fanfic | stxi | leave no soul behind 6.1/?
Title: Leave No Soul Behind 6.1, 5,894 words of 200,000+
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, you tha man.
Author's Note: This is written for stripedpetunia on trek_exchange. Apologies for the unexpected haitus, there will be a reliable flow of chapters from here to the end provided the universe has no further cosmic jokes to dump on me.
In this chapter, we travel in time ...
previous
Chapter 6.1
Over a dozen years ago, Spock stands stiffly in robes that are fast becoming too short for him. Again.
"I do not understand Mother's objection to my decision," he says. "She did not voice an opinion at the time of my initial application."
Sarek raises an eyebrow. "Perhaps she thought it logical to cultivate multiple options."
Spock mimics the eyebrow and waits.
"Yes. It is far more probable she assumed you would grow out of the idea," Sarek acknowledges.
"How can one outgrow an idea?"
"You are being overly literal."
"I am simply confused."
"Humans are often confusing."
"Initially I was confused by her response, now I also find your response confusing," Spock frowns.
"Humans may be confusing, but parents are always more so."
Spock allows himself a sigh laced with frustration. "This conversation is confusing."
"May I suggest you start at the beginning?"
"When I told Mother I am planning to refuse the Vulcan Science Academy, she expressly forbade me to leave Vulcan." Spock shakes his head, the neat bowl cut swinging softly. "I have undergone the khas-wan and am free to make my own decisions regarding my future career. It is illogical for her to say such things."
"I suspect her reversion to parental dominance in such matters is motivated by emotion." Sarek watches his younger son carefully for a response. "She has always felt that your place is here, on Vulcan."
"I am under no illusions regarding her preference on that issue."
"Then you can understand her opposition to your plans."
"Infer a connection, yes; comprehend the reason, no Father, I cannot." Spock struggles to school his expression, grateful when Sarek not only allows him the time to recompose himself, but does not comment on the lapse. "She seems strangely averse to her own people."
"She merely hopes you will avoid a feeling of inadequacy by fully adopting Vulcan culture."
"Inadequacy?"
"You have had little to no opportunity to experience it first hand, but Vulcans are often quite isolated when living amongst humans. There is considerable initial pressure to adopt human customs, followed by a gradual but inevitable decline in social interaction. It takes a unique human to breach these layers of misconception." Sarek may or may not glance fondly at the holo of his wife. Spock chooses to ignore it.
"Her objection is based on a desire to protect me from emotional trauma?" Spock seeks to clarify.
"Perhaps your mother's own search for identity amongst us led to her preoccupation with the way you, yourself, are perceived," his father says carefully, each word weighed and considered. "I raised the matter with her many times when you were a child, but she was adamant that without proper guidance, you may come to feel disconnected," he pauses, eyes measuring, "homeless. It was for this reason that she emphasized your Vulcan heritage over her own human one."
"I did not know."
"We did not speak of it in your presence," Sarek dismisses. "However, given the current situation, I believe it is imperative that you understand I have long thought of you as a child of two worlds; always believing you capable of defining what that means, and how it comes to influence your destiny."
Spock shifts from foot to foot, his spare frame made awkward and angled by adolescence. "Your confidence in me is gratifying, but there is something I still do not understand."
Sarek gestures with an open palm, the skin lined and weathered. "Ask."
"Why do you support her position on my application to the Emergency Personnel Ambulance Service?" The words come in a rush, betraying his youth and his emotional compromise. "You entrust me with the privilege of deciding whether or not to be fully human; to make myself an outcast amongst my own people. You would tolerate the impact of that on our family, on your position with the Vulcan High Council, and so I cannot reconcile your objection to EPAS."
Sarek nods. The question is, after all, quite logical. "For your mother, having a sense of community is paramount. She is, at heart, a social creature; far more so than any Vulcan. She fears the pain and ostracization your decision to leave us would cause." Sarek raises his eyes. "Not her own pain, but yours. I, too, am averse to the notion of you coming to harm."
"I do not fear it," Spock replies stoutly, his dark eyes so large in his immature face.
