could be that this is about boundaries, about drawing a line between what lies unacknowledged between them and the people they have to lead; their mutual disguise. He knows what Spock wants him to do, but for the first time in a long time, Jim is planning to fail a test.
He thumbs his comm and holds Spock's eyes as he speaks into it. "All points this is Lieutenant Kirk. Citing regulation one-oh-one, I'm retaining Divisional Command, over."
A wave of acknowledgement pours over the frequency, and to the Division's credit, not one of them wastes time or breaks protocol to ask if Spock is okay. Regulation one-oh-one means the Commander is either injured, still absent or dead. Momentarily Spock looks really pissed. Before he can say anything, Jim grabs him by the elbow and puts all of his strength into hauling that dense Vulcan body to its feet.
"If you're well enough to contradict me, you're well enough to come with us," he says, taking one long arm and looping it over his shoulders when Spock sways. "We still might need you when it comes to programming the weather, which is a lot more important than the fucking approach and the Romulans that might take advantage of it."
For a moment, it looks like Spock is going to protest both the shift in command, the plan and the thought of using Kirk as a crutch, but whatever he sees in Jim's face, it's enough. He nods, once, then they both raise their heads to the other two.
"Lead on, McDuff," Jim grins.
McCoy rolls his eyes. "Hell of a time to get literary."
Within a few minutes, it's evident that the security crew has forged far ahead of them, even in the small amount of time it took to find Spock and sort out their priorities. It's a damn good thing, too, because Jim is inundated by the constant comm chatter of being a Divisional Commander. Now that the official change of command is out, nothing is getting filtered through Ops anymore and it's doing his head in. Every few steps there's a question that needs answering, a goal that needs re-evaluating. There are status reports, casualty reports, fleet orientation reports. Frankly, Jim is expecting that any minute someone will give him an update about the availability of public toilets. All he wants to do is take a goddamn moment to revel in the feel of Spock's warmth against his side, his weight across his shoulders, but it's a relief he's denied.
The Nix team pause in the shelter of a doorway while Chekov does a quick reconnaissance. Jim takes the opportunity to glance at Spock, his face twisted in assessment. "How are you doing? Some nerve damage? Walking doesn't seem easy."
When he turns, Spock's face is paler than before, his pupils over-dilated even in the bright light. "I admit that it requires significant concentration."
"Hey, you look like shit," Jim observes casually.
"Your observation is inane and insulting."
Jim deliberates for a second, because Spock really does look bad, but he knows even Chekov might need a hand with what they're about to attempt. Oh, he could code it himself if he had all the time in the world, but there are still people on Aspera's surface and the memory of the conditions down there is fresh in his memory. People dying down there, the Robii refugees are en route and the Vulcan support fleet is still at least twenty minutes away. They need help now.
"Okay, I'll haul your ass as far as the bridge, but then we're all getting out of here."
Spock raises one quizzical eyebrow, perfectly disdainful even if it is crusted in blood. "What would be the point in remaining once our mission is complete?"
"Don't sass me," Jim grunts, staggering around another corner under half Spock's weight.
McCoy's head appears around the bend, followed by an exasperated gesture indicating they should hurry up. "Stop gossiping and keep moving! This platform is crawling with Romulans."
Jim takes one step and Spock buckles beside him, pulling him to his knees.
"Ah, Bones? A little help?"
McCoy swears and puts his shoulder to Spock's other armpit. With significant effort and some assistance from the Commander, all three regain their feet.
"Everloving Christ!" the doctor pants. "Spock, your Vulcan hide weighs a ton!"
"Shut up and keep walking," Jim gasps, "we're nearly there."
"This is a bad idea. He's in no fit state to be doing much of anything, let alone hacking orbital platforms."
Spock glares.
"Yeah, well did you want to leave him in the corridor clutching a phaser for the Romulans to find?" Jim groans as they make the bridge and dump Spock into the science seat.
Immediately, Kirk palms his phaser and takes cover behind the consoles with Uhura, both of them guarding the door. Jim presses his finger against the earpiece, jamming it further into his skull to differentiate the different channels. "There are still isolated pockets of resistance," he informs the remaining two Security personnel positioned in the corridor. "Stay sharp, everyone," he releases the comm and turns to speak over his shoulder. "Bones, see what you can do to help Spock with the computers."
"Sure thing," Bones drawls sarcastically, rolling his eyes, but he makes his way over to the science station and proceeds to look studiously over Spock's shoulder.
Then there's nothing but the blinding rattle of Spock and Chekov's fingers across the controls. It sounds like rain falling on a tin roof. There are only occasional pauses where his body catches up to his brain and he has to take a moment to think and re-evaluate. McCoy's eyes seek out Jim's across the room and it's a tacit acknowledgement of the doctor's real agenda. Keep an eye on him, Jim tries to say with nothing more than a firm set to his lips and a slight furrow between his brows.
Bones turns his back on the others and surreptitiously opens his tricorder. Waving it at Spock earns him an impatient exhalation from the patient, but those dark eyes never waver from the screen. The readings are addled, but not life threatening. He's going to have a hell of a headache and a few of his motor neurons are fried, but it doesn't seem to be affecting his fingers or his recall. McCoy snaps the tricorder shut and falls back into watching the lines of code slot into place neatly, flashing green and then melting aside to present the next roadblock. He knows Jim will interpret that correctly in place of a spoken diagnosis.
There's the sound of phaser fire nearby. Jim flinches and grips his weapon more tightly. "DivCO to Security, over?"
Silence rolls over the comms.
"DivCO to Security away team, do you copy?"
Nothing but more silence and then the distant tramp of more than two sets of boots returning from the point position.
"Guys?" Jim calls, not turning to look at them. "How much longer?"
"Approximately one point two minutes remaining," Spock says calmly.
"Okay," Jim acknowledges as the sounds draw close enough that the flashes of covering fire become visible in the dim emergency lighting.
Suddenly the door beside Chekov takes a hit and he tumbles from his console to return fire, jamming his shoulder against the wall, taking cover like a pro.
"Three, maybe four Romulans, sir," the boy informs them, benefited by the new angle. "It is difficult to tell in the dark. I have finished programming the altitude and wectors, Commander Spock, but the atiwation protocol is unfinished, sir."
Two more shots ricochet into the room, setting a chair on fire and showering sparks into the air.
Uhura hastily jams her stolen Romulan disruptor into her waistband. "I can do that," she assures the room. "Basic delayed activation; I can do that."
"A little bit of hurry up, please!" Jim demands, employing a running crouch to bring him level with Chekov on the opposite side of the door. The move gives them flanking capability whilst still providing cover. The two nod to each other and then direct all their concentration into the corridor. It might have been a gesture of solidarity or simply an acknowledgment of the precarious circumstances, but both relax into themselves in the wake of it. There is something undeniably reassuring about knowing that you're not in the shit all by yourself.
"Weather control, engaged," Spock announces. "Engines powering up. Intertial dampeners deactivated."
Jim stands and whirls to face him and the doctor, arm outstretched, phaser pointed right at them.
