fanfic | stxi | leave no soul behind 5.7/?
Title: Leave No Soul Behind 5.7, 7,531 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 for not mocking my sense of urgency regarding fanfic when she's got real work to do for uni. I don't know why you put up with me, bb.
Author's Note: This is written for stripedpetunia on trek_exchange. Thank you all for putting up with this fortnightly posting thing I've had going on the last two chapters. As you know from my last note, life is difficult right now and editing chapters with this kind of emotional content, especially so. A la Chekov, I thank you for your time.
In this chapter there is the ingenious misuse of transporter technology, unexpected mindmelds and some serious angst on the boil ...
previous
Chapter 5.7
When Jim comes around, it's to a view of the turbolift floor and the rubberized kick panel that graces the bottom six inches of the wall. A tech is trying to hail him through the intercom, the voice becoming more and more urgent. He takes this to mean that he's been out for just long enough to cause concern. With a wince and a deep breath of preparation, he gets his arms under him and pushes to his hands and knees.
"This is Kirk, stand down," he manages, finger mashed into the intercom. "Just a glitch, no assistance required."
Saying that, he hopes it's true, because as he makes it to his feet he can see the cover has been ripped away from the controls. There's a dull ache perched at the intersection of his neck and shoulder, but it's already fading, along with the slight inability to focus his eyes. He's heard about Vulcan nerve pinches but hasn't been on the receiving end of one until now. Diligently, he frowns, forcing his eyes to focus on the mess of wires and control cards Prime has left him. A quick assessment shows him how easy it is to restore power; Prime obviously didn't mean to trap him here, just delay him.
With that realization comes a flood of memory and he swears, twisting wires together with less than his usual finesse. The old bastard might not be his Spock, might be hundreds of years older, but if there's one thing Jim will bet on, it's that any given Spock will martyr himself on the altar of personal responsibility given half a chance. Nero is blasting a world apart looking for him, which leaves very little doubt in Jim's mind where Prime has gone or what he intends to do.
With a flash and a puff of smoke, his hasty repair job yields results and the younger Spock enters the turbolift so wrapped in his own thoughts that it's clear he doesn't notice Jim until he's stepped inside. He tenses, poised for flight, his face smudged with grime from the cave and his hair rain-wet.
"No," Jim stops him from leaving by grabbing a sleeve. "Wait a minute." The doors slide closed with a muted hiss and Jim can't help the way he holds on. "God, I'm so sorry," he whispers, thinking of what Spock has just done. "I wish I'd never thought of it, I ..."
Spock's exhales, a short puff of breath, the slightest hint of sound; a confession.
"Anything you want," Jim promises him, and means it. God, how he means it. On the tip of his tongue, at the edges of his perception, he can feel the points where Spock exists. He catches flashes of it, glimpses and hints of turmoil through the tenuous connection he hasn't been bold enough to ask about.
Spock is angry, he's ashamed, he's a little out of control. He opens his mouth, then has to swallow. Wordlessly, he reaches out with one hand, the pattern sending Jim right back into the cave, headlong into thoughts of dominance and violation. He can't help it, he flinches. The thought of having someone else in his mind, of having Spock there so soon after what he's just done, it turns his stomach. Years of hard, bitter memories surge to the fore, rising like the gorge in his throat, and he can only shake his head mutely and angle his face away.
Spock's facade is in tatters. He stares, visibly shocked by such a reaction.
Jim forces himself to breathe, to relax and place a hand back on Spock's EVA suit even though his skin crawls. He's walking the very fine line between what he wants and what he can't possibly handle. "I wouldn't leave you now unless I had to," he says weakly, sliding his palm up to Spock's shoulder and wishing he had the time to explain. "You can feel that, can't you? Feel that I'm telling the truth?"
"Yes," Spock nods, then clears his throat softly. “Yes, I can.”
"Okay." Jim steps away. "So find it in your heart to forgive me, because I can't stand the thought of you in my head right now."
With a press of his thumb against Spock's lips and a quick step backward, Jim exits the lift, spins on his heel and sets off down the corridor at a dead run. He can't know that all his fear and all his revulsion are transferred in that fleeting touch, consolidating leaden and ugly in the pit of Spock's stomach.
Perhaps, if he'd had an inkling of the events set in motion by that emotional transference, Jim might have made the time for an explanation. Instead, the automatic doors allow Spock five seconds to watch him disappear.
-:-
Jim collides with someone as he rounds the corner into the main hangar. Clutching at the other man's EVA suit for balance, he reads the name tag, Kensington Watson, MD. A surprised glance up at the young man's face confirms it.
"Kenny!"
"Lieutenant Kirk," the younger man smiles, looking ruffled and tired but obviously buoyed by the adrenaline rush of survival. "Glad to see you in one piece, sir."
"Right back at you," Jim laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. "What's your status?"
Kenny glances down at himself, as though considering it for the first time. "A few bruises and sleep deprivation aside, I'm fine."
Jim flips him around with one hand and propels them both towards the nearest shuttle. "Good. Stim yourself and find me someone to fly this thing; we might actually need you to be a doctor this time. Also, get Engineer Scott down here, and tell him to bring a torpedo."
"Aye, sir." Kenny turns on his heel and jogs over to the main Ops board, shouting to draw the young tech's attention.
Jim grabs the rail and vaults into the shuttle over the runner, flipping the first few standby switches to power up the impulse engines. "Computer, state your designation."
Echo Delta one oh one.
The early serial number makes him take a second look at the interior, and sure enough, it's the muted beige of one of the earliest ED medevac shuttles still in operation. It should make him want another shuttle, and there's still time to skip out and find a newer one, but Jim just grins. He knows this shuttle, never flown in it before, but the crew's rhyming slang means it's known as the Obi-wan. It's a Beta rotation ship with a reputation for getting out of tight spots. He likes old movies and he likes this ship.
"Voiceprint acknowledge, Lieutenant Kirk, serial number SC937 dash 0176CEC."
Lieutenant Kirk, James T., acting Divisional Commander, authority acknowledged.
"Track last launched vessel and vector. Log egress request and flight plan as follows." Jim's fingers fly over the navcomp, laying in a course that will slingshot them around Aspera's smaller moon, hopefully hiding them from Romulan attention for just long enough to put him where he's certain Prime has gone; the focal point for Nero's interdimensional signal.
Working.
He turns away from the cockpit and begins preflight, visually confirming all the green lights on the board, all their Medic and Point supplies, their fuel store and taking a quick jog around the outside to inspect the hull. The whole thing takes less than five minutes. It's cursory and there could still be a hundred deadly things wrong with the Obi-wan, but he doesn't have time for more.
Kenny comes running up with a familiar face in tow, just as Scotty comes scowling and muttering into the hangar, ginger hair white with dust, his face pink from the exertion of running.
"Han," Jim smiles, clasping her forearm to haul her into the ship. "You have the conn."
"Aye, sir," Hannity smiles, vaulting over the cockpit divide to land neatly in the pilot's seat.
"Scotty, where's my torpedo?"
"The lads are bringing it," the engineer waves over his shoulder at four techs clustered around the armoury. "But an Echo Delta shuttle isn't equipped to fire a torpedo," he flails. "What are you planning to do? Shove it out the door and hope for the best?"
"Not quite," he grins. "But I am going to need you to prove just how good you are with a transporter."
"Green light," Hannity calls. "We're clear for launch."
"Over there," Jim points the techs towards the shuttle's tiny transporter pad. "Strap it down, will you? I don't want it in my lap." He turns to Scotty, face suddenly intent. "If we pull the warhead and reconfigure the photon signature to a frequency of the same amplitude but inverted phase and deliver a tachyon burst from the torp's deflector net, can we shut down the signal?"
Scotty's eyes widen as he does the calculations. "You're talking about a backyard pulse wave torpedo. Those things have never worked!"
"What's our alternative?" he demands. "Fly right into the damn rift and then create a tachyon eddy? Will it even be enough without some kind of phase cancellation?"
"Well no, probably not," Scotty admits, leaping back as Hannity starts taxiing ED101 to the slingshot, forcing him to jog along side and Jim to lean out dangerously on the runner to continue their conversation. "But I have an idea."
"I was hoping you'd say that."
"If you recalibrate the targeting computer to a parametric frequency with the same carrier band as Nero's own signal, you don't need to find the antiphase," he puffs, having to run properly now that the shuttle is picking up speed. "You can use his own signal against him to deliver the tachyon burst at exactly the right point."
"Scotty," Jim grins wildly, "you're a genius! When I get back, I'm promoting you to captain of everything."
The engineer staggers to a breathless halt, hands on his hips to watch the medevac shuttle flung out into the deteriorating front of the battle for Aspera. "I'll hold you to that!" he yells after them pointlessly, unable to wipe the smile from his face as he turns to make his way to the transporter room.
-:-
"What are we doing, Jim?" Hannity asks, never taking her eyes off the screen.
He lifts his head from the delicate work he and Kenny are performing on the torpedo's innards. "Saving a planet, stopping a temporal catastrophe, rescuing a friend and annoying Nero."
"Sounds good."
"Thought you'd like it."
"Twenty seconds to weapons range."
"Acknowledged."
He turns back to the torpedo and carefully slides the modified chip into place, leaving Kenny's steady surgeon's hands to form the final connections with the laser scalpel. The young doctor's concentration is intense, beads of perspiration running down into his eyes, forcing him to pause and blink them away.