"Perhaps you do not yet comprehend the scope of it," his father suggests. Spock's hands tighten around each other, so he promptly hides them in the small of his back, a gesture that Sarek knows is becoming habitual. "Your mother has had twenty one years among us. She has learned much about Vulcan intolerance."
"The principles of IDIC are ..."
"Principles only," Sarek cuts him off. "Can you truly say otherwise, given your own experience? What is it the other children used to call you?"
"Mongrel," Spock supplies, owning the word rather than letting it own him. "Amongst other things."
"And these are the peers you would trust to comprehend your desire to abandon intellectual pursuits and live amongst humans?"
"One can hardly join EPAS and cease to exercise one's faculties, Father."
"Will they understand that?"
"Should it matter?"
"Perhaps not, but I would advise you to consider whether or not it will."
Spock straightens imperceptibly. "To let communal ignorance influence my decision in this matter would be illogical."
"I am not suggesting otherwise."
"What are you suggesting?" Spock demands, the barest hint of emotion creeping into his voice, as only happens inside the family home.
Sarek regards his half-human son with a fondness he hopes the young man can sense. "Merely that it is possible you have allowed your desire to leave Vulcan and its somewhat secular social mores to obfuscate the potential obstacles to your satisfaction in life."
"My...satisfaction?"
"Spock, it is not logical to spend your hundreds of years living a life that does not satisfy you in a way that our people find difficult to acknowledge."
"You are speaking of happiness," Spock infers, his eyes flicking to the side, skittish in the way they would never be during a conversation on reproduction, bodily functions, or any other topic that customarily embarrasses human youths.
Sarek allows the barest hint of a smile to grace his lips. "Yes, I am speaking of happiness."
"Very well," Spock allows, on sufferance.
"Your continued perception of emotion as something disgraceful is unwarranted. The only harm in experiencing emotion lies in an inability to control our response to it. Vulcans feel deeply; more deeply even, than humans. You can hardly be ignorant of this fact."
"I am not ignorant, Father." Spock graces him with a meaningful look.
"Your difficulties in managing your emotions do not necessarily correlate with your human heritage. Many Vulcans also struggle to establish reliable control at your age."
"I am seventeen, Father. Most Vulcans my age are still considered children."
"And it is a source of frustration to your peers that you are not," Sarek acknowledges. "Perhaps your mother and I did you a disservice when we decided to allow your natural human maturation to dictate your majority, but I do not think so. Although you cannot see it, you are far more emotionally and intellectually mature than non-hybrids of the same age. Your mother's contribution to your genetic make up offers advantages I believe are often overlooked."
"Advantages I can best apply in an environment where my differences are not a barrier to continued advancement." Spock takes a deep and measured breath. "I find the concept of remaining here, of continuing my studies here to be...stifling. Amongst aliens, my age and my race will merely be identifiers, rather than curiosities."
"Beware the assumption that by leaving Vulcan behind you also abandon racism." Sarek's silvered brows lower into a frown. "I can assure you, to do so would result in disappointment."
"I am accustomed to disappointment in that area."
"So speaks a true adolescent," Sarek observes dryly.
Spock has the grace to blush slightly. "My response was uncalled for. I apologize."
Sarek waits until the green bleeds from Spock's cheeks before speaking again. "The VSA truly frustrates you so completely?"
"It does."
"Should you join EPAS, you have considered the requirements of living and working amongst a primarily human crew?"
"I have."
"The constant empathic noise, the casual physical contact, the expectation of small talk...the food?"
Spock's lips twitch. His father's opinions on human vegetarian dishes are well known amongst the whole extended family. It is a favored topic during the human celebrations Amanda persists in organizing and a poorly concealed source of amusement to her. "I will manage adequately."
Sarek nods, rubbing his palms along his robed thighs. "Very well."
"You approve?"
"I neither approve nor disapprove. I am merely respecting your decision as an adult." Sarek looks fleetingly perturbed. "Your mother will be most displeased that I failed to dissuade you from this course of action. I would advise making other arrangements for the evening meal."
"Understood." Spock's voice is level but his eyes are shining.