McCoy boggles. Spock's expression doesn't change in the slightest.
"Well, get out of the damn way, will you?" Jim waves the phaser in a shooing motion.
McCoy and Uhura loop their hands under Spock's arms and haul him aside on the wheeled chair just as Jim lets loose a bolt that cripples the science console. Bones is swearing again and Spock looks vaguely horrified.
"Can't let those bastards undo all your hard work," Jim rationalizes as he grabs Chekov by the collar and strides across the room to Uhura.
When they're all grouped together, he makes the call, and they disappear in a swirl of golden light just as three very angry looking Romulans burst in on them. They rematerialize in the port auxiliary transporter room aboard the Stalwart, with a very shocked and amazed looking Montgomery Scott at the controls.
"Did you see that?" the engineer exclaims. "They were right behind you! Weren't you looking?" He threads his fingers through his thinning ginger hair and lets his jaw fall open in astonishment. "One second later and you'd be toast! What were you waiting for, a written invitation?" His expression darkens to one of anger. "You can't rely on me to be here, you know! What if it were one of the new laddies and he took his sweet time locking on? Where would you be then?"
"Scattered into atoms," Spock replies logically.
Scotty looks to Jim and angles a thumb at the Commander. "Is he trying to be funny?"
"Romulan shot him in the head," Jim shrugs. "Page sickbay and get them to collect him. Meanwhile, I need you to beam us back onto our shuttle."
"What?" Scotty exclaims, aghast. "You barely made it out of there alive! Add to that, thanks to your handiwork, the platform is accelerating at an exponential rate; beaming you back aboard isn't going to be easy!"
Jim opens his mouth to reply just as medical ensign jogs into the room. "You!" Jim says, index finger aimed right at him. "Got any Point training?"
"Uh," the kid stammers, "just Basic, sir."
"Good enough. You're taking Spock's position, I'm your new Point Two. Suit up, you've got sixty seconds."
The kid asks no further questions, just pulls one of the emergency EVA suits from the wall and jams his feet in the legs. Jim likes him already.
Spock steps into his line of sight. "You cannot seriously entertain the notion of returning to the planet's surface. You know what will happen if the weather satellites perform their function."
"Yeah, I do," he says flatly. "Which doesn't change the fact that there are people down there, innocent people and Romulan soldiers with valuable intelligence. Besides," he adds as the whole ship rocks, "you can't exactly tell me that it's safe here on the Stalwart."
"I would not claim something that is so blatantly untrue," Spock agrees. "Regardless of your objections, I am participating in this mission."
"Absolutely not," Jim makes a cutting motion with his hand. "You're injured. You stay here."
Spock turns on his heel, peels off his glove and rolls up his sleeve. "Doctor McCoy, please administer a stimulant and a neurotransmitter stabilizer. You will agree that their effects will counteract the transitory damage caused by the Romulan disruptor."
McCoy looks rebellious, but to Jim's horror, he reaches into his medkit for the requested drugs.
"Bones!"
"He's right, Jim. If I can get him functional again, command cedes back to him. Like it or not, they're the regs."
Kirk turns away, puts his back to them as he hears the hiss of the hypospray and struggles to control his anger. He knows where it comes from, understands that it's got everything to do with the sight of Spock lying on that deck, of not being able to express the true degree of his relief or his gratitude. If life was fair, he'd be allowed one goddamn second to hold him and be thankful, but instead he has this; the hard reality of their work and the oncoming danger that Spock refuses to spare himself.
The Ensign from Medical presents himself, pulling Jim out of his angry reverie. They could do with an extra pair of hands and the kid has obediently suited up. "Name?" he asks, voice a little hoarse with emotion.
"Watson, sir."
Jim raises his eyebrows and swallows a wave of almost hysterical laughter. "Doctor Watson? Are you fucking with me?"
"Uh, no sir?"
Jim massages his temples as they take their places on the pads. "Jesus, my life is insane," he mutters, then sees Watson looking sideways at him and adds, "you're supernumerary, so depending on what we find down there you might be Medical or you might run Point with either of us," he gestures between Spock and himself. "Got it?"
"Understood, sir."
"Put your visor on, Doctor Watson, and pressurize," he advises, dangerously off his game.
"You know," the kid says tentatively as Spock takes his place and gives the command to energise. "Most people just call me Kenny."
next
Fandom: Star Trek XI, TOS references.
Characters: Kirk/Spock, ensemble, OCs.
Rating & Warnings: Strong R - slash, language, adult themes.
Spoilers: For the 2009 movie mostly.
Disclaimer: Fanfiction and fanfiction only, folks.
Betas: the_arc5 who needs ducks. Eight of them.
Author's Note: This is written for stripedpetunia on trek_exchange.
Apologies for the double length of time between posting, at least it results in a double-length chapter, right? Ahem. The crew of ED996 are caught in the middle of a firefight they're not equipped to handle, hurtling towards a planet that's being torn apart before their eyes, and as if that isn't enough, Nero has an agenda ...
previous
Chapter 5.4
Their entry plane to the planet Aspera is parallel to the ecliptic, the Laplacian at the very worst. Spock had argued that this would give the Stalwart and her two EPAS Prime Division sister ships, the Carpathia and the Atlas, best possible cover from the systems other planetary bodies and numerous asteroid fields. What Nero can't get a line of sight on, he can't shoot. As much as Spock doubts his own military mind, Jim believes wholeheartedly in his worth as a tactician. Spock in the center seat of a Starfleet vessel would be a force to be reckoned with.
Many of the necessary calculations are based on hastily collected data from their previous visit. The displaced Vulcan people, as meticulous as they are, had quite rationally spent little of their space-going resources on charting little used areas of their newly acquired Nu'ri Ah'rak protectorate, focusing instead on establishing trade routes and fortifying their new home world. That means that the Stalwart's navcomps keep throwing out computational errors relating to the haphazard and incomplete spatial data collected during EPAS' brief survey mission on Aspera. While the ship is clearly outdated from the navcomp right through to the last rivet in her hull, not even the Fleet's flagship could have extrapolated between the sparsity of available data points. When Taylor and Harris flounder in the face of this reality, Gaila pipes up from her station in Ops and respectfully suggests they call Ensign Chekov to the bridge and have him do the calculations by hand.
This is met with blank stares, but such things have never really intimidated Gaila, so she simply flexes her burn-scarred fingers in impatience and repeats herself, with an addendum to check with the DivCO if they doubt the whiz-kid's ability to deliver their in-system trajectory accurately.
Spock is paged and shortly thereafter, Chekov arrives on the bridge, data PADD in hand and adorable accent intact. Gaila smilingly makes space for him at an Ops console and blows a kiss a their XO, who looks away hastily.
"Can you do it, baby?"she asks with confidence.
"It is wery difficult," Chekov admits. "Like playing join-the-dots, but only in the dark."
She presses a kiss to his cheek and grins at the blush it earns her. "I'd fly your course blind-folded, kiddo."
Chekov bows his head and enters into the minefield of warp navigation like a fish to water.