"You okay?" Jim asks.
"It's the stims," Kenny replies, keeping his eyes on the business end of the scalpel. "Takes a lot of concentration to keep my hands from shaking."
Jim just nods, knowing how that feels. The initial burn of the drugs in his own system are beginning to wear off, leaving a dull, artificial sense of urgency pooled in the centre of his chest. It feels like the beginning of a heart attack, his body fighting against it for the respite it desperately craves, but then Jim's body has never responded well to medications.
"Got it," Kenny sighs, pulling his hands away to shake out the tension.
Jim slides the cover home and polarises the deflector net. He can feel the push on his bare hands as it hums to life.
"They've painted us," Hannity announces tightly. "Strap in."
Both men scramble for their harnesses, slamming the first and most crucial lap buckle home just as Hannity is forced to evade a cluster bomb thrown their way. Two more follow and Jim has to hug his knees to stop from being thrown around, unable to secure his shoulder straps in the poor excuse for internal gravity dampening. It was one thing he hadn't considered about a 100 series ED shuttle.
"Ugh," he groans as Hannity straightens them out under the cover of protective fire from the Tat'sar. "I think I'm going to puke."
"Nothing new there," Han jokes grimly, pouring on as much speed as she can while there are friendly ships to keep the Romulan fire to a minimum.
"That was one time," Jim protests, more out of habit than anything else, "and it wasn't my fault."
"We warned you Chekov flies like an Andorian bull in atmo."
"I thought you were joking," he insists, managing to get himself fully strapped in before the next sharp dive, but only just.
"Sir, detecting a friendly vessel dead ahead on the predicted vector," Hannity reports, all joking suddenly aside. "Reads Vulcan, minimal offensive capability, brilliant shields though. She's awfully close to the rift."
Jim calls up forward scanners on the Point screen, splaying and dragging his fingers to magnify the image. A small white and blue craft is hurtling towards the rift at an impressive pace, its hardy shields splashed with Romulan energy weapons. "Hailing frequencies," he demands.
After a moment, Hannity makes an apologetic shrug. "No response."
Jim frowns, forced to rethink his strategy.
"Shields at sixty," she informs them, even as the hardy old shuttle is rocked by another blast. "Fifteen seconds to rift interference."
Jim knows Prime has to be on that little Vulcan ship. No other Vulcan would be flying for a temporal anomaly in defiance of all apparent logic. What he needs is a way to launch the torpedo and then get Prime and the Obi-wan out of harm's way before it detonates. There's been no time to do the math, but it stands to reason that collapsing a temporal rift is going to be messy. The display counts down the kilometers with frightening speed and his brain just shuts down. Whether it's the impossibility of the situation or something more physical, he can't tell. All he knows is they're flying straight into Prime's personal suicide pact and he can't think of a way to control the situation.
In desperation, he thumbs his comm. "Scotty?"
Aye sir, I see the problem. The engineer replies promptly, sounding preoccupied.
Jim grits his teeth, wishing he could make himself believe that Vulcan bullshit about the good of the many. "I need another solution, Scotty. This one's not acceptable."
I don't know what to tell you. Whoever's flying that thing must have a death wish. There's no way out of a flight plan like that."
"Find a damn way!" Jim yells suddenly, surprising himself with his own vehemence. Prime is a manipulative, secretive son of a bitch, but he was also instrumental in paving the way for a young Jim Kirk to realize there might be something better out there, beyond the limited scope of his experience. Motivation aside, it's fair to say Jim's not sure where he'd be today without Prime, or even if he'd be here at all. This one thing, he thinks to himself grimly, then we're even.
"Five seconds to target."
"Sir," Kenny begins anxiously, glancing from the torpedo to Jim's face with some urgency.
"Scotty, give me something," he demands.
You're not going to like it, the engineer promises dourly.
"I'll like it better than the alternative, which is nothing," he promises.
Okay, well, this might be easier if you all close your eyes.
Hannity turns to glare at Jim in a way that says this is all his fault. "What the shit, Jim?"
"Scotty!" Jim demands over the comm, feeling the first stirrings of dread in the pit of his stomach, knowing that forcing the brilliant engineer to think outside the box often yields rather dramatic results.
Now would be a good time to take a deep breath and hold it.
-:-
Commander Spock is due in sickbay; directive from Doctor McCoy.
The fact that he does not comply can be attributed to a number of factors, one of which is a chance encounter with his father on his way to decontamination. The surprise brings him up just short of a stumble. Sarek comes to a more graceful halt, hands concealed in long sleeves. Aware that his own are far from steady, Spock confines them in the small of his back, irrationally wondering if his father can sense the crime he has committed. Perhaps there is a lingering taint from the Romulan's unwilling mind within his own tumultuous thoughts. Their father-son bond has never been particularly strong, but Spock feels as though his ethical violation supersedes any and all barriers he might erect. He cannot imagine ever being free of it.
"Spock."
"Father."
Sarek shifts minutely, betraying a small amount of his uncertainty. "I would not delay you on your way to the Bridge."
"I am, in fact, en route to sickbay," Spock corrects him.
"You are injured?" There may perhaps be the slightest trace of concern evident in his father's tone.
"It is merely protocol."
Sarek nods, but his eyes flick away, hiding momentarily, before returning as composed as ever to Spock's face. "That is well. The work you do is dangerous, the statistical likelihood of serious injury quite high. I believe the average age of a human Point is approximately forty two point eight years; barely adult in Vulcan terms."
"I am not a child."
"No," Sarek acknowledges. "You are not."
Feeling vastly under-prepared for any kind of conversation with his sole remaining parent, Spock tilts his head politely. "Is there some way in which I may assist you?"
Sarek waves his offer aside with one palm. "I seek return transport to the Vulcan fleet, but it is hardly imperative in light of the Stalwart's operational necessity. I am content to await a more appropriate time when the arrangements can be made without inconvenience or undue risk to your crew."
Spock lifts an eyebrow. "You beamed aboard during a battle?"
"I was conveyed in a small diplomatic shuttle, heavily shielded and piloted by someone with ample experience. The journey constituted an acceptable risk."
"My counterpart served as pilot," Spock infers, displaying the intuitive leaps of logic that always confused his Vulcan peers. "Why not return together?"
"It is not possible. Prime has commandeered the vessel for the purpose of sabotaging Nero's subspace transmitter, or alternatively collapsing the temporal rift."
With sick certainty, Spock takes an involuntary step forward. "When did he depart?"
"Less than four point six minutes prior to your arrival."
Spock whirls to the nearest terminal. "Computer, locate Lieutenant Kirk, James T."
Lieutenant Kirk is not on board.
Barely managing to contain the urge to smash the terminal with his bare fist, Spock doubles back the way he came, barely aware that his father follows, abandoning diplomatic dignity in favour of pursuing his youngest son at speed.
-:-
As the Obi-wan blinks out of existence in a hail of silver sparks Jim has a bare handful of seconds to realize how insane that is before his neurons dematerialize. They slam back into real space and the proximity alarms screech to life. Jim has an eyeful of hull through the cockpit and Hannity's voice reaches him, filled with terror.
"Holy son of a ..."
Blink.
This time, when they come back, everything seems to have gone to pieces. The deck is buckled and checkered with unfamiliar white, the walls set with doors that weren't there, conduits and circuitry steaming and sparking. He's been purged from the transporter buffer into a nightmare world of incomplete model sets and twisted dioramas. The air is filled with the high-pitched screech of venting atmosphere, lights flickering. He struggles with his harness, fighting to undo the buckles, but they've fused right into the bench seat ... which is now apparently part of a closet.
"What the fu ..."
Blink.
-:-
In the Stalwart's main hangar bay, Spock watches ED101 and the futuristic Vulcan shuttle blur, impact and become one object, magnified in all its twisted glory on the crisp viewscreen. He turns to the transporter console on his left, eyes dark and jaw set. "Mister Scott, you will explain."
"Jim asked me for an alternative and you're looking at it," the engineer waves a hand at the misshapen lump on the viewer, now tumbling unpowered.
Spock's eyes snap back, tracking the amalgamated vessel's haphazard path through the very fringes of the rift. "In attempting such a maneuver, you have undoubtedly assured their deaths."
"I'm not daft!" He bristles. "I beamed them out seconds after. Only thing left aboard that mess is the torpedo Jim wanted. They're all safe and sound."
"Where?" Spock demands.
"On board the Narada," Scotty says proudly.
Spock appears vastly underwhelmed by this demonstration of transporter expertise. "Am I to understand that you have beamed the Acting Divisional Commander, a Pilot, a Medic and a Vulcan of considerable standing aboard Nero's flagship?"
"Well, when you say it like that, it doesn't sound quite so good," Scotty's face falls. "But I only had seconds, sir, seconds to find somewhere close enough to put them!"
Spock takes a step forward menacingly. "You will beam them back aboard the Stalwart immediately."
"I ..."
A scintillating explosion rocks the old Constitution Class ship, sending power fluctuations cascading through the boards as Jim's special torpedo detonates within the temporal rift. Sparks fly and klaxons sound, a panicked counterpoint to Spock's icy expression.
Scotty swallows. "Transporters offline. I'll never get a lock on their transponders with all this interference!"
"I want their last known location," he says, the words clipped and very precise. "Restore power, Mr. Scott."