Sarek stands stiffly and crosses to his son, barely an inch between them now, but Spock is still rail thin, his Vulcan metabolism struggling to wrap enough muscle around bones that grow with human alacrity. "I trust I do not need to remind you that the career you have chosen is dangerous, and that neither your mother nor I will tolerate less than a one hundred percent survival rate from you."
Spock nods, accepting the warm, dry palm against his cheek with nothing more than a blink of surprise. His father has not touched him thus since his first day of school. The memory of that gesture goes someway towards consoling the grief he feels when the tears roll down his mother's cheeks and she refuses to speak to him.
He never has a chance to tell her that he made the right decision, or that he never intended it to hurt her, because the silence lasts ten years and then Vulcan is destroyed.
His father inherits her silence like he shoulders his grief; with a purposeful stoicism that brooks no intervention. Gone are the reassurances, the encouragement, the belief in Spock's ability to excel. He turns to Pike as proxy, but his own guilt inhibits the desire to explore his human side. They will never be friends, merely colleagues. He comes to view the rest of the Division in a similar light, leaving him once again differentiated; a singular specimen, set pointedly apart.
Spock discovers a new capacity within himself for regret.
-:-
It's a dozen or more years ago.
Jim Kirk at fifteen grits his teeth and does something he never thought he'd do.
The steps leading up to Christopher Pike's house are many and wide, forcing him to lean into each one, his gangly legs pulling tight against the soft, worn fabric of his jeans. It's a warm San Francisco night, just about dusk, when he's almost certain people will be home. He knows instinctively that he'll never be able to force himself into this twice over. He buzzes before he can hesitate.
His mom opens the door and his heart lodges in his throat.
"Jim?" she asks, eyebrows raised but very calm. "I thought you were in Iowa."
"I'm not."
"I can see that."
He shifts uncomfortably, fingers knotted in the jacket he holds in his hands, the only other possession he's brought with him apart from the clothes he stands in and the motorcycle parked in the street. "Mom, I need your help."
She's very quiet, very still. Only her eyes move, taking him in, weighing him and assessing him. He does his best not to wilt under the scrutiny. "I don't think I can help you," she says finally. "You shouldn't have come here."
"I know, but I..."
"Jim," she says, reaching out and gripping his arm hesitantly. "You shouldn't have come."
His eyes sting but he nods, teeth gritted as though he can hold back the tide through sheer force of will. "Problem is, I don't have anywhere else to go."
"The judge said ..."
"Fuck the judge," he whispers tightly. "Have you seen the place? Have you seen it, Mom?"
"Jim, you're in breach of your parole."
He waves a hand over his shoulder, into the night, into the darkness of his past. "By the time they figure out where I am, I'll be long gone. No police here, Mom, I wouldn't do that to Chris."
"You're already doing it," she frowns at him. "They'll trace you and they'll come here and they'll question him. They'll question me."
"And what will you tell them?" he demands, hating the way his voice breaks, leaping octaves, betraying his desperation.
"I'll tell them what I'm telling you; go back to Iowa, Jim. Do your time."
"Why do you blame me for this?" he demands, hot tears rolling down his cheeks. "You know what happened, you were there in court, you heard it all."
"Do your time, Jim." She folds her arms across her lean chest, toned and pale below her rolled up sleeves. "Maybe then we can be a family again."
He laughs and wipes his eyes angrily on his jacket, the zipper rough against his cheek. "Yeah, sure."
She sighs, long and heavy. "I do love you, Jim."
"Then why won't you help me?" he presses, voice ratcheting still higher, making him sound twelve again, pushing him back into powerlessness.
"I am helping you." She shakes her head sadly. "You're just too young to understand." With that, she steps back inside the house and shuts the door.
Jim stands there for two breaths, maybe three, just staring at the wood. It takes effort to breathe, to fight the panic, because his choices are now juvie or the streets and he doesn't know how long he'll last in either situation. With nothing to look forward to, with nobody in his corner, it all seems rather pointless. Why bother? Why keep fighting when it would be so much easier to sit somewhere and let the world come at him, his defenses down?