Gaila considers her job here done.
-:-
They make it to the Aspera System approximately fifteen minutes earlier than the other two ships, mostly thanks to Scotty's ingenious organic warp matrix. The Points, Pilots and Medics have been suited and ready for about an hour. Nero has been known to employ advanced technology to rip unsuspecting and unprepared ships out of warp without warning. Jim has the unsettling feeling that Scotty is almost wishing they'll be yanked back into sub-light speeds, simply so he can analyze the mechanics of the way it's done. From the slight frown on Spock's face, it appears he also finds the Engineer's enthusiasm a little misplaced.
They arrive unmolested in a blip of light, slowing to impulse in the shadow of Aspera's larger moon. Even strapped in and resting on the hangar deck, Nix's sensors go wild.
"There is so much stuff out there I'm having trouble differentiating life sign readings," Uhura says hurriedly. "I've got maybe one ... no, make that nearly two hundred," she growls in annoyance. "I've got between one and two hundred organic masses within our maximum deployment sphere," she amends, but the tone of her voice tells everyone she's pissed about the lack of accuracy.
"Highest concentration?" Spock wants to know.
"The surface of the planet," Uhura replies, fingers skating over the sensor grids, little lines of light blossoming in their wake. "I can't break through the Narada's jamming to ascertain if the foreign matter is alive or dead."
"But they're sentient readings?" Jim butts in.
"Look, I think so," she twists against her harness, angular face intent and angry, "they're definitely biological, but nothing's certain."
Spock clearly respects Uhura's instincts, because he gives the all clear for deployment and Nix is one of the first shuttles propelled into the black.
Spock leans forward on the narrow bench seat to fit his surface boots. They're not standard EPAS Point wear, they're the lightweight, thick-treaded, all-terrain versions. He crosses one ankle lithely over each knee to lace them and doesn't once stop talking into his comm. Jim finishes tightening his own even as Uhura words them up on their ETA, the craft spiralling deceptively casually towards the ionosphere of the planet below.
Many clicks away in their y-plane, but still closer than comfortable, small Romulan attack craft are blinking in the sunlight.
"Stalwart, Stalwart," Uhura comms instantly. "Request immediate cover fire, copy."
Reading you Nix Alpha, we've got your back.
Uhura nods at the confidence in Gaila's voice. She's a crack shot. On cue, the Romulan crafts disintegrate above them, escape pods and shrapnel hammering their shields and hurtling haphazardly towards Aspera's surface, blinking out sight in the ecliptic.
Still monitoring all channels as his immediate duties to the Division, Spock twists in his harness to address his crew just as the outer hull-plating begins to hiss and pop with friction.
"Shuttles are deployed in classic grid formation for surface retrieval. ED996 has been allocated the summit of one of the higher peaks. The descent of the Romulan energy weapon within the planet's atmosphere has resulted in an unpredictable and severe weather system. There is the potential for subzero conditions, winds in excess of one hundred kilometers an hour and falling trees. According to confirmation from Ops sensor sweeps, we can expect approximately one hundred and seventy survivors scattered throughout the northern and eastern arms of this mountain range." Spock pauses for emphasis. "We know from Nero's previous attempts to gain technology and hostages that he will doubtless have soldiers on the planet's surface."
McCoy's bushy eyebrows descend and through the narrow gap that leads to the cockpit, Jim can see Uhura's fingers blanch on the controls. Academically, they all know that this isn't just a simple search and rescue operation, they know that Nero wants any and all materiel that slips between worlds with almost manic intensity. That means enemy troops, and this time there are no Fleet personnel standing in the way.
"Standard EPAS protocols apply," Spock reminds them, his voice particularly firm. "We will not ignore any request for assistance."
"Sure," McCoy nods, still frowning, "but tell me we're prioritizing? If Nero wants his goons back, he can damn well beam them out himself!"
Spock's face is utterly emotionless. "Surface conditions are not conducive to differentiating between species via tricorder readings. We have no political affiliation. We will simply do our duty to the best of our ability."
"Dammit, Spock, who's side are you on? I know what the rule book says, but out here with Nero doing his best to kill us, it's pretty clear where our loyalties lie!"
"Indeed," says the Commander calmly. "It lies with those stranded on the planet's surface enduring inhospitable conditions."
"Inhospitable my ass!" McCoy hisses, characteristically goaded by Spock's attitude. "We're just supposed to save those bastards too? Don't you remember how this got started?"
"It 'got started' with the destruction of the USS Kelvin approximately twenty six years ago, Doctor."
"I'm not talking about the whole goddamn war!" The doctor flings an arm in a wide arc. "Sorry Jim," he interjects, pausing for a pained look in his direction in honor of his father, "but I'm talking about the here and now, about our quiet little aid camp that's going to get blown all to hell because of Nero's obsession with alternate realities!"
There's a pause while Uhura wrestles with the flaps as they hit the perimeter of the weather. The gap in the conversation leaves all three of them in the back waiting for someone else to speak, to acknowledge that the top secret nature of Nero’s presence in their lives isn’t quite so secret. Predictably, it's Jim who breaks the quiet.
"You're not counting the potential gain to Starfleet Intelligence if some of Nero's troops get mixed up in our saves. Not all Romulans are the enemy. What about the poor bastards who fall through space? For all we know, where they come from, Romulus has been part of the Federation since before you were born. I hear what you're saying, Bones, but I know you," he coaxes, "you don't seriously want our Points to just leave people to die."
"Don't I?" McCoy is in fine fettle, his face flushed with anger and the desperation they've all been feeling since hearing the news of Robicon IV's destruction. "Seems to me that with Nero knocking on our front door, it's time for us to get a little choosy about who we're patching up and sending back out there into the fight."
"Despite our current mission, we are not a military organization, Doctor, and you are not in command of this fleet," Spock reminds him, clear reprimand in his tone.
"Well, that much is obvious," Bones snarls, "or we wouldn't be wasting our resources on saving them instead of saving human lives!"
In the deadly silence that follows that remark, Jim has a sick feeling. He desperately wants to disengage from the conversation, but he can't seem to tear his eyes away from Spock's face. McCoy's too busy looking thoroughly embarrassed to notice, but there's a tightness around their DivCO's mouth and a sudden stiffness to his posture that speaks of considerable control.
"Spock, I ..." McCoy chokes.
"Silence."
"You know that's not what I meant."
Spock's voice is ice cold. "Not another word, Doctor."
Bones blanches and scooches back in his seat a little. Jim's heart is pounding in his throat, because there's no way Bones actually said that. Has it got so bad that even the most compassionate of men, the most dedicated to their cause, could draw a line between humanity and the rest of the universe? Had life aboard the Stalwart degenerated so finely into us and them?
McCoy decides to be obedient and Spock just sits there being jostled in his harness, staring straight ahead as though his dark eyes can bore holes in the bulkhead. This leaves Jim to battle ugly thoughts amongst the pits and troughs of turbulence. He's not sure how, but he's going to find a way to patch things up between those two. He's still looking for an opening when Uhura vectors in their final approach and the air currents turn from buffeting to downright violent.