Scotty is already engrossed in his instrumentation, suddenly perspiring despite the chill in the hangar. "Aye sir, I'm on it."
-:-
"... ucking fuck!" Jim finishes angrily as his feet hit the ground at an odd angle and he's forced to stagger in order to remain upright. Hannity and Kenny aren't so lucky, collapsing to the polished black deck in a loud tangle of limbs and an 'oof.' From over their flailing arms and legs, Prime raises an eyebrow at his profanity.
"I would call this a pleasant surprise," the old Vulcan says with all the appearance of perfect calm, "except that I have gone to great lengths to avoid this very situation."
"What?" he asks, wiping the back of one sleeve across his face as he struggles for composure. "Not dying?"
"No Jim; risking Romulan capture."
Blinking at their surroundings, Jim narrows his eyes, finding focus in the black and green architecture. Instantly galvanized, he whips his phaser out, safety off and feet braced. "Where the hell are we?"
Prime glances around, performing a slow pirouette that Jim finds hauntingly familiar. "Judging by the subsonic frequency of the impulse engines, the curvature of the internal hull and the position of Nero's fleet at the time of dematerialization, I would have to say that we are aboard the Narada."
Jim licks his lips and adjusts his grip on the phaser. "Bullshit."
Prime just looks at him pointedly.
-:-
"Coordinates obtained," Scotty announces confidently. "I have limited range, Commander. I'm not picking up their transponders."
Spock nods briskly and sets off for the nearest transporter pad. "Then you will beam me to their last known location instead."
"But if the Narada has moved even so much as a meter..."
"I am aware of the risks, Mr. Scott."
Out of nowhere, McCoy appears, off-balance under the unfamiliar load of Starfleet small arms. "You're going to need some help."
Spock doesn't argue, just nods and relieves the doctor of two phasers.
Sarek steps into Spock's path, catching him mid-stride. "You intend to retrieve them," he says, and it is not a question.
"Of course," Spock agrees, perhaps a little tightly, but certainly not emotionally.
"Spock," Sarek says softly, for his ears only. "You are all that I have left."
"Father," he gives his head a slight shake.
"You underestimate my regard."
Spock steps neatly around him. "Perhaps," he allows. "However, I do not currently possess the time to explore that possibility." He makes the leap onto the pad, disdaining the steps all together. He snaps his visor down, hiding his face and his fear behind its polarized curve. The very last second before he gives the word, he yields to the impulse to look at his father and finds him standing straight, one hand raised, not in the ta'al but in a simple human gesture of farewell and benediction.
"Energize."
With a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, Spock braces himself for the consequences of perhaps the most illogical decision of his career. There is a pause that seems a split second longer than usual, then the dark, dank interior of Nero's flagship coalesces around them.
Almost instantly, the comms blare to life.
EPAS away team, this is Ops, do you read, over? Commander, your mission is not authorized, do you acknowledge? Commander Spock? Sir, this is Gaila, please explain what the hell you're doing on the Narada, because the Vulcans are about two seconds away from ...
Spock grabs hold of his earbuds and pops them firmly from the membranous hood, tossing them aside. He fields a wide-eyed look from McCoy.
"Never thought I'd see the day," the doctor drawls, but his eyes are warm with approval.
Back on the Stalwart, a full complement of Security personnel stampede into the hangar bay, only seconds late. Scotty and the other techs raise their hands in the universal gesture for surrender. Sarek merely clasps his together calmly, unruffled.
Scotty turns to the Vulcan Ambassador with a huge grin on his face. "This ship just got exciting!"
-:-
"Attempting further sabotage of Nero's operations is not logical," Prime says even as he deftly rewires the circuitry Jim has haphazardly revealed. "If what you say is true, then the immediate threat to temporal stability has been neutralized. We should seek immediate evacuation from the Narada."
"And how much future tech has Nero plucked out of space since he got here?" Jim wants to know, buried up to his armpit in the wall below where Prime is working, fingers fumbling for the power cable he knows will be there somewhere. Everything needs power. "In fact, screw the tech, what about the people?"
Kenny takes a moment from disassembling his communicator to nod emphatically. "I saw the Narada take at least two escape pods intact, and that was just while I was piloting that Romulan bird. There was an awful lot of flotsam and jetsam bleeding through; there might have been others."
Jim's eyes flick back up to Prime. "You can't tell me he's got their best interests at heart."
Prime gives a slightly un-Vulcan-like sigh. "The existence of living beings aboard those pods is pure conjecture. Interdimensional travel is fraught with uncertainty and danger. There is no telling how many, if any, have survived the journey."
"Oh, well in that case, fuck 'em," Jim says blandly just as he manages to insert the power cable into the jury-rigged matrix Prime has created. The door to the storage compartment depressurizes with a muted hiss. "You can stay here if you want," he adds, directing his words at both of them, even if his eyes stay locked with Prime's, "but I'm going to take a look."
Kenny and Hannity move to follow, but Prime cuts them off. "It is imperative that we avoid becoming separated."
"We do only have the one boosted transponder," Kenny admits, waggling the hand that contains his hard work.
"I'm not comfortable leaving someone behind," Hannity seconds.
Jim squares up to the elderly Vulcan, wondering if having Spock as his DivCO is the reason that ordering the alternate version around feels so unnatural. "Guess you're coming with us, then."
Prime stares him down, his hooded eyes glittering in the eerie green light. "I guess you are correct."
"Welcome to EPAS," he smirks, turning his back to risk a glance down the corridor, checking for threats.
A vice-like Vulcan grip takes him by the shoulder and backs him into the wall in one swift show of inhuman strength. A leathery hand finds the side of his face, hot fingers digging into the skin. "I'm sorry, old friend," Prime rasps.
"Don't you dare!"
A world that never was explodes behind Jim's eyes.
-:-
The first thing Jim registers when he blinks his way back to consciousness is the unbelievable migraine that's taken up residence right behind the bridge of his nose. It's not helped at all by the wailing of klaxons throughout the Narada. The second thing he notices is young Spock pinning Prime to the wall by his throat and looking pissed in a scarily Vulcan way. Kenny and Hannity have been nerve-pinched into oblivion, out cold on the deck.
"What happened?"
"You have regained consciousness," Spock observes, his eyes never wavering from those of his counterpart.
"No shit." Jim forces himself up with his hands until he's sitting against the wall, legs flung out awkwardly. "Which one of you nerve pinched my damn crew?"
McCoy steps into Jim's line of sight, clearly torn between attending to him or the unconscious people first. Jim waves him off and the exasperated doctor rolls his eyes before turning his back.
"If you will allow me to explain..." Prime begins.
"No," says Spock at the same time as Jim says, "yes." The two look at each other and then Spock turns back to Prime. "Yes," he amends, looking blatantly unimpressed.
Prime's eyes flick to the fingers closed lightly around his larynx. "You could facilitate our conversation by releasing me."
"No."
"Spock, let him go."
"What manner of attack did you perpetrate on the mind of Lieutenant Kirk?" Spock demands, ignoring Jim completely. He sounds coldly furious.
Prime blinks, looking quite surprised for a Vulcan. "I assure you, it was no attack. However, I do regret the circumstances that forced me to initiate such an intimate contact without his consent."
Spock's fingers tighten fractionally, seemingly of their own accord. "Your regret means nothing to me."
Prime swallows awkwardly and raises his hands slightly, palms outwards in supplication. "I have been and always will be, his friend." The old Vulcan seeks Jim's eyes over Spock's shoulder. "Is that not so?"
The words trigger some kind of cacophony of memory in Kirk's head, he screws his eyes shut, but that does nothing to halt the endless parade of images, sounds and events that regurgitate themselves out of his subconscious and into the present moment. A thousand Spocks over a thousand days turn to him wearing Starfleet science blues and say, "Captain?"
Jim snaps out of it, gasping, to find Spock has abandoned Prime to crouch before him, hot hands framing his face, a concerned furrow between up-swept brows.
"No way," Jim breathes. Spock's fingers shift against his skin and those expressive lips that nobody else seems to notice press together in concern. "Spock," Jim says, panicked, pushing him away, "everyone needs keep out of my goddamn head!"
Three Romulans burst through the door and open fire, showering the room in green energy. The first bolt strikes Prime in the chest, the second in the abdomen, the third is headed for Jim, at least until Spock rolls into its path. The impact throws the Commander into the bulkhead with Jim like the meat in a sandwich, crushing the breath from him. Dazed, winded and still disorientated, Jim looks up just in time to see the butt of the disruptor before it strikes him between the eyes.
-:-
McCoy rematerializes aboard the Stalwart drenched in a cold sweat. Hannity is still out cold, but Kenny slowly staggers to his feet, hand still pressed to his emergency beacon. McCoy doesn't hesitate before grabbing the junior medic by the shirtfront with both hands. "What have you done, man? Our people are injured back there, or worse!"
Kensington brings his hands up between them and slaps McCoy's grip aside. "Standard operating procedure," he shouts back. "We were outgunned and probably outnumbered. They would have shot Hannity like a dog and she'd never even have known! You're the CMO; your responsibility is to the fleet as a whole, not just to your own shuttle crew!"
"What is this? Cowardice?" McCoy growls darkly.