He turns, jacket trailing from one hand and gets as far as the gate before he hears the door open again. The firm, heavy stride tells him it's not his mom, so he keeps walking, shoulders hunched, frowning through the tears. He's almost to the bike when a strong hand grips his shoulder. He shrugs it off, but Chris is adamant, so he gives up the second time it lands.
"Jesus, Jim, hold on a second."
"What for?" he flails, jacket slapping against his thigh. "So you can tell me you're sorry?"
Pike's lined face softens around the edges, the creases and furrows relaxing into something gentler, something Jim doesn't really have a word for. "I am sorry," he says gruffly, shifting his grip and pulling Jim against his chest. "You have no idea how sorry I am."
Jim tries to stay rigid, tries to fight the feeling, but Chris' breath is warm against his scalp and his arms don't so much capture him as welcome him. It's too much, it's all too much, and he gives in.
Pike moves to accommodate the new pliancy, one arm wrapped around Jim's shoulders and the other warm at the back of his head. "There aren't words for how sorry I am, kid. When they passed sentence I had to leave, I hope you understand, I had to. I couldn't sit there and listen to all the bullshit, even though I wanted to be there for you. I'll never forgive myself for that."
Jim just shakes his head, unsure of everything.
"I want you to let me do something for you," Pike continues, peeling Jim off his chest to hold him by the shoulders and stare into his eyes. "And I want you to hear me out, because it's going to sound crazy."
He nods, sniffing. “Okay.”
"Enlist in 'Fleet."
"Enlist?"
"I'm only a Divisional Commander, but I've got friends in high places; it comes with the territory. I can get your record sealed, your parole changed to a conscription. You can do the coursework on a scholarship ..."
"They'll never let me," Jim shakes his head. "That's insane."
"Here," Pike releases him to rummage in his pockets, pulling out a flimsy, a San Francisco ID and a fistful of untraceable generic credits. "Take it and get out of here."
Jim throws an anxious glance at the house, only partially shielded by the street trees. "She doesn't know you're doing this."
"The scholarship exam is tomorrow morning, oh eight hundred at Starfleet Academy."
"I haven't said yes," Jim protests, but his hands have a mind of their own, stuffing the spoils of Pike's generosity into his jeans, shaking a little with the fresh surge of hope that floods him.
Pike grabs him into another fierce hug, crushing Jim's hands between them and pushing away so quickly that both of them stagger a little. "Go on, get out of here."
"Mom's going to kill you."
"She's welcome to try."
Jim scrambles to pull on his jacket as the front door slams again and running steps reach his ears. "I don't know what to say, I ..."
"Just get!" Pike is walking backwards, ready to head his mom off at the gate. "Take a bath and find something conservative to wear, there should be enough for that."
Jim nods, throwing a leg over the bike and throttling on just as his mom bursts into the street. In the single look he throws over his shoulder he sees that Chris has one arm around her waist, stopping her from doing something; what it is, he's never sure.
That night, Jim uses up all the credits on a cheap hotel room, a haircut and the first decent meal he's had in days. New clothes can wait; he sits that entrance exam in his dusty old jeans and creaky leather jacket, grinning at the point of his stylus as the answers fall into place. He hasn't been to school in four years, slept longer last night than the previous week put together and has absolutely no idea what he's doing, but he's a goddamn genius and he scores in the top third percentile.
The straight-laced recruiting officer who gives him the result looks shell-shocked. Jim just thanks her with a wink and a smirk, hardly caring that he's got a night of sleeping rough ahead of him. Tomorrow he'll have a Starfleet ID instead of a borrowed one, and a tenuous grasp on a future that offers some small hope of escape. Pike's charity still makes him uncomfortable, but for all his bravado, his ego's in pieces and he's not about to let this chance pass him by.
-:-
Spock generally prefers dictation software for both his professional and personal communications. So it is with some irony that he acknowledges the desire to physically type his letter to Jim at the very point in his life where such an action has been rendered impossible. It is thirty two days since his secondment aboard the Tat'sar began and he is confined to quarters.