"Commander, I don't think I can set us down," she says tightly. "Not without risking some serious wind shear."
"Then hold your position, Lieutenant," Spock acknowledges. "We will use rappels."
"Copy."
"Spock," Jim says softly, forestalling him as his hand reaches for the door control, moments away from the blinding rain and howling wind. The Commander tilts his head in inquiry, his eyes blank, his expression more closed than ever.
"I don't think Bones meant that like it sounded." He eyes Spock earnestly, hoping for some glimmer of understanding, some suggestion that he knows McCoy is better than that, better than all this shit they're living. They're about to leap blindly out of an aircraft that's being pursued by the Federation's most violent enemy. Post-mission reconciliation just may not be an option.
"The drop is approximately thirty meters and the prevailing wind is from the south," Spock informs him as though he hasn't spoken. "Ensure you allow sufficient outward swing to clear the port runner."
Feeling no better, Jim nods. "Understood."
Spock palms the door control and the hinges groan as the wind grips the metal arc like a wing and tries to tip them over into a spiral. Uhura swears mightily and Nix rocks back to the level.
"Make it quick, you guys!"
Spock clips in and launches himself into an outward arc in one fluid movement, disappearing into the maelstrom like a leaf on the wind. Jim grips the handhold and settles the goggles over his eyes. Two seconds later, Spock's voice crackles to life in his hood, giving the all clear. Jim tests his line, squares his shoulders, and falls into darkness and rain.
-:-
"This is bullshit!" Jim exclaims some time later, using the back of one hand to wipe some of the water from his goggles. "We can't see two feet in front of our faces, let alone track survivors in this."
"Faint life signs approximately two hundred meters to the north," Spock replies, his face silhouetted in the rain sparkles created by his hood lamp. "I believe we will be required to scale a considerable ..."
Commander Spock, this is echo delta five nine three, over.
Spock pauses and thumbs his comm. "This is Spock."
Sir, Lieutenant Sanders here, we're encountering significant issues evacuating some of the survivors, over.
"Clarify."
It's the temperature, sir. We're up here on the western spine and it's the tricorders say it's about two seventy one Kelvin. It's bad enough for us, sir, but there are some Vulcan civilians here that just aren't coping and some of Nero's soldiers we've captured. We can't beam them out thanks to the jamming and their body temperature was already dangerously low when we found them. The construction crew ... well, let's just say they haven't exactly pooled their resources.
Spock lets his hand fall from his hood. Jim watches as his lips part slightly, his hotter-than-human breath billowing in the pool of light he creates. It's no secret that Romulans are a Vulcanoid race; Spock will understand better than anybody just how compromising the extreme cold and wind-chill is becoming on desert-bred physiology.
After a few seconds, Spock thumbs his comm again decisively. "Sanders, stand by." He takes two steps towards Jim, his face set in concentration, his expressionlessness shattered by the effort to think in the driving storm. Even here, sheltered by a ledge in the lee of the mountain, each of them is buffeted and grabbed as if by cold hands.
"What are you thinking?" Jim asks, recognising the beginnings of a plan in his eyes.
"Have the proposed orbital weather platforms been deployed?"
"Deployed, yes," Jim confirms, "but not activated, and they're only designed to stabilize upper atmospheric conditions directly over the aid camp. They're no match for the disturbances being created by the drill platform."
"Can you interface with them?" Spock wants to know, ignoring the objections.
Jim's hands go to the PADD in his thigh pocket. "Well, yeah, theoretically it's possible." He pulls it out into the rain, the firm, spongy texture of the protective covering easy to hold even with slippery gloves. "There are going to be issues with security, though. They make these things pretty hard to hack, especially on a cold boot routine. What are we trying to do?"
"Approximate duration of this storm center," Spock snaps. "Predicted wind direction in fifteen minute intervals." He's shouting over the storm, already readying his harness for the gruelling climb ahead of them.
Jim hunkers down, putting his back to the worst of it and runs the preliminary shell he'll use to initiate the satellites. "Don't ask for much, do you?"
"If ED593's saves have been exposed to these temperatures for a prolonged period of time without appropriate attire or shelter, then it is possible that we have very little time to extract useful information before they become irrevocably compromised."
Jim looks up, squinting against Spock's lamp. "You mean it will kill them."
"As I am unsure of their current status, it is unwise to speculate."
Spock drives the first spike into the cliff face, anchoring their line. Jim's fingers are flying over the screen, but he spares a worried glance for the slight stiffness in the Commander's movements. He has thermals and an EVA suit to shield him, but Jim's human and it's fucking cold. The longer they stand around here waiting for an uplink to the weather platforms, the more Spock's ability to climb safely will be affected.
A spectacular gust of wind drives the rain in an arc, hammering up under Jim's crouch to blast water into his face. His goggles protect his eyes, but he's left coughing and spluttering by the sheer force of it. Luckily, the PADD flashes green with the news they have full access to climatic controls. Chekov would be proud.
"We're in business!" he crows, glancing up and smiling through numb lips.
The climbing rope whips like an angry snake around its sole anchor point and Spock is nowhere to be seen.
-:-
Above Aspera's surface, the Stalwart slingshots around the secondary moon to avoid incoming fire from a Romulan aggressor. Taylor hangs grimly to the arms of the captain's chair, his eyes determined even though his lips tremble as the old ship barely makes the turn in time. Sparkling prisms of green brush the aft shields and sail into the black to detonate harmlessly against the system's inner asteroid field.
Gaila gently looses the breath she's been holding and forces herself back into the flow of her own work. Along with sixteen other Ops techs strewn around the semi-circle that makes up Bridge Tactical, she's not only keeping an eye out for her own personal crew, ED996, but also monitoring incoming ordinance and the position of every other vessel that crosses her designated flight area. When a ship blips out of her zone, she automatically forwards it to the right Ops tech with a flick of her finger across the touch screen.
"Nix, your Ops here. Guard your six, incoming by two, your advantage in atmo."
Copy that. Going low. Uhura's voice is tense but steady as she flips the rescue shuttle into a steep dive and re-enters Aspera's exosphere based on Gaila's advice.
The Romulan fighters follow as low as the F-range before breaking off to address easier pickings. Gaila relaxes for a split second before Jim Kirk's frequency demands her attention.
Ops, this is Kirk. Gaila, Spock just fucking disappeared. I need his twenty, over.
Her stomach drops but she hurries to comply, sweeping their assigned search area and then doing it again when it comes up blank the first time. Frustrated and panicked, she widens the scan, cursing under her breath as the electrical storms and distortion from Nero's jamming makes the task practically impossible.
Gaila, his twenty!
She takes a split second to force herself to breathe before replying. "I can't find him, Jim. What the hell happened?"
There's silence on the other end of the line, then a burst of wind and rain as Jim activates the comm, says nothing and then deactivates it again.
"Nix Point One, sitrep, over," she demands, knowing they're losing precious seconds to assess the situation.