"No, it's logic," Kenny counters, face set with the determination of someone who wholeheartedly believes in the righteousness of his decision. "It's also in the manual, doctor. You might not thank me for saving your life, but the many staff and saves you're going to be able to treat definitely will. If the DivCO makes it out of there alive he'll commend me, not discipline me, and you know it."
"Damn the manual!" McCoy rages, "and damn this infectious Vulcan logic! We're human beings, Kensington. The goddamn service motto is leave no soul behind, but you're okay with leaving two of our best Points and a geriatric Vulcan taking Romulan fire?" He gives the younger man a rough shove, oblivious to Scotty's wide-eyed observation. "That sits just fine with you, does it?"
"Of course it doesn't!" Kenny shoves McCoy right back, palms to the center of his chest, sending him stumbling across the transporter pad. "But hanging around to die along with them serves no purpose! I took the same oath that you did, remember? Sometimes doing no harm means knowing when to give in to the odds!"
McCoy drops him with one vicious jab to the point of his chin. Kenny hits the deck with a dull, fleshy thud and doesn't get up. From the front row of the small crowd that has gathered to witness the altercation, Scotty gulps audibly. McCoy's furious eyes flick up as he shakes out his aching fist.
"I'm going to have to call Security?" Scotty tells him like it's a question.
"Ah, hell."
-:-
Sounds wash over him like the ebb and flow of waves on a beach; a quiet susurrus of sound with an undercurrent of urgency. He floats on it, drifting aimlessly, timeless and alone, but not alone. Forever touching but untouched ...
His eyes flicker open, tacky and sticking together. He's in a dark cell, back wedged up against something warm, but the sound isn't coming from behind him.
"Jim," the insistent whisper comes again.
Against the gloom, through the tunnel vision, he can barely make out the slumped form of Prime in the opposite corner. Without hesitation, he pushes himself up onto one elbow and valiantly fights the urge to throw up. The room pitches unhelpfully around him and his ears ring so loudly he can only see Prime's lips moving; can't make out the words anymore. Ignoring his body's demand that he give up and get horizontal again, he drags himself over to the other side of the room, fists his hand in Prime's robes for leverage and feels confused when they come away wet. Moving so that the single beam of light strikes his palm, he's still not sure why it's green.
"Jim," the quiet voice insists. "Forgive me."
"For what?" he wonders, certain that this gentle person could have done nothing in his life worth apologizing for. Spock would never harm anyone intentionally, Spock was a good person, Spock was...when had Prime truly become Spock in his mind?
Jim blinks and raises one green, sticky hand to the bridge of his nose. "My head ..."
"It will fade in time," the old Vulcan assures him. "You must wake Spock. You must escape." He pauses to cough wretchedly. "You are more important now, than ever. That which I have given you cannot fall into the wrong hands." Dark eyes burn with purpose in his pale, lined face. "Promise me, Jim."
"I don't know what you're talking about," he whispers, lips numb as though flush with the first hit of alcohol. "I don't ..."
"You must go."
"Go where?"
"Wake Spock."
Jim wipes the gunk out of his eyes and stares at his hand which is red now, too. "But you're already awake."
Thin lips quirk into a pained smile. "I am not your Spock, nor you my Jim."
"Could've been, though."
Jim watches moisture gather at the corners of Prime's eyes and wonders whether he's hallucinating. Or high. Yeah, maybe high. The old Vulcan reaches out and gives him a weak shove towards the opposite side of the room. "Go," he says. "You have very little time."
Jim turns his head, wobbly on his neck like one of those stupid dashboard ornaments people with RVs seem to like so much. Fuck, he hopes he never becomes people who like RVs, he has too much to live for. Then he notices the warmth when he woke had to have been Spock's body, and that there is a huge, blackened mess scorched into the place where one of his shoulders used to be.
"Shit," Jim says with feeling, and proceeds to flail his way back to where he'd started.
Spock's body is too cold, and fucking heavy. He rolls it over anyway, with little finesse but quite a lot of determination. His head lolls against the deck, arms flopping limply.
Jim glances back at Prime. "He's asleep."
"Wake him."
"With a kiss?" Jim wonders, because he's pretty sure that's how the story goes.
"Strike him firmly across the face."
"Oh, I remember."
Jim doesn't question it, just takes an open palm to Spock's cheek hard enough that it echoes off the walls. One doesn't do it, so he serves up another, is preparing the third when Spock's eyes flicker open then narrow in quickly controlled pain.
"Jim."
"Sorry, the other Spock told me to," he says and shrugs. "I always do what you say."
Spock rolls onto his good side and blanches further. "That is inaccurate; also you are concussed."
Jim nods. "Or on the good drugs."
Spock's eyes seek out the other Vulcan across the room and something charged and hostile passes silently between them. "You are still not who you say you are."
Prime gurgles in what may have been an attempt at a laugh. "Who amongst us is?"
"Will there be enough time for the truth?" Spock persists, with that look he gets when he's figured out some particularly difficult puzzle. "How long do you have?"
"Perhaps long enough," Prime whispers.
Spock pushes to his feet, cradling his injured arm protectively against his chest. "You cannot die here," he says firmly, eyeing the extent of the other Vulcan's injuries.
"You are mistaken," he breathes. "I can die wherever I please."
"I will not allow it." Spock sounds almost fierce.
Prime does smile, then; a gentle quirk of his lips that Jim finds achingly familiar. "With age, you will learn that not everything is mutable." He nods at the pool of green blood that has formed around his crumpled body and then looks back up at Spock. "Send someone for me, if you can do so without unacceptable risk, but you destroy all that I have worked for, all that I hold most dear, if you allow James Kirk to remain in this place."
"You will not survive without medical intervention, and I will have answers."
Prime coughs again and it takes a few moments for him to muster enough breath to speak afterwards. "Death and I are well acquainted. I have no desire to renew our friendship, but neither do I fear it." He blinks heavily, as if exhausted. "Kaadith."
Spock takes a deep breath then exhales slowly. "Very well."
"Guard Jim with your life," the old Vulcan mumbles, eyes sliding closed.
Jim uses the wall to push to his feet, staring at the crumpled form at Spock's feet with something akin to horror in his heart. "Is he ...?"
Spock shakes his head. "A Vulcan healing trance," he clarifies, then turns to Jim with new urgency. "Come, we must leave."
"Sure," Jim agrees, allowing Spock to take his hand. "If you can figure out how to open that door, I'm all for it."
Spock comes to a halt in front of it, eyes scanning the hinges and the crude locking mechanism, evidently jury rigged onto the otherwise sophisticated layout. This part of the ship was clearly never meant to hold prisoners and presents significantly lesser obstacle than the secure location they'd initially beamed into. He drops Jim's hand and braces himself, eyes narrowed in concentration. When he moves, it's almost too quick for Jim to follow, concussion or no. The heel of one palm strikes the topmost hinge, while his booted foot connects with the cross bar. The door collapses outwards with a thunderous crash.
Spock steadies himself with his good hand, then uses it to capture Jim's again. "This way."
"Yeah," Jim staggers after him. "I think they probably heard that."
"Undoubtedly," Spock agrees, pausing only to tuck an EPAS transponder into Prime's bloodstained robes. "However, I could think of no other method of opening it."
"You didn't so much open it as demolish it." Jim shakes his head to clear it and immediately realizes it was a mistake. "I think my brain is falling out my ears."
"I shall ensure that does not happen," Spock says in an undertone, yanking on Jim's arm to conceal them in a cross passage just as half a dozen Romulan guards storm by at a dead run.
In the moment's pause, Jim can finally look at the disruptor burn on Spock's shoulder. It's deep and weeping and glinting with bone. Through the hand that still grips his own, he can feel the small tremors coursing through Spock's body. It hits him then, through the haze, that they are seriously in the shit. On the heels of that same revelation comes another observation.
"Holy crap, are we at warp?"
Spock considers this for a moment, head tilted as he catalogues the minutiae in support of Jim's assessment. "I believe we are. Judging by the lack of care with which we were imprisoned and the absence of guards posted, it is safe to assume that the crew have been preoccupied with their retreat. We will not be so fortunate for long." He moves to lead them back into the corridor, but Jim grips his elbow to stop him.
"No, not that way."
Spock gives him a dubious look. "This is a future model Romulan mining vessel, how are you calculating the route?"
"I've been here before, when I was you," Jim says seriously. "Quit arguing; I know you're trying to help but you've got the wrong brain." Jim doesn't give him time to digest that, merely drags him back the way they came, pushing them both into the fastest stagger they can manage, never faltering at an intersection, never hesitating at an access panel, until they're crammed like two sardines in a single escape pod that looks barely space-worthy.
Spock brings his hand down on the eject button just as Romulans appear in the tiny window, cursing and trying to force the door. The airlock irises closed and Jim renews his resolve not to throw up as they are jettisoned at warp speed, slowly bleeding off velocity until they break the sublight barrier and tumble into recognizable space like a cigarette butt thrown from a car window; a speck of life and warmth in the vastness of who the fuck knows where.
Jim gasps a few deep breaths and is not reassured to see Spock leaning into his own webbing, pale and perspiring.
"Over to you."
next
Soundtrack note: Since the moment I started writing this fic, Broken Bones by Birds of Tokyo has been a song that just screamed James T. Kirk to me, especially Reboot Kirk. I've equivocated extensively regarding the appropriate use of this tune as a chapter soundtrack, because really, it would fit on this one or any of the next three or four to follow. Also, yes, I'm going to stop being slack and arrange the rest of the soundtrack downloads, folks.