"Computer," he commands, voice hoarsened by the uncomfortable circumstance of being propped up by pillows. "Begin recording personal transmission."
Standing by.
"Recipient; Acting Divisional Commander James T. Kirk, EPAS vessel designation Stalwart."
James T. Kirk, identification nominally verified.
The door chimes.
Spock turns his head gingerly towards the sound. "Computer, pause recording. Open door."
Paused.
Seamlessly, the white panel recedes into the wall cavity and a young Vulcan scientist steps politely inside, allowing it to close automatically behind him. "Commander, the healer has requested a verification of your well-being," Eli says, somehow managing to convey a degree of apology in his perfectly emotionless words.
Spock glances down at his bandage-smothered hands and tries to ignore the fresh stab of pain generated by the movement. "You may report an incremental improvement in my condition. However, I fail to see why the healer discharged me from sickbay if his level of concern over my health is such that he requires updates on an almost hourly basis."
If Eli registers the frustration in that observation, he makes no sign. "In actual fact, the healer is increasingly confident of a functional rehabilitation. I sought the information for my own benefit."
Surprise chases away the other swirling emotions that have been plaguing him and Spock raises an eyebrow. "Your concern is unexpected."
Eli flicks the fingers of his left hand unconsciously, a thoroughly un-Vulcan gesture. "May I sit down?" he asks, neatly avoiding the question that wasn't quite a question.
"Of course."
"With your permission, I would seek clarification of your actions," he opens, once again a perfectly calm Vulcan paradigm.
"Pertaining to the manner of my injury?"
"I fail to comprehend the logic of attempting to stabilize a warp coil without proper protective equipment."
"There was insufficient time to procure it."
"The likelihood of death, let alone significant injury was approximately ..."
"I calculated a four point two percent chance of completing the repairs without harm," Spock interrupts, knowing the math and infinitely more comfortable with acknowledging it himself rather than being lectured about it.
Eli studies his face, dark eyes strangely luminous as the silence holds between them. Finally, his slender shoulders straighten and he blinks. "There were seventeen crew members present in Engineering at the time of the coil failure," he says at last. "The design of the ship is one heretofore unseen in this universe."
"Containment breach was imminent," Spock reminds him.
"You were unfamiliar with their equipment; there were many others better qualified to effect repairs."
"None of whom appeared to be doing so." He feels the rightness of his decision come over him once again; a peace born of certainty. "It is an incontrovertible truth that sentient beings hesitate when faced with life-threatening situations. There is no shame in their actions; it takes intensive training and practical experience to overcome that instinct. However, immediate action was required."
"At what cost?"
Spock frowns. "The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one," he reminds the young scientist. "It is the Vulcan way."
"And yet, acting in direct contradiction of that tenet is what brought you to us," he challenges. "Or is it only singular others who warrant such exceptions, not the singular self?"
Spock ought to be offended by the implication and the youngster's apparently intimate knowledge of the reasons for his secondment. He should probably be formulating a carefully emotionless reprimand and channeling any negative feelings into more constructive pathways. Instead, the entirety of his reaction is tethered to the past, embedded in the memory of his overwhelming need to find Jim, no matter what the cost. It is not rage he feels, or mortification; it is a hollow sense of loss mixed with the rush of realization that this is what Jim does; this careless, reckless prostitution of self. It is ingrained in every illogically brilliant idea, every unthinkingly self-sacrificing action, every moment Jim extends himself beyond the reasonable to save a life.
Spock has the uncomfortable feeling he may be shaking, and worse, that it may be visible to Eli. "Leave me," he requests tightly.
"I apologize if I have given offense," the youngster wavers, already halfway to the exit. "I assure you it was not my intent."
"No," Spock says softly, far too preoccupied with his own thoughts. "No, of course not."
The door slides closed.
Spock sits for a long time, having nothing but the soft whisper of environmental controls and the tumult in his mind for company. Two hours pass as his thoughts chase themselves unproductively and his heart races, fluttering in his side. He disdains his analgesics and bronchodilators, leaving him with a deep physical pain and a sense of breathless heaviness, not unlike the rare moments he succumbed to tears as a child. He must make a choice.