I'm transmitting my exact co-ordinates now, Jim says tensely. I only looked away a split second and he was gone. It must have been a transporter; if he'd been blown off the cliff we'd still be able to read his signal. He must be out of range or somewhere shielded.
"You're saying Nero beamed him out?" Gaila jams a finger into her earpiece as though she couldn't possibly have heard correctly. "Jim, it's a nightmare out there, locking onto a specific person without knowing their transponder frequency is impossible, especially with Nero playing hide-and-seek with us."
Future tech, Jim spits, and she can tell even across the shitty line that he's furious. Also, the Commander has a pretty distinctive biosign reading, wouldn't you agree?
Gaila devotes half her attention to Jim's theory and the other half to ensuring Navigation have the most up to date telemetry on the Narada which is moving to engage the Stalwart again when they emerge from their lunar orbit. "Okay, so let's say Nero's got Spock," she allows, "you're now the DivCO, what do we do?"
We get him the hell back.
"Seconded, but how?"
Make a list of anything that was in the area with sufficient shielding to interfere with an EPAS transponder at the time Spock disappeared, then deliver it to my PADD.
"Working on it."
-:-
Jim feels the rope bite deeper into his right arm as he inches over the edge of the cliff. The wind buffets him, grabbing at him with murderous hands, but he resolutely leans out into the darkness, fighting down his fear of heights to play the scanner one more time over the deadly drop below. It bleeps at him in the negative. No life signs. Definitely no non-native biological signs. Wherever Spock is, he's not smashed dead on the rocks below. The thought should be cheerier than it is, but he's very much aware that the alternative might be even less pleasant. Nero isn't famous for his hospitality, plus he has a special dislike reserved for Vulcans, one in particular.
His PADD vibrates in its holster, alerting him that Gaila has once again compiled data in record time.
Using the rope to guide him to safety, Jim scans the alarmingly long list with rising panic until one entry leaps out at him. He thumbs the comm and selects the Stalwart command channel first.
"This is Div Point One for Captain Taylor, priority one, over."
Acknowledged, Lieutenant Kirk. Patching you through.
A brief pause and then Taylor's voice. Kirk, what do you want?
"Sir, they've taken Spock. Prime Division is encountering localized aggression from Nero's ground troops but we're holding our own for now. Request permission to retrieve Commander Spock and disable the drill platform, over.”
If you can deliver on that, son, you go right ahead, Taylor replies instantly. With that platform out of action, we might be able to raise the incoming Robii fleet and advise them of the situation before they get stuck in the middle of this.
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Kirk, out."
Jim has never been more grateful in his life for a quick decision from Taylor. He flips to Nix's channel immediately. "Kirk to Uhura, one to beam out."
Where's Spock? Is her instant demand.
"Don't worry," he grins fiercely. "He’s way ahead of us."
-:-
Spock turns his stagger into a shoulder roll as he unexpectedly rematerializes. His instincts serve him well, allowing him to duck two stun bolts before the third clips him in the arm, numbing half his body and sending him toppling to the deck. Sweeping aside the knot of primal fear at being incapacitated, he uses brute strength to flip onto his back one-armed. Whatever is coming next, he wants to stare it in the face.
A tattooed Romulan looms over him with a kind of fascinated sneer. "Ta-krenn! Hnafirh'au-d?"
Another soldier steps forward, stun pistol still warm in his hand from gunning Spock down. "Rha," he grins. "Hnafirh'rau te yyaio."
Spock glances around the small transporter bay and realizes where he is. He feels the absence of the chilling wind as a pseudo warmth on his face even as the knowledge that he will most likely not survive this encounter envelops him. Rainwater drips down from his hood, forming rivulets across his goggles.
Yes, the second Romulan, the superior, had said. Let me have a look at the dead one.
-:-
"What's the situation?" Jim demands, feeling like urgency has forced him to speak before his molecules are even properly reassembled.
"Ridiculous!" McCoy growls. "I just had a Klingon in my medbay, bleating at me in perfect Standard about whether or not we'd saved her human husband! Just what the hell kind of universe are these people coming from?"
"Sounds like a better one than ours," Jim grits out, catching himself on the bulkhead to lean into the cockpit. "Uhura, coordinate what cover we can from the Stalwart's phaser banks and take us in hard."
"Destination?" she asks steadily, already comming through Jim's request.
Jim stares out the viewport at the tiny twinkle on the planetary horizon. "There," he says, pointing. "The orbital weather satellite control platform. That's where they've taken Spock."
"How do you know?"
"Trust me," he grins, licking his lips, "he's there."
"Jim Kirk, I am not taking this shuttle and everyone aboard on some wild goose chase backed by a hunch, so damn well tell me how ..."
"Moments before he was taken we were working on hacking the satellites. Spock had a plan, I don't know what it was, but they must have intercepted my transmission. I didn't have time to encrypt it. Nero's not an idiot, he has extensive files on key Federation personnel, that much we know from what little intelligence we have on his operation. He knows who Spock is, what he's capable of, better than anyone. If I were Nero, I wouldn't want a brilliant Vulcan launching a counter offensive on my little sneak attack, would you?" He stops to breathe, hands clenched at his sides. Some of it's a cover but Uhura doesn't have sufficient clearance for the truth and the basis of his assumption is unaffected.
"Tenuous at best," she challenges. "We haven't got the resources to waste with shadows and guesswork. If Nero took Spock, why wouldn't he be on the Narada? It's more secure, it's more defensible, and if he's such a valuable prisoner, wouldn't Nero want to question him personally?"
Jim grits his teeth in frustration, feeling the ache in his jaw. "If you were an alien lunatic genius, would you want Spock at the beating heart of your operation or somewhere more peripheral where he could do less damage?"
"He's one Vulcan, against who knows how many Romulan foot soldiers. How dangerous can he be?" Uhura barely finishes the question before her expression shifts to one of reluctant admission. "Okay, so Nero doesn't trust him, doesn't trust his own soldiers to contain him. We know Spock, we know what he's capable of, what makes you think Nero understands the lengths he'd go to in order to end this war?"
Jim's eyes are hard and very blue as he turns Uhura around by the shoulder to face her controls again. Fuck the Security Council and fuck Uhura's clearance; the time of plausible denial is long gone.
"Nero knows Spock, too."
"What?" she exclaims, but she's already plotting a course and laying it in. "Since when?"
"Since a universe ago."
"Jim, what the hell?"
"Shut up and fly!" he shouts, but instantly contrite, he grips her shoulder in apology. "We don't know how much time we have."
"He better be there," she mutters, somewhat mollified.
"He is," Jim whispers. "I know it."
Moments pass where the only sounds in the shuttle are the constant prattle of DivCO updates in Jim's comm and McCoy's tense muttering. Then Jim has an epiphany.
"I know what Spock was planning!" he crows. "God damn it, he's brilliant!"
"Plan? What plan?" Bones growls impatiently.
"Uhura," Jim says excitedly, ignoring the doctor in his haste to set things in motion. "Get Chekov to the Stalwart's auxiliary transporter room along with an armed Security escort, as many as Taylor will spare."