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 for not mocking my sense of urgency regarding fanfic when she's got real work to do for uni. I don't know why you put up with me, bb.
Author's Note: This is written for stripedpetunia on trek_exchange. Thank you all for putting up with this fortnightly posting thing I've had going on the last two chapters. As you know from my last note, life is difficult right now and editing chapters with this kind of emotional content, especially so. A la Chekov, I thank you for your time.
In this chapter there is the ingenious misuse of transporter technology, unexpected mindmelds and some serious angst on the boil ...
previous
Chapter 5.7
When Jim comes around, it's to a view of the turbolift floor and the rubberized kick panel that graces the bottom six inches of the wall. A tech is trying to hail him through the intercom, the voice becoming more and more urgent. He takes this to mean that he's been out for just long enough to cause concern. With a wince and a deep breath of preparation, he gets his arms under him and pushes to his hands and knees.
"This is Kirk, stand down," he manages, finger mashed into the intercom. "Just a glitch, no assistance required."
Saying that, he hopes it's true, because as he makes it to his feet he can see the cover has been ripped away from the controls. There's a dull ache perched at the intersection of his neck and shoulder, but it's already fading, along with the slight inability to focus his eyes. He's heard about Vulcan nerve pinches but hasn't been on the receiving end of one until now. Diligently, he frowns, forcing his eyes to focus on the mess of wires and control cards Prime has left him. A quick assessment shows him how easy it is to restore power; Prime obviously didn't mean to trap him here, just delay him.
With that realization comes a flood of memory and he swears, twisting wires together with less than his usual finesse. The old bastard might not be his Spock, might be hundreds of years older, but if there's one thing Jim will bet on, it's that any given Spock will martyr himself on the altar of personal responsibility given half a chance. Nero is blasting a world apart looking for him, which leaves very little doubt in Jim's mind where Prime has gone or what he intends to do.
With a flash and a puff of smoke, his hasty repair job yields results and the younger Spock enters the turbolift so wrapped in his own thoughts that it's clear he doesn't notice Jim until he's stepped inside. He tenses, poised for flight, his face smudged with grime from the cave and his hair rain-wet.
"No," Jim stops him from leaving by grabbing a sleeve. "Wait a minute." The doors slide closed with a muted hiss and Jim can't help the way he holds on. "God, I'm so sorry," he whispers, thinking of what Spock has just done. "I wish I'd never thought of it, I ..."
Spock's exhales, a short puff of breath, the slightest hint of sound; a confession.
"Anything you want," Jim promises him, and means it. God, how he means it. On the tip of his tongue, at the edges of his perception, he can feel the points where Spock exists. He catches flashes of it, glimpses and hints of turmoil through the tenuous connection he hasn't been bold enough to ask about.
Spock is angry, he's ashamed, he's a little out of control. He opens his mouth, then has to swallow. Wordlessly, he reaches out with one hand, the pattern sending Jim right back into the cave, headlong into thoughts of dominance and violation. He can't help it, he flinches. The thought of having someone else in his mind, of having Spock there so soon after what he's just done, it turns his stomach. Years of hard, bitter memories surge to the fore, rising like the gorge in his throat, and he can only shake his head mutely and angle his face away.
Spock's facade is in tatters. He stares, visibly shocked by such a reaction.
Jim forces himself to breathe, to relax and place a hand back on Spock's EVA suit even though his skin crawls. He's walking the very fine line between what he wants and what he can't possibly handle. "I wouldn't leave you now unless I had to," he says weakly, sliding his palm up to Spock's shoulder and wishing he had the time to explain. "You can feel that, can't you? Feel that I'm telling the truth?"
"Yes," Spock nods, then clears his throat softly. “Yes, I can.”
"Okay." Jim steps away. "So find it in your heart to forgive me, because I can't stand the thought of you in my head right now."
With a press of his thumb against Spock's lips and a quick step backward, Jim exits the lift, spins on his heel and sets off down the corridor at a dead run. He can't know that all his fear and all his revulsion are transferred in that fleeting touch, consolidating leaden and ugly in the pit of Spock's stomach.
Perhaps, if he'd had an inkling of the events set in motion by that emotional transference, Jim might have made the time for an explanation. Instead, the automatic doors allow Spock five seconds to watch him disappear.
-:-
Jim collides with someone as he rounds the corner into the main hangar. Clutching at the other man's EVA suit for balance, he reads the name tag, Kensington Watson, MD. A surprised glance up at the young man's face confirms it.
"Kenny!"
"Lieutenant Kirk," the younger man smiles, looking ruffled and tired but obviously buoyed by the adrenaline rush of survival. "Glad to see you in one piece, sir."
"Right back at you," Jim laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. "What's your status?"
Kenny glances down at himself, as though considering it for the first time. "A few bruises and sleep deprivation aside, I'm fine."
Jim flips him around with one hand and propels them both towards the nearest shuttle. "Good. Stim yourself and find me someone to fly this thing; we might actually need you to be a doctor this time. Also, get Engineer Scott down here, and tell him to bring a torpedo."
"Aye, sir." Kenny turns on his heel and jogs over to the main Ops board, shouting to draw the young tech's attention.
Jim grabs the rail and vaults into the shuttle over the runner, flipping the first few standby switches to power up the impulse engines. "Computer, state your designation."
Echo Delta one oh one.
The early serial number makes him take a second look at the interior, and sure enough, it's the muted beige of one of the earliest ED medevac shuttles still in operation. It should make him want another shuttle, and there's still time to skip out and find a newer one, but Jim just grins. He knows this shuttle, never flown in it before, but the crew's rhyming slang means it's known as the Obi-wan. It's a Beta rotation ship with a reputation for getting out of tight spots. He likes old movies and he likes this ship.
"Voiceprint acknowledge, Lieutenant Kirk, serial number SC937 dash 0176CEC."
Lieutenant Kirk, James T., acting Divisional Commander, authority acknowledged.
"Track last launched vessel and vector. Log egress request and flight plan as follows." Jim's fingers fly over the navcomp, laying in a course that will slingshot them around Aspera's smaller moon, hopefully hiding them from Romulan attention for just long enough to put him where he's certain Prime has gone; the focal point for Nero's interdimensional signal.
Working.
He turns away from the cockpit and begins preflight, visually confirming all the green lights on the board, all their Medic and Point supplies, their fuel store and taking a quick jog around the outside to inspect the hull. The whole thing takes less than five minutes. It's cursory and there could still be a hundred deadly things wrong with the Obi-wan, but he doesn't have time for more.
Kenny comes running up with a familiar face in tow, just as Scotty comes scowling and muttering into the hangar, ginger hair white with dust, his face pink from the exertion of running.
"Han," Jim smiles, clasping her forearm to haul her into the ship. "You have the conn."
"Aye, sir," Hannity smiles, vaulting over the cockpit divide to land neatly in the pilot's seat.
"Scotty, where's my torpedo?"
"The lads are bringing it," the engineer waves over his shoulder at four techs clustered around the armoury. "But an Echo Delta shuttle isn't equipped to fire a torpedo," he flails. "What are you planning to do? Shove it out the door and hope for the best?"
"Not quite," he grins. "But I am going to need you to prove just how good you are with a transporter."
"Green light," Hannity calls. "We're clear for launch."
"Over there," Jim points the techs towards the shuttle's tiny transporter pad. "Strap it down, will you? I don't want it in my lap." He turns to Scotty, face suddenly intent. "If we pull the warhead and reconfigure the photon signature to a frequency of the same amplitude but inverted phase and deliver a tachyon burst from the torp's deflector net, can we shut down the signal?"
Scotty's eyes widen as he does the calculations. "You're talking about a backyard pulse wave torpedo. Those things have never worked!"
"What's our alternative?" he demands. "Fly right into the damn rift and then create a tachyon eddy? Will it even be enough without some kind of phase cancellation?"
"Well no, probably not," Scotty admits, leaping back as Hannity starts taxiing ED101 to the slingshot, forcing him to jog along side and Jim to lean out dangerously on the runner to continue their conversation. "But I have an idea."
"I was hoping you'd say that."
"If you recalibrate the targeting computer to a parametric frequency with the same carrier band as Nero's own signal, you don't need to find the antiphase," he puffs, having to run properly now that the shuttle is picking up speed. "You can use his own signal against him to deliver the tachyon burst at exactly the right point."
"Scotty," Jim grins wildly, "you're a genius! When I get back, I'm promoting you to captain of everything."
The engineer staggers to a breathless halt, hands on his hips to watch the medevac shuttle flung out into the deteriorating front of the battle for Aspera. "I'll hold you to that!" he yells after them pointlessly, unable to wipe the smile from his face as he turns to make his way to the transporter room.
-:-
"What are we doing, Jim?" Hannity asks, never taking her eyes off the screen.
He lifts his head from the delicate work he and Kenny are performing on the torpedo's innards. "Saving a planet, stopping a temporal catastrophe, rescuing a friend and annoying Nero."
"Sounds good."
"Thought you'd like it."
"Twenty seconds to weapons range."
"Acknowledged."
He turns back to the torpedo and carefully slides the modified chip into place, leaving Kenny's steady surgeon's hands to form the final connections with the laser scalpel. The young doctor's concentration is intense, beads of perspiration running down into his eyes, forcing him to pause and blink them away.