-:-
Jessica Beimers-Pike flinches at the sound of something breakable striking the wall of her husband's office. She smiles blankly at the F-Sec official standing before her desk and pushes to her feet gracefully. "If you'll excuse me, sir?"
Without waiting for a response, she walks calmly to the double doors and slips between them, making sure to lock them behind her. Chris is leaning on his desk, fingers gripping the edge bloodlessly. Across the room, a picture frame lies shattered. She pointedly doesn't investigate which one he threw. Four years of marriage have taught her that he is indiscriminate in such moods, but it will still hurt if she finds it is the shot of them on the beach at Risa.
After giving him a few breaths to grow accustomed to her presence, she moves slowly across the room, her sensible heels tapping quietly against the polished floor. Her fingers with their blunt, practical nails find the nape of his neck and gauge the tension there. "Chris? What's happened?"
He clenches his jaw, visibly struggling with something. For a moment she fears another outburst, wondering which other memento will fall foul of whatever F-Sec or Starfleet idiocy has reduced him to this state, for surely the blame lies there. To her surprise, he crumples into the seat behind the desk, his one recalcitrant leg poking out at an awkward angle. He looks defeated. A thin tendril of anxiety begins to weave its way down her spine.
"Spock's been injured," he says gruffly, refusing to meet her eyes. "It's bad."
Wordlessly, she reaches out and takes his hand. His fingers weave around hers gratefully. "He's alive, then," she reminds him.
"I sent him there, Jess. Me. I sent him."
"You had no way of knowing this would happen."
Chris looks up, appearing stunned. "Do you know he's been an EPAS Point since he was twenty? That's almost a decade of putting himself on the line and he's never been so badly hurt as the moment I take him off it." His fingers clench and then unclench around hers, finishing with an apologetic pat. "I had to do something, be seen to be doing something at the very least. I could have transferred him permanently, or done the same to Jim. Hell, I could have assigned him a desk, put him in charge of the entire Ops department, where you know he'd do brilliantly." He waves his free hand around airily, mocking himself. "But no, I have to keep him out there, don't I? Because with Spock and Kirk heading Prime Division things get done." He punctuates each word with a jab of his finger into the desk. "They get done, Jess. You can't beat their save to loss ratios. They're hands down the best Point team in EPAS, but more than that, Prime Division scores better than any other in psych evals. McCoy gave me the figures before this whole Aspera thing went south, and they're remarkable. That crew, everyone on that damn ship, has been through hell and back twice over but they'd still go out again the moment those boys suit up."
She watches him stew in his own inner turmoil, notes the vein pulsing in his temple and the tight, angry set of his shoulders. "What do you need me to do?"
He starts nodding to himself, shallowly but with growing certainty. "Get me the Stalwart. They're going to find out somehow, but I'd rather it was through official channels."
One finger pressing into her earpiece, Jessica looks up. "What are you going to tell them?"
"Only thing I can tell them," he shrugs. "That Spock's alive. That Jim will be Acting DivCO a little longer."
"How will Jim react?"
"Badly."
-:-
-Incoming Transmission-
Origin: VSA Tat'sar, S'chn T'gai Spock, GCS vector: 20h 38m 12s, +42 01' 48"
Datestamp: 2262.1.14 local
Status: private correspondence
Recipient: Kirk, James T., Acting Divisional Commander USS Stalwart.
Language: Vulcan, Common. Translated: no.
Jim.
It is unlikely that I will be returning to the Stalwart. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I am not able to impart this information in person, as would be my preference. The frequency with which Federation encryption is broken prevents me from clarifying a great many things, so I am forced to rely upon your previously expressed friendship, and trust that you will not see my decision as anything other than an operational necessity.
Serving with you has been most gratifying. Please pass on my regards to the crew, especially to those of shuttle ED996 and to our new Captain.
Spock.
-End Transmission-
-:-
McCoy looks anxiously at Uhura's face when she lowers the PADD. Hell yeah, he could have just run it through the Universal Translator, he's not some backwater hick who doesn't know Vulcan text when he sees it, but it's pretty clear this is not going to be good news, and he prefers to hear that kind of thing from a human, not a machine.