"The brawn I understand," she nods. "But Pavel?"
"I need his wery impressive brain," Jim grins, waggling his eyebrows.
-:-
The temperature differential creates a billow of steam and the docking hatch hits the wall with a clang. Jim is first through the porthole, as befits a Point, with Security and Uhura close behind. McCoy hangs in the rear, weighed down by his medkit and disadvantaged in the hypothetical firefight Jim is really hoping to avoid.
"Secure us a path to the bridge," he commands, gesturing at their armed guard. "Scan for Spock's biosigns as you go and forward your findings to me. Defend yourselves but don't start anything. The longer they don't know we're here, the greater our chance of success."
The Security troops salute crisply and quickly advance into the main corridor, their phasers held low but the safeties off.
"Hello, Lieutenant," Chekov salutes him with one finger as he materializes inside the docking bay. "You mind telling me what we're doing?"
Jim claps him on the shoulder and steps out into the installation proper. "We're going to get Spock back and then we're going to see which way the wind is blowing."
"You are not as funny as you think you are," Chekov informs him, but pulls his phaser and follows seamlessly, Uhura and Bones bringing up the rear.
The weather control platform is dimly lit, still running on minimal power. As yet, Jim still can't be one hundred percent sure he's guessed correctly, but something tells him he has and that Spock is here somewhere, his signal dampened by the heavy duty electromagnetic shielding designed to protect the satellite's delicate innards. It's more than a hunch but less than a certainty and he really would have hoped for something more concrete. He's the one leading them all into Nero's figurative clutches, regardless of the loyalty they all feel for their DivCO. He imagines what Spock will say when they find him, the disapproval in response to Jim's reallocation of essential resources to save one life instead of the many on the planet below. How to explain that it was no choice at all? That abandoning Spock to Nero was an impossibility, both for him and Nix's crew?
Resolutely, Jim pushes his doubts aside, all of them. Spock is here, somewhere, and it's up to them to find him before Nero extracts his pound of flesh.
-:-
"Divisional Commander Spock."
The deep gravel of that voice is laced with humor and hatred, both. It gives Spock the strength he needs to lift his head, one side of his face still numb from the stun blast. The visage that greets him on the viewer is hauntingly familiar. Prime's memories flood his visual cortex, overlaying many perspectives and incarnations of that face.
"Nero," he names him, the words somewhat distorted by his left-sided weakness.
The Romulan commander turns an accusatory stare on his underlings. "What have you done to him? I told you to acquire him in pristine condition!"
Spock's senior captor makes a subservient gesture. "He was difficult to subdue, my lord."
"Yes," Nero hisses. "He would be."
"What do you want with me?" Spock manages, trying to lessen the degree he is leaning on the junior Romulan, his mind roiling with the fear, adrenaline and violence of the other's touch.
"With you?" Nero sounds surprised. "Why, nothing, my treacherous friend." He bares his teeth in a vicious parody of a smile. "My revenge is already exacted upon your tainted soul. The loss of your planet is sufficient recompense for your own sins, if not for the sins of the greater Federation whole."
Spock feels a wave of grief wash over him, normal control impaired by the circumstances and the stun blast. The only thing that saves him, that reforms him, is the tiny kernel of insight gifted to him by his counterpart.
"You yearn to lay the blame for the destruction of Vulcan at my feet, but wishing will not make it so," he says calmly. "You are guilty of a greater crime than my counterpart, for the deaths you cause are fuelled by rage and intent, each and every one of them a blight of revenge upon your katra that you will never erase." He pauses for breath. "Not if you search your whole life, and certainly not by punishing me."
Nero laughs dismissively, his whole face filled with derision except for his eyes which burn with white-hot anger. "How poetic, and if I may say so, how uncharacteristically dramatic, Spock. You surprise me." He claps condescendingly as one might at a live performance. "How human you are in this universe, how governed by your feelings and your prejudice."
Spock remains silent and watchful. Nero has yet to reveal his purpose. Whatever it may be, he doubts it is merely their conversation. Mad he may be, and unpredictable, but Spock has never believed him careless or casual. There is a purpose to his abduction, one greater than the balm to Nero's vanity. Additionally, every second they talk is a moment longer for Spock to evaluate the possibility of escape, and another chance for EPAS to hold fast and protect Aspera and the incoming Robii fleet.
"I am not ashamed of my humanity," he returns, pleased when it elicits an emotional response from the Romulan, even if it is not the one he expects.
Nero throws his head back and laughs, deep and rich in a way that speaks more of hatred than humour. "You lie well for a Vulcan."
"Was that a compliment?"
"It is an unusual skill to have cultivated," Nero continues, the smile still playing along his tattooed lips. "I wonder what motivated you? Certainly the Spock I knew only told me one lie." His face contorts in remembered grief and he brings a fist down on something hard out of the camera's line of sight. "It was the day he promised to save Romulus and instead let us die in flames!"
"He fully intended to save your planet."
"How could you possibly know that?" Nero demands wildly, then pauses, eyes narrowing. "He is here? In this world?"
Spock cannot suppress the sudden clench of his jaw. Defending Prime was a miscalculation and one that may cost him and his counterpart most dearly. Silence is his only defense.
Nero leans forward, his scarred face filling up the small viewscreen. "Tell me where he is and I will spare your life."
The senior Romulan pulls his weapon and presses it hard into Spock's temple.
"I do not know my counterpart's current location," he says, because it is true, and also, he may be Vulcan but instinct demands he eke out every last possible second of his life.
"Lies!" Nero roars and the weapon is ground more firmly into Spock's skull. "Tell me the truth and your death will be painless!"
Seconds tick away and Spock can see no way out. The satellite's shielding will conceal his location, in his weakened state he is no match for Romulan strength, lies serve him poorly but he cannot give an honest answer for fear of jeopardising the incoming Vulcan fleet and Tat'sar support. As hopeless as it is, there is only one avenue open to him.
So it is that Spock straightens as much as he is able. "I would not help you with the last breath in my body," he proclaims, then lashes out viciously with the side of his palm and breaks the senior guard's neck with a satisfying crack. The weapon discharges and his head fills with excruciating heat. The last sound to reach his ears is Nero's manic laughter.
-:-
Spurred into action by the sound of weapons fire, Jim bursts into the communications room to find Spock flat on his back, arms and legs splayed, the floor splashed with copious amounts of green blood. One wall of the room contains a smoking ruin where a viewscreen once stood.
"Spock!" The sound is torn from his throat, raw and terrified.
Jim's headlong sprint continues across the deck. He has his phaser in hand, eyes flicking left and right, up and down, but centring always on the three bodies. The other two are Romulan, that much is evident from the extensive tattooing. One is missing most of his face and the other lies on the deck with his neck at an impossible angle. Bones and Chekov filter into the room behind him, but it hardly registers because Jim has just spotted the shallow rise and fall of Spock's chest.