"You okay?" Jim asks.
"It's the stims," Kenny replies, keeping his eyes on the business end of the scalpel. "Takes a lot of concentration to keep my hands from shaking."
Jim just nods, knowing how that feels. The initial burn of the drugs in his own system are beginning to wear off, leaving a dull, artificial sense of urgency pooled in the centre of his chest. It feels like the beginning of a heart attack, his body fighting against it for the respite it desperately craves, but then Jim's body has never responded well to medications.
"Got it," Kenny sighs, pulling his hands away to shake out the tension.
Jim slides the cover home and polarises the deflector net. He can feel the push on his bare hands as it hums to life.
"They've painted us," Hannity announces tightly. "Strap in."
Both men scramble for their harnesses, slamming the first and most crucial lap buckle home just as Hannity is forced to evade a cluster bomb thrown their way. Two more follow and Jim has to hug his knees to stop from being thrown around, unable to secure his shoulder straps in the poor excuse for internal gravity dampening. It was one thing he hadn't considered about a 100 series ED shuttle.
"Ugh," he groans as Hannity straightens them out under the cover of protective fire from the Tat'sar. "I think I'm going to puke."
"Nothing new there," Han jokes grimly, pouring on as much speed as she can while there are friendly ships to keep the Romulan fire to a minimum.
"That was one time," Jim protests, more out of habit than anything else, "and it wasn't my fault."
"We warned you Chekov flies like an Andorian bull in atmo."
"I thought you were joking," he insists, managing to get himself fully strapped in before the next sharp dive, but only just.
"Sir, detecting a friendly vessel dead ahead on the predicted vector," Hannity reports, all joking suddenly aside. "Reads Vulcan, minimal offensive capability, brilliant shields though. She's awfully close to the rift."
Jim calls up forward scanners on the Point screen, splaying and dragging his fingers to magnify the image. A small white and blue craft is hurtling towards the rift at an impressive pace, its hardy shields splashed with Romulan energy weapons. "Hailing frequencies," he demands.
After a moment, Hannity makes an apologetic shrug. "No response."
Jim frowns, forced to rethink his strategy.
"Shields at sixty," she informs them, even as the hardy old shuttle is rocked by another blast. "Fifteen seconds to rift interference."
Jim knows Prime has to be on that little Vulcan ship. No other Vulcan would be flying for a temporal anomaly in defiance of all apparent logic. What he needs is a way to launch the torpedo and then get Prime and the Obi-wan out of harm's way before it detonates. There's been no time to do the math, but it stands to reason that collapsing a temporal rift is going to be messy. The display counts down the kilometers with frightening speed and his brain just shuts down. Whether it's the impossibility of the situation or something more physical, he can't tell. All he knows is they're flying straight into Prime's personal suicide pact and he can't think of a way to control the situation.
In desperation, he thumbs his comm. "Scotty?"
Aye sir, I see the problem. The engineer replies promptly, sounding preoccupied.
Jim grits his teeth, wishing he could make himself believe that Vulcan bullshit about the good of the many. "I need another solution, Scotty. This one's not acceptable."
I don't know what to tell you. Whoever's flying that thing must have a death wish. There's no way out of a flight plan like that."
"Find a damn way!" Jim yells suddenly, surprising himself with his own vehemence. Prime is a manipulative, secretive son of a bitch, but he was also instrumental in paving the way for a young Jim Kirk to realize there might be something better out there, beyond the limited scope of his experience. Motivation aside, it's fair to say Jim's not sure where he'd be today without Prime, or even if he'd be here at all. This one thing, he thinks to himself grimly, then we're even.
"Five seconds to target."
"Sir," Kenny begins anxiously, glancing from the torpedo to Jim's face with some urgency.
"Scotty, give me something," he demands.
You're not going to like it, the engineer promises dourly.
"I'll like it better than the alternative, which is nothing," he promises.
Okay, well, this might be easier if you all close your eyes.
Hannity turns to glare at Jim in a way that says this is all his fault. "What the shit, Jim?"
"Scotty!" Jim demands over the comm, feeling the first stirrings of dread in the pit of his stomach, knowing that forcing the brilliant engineer to think outside the box often yields rather dramatic results.
Now would be a good time to take a deep breath and hold it.
-:-
Commander Spock is due in sickbay; directive from Doctor McCoy.
The fact that he does not comply can be attributed to a number of factors, one of which is a chance encounter with his father on his way to decontamination. The surprise brings him up just short of a stumble. Sarek comes to a more graceful halt, hands concealed in long sleeves. Aware that his own are far from steady, Spock confines them in the small of his back, irrationally wondering if his father can sense the crime he has committed. Perhaps there is a lingering taint from the Romulan's unwilling mind within his own tumultuous thoughts. Their father-son bond has never been particularly strong, but Spock feels as though his ethical violation supersedes any and all barriers he might erect. He cannot imagine ever being free of it.
"Spock."
"Father."
Sarek shifts minutely, betraying a small amount of his uncertainty. "I would not delay you on your way to the Bridge."
"I am, in fact, en route to sickbay," Spock corrects him.
"You are injured?" There may perhaps be the slightest trace of concern evident in his father's tone.
"It is merely protocol."
Sarek nods, but his eyes flick away, hiding momentarily, before returning as composed as ever to Spock's face. "That is well. The work you do is dangerous, the statistical likelihood of serious injury quite high. I believe the average age of a human Point is approximately forty two point eight years; barely adult in Vulcan terms."
"I am not a child."
"No," Sarek acknowledges. "You are not."
Feeling vastly under-prepared for any kind of conversation with his sole remaining parent, Spock tilts his head politely. "Is there some way in which I may assist you?"
Sarek waves his offer aside with one palm. "I seek return transport to the Vulcan fleet, but it is hardly imperative in light of the Stalwart's operational necessity. I am content to await a more appropriate time when the arrangements can be made without inconvenience or undue risk to your crew."
Spock lifts an eyebrow. "You beamed aboard during a battle?"
"I was conveyed in a small diplomatic shuttle, heavily shielded and piloted by someone with ample experience. The journey constituted an acceptable risk."
"My counterpart served as pilot," Spock infers, displaying the intuitive leaps of logic that always confused his Vulcan peers. "Why not return together?"
"It is not possible. Prime has commandeered the vessel for the purpose of sabotaging Nero's subspace transmitter, or alternatively collapsing the temporal rift."
With sick certainty, Spock takes an involuntary step forward. "When did he depart?"
"Less than four point six minutes prior to your arrival."
Spock whirls to the nearest terminal. "Computer, locate Lieutenant Kirk, James T."
Lieutenant Kirk is not on board.
Barely managing to contain the urge to smash the terminal with his bare fist, Spock doubles back the way he came, barely aware that his father follows, abandoning diplomatic dignity in favour of pursuing his youngest son at speed.
-:-
As the Obi-wan blinks out of existence in a hail of silver sparks Jim has a bare handful of seconds to realize how insane that is before his neurons dematerialize. They slam back into real space and the proximity alarms screech to life. Jim has an eyeful of hull through the cockpit and Hannity's voice reaches him, filled with terror.
"Holy son of a ..."
Blink.
This time, when they come back, everything seems to have gone to pieces. The deck is buckled and checkered with unfamiliar white, the walls set with doors that weren't there, conduits and circuitry steaming and sparking. He's been purged from the transporter buffer into a nightmare world of incomplete model sets and twisted dioramas. The air is filled with the high-pitched screech of venting atmosphere, lights flickering. He struggles with his harness, fighting to undo the buckles, but they've fused right into the bench seat ... which is now apparently part of a closet.
"What the fu ..."
Blink.
-:-
In the Stalwart's main hangar bay, Spock watches ED101 and the futuristic Vulcan shuttle blur, impact and become one object, magnified in all its twisted glory on the crisp viewscreen. He turns to the transporter console on his left, eyes dark and jaw set. "Mister Scott, you will explain."
"Jim asked me for an alternative and you're looking at it," the engineer waves a hand at the misshapen lump on the viewer, now tumbling unpowered.
Spock's eyes snap back, tracking the amalgamated vessel's haphazard path through the very fringes of the rift. "In attempting such a maneuver, you have undoubtedly assured their deaths."
"I'm not daft!" He bristles. "I beamed them out seconds after. Only thing left aboard that mess is the torpedo Jim wanted. They're all safe and sound."
"Where?" Spock demands.
"On board the Narada," Scotty says proudly.
Spock appears vastly underwhelmed by this demonstration of transporter expertise. "Am I to understand that you have beamed the Acting Divisional Commander, a Pilot, a Medic and a Vulcan of considerable standing aboard Nero's flagship?"
"Well, when you say it like that, it doesn't sound quite so good," Scotty's face falls. "But I only had seconds, sir, seconds to find somewhere close enough to put them!"
Spock takes a step forward menacingly. "You will beam them back aboard the Stalwart immediately."
"I ..."
A scintillating explosion rocks the old Constitution Class ship, sending power fluctuations cascading through the boards as Jim's special torpedo detonates within the temporal rift. Sparks fly and klaxons sound, a panicked counterpoint to Spock's icy expression.
Scotty swallows. "Transporters offline. I'll never get a lock on their transponders with all this interference!"
"I want their last known location," he says, the words clipped and very precise. "Restore power, Mr. Scott."