"How bad is it?" he asks gruffly.
"I need to get up," she says, suddenly urgent. "Up, up, up, Leonard. Now."
"Your injuries ..."
"Where's Jim?" she demands fiercely. "If you can tell me where he is, I'll stay in bed."
Wordlessly, McCoy hands her a pair of slippers.
-:-
The gathered political mass of the Federation Security Council all rise. Pike follows suit, fingertips pressed into the table top for balance. President Wescott strides confidently down the aisle, a PADD held loosely in one hand. The last few months have aged him, etching more frown lines than laugh lines into his distinguished face. Pike only hopes he holds on long enough to see the end of this drawn out mess with Nero. He deserves that, for sticking to his guns against the naysayers. He knows the hopeless truth of their situation, but can't reveal it to the public, and it weighs on him in a way that Pike can relate to.
The President takes his seat and the room takes its cue in a wave of rustling fabric and shifting chairs.
The Speaker is the only one left standing. "The Council calls Acting Divisional Commander James T. Kirk."
Pike grits his teeth and leans towards his microphone. "Acting Commander Kirk is unavailable at this time, Mr. Speaker."
Floored, the Speaker looks to Wescott for guidance.
The President's face is slightly pained as he appeals to Pike with an open palm. "Where is he, Christopher?"
"Kirk has taken some personal leave, Mr. President."
Wescott breathes a long sigh through his nose. "You're telling me you don't know where he is."
"He's not obligated to give us an itinerary, sir."
The rest of the Council bristles, but the President just jerks his head over his shoulder. "We're taking a brief recess. Admiral Pike, a word?"
Pike collects his walking stick and PADD, accepting a brief pat on the hand from his wife as he awkwardly negotiates the slim gap between tables.
The President waits for him in the passageway. "My rooms," he commands, taking off at a pace that forces Pike to lean heavily on the stick to keep up.
"Ken, I ..."
"Not here," comes the sharp reply.
Pike closes his mouth with a snap. Sometimes it's still easy to forget they're not aboard the Kelvin together, both on the command track, both eager and naive. Neither could tolerate the 'Fleet infighting for long, or the lack of an exploration budget. Neither enrolled to be thugs or beat police, which is what most Constitution Class ships had become long before Nero appeared on the scene. Border tensions with the Klingons had transformed an idealistic peacekeeping armada into an overcautious, right wing military institution. Neither man wanted a piece of that, so Pike took his know-how and revolutionized EPAS, while Wescott formed an independent political party and ascended like a nascent star. Different lives, but driven by the same ideology.
Pike hobbles into the President's office and has the door closed behind him.
"Where the hell is he?" Wescott demands, wasting no time.
"I really don't know, Ken."
Wescott runs a hand down his face, pulling all the lines out of the skin only to have them reform in its wake. "This is very not good."
Very not good is code between them and Pike is forced to nod in agreement. "I know, believe me, I know."
"What are we going to do about this?"
Pike catches his old friend's eye and takes a deep breath. He's talked this over with Jessica and extracted promises from her that have broken both their hearts. He's emptied his bank account and brought in a few trusted people to redistribute some essential resources. Still, he hesitates, because he never thought to find himself in a situation like this. To be quite frank, it scares him and he's more than a little worried he's motivated by anger and revenge rather than desperation and ethics.
"Chris," the President says, drawing him back. "Everyone else might be content to imagine that 'Fleet can hold Nero off forever, or that the new peace with the Klingons isn't about them waiting to pick us apart once that crazy Romulan is done with us, but you and I know better. We have maybe two or three months before projections have Nero turning Earth into a gravitational blip, and that's only if he doesn't get tired of scaring the shit out of us by picking us apart stitch by stitch. It's psychological warfare at its best, but even crazy people get bored eventually. He will come for us, he will bring it to our doorstep and right now, we will lose. We can't afford to let that happen."
"I do have an idea," Pike admits, "but it's going to get me thrown out of the service and you indicted or worse."