His knees hit the deck hard enough to bruise, but it gets him to Spock's side a fraction faster, so it's worth it. The steady thrum of a Vulcan heartbeat is easily perceptible through the thin EVA suit. Jim's other hand is patting him down, searching for the source of all the blood. It's sticky and cloying, gluing his fingers together like honey and it smells terrifying and fecund, like water from an old kettle.
"I am not wounded" Spock says, blinking his way back to consciousness, attempting to push upright. "Jim, the blood is not mine."
"Some of it damn well is!" He glances over his shoulder, face set, eyes burning. "Bones!"
Spock raises a hand to his face and is surprised to see his glove come away warm and green. He has a flash of recollection, of the split second whine of a weapon about to discharge at extremely close range. He remembers the burn and the flash, blinding light ...
"Easy," Jim advises, clutching at him as he lunges up.
"Dammit Jim, hold him still!" Bones growls, adjusting his tricorder with angry flicks of his fingers.
Jim doesn't have much to do; Spock's body is tense, wire taut but obedient. Chekov is ostensibly covering the door with Uhura, but he keeps turning his head, glancing towards the injured Commander with wide, fearful eyes. To him, it must be as though the impossible has happened. The paleness of his cheeks and the utter disbelief make it clear that his world has been flung from its axis. Jim understands; Spock looks like a reanimated corpse he's covered in that much gore, which has happened before, but normally it's not green. Spock cannot be fatally wounded, it is an unwritten law amongst Prime Division.
"Point blank energy burn," McCoy notes under his breath, the adds almost to himself, "a fraction to the right and we wouldn't be having this conversation."
"Will he be okay?"
McCoy pulls a face as he sets to work with a dermal knitter. "There are documented synaptic disturbances associated with near-misses like these, but in reality," he leans back on his haunches and the light dies from his instruments, "most of it will be shock."
"Doctor, Lieutenant, may I remind you that I am present and conscious?" Spock snaps, tightly controlled.
"Why you ungrateful, arrogant ..." McCoy mutters, pushing to his feet and holstering his equipment with more force than necessary. "Come on, kid," he growls at Chekov, "best learn when you're not wanted." He turns to Jim, his expression still torn between concern and irritation. "Coming or what?"
Stiffly, Spock pulls out of Kirk's hold, moving himself up onto one elbow. "I take it you have ascertained the purpose of gaining control of the weather platform and associated satellites?"
Jim nods, but all he says is, "we need to get you out of here, back to the ship."
Spock frowns but the effect is somewhat ruined by the paleness of his face and the blood still oozing slightly from McCoy's ten second patch up. "Lieutenant Kirk, you must complete the mission. I will stay here and guard the approach."
Jim stares down into those dark eyes, and feels the shaky burn as the adrenaline starts to leave him. Spock's gaze is insistent, almost pleading. It seems this is about more than the people on the station. It could be that this is about boundaries, about drawing a line between what lies unacknowledged between them and the people they have to lead; their mutual disguise. He knows what Spock wants him to do, but for the first time in a long time, Jim is planning to fail a test.
He thumbs his comm and holds Spock's eyes as he speaks into it. "All points this is Lieutenant Kirk. Citing regulation one-oh-one, I'm retaining Divisional Command, over."
A wave of acknowledgement pours over the frequency, and to the Division's credit, not one of them wastes time or breaks protocol to ask if Spock is okay. Regulation one-oh-one means the Commander is either injured, still absent or dead. Momentarily Spock looks really pissed. Before he can say anything, Jim grabs him by the elbow and puts all of his strength into hauling that dense Vulcan body to its feet.
"If you're well enough to contradict me, you're well enough to come with us," he says, taking one long arm and looping it over his shoulders when Spock sways. "We still might need you when it comes to programming the weather, which is a lot more important than the fucking approach and the Romulans that might take advantage of it."
For a moment, it looks like Spock is going to protest both the shift in command, the plan and the thought of using Kirk as a crutch, but whatever he sees in Jim's face, it's enough. He nods, once, then they both raise their heads to the other two.
"Lead on, McDuff," Jim grins.
McCoy rolls his eyes. "Hell of a time to get literary."
Within a few minutes, it's evident that the security crew has forged far ahead of them, even in the small amount of time it took to find Spock and sort out their priorities. It's a damn good thing, too, because Jim is inundated by the constant comm chatter of being a Divisional Commander. Now that the official change of command is out, nothing is getting filtered through Ops anymore and it's doing his head in. Every few steps there's a question that needs answering, a goal that needs re-evaluating. There are status reports, casualty reports, fleet orientation reports. Frankly, Jim is expecting that any minute someone will give him an update about the availability of public toilets. All he wants to do is take a goddamn moment to revel in the feel of Spock's warmth against his side, his weight across his shoulders, but it's a relief he's denied.
The Nix team pause in the shelter of a doorway while Chekov does a quick reconnaissance. Jim takes the opportunity to glance at Spock, his face twisted in assessment. "How are you doing? Some nerve damage? Walking doesn't seem easy."
When he turns, Spock's face is paler than before, his pupils over-dilated even in the bright light. "I admit that it requires significant concentration."
"Hey, you look like shit," Jim observes casually.
"Your observation is inane and insulting."
Jim deliberates for a second, because Spock really does look bad, but he knows even Chekov might need a hand with what they're about to attempt. Oh, he could code it himself if he had all the time in the world, but there are still people on Aspera's surface and the memory of the conditions down there is fresh in his memory. People dying down there, the Robii refugees are en route and the Vulcan support fleet is still at least twenty minutes away. They need help now.
"Okay, I'll haul your ass as far as the bridge, but then we're all getting out of here."
Spock raises one quizzical eyebrow, perfectly disdainful even if it is crusted in blood. "What would be the point in remaining once our mission is complete?"
"Don't sass me," Jim grunts, staggering around another corner under half Spock's weight.
McCoy's head appears around the bend, followed by an exasperated gesture indicating they should hurry up. "Stop gossiping and keep moving! This platform is crawling with Romulans."
Jim takes one step and Spock buckles beside him, pulling him to his knees.
"Ah, Bones? A little help?"
McCoy swears and puts his shoulder to Spock's other armpit. With significant effort and some assistance from the Commander, all three regain their feet.
"Everloving Christ!" the doctor pants. "Spock, your Vulcan hide weighs a ton!"
"Shut up and keep walking," Jim gasps, "we're nearly there."
"This is a bad idea. He's in no fit state to be doing much of anything, let alone hacking orbital platforms."
Spock glares.
"Yeah, well did you want to leave him in the corridor clutching a phaser for the Romulans to find?" Jim groans as they make the bridge and dump Spock into the science seat.
Immediately, Kirk palms his phaser and takes cover behind the consoles with Uhura, both of them guarding the door. Jim presses his finger against the earpiece, jamming it further into his skull to differentiate the different channels. "There are still isolated pockets of resistance," he informs the remaining two Security personnel positioned in the corridor. "Stay sharp, everyone," he releases the comm and turns to speak over his shoulder. "Bones, see what you can do to help Spock with the computers."