Scotty is already engrossed in his instrumentation, suddenly perspiring despite the chill in the hangar. "Aye sir, I'm on it."
-:-
"... ucking fuck!" Jim finishes angrily as his feet hit the ground at an odd angle and he's forced to stagger in order to remain upright. Hannity and Kenny aren't so lucky, collapsing to the polished black deck in a loud tangle of limbs and an 'oof.' From over their flailing arms and legs, Prime raises an eyebrow at his profanity.
"I would call this a pleasant surprise," the old Vulcan says with all the appearance of perfect calm, "except that I have gone to great lengths to avoid this very situation."
"What?" he asks, wiping the back of one sleeve across his face as he struggles for composure. "Not dying?"
"No Jim; risking Romulan capture."
Blinking at their surroundings, Jim narrows his eyes, finding focus in the black and green architecture. Instantly galvanized, he whips his phaser out, safety off and feet braced. "Where the hell are we?"
Prime glances around, performing a slow pirouette that Jim finds hauntingly familiar. "Judging by the subsonic frequency of the impulse engines, the curvature of the internal hull and the position of Nero's fleet at the time of dematerialization, I would have to say that we are aboard the Narada."
Jim licks his lips and adjusts his grip on the phaser. "Bullshit."
Prime just looks at him pointedly.
-:-
"Coordinates obtained," Scotty announces confidently. "I have limited range, Commander. I'm not picking up their transponders."
Spock nods briskly and sets off for the nearest transporter pad. "Then you will beam me to their last known location instead."
"But if the Narada has moved even so much as a meter..."
"I am aware of the risks, Mr. Scott."
Out of nowhere, McCoy appears, off-balance under the unfamiliar load of Starfleet small arms. "You're going to need some help."
Spock doesn't argue, just nods and relieves the doctor of two phasers.
Sarek steps into Spock's path, catching him mid-stride. "You intend to retrieve them," he says, and it is not a question.
"Of course," Spock agrees, perhaps a little tightly, but certainly not emotionally.
"Spock," Sarek says softly, for his ears only. "You are all that I have left."
"Father," he gives his head a slight shake.
"You underestimate my regard."
Spock steps neatly around him. "Perhaps," he allows. "However, I do not currently possess the time to explore that possibility." He makes the leap onto the pad, disdaining the steps all together. He snaps his visor down, hiding his face and his fear behind its polarized curve. The very last second before he gives the word, he yields to the impulse to look at his father and finds him standing straight, one hand raised, not in the ta'al but in a simple human gesture of farewell and benediction.
"Energize."
With a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, Spock braces himself for the consequences of perhaps the most illogical decision of his career. There is a pause that seems a split second longer than usual, then the dark, dank interior of Nero's flagship coalesces around them.
Almost instantly, the comms blare to life.
EPAS away team, this is Ops, do you read, over? Commander, your mission is not authorized, do you acknowledge? Commander Spock? Sir, this is Gaila, please explain what the hell you're doing on the Narada, because the Vulcans are about two seconds away from ...
Spock grabs hold of his earbuds and pops them firmly from the membranous hood, tossing them aside. He fields a wide-eyed look from McCoy.
"Never thought I'd see the day," the doctor drawls, but his eyes are warm with approval.
Back on the Stalwart, a full complement of Security personnel stampede into the hangar bay, only seconds late. Scotty and the other techs raise their hands in the universal gesture for surrender. Sarek merely clasps his together calmly, unruffled.
Scotty turns to the Vulcan Ambassador with a huge grin on his face. "This ship just got exciting!"
-:-
"Attempting further sabotage of Nero's operations is not logical," Prime says even as he deftly rewires the circuitry Jim has haphazardly revealed. "If what you say is true, then the immediate threat to temporal stability has been neutralized. We should seek immediate evacuation from the Narada."
"And how much future tech has Nero plucked out of space since he got here?" Jim wants to know, buried up to his armpit in the wall below where Prime is working, fingers fumbling for the power cable he knows will be there somewhere. Everything needs power. "In fact, screw the tech, what about the people?"
Kenny takes a moment from disassembling his communicator to nod emphatically. "I saw the Narada take at least two escape pods intact, and that was just while I was piloting that Romulan bird. There was an awful lot of flotsam and jetsam bleeding through; there might have been others."
Jim's eyes flick back up to Prime. "You can't tell me he's got their best interests at heart."
Prime gives a slightly un-Vulcan-like sigh. "The existence of living beings aboard those pods is pure conjecture. Interdimensional travel is fraught with uncertainty and danger. There is no telling how many, if any, have survived the journey."
"Oh, well in that case, fuck 'em," Jim says blandly just as he manages to insert the power cable into the jury-rigged matrix Prime has created. The door to the storage compartment depressurizes with a muted hiss. "You can stay here if you want," he adds, directing his words at both of them, even if his eyes stay locked with Prime's, "but I'm going to take a look."
Kenny and Hannity move to follow, but Prime cuts them off. "It is imperative that we avoid becoming separated."
"We do only have the one boosted transponder," Kenny admits, waggling the hand that contains his hard work.
"I'm not comfortable leaving someone behind," Hannity seconds.
Jim squares up to the elderly Vulcan, wondering if having Spock as his DivCO is the reason that ordering the alternate version around feels so unnatural. "Guess you're coming with us, then."
Prime stares him down, his hooded eyes glittering in the eerie green light. "I guess you are correct."
"Welcome to EPAS," he smirks, turning his back to risk a glance down the corridor, checking for threats.
A vice-like Vulcan grip takes him by the shoulder and backs him into the wall in one swift show of inhuman strength. A leathery hand finds the side of his face, hot fingers digging into the skin. "I'm sorry, old friend," Prime rasps.
"Don't you dare!"
A world that never was explodes behind Jim's eyes.
-:-
The first thing Jim registers when he blinks his way back to consciousness is the unbelievable migraine that's taken up residence right behind the bridge of his nose. It's not helped at all by the wailing of klaxons throughout the Narada. The second thing he notices is young Spock pinning Prime to the wall by his throat and looking pissed in a scarily Vulcan way. Kenny and Hannity have been nerve-pinched into oblivion, out cold on the deck.
"What happened?"
"You have regained consciousness," Spock observes, his eyes never wavering from those of his counterpart.
"No shit." Jim forces himself up with his hands until he's sitting against the wall, legs flung out awkwardly. "Which one of you nerve pinched my damn crew?"
McCoy steps into Jim's line of sight, clearly torn between attending to him or the unconscious people first. Jim waves him off and the exasperated doctor rolls his eyes before turning his back.
"If you will allow me to explain..." Prime begins.
"No," says Spock at the same time as Jim says, "yes." The two look at each other and then Spock turns back to Prime. "Yes," he amends, looking blatantly unimpressed.
Prime's eyes flick to the fingers closed lightly around his larynx. "You could facilitate our conversation by releasing me."
"No."
"Spock, let him go."
"What manner of attack did you perpetrate on the mind of Lieutenant Kirk?" Spock demands, ignoring Jim completely. He sounds coldly furious.
Prime blinks, looking quite surprised for a Vulcan. "I assure you, it was no attack. However, I do regret the circumstances that forced me to initiate such an intimate contact without his consent."
Spock's fingers tighten fractionally, seemingly of their own accord. "Your regret means nothing to me."
Prime swallows awkwardly and raises his hands slightly, palms outwards in supplication. "I have been and always will be, his friend." The old Vulcan seeks Jim's eyes over Spock's shoulder. "Is that not so?"
The words trigger some kind of cacophony of memory in Kirk's head, he screws his eyes shut, but that does nothing to halt the endless parade of images, sounds and events that regurgitate themselves out of his subconscious and into the present moment. A thousand Spocks over a thousand days turn to him wearing Starfleet science blues and say, "Captain?"
Jim snaps out of it, gasping, to find Spock has abandoned Prime to crouch before him, hot hands framing his face, a concerned furrow between up-swept brows.
"No way," Jim breathes. Spock's fingers shift against his skin and those expressive lips that nobody else seems to notice press together in concern. "Spock," Jim says, panicked, pushing him away, "everyone needs keep out of my goddamn head!"
Three Romulans burst through the door and open fire, showering the room in green energy. The first bolt strikes Prime in the chest, the second in the abdomen, the third is headed for Jim, at least until Spock rolls into its path. The impact throws the Commander into the bulkhead with Jim like the meat in a sandwich, crushing the breath from him. Dazed, winded and still disorientated, Jim looks up just in time to see the butt of the disruptor before it strikes him between the eyes.
-:-
McCoy rematerializes aboard the Stalwart drenched in a cold sweat. Hannity is still out cold, but Kenny slowly staggers to his feet, hand still pressed to his emergency beacon. McCoy doesn't hesitate before grabbing the junior medic by the shirtfront with both hands. "What have you done, man? Our people are injured back there, or worse!"
Kensington brings his hands up between them and slaps McCoy's grip aside. "Standard operating procedure," he shouts back. "We were outgunned and probably outnumbered. They would have shot Hannity like a dog and she'd never even have known! You're the CMO; your responsibility is to the fleet as a whole, not just to your own shuttle crew!"
"What is this? Cowardice?" McCoy growls darkly.
"No, it's logic," Kenny counters, face set with the determination of someone who wholeheartedly believes in the righteousness of his decision. "It's also in the manual, doctor. You might not thank me for saving your life, but the many staff and saves you're going to be able to treat definitely will. If the DivCO makes it out of there alive he'll commend me, not discipline me, and you know it."