"Sure thing," Bones drawls sarcastically, rolling his eyes, but he makes his way over to the science station and proceeds to look studiously over Spock's shoulder.
Then there's nothing but the blinding rattle of Spock and Chekov's fingers across the controls. It sounds like rain falling on a tin roof. There are only occasional pauses where his body catches up to his brain and he has to take a moment to think and re-evaluate. McCoy's eyes seek out Jim's across the room and it's a tacit acknowledgement of the doctor's real agenda. Keep an eye on him, Jim tries to say with nothing more than a firm set to his lips and a slight furrow between his brows.
Bones turns his back on the others and surreptitiously opens his tricorder. Waving it at Spock earns him an impatient exhalation from the patient, but those dark eyes never waver from the screen. The readings are addled, but not life threatening. He's going to have a hell of a headache and a few of his motor neurons are fried, but it doesn't seem to be affecting his fingers or his recall. McCoy snaps the tricorder shut and falls back into watching the lines of code slot into place neatly, flashing green and then melting aside to present the next roadblock. He knows Jim will interpret that correctly in place of a spoken diagnosis.
There's the sound of phaser fire nearby. Jim flinches and grips his weapon more tightly. "DivCO to Security, over?"
Silence rolls over the comms.
"DivCO to Security away team, do you copy?"
Nothing but more silence and then the distant tramp of more than two sets of boots returning from the point position.
"Guys?" Jim calls, not turning to look at them. "How much longer?"
"Approximately one point two minutes remaining," Spock says calmly.
"Okay," Jim acknowledges as the sounds draw close enough that the flashes of covering fire become visible in the dim emergency lighting.
Suddenly the door beside Chekov takes a hit and he tumbles from his console to return fire, jamming his shoulder against the wall, taking cover like a pro.
"Three, maybe four Romulans, sir," the boy informs them, benefited by the new angle. "It is difficult to tell in the dark. I have finished programming the altitude and wectors, Commander Spock, but the atiwation protocol is unfinished, sir."
Two more shots ricochet into the room, setting a chair on fire and showering sparks into the air.
Uhura hastily jams her stolen Romulan disruptor into her waistband. "I can do that," she assures the room. "Basic delayed activation; I can do that."
"A little bit of hurry up, please!" Jim demands, employing a running crouch to bring him level with Chekov on the opposite side of the door. The move gives them flanking capability whilst still providing cover. The two nod to each other and then direct all their concentration into the corridor. It might have been a gesture of solidarity or simply an acknowledgment of the precarious circumstances, but both relax into themselves in the wake of it. There is something undeniably reassuring about knowing that you're not in the shit all by yourself.
"Weather control, engaged," Spock announces. "Engines powering up. Intertial dampeners deactivated."
Jim stands and whirls to face him and the doctor, arm outstretched, phaser pointed right at them.
McCoy boggles. Spock's expression doesn't change in the slightest.
"Well, get out of the damn way, will you?" Jim waves the phaser in a shooing motion.
McCoy and Uhura loop their hands under Spock's arms and haul him aside on the wheeled chair just as Jim lets loose a bolt that cripples the science console. Bones is swearing again and Spock looks vaguely horrified.
"Can't let those bastards undo all your hard work," Jim rationalizes as he grabs Chekov by the collar and strides across the room to Uhura.
When they're all grouped together, he makes the call, and they disappear in a swirl of golden light just as three very angry looking Romulans burst in on them. They rematerialize in the port auxiliary transporter room aboard the Stalwart, with a very shocked and amazed looking Montgomery Scott at the controls.
"Did you see that?" the engineer exclaims. "They were right behind you! Weren't you looking?" He threads his fingers through his thinning ginger hair and lets his jaw fall open in astonishment. "One second later and you'd be toast! What were you waiting for, a written invitation?" His expression darkens to one of anger. "You can't rely on me to be here, you know! What if it were one of the new laddies and he took his sweet time locking on? Where would you be then?"
"Scattered into atoms," Spock replies logically.
Scotty looks to Jim and angles a thumb at the Commander. "Is he trying to be funny?"
"Romulan shot him in the head," Jim shrugs. "Page sickbay and get them to collect him. Meanwhile, I need you to beam us back onto our shuttle."
"What?" Scotty exclaims, aghast. "You barely made it out of there alive! Add to that, thanks to your handiwork, the platform is accelerating at an exponential rate; beaming you back aboard isn't going to be easy!"
Jim opens his mouth to reply just as medical ensign jogs into the room. "You!" Jim says, index finger aimed right at him. "Got any Point training?"
"Uh," the kid stammers, "just Basic, sir."
"Good enough. You're taking Spock's position, I'm your new Point Two. Suit up, you've got sixty seconds."
The kid asks no further questions, just pulls one of the emergency EVA suits from the wall and jams his feet in the legs. Jim likes him already.
Spock steps into his line of sight. "You cannot seriously entertain the notion of returning to the planet's surface. You know what will happen if the weather satellites perform their function."
"Yeah, I do," he says flatly. "Which doesn't change the fact that there are people down there, innocent people and Romulan soldiers with valuable intelligence. Besides," he adds as the whole ship rocks, "you can't exactly tell me that it's safe here on the Stalwart."
"I would not claim something that is so blatantly untrue," Spock agrees. "Regardless of your objections, I am participating in this mission."
"Absolutely not," Jim makes a cutting motion with his hand. "You're injured. You stay here."
Spock turns on his heel, peels off his glove and rolls up his sleeve. "Doctor McCoy, please administer a stimulant and a neurotransmitter stabilizer. You will agree that their effects will counteract the transitory damage caused by the Romulan disruptor."
McCoy looks rebellious, but to Jim's horror, he reaches into his medkit for the requested drugs.
"Bones!"
"He's right, Jim. If I can get him functional again, command cedes back to him. Like it or not, they're the regs."
Kirk turns away, puts his back to them as he hears the hiss of the hypospray and struggles to control his anger. He knows where it comes from, understands that it's got everything to do with the sight of Spock lying on that deck, of not being able to express the true degree of his relief or his gratitude. If life was fair, he'd be allowed one goddamn second to hold him and be thankful, but instead he has this; the hard reality of their work and the oncoming danger that Spock refuses to spare himself.
The Ensign from Medical presents himself, pulling Jim out of his angry reverie. They could do with an extra pair of hands and the kid has obediently suited up. "Name?" he asks, voice a little hoarse with emotion.
"Watson, sir."
Jim raises his eyebrows and swallows a wave of almost hysterical laughter. "Doctor Watson? Are you fucking with me?"
"Uh, no sir?"
Jim massages his temples as they take their places on the pads. "Jesus, my life is insane," he mutters, then sees Watson looking sideways at him and adds, "you're supernumerary, so depending on what we find down there you might be Medical or you might run Point with either of us," he gestures between Spock and himself. "Got it?"
"Understood, sir."
"Put your visor on, Doctor Watson, and pressurize," he advises, dangerously off his game.
"You know," the kid says tentatively as Spock takes his place and gives the command to energise. "Most people just call me Kenny."
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