"Damn the manual!" McCoy rages, "and damn this infectious Vulcan logic! We're human beings, Kensington. The goddamn service motto is leave no soul behind, but you're okay with leaving two of our best Points and a geriatric Vulcan taking Romulan fire?" He gives the younger man a rough shove, oblivious to Scotty's wide-eyed observation. "That sits just fine with you, does it?"
"Of course it doesn't!" Kenny shoves McCoy right back, palms to the center of his chest, sending him stumbling across the transporter pad. "But hanging around to die along with them serves no purpose! I took the same oath that you did, remember? Sometimes doing no harm means knowing when to give in to the odds!"
McCoy drops him with one vicious jab to the point of his chin. Kenny hits the deck with a dull, fleshy thud and doesn't get up. From the front row of the small crowd that has gathered to witness the altercation, Scotty gulps audibly. McCoy's furious eyes flick up as he shakes out his aching fist.
"I'm going to have to call Security?" Scotty tells him like it's a question.
"Ah, hell."
-:-
Sounds wash over him like the ebb and flow of waves on a beach; a quiet susurrus of sound with an undercurrent of urgency. He floats on it, drifting aimlessly, timeless and alone, but not alone. Forever touching but untouched ...
His eyes flicker open, tacky and sticking together. He's in a dark cell, back wedged up against something warm, but the sound isn't coming from behind him.
"Jim," the insistent whisper comes again.
Against the gloom, through the tunnel vision, he can barely make out the slumped form of Prime in the opposite corner. Without hesitation, he pushes himself up onto one elbow and valiantly fights the urge to throw up. The room pitches unhelpfully around him and his ears ring so loudly he can only see Prime's lips moving; can't make out the words anymore. Ignoring his body's demand that he give up and get horizontal again, he drags himself over to the other side of the room, fists his hand in Prime's robes for leverage and feels confused when they come away wet. Moving so that the single beam of light strikes his palm, he's still not sure why it's green.
"Jim," the quiet voice insists. "Forgive me."
"For what?" he wonders, certain that this gentle person could have done nothing in his life worth apologizing for. Spock would never harm anyone intentionally, Spock was a good person, Spock was...when had Prime truly become Spock in his mind?
Jim blinks and raises one green, sticky hand to the bridge of his nose. "My head ..."
"It will fade in time," the old Vulcan assures him. "You must wake Spock. You must escape." He pauses to cough wretchedly. "You are more important now, than ever. That which I have given you cannot fall into the wrong hands." Dark eyes burn with purpose in his pale, lined face. "Promise me, Jim."
"I don't know what you're talking about," he whispers, lips numb as though flush with the first hit of alcohol. "I don't ..."
"You must go."
"Go where?"
"Wake Spock."
Jim wipes the gunk out of his eyes and stares at his hand which is red now, too. "But you're already awake."
Thin lips quirk into a pained smile. "I am not your Spock, nor you my Jim."
"Could've been, though."
Jim watches moisture gather at the corners of Prime's eyes and wonders whether he's hallucinating. Or high. Yeah, maybe high. The old Vulcan reaches out and gives him a weak shove towards the opposite side of the room. "Go," he says. "You have very little time."
Jim turns his head, wobbly on his neck like one of those stupid dashboard ornaments people with RVs seem to like so much. Fuck, he hopes he never becomes people who like RVs, he has too much to live for. Then he notices the warmth when he woke had to have been Spock's body, and that there is a huge, blackened mess scorched into the place where one of his shoulders used to be.
"Shit," Jim says with feeling, and proceeds to flail his way back to where he'd started.
Spock's body is too cold, and fucking heavy. He rolls it over anyway, with little finesse but quite a lot of determination. His head lolls against the deck, arms flopping limply.
Jim glances back at Prime. "He's asleep."
"Wake him."
"With a kiss?" Jim wonders, because he's pretty sure that's how the story goes.
"Strike him firmly across the face."
"Oh, I remember."
Jim doesn't question it, just takes an open palm to Spock's cheek hard enough that it echoes off the walls. One doesn't do it, so he serves up another, is preparing the third when Spock's eyes flicker open then narrow in quickly controlled pain.
"Jim."
"Sorry, the other Spock told me to," he says and shrugs. "I always do what you say."
Spock rolls onto his good side and blanches further. "That is inaccurate; also you are concussed."
Jim nods. "Or on the good drugs."
Spock's eyes seek out the other Vulcan across the room and something charged and hostile passes silently between them. "You are still not who you say you are."
Prime gurgles in what may have been an attempt at a laugh. "Who amongst us is?"
"Will there be enough time for the truth?" Spock persists, with that look he gets when he's figured out some particularly difficult puzzle. "How long do you have?"
"Perhaps long enough," Prime whispers.
Spock pushes to his feet, cradling his injured arm protectively against his chest. "You cannot die here," he says firmly, eyeing the extent of the other Vulcan's injuries.
"You are mistaken," he breathes. "I can die wherever I please."
"I will not allow it." Spock sounds almost fierce.
Prime does smile, then; a gentle quirk of his lips that Jim finds achingly familiar. "With age, you will learn that not everything is mutable." He nods at the pool of green blood that has formed around his crumpled body and then looks back up at Spock. "Send someone for me, if you can do so without unacceptable risk, but you destroy all that I have worked for, all that I hold most dear, if you allow James Kirk to remain in this place."
"You will not survive without medical intervention, and I will have answers."
Prime coughs again and it takes a few moments for him to muster enough breath to speak afterwards. "Death and I are well acquainted. I have no desire to renew our friendship, but neither do I fear it." He blinks heavily, as if exhausted. "Kaadith."
Spock takes a deep breath then exhales slowly. "Very well."
"Guard Jim with your life," the old Vulcan mumbles, eyes sliding closed.
Jim uses the wall to push to his feet, staring at the crumpled form at Spock's feet with something akin to horror in his heart. "Is he ...?"
Spock shakes his head. "A Vulcan healing trance," he clarifies, then turns to Jim with new urgency. "Come, we must leave."
"Sure," Jim agrees, allowing Spock to take his hand. "If you can figure out how to open that door, I'm all for it."
Spock comes to a halt in front of it, eyes scanning the hinges and the crude locking mechanism, evidently jury rigged onto the otherwise sophisticated layout. This part of the ship was clearly never meant to hold prisoners and presents significantly lesser obstacle than the secure location they'd initially beamed into. He drops Jim's hand and braces himself, eyes narrowed in concentration. When he moves, it's almost too quick for Jim to follow, concussion or no. The heel of one palm strikes the topmost hinge, while his booted foot connects with the cross bar. The door collapses outwards with a thunderous crash.
Spock steadies himself with his good hand, then uses it to capture Jim's again. "This way."
"Yeah," Jim staggers after him. "I think they probably heard that."
"Undoubtedly," Spock agrees, pausing only to tuck an EPAS transponder into Prime's bloodstained robes. "However, I could think of no other method of opening it."
"You didn't so much open it as demolish it." Jim shakes his head to clear it and immediately realizes it was a mistake. "I think my brain is falling out my ears."
"I shall ensure that does not happen," Spock says in an undertone, yanking on Jim's arm to conceal them in a cross passage just as half a dozen Romulan guards storm by at a dead run.
In the moment's pause, Jim can finally look at the disruptor burn on Spock's shoulder. It's deep and weeping and glinting with bone. Through the hand that still grips his own, he can feel the small tremors coursing through Spock's body. It hits him then, through the haze, that they are seriously in the shit. On the heels of that same revelation comes another observation.
"Holy crap, are we at warp?"
Spock considers this for a moment, head tilted as he catalogues the minutiae in support of Jim's assessment. "I believe we are. Judging by the lack of care with which we were imprisoned and the absence of guards posted, it is safe to assume that the crew have been preoccupied with their retreat. We will not be so fortunate for long." He moves to lead them back into the corridor, but Jim grips his elbow to stop him.
"No, not that way."
Spock gives him a dubious look. "This is a future model Romulan mining vessel, how are you calculating the route?"
"I've been here before, when I was you," Jim says seriously. "Quit arguing; I know you're trying to help but you've got the wrong brain." Jim doesn't give him time to digest that, merely drags him back the way they came, pushing them both into the fastest stagger they can manage, never faltering at an intersection, never hesitating at an access panel, until they're crammed like two sardines in a single escape pod that looks barely space-worthy.
Spock brings his hand down on the eject button just as Romulans appear in the tiny window, cursing and trying to force the door. The airlock irises closed and Jim renews his resolve not to throw up as they are jettisoned at warp speed, slowly bleeding off velocity until they break the sublight barrier and tumble into recognizable space like a cigarette butt thrown from a car window; a speck of life and warmth in the vastness of who the fuck knows where.
Jim gasps a few deep breaths and is not reassured to see Spock leaning into his own webbing, pale and perspiring.
"Over to you."
next
Soundtrack note: Since the moment I started writing this fic, Broken Bones by Birds of Tokyo has been a song that just screamed James T. Kirk to me, especially Reboot Kirk. I've equivocated extensively regarding the appropriate use of this tune as a chapter soundtrack, because really, it would fit on this one or any of the next three or four to follow. Also, yes, I'm going to stop being slack and arrange the rest of the soundtrack downloads, folks.