"Worse is being crushed to a singularity and watching my daughter and your wife come along for the ride."
Pike nods, feeling his heart clench. "I need a ship."
"You've got it."
"No," he shakes his head. "Not just any ship."
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, you tha man.
Author's Note: This is written for stripedpetunia on trek_exchange. Apologies for the unexpected haitus, there will be a reliable flow of chapters from here to the end provided the universe has no further cosmic jokes to dump on me.
In this chapter, we travel in time ...
previous
Chapter 6.1
Over a dozen years ago, Spock stands stiffly in robes that are fast becoming too short for him. Again.
"I do not understand Mother's objection to my decision," he says. "She did not voice an opinion at the time of my initial application."
Sarek raises an eyebrow. "Perhaps she thought it logical to cultivate multiple options."
Spock mimics the eyebrow and waits.
"Yes. It is far more probable she assumed you would grow out of the idea," Sarek acknowledges.
"How can one outgrow an idea?"
"You are being overly literal."
"I am simply confused."
"Humans are often confusing."
"Initially I was confused by her response, now I also find your response confusing," Spock frowns.
"Humans may be confusing, but parents are always more so."
Spock allows himself a sigh laced with frustration. "This conversation is confusing."
"May I suggest you start at the beginning?"
"When I told Mother I am planning to refuse the Vulcan Science Academy, she expressly forbade me to leave Vulcan." Spock shakes his head, the neat bowl cut swinging softly. "I have undergone the khas-wan and am free to make my own decisions regarding my future career. It is illogical for her to say such things."
"I suspect her reversion to parental dominance in such matters is motivated by emotion." Sarek watches his younger son carefully for a response. "She has always felt that your place is here, on Vulcan."
"I am under no illusions regarding her preference on that issue."
"Then you can understand her opposition to your plans."
"Infer a connection, yes; comprehend the reason, no Father, I cannot." Spock struggles to school his expression, grateful when Sarek not only allows him the time to recompose himself, but does not comment on the lapse. "She seems strangely averse to her own people."
"She merely hopes you will avoid a feeling of inadequacy by fully adopting Vulcan culture."
"Inadequacy?"
"You have had little to no opportunity to experience it first hand, but Vulcans are often quite isolated when living amongst humans. There is considerable initial pressure to adopt human customs, followed by a gradual but inevitable decline in social interaction. It takes a unique human to breach these layers of misconception." Sarek may or may not glance fondly at the holo of his wife. Spock chooses to ignore it.
"Her objection is based on a desire to protect me from emotional trauma?" Spock seeks to clarify.
"Perhaps your mother's own search for identity amongst us led to her preoccupation with the way you, yourself, are perceived," his father says carefully, each word weighed and considered. "I raised the matter with her many times when you were a child, but she was adamant that without proper guidance, you may come to feel disconnected," he pauses, eyes measuring, "homeless. It was for this reason that she emphasized your Vulcan heritage over her own human one."
"I did not know."
"We did not speak of it in your presence," Sarek dismisses. "However, given the current situation, I believe it is imperative that you understand I have long thought of you as a child of two worlds; always believing you capable of defining what that means, and how it comes to influence your destiny."
Spock shifts from foot to foot, his spare frame made awkward and angled by adolescence. "Your confidence in me is gratifying, but there is something I still do not understand."
Sarek gestures with an open palm, the skin lined and weathered. "Ask."
"Why do you support her position on my application to the Emergency Personnel Ambulance Service?" The words come in a rush, betraying his youth and his emotional compromise. "You entrust me with the privilege of deciding whether or not to be fully human; to make myself an outcast amongst my own people. You would tolerate the impact of that on our family, on your position with the Vulcan High Council, and so I cannot reconcile your objection to EPAS."
Sarek nods. The question is, after all, quite logical. "For your mother, having a sense of community is paramount. She is, at heart, a social creature; far more so than any Vulcan. She fears the pain and ostracization your decision to leave us would cause." Sarek raises his eyes. "Not her own pain, but yours. I, too, am averse to the notion of you coming to harm."
"I do not fear it," Spock replies stoutly, his dark eyes so large in his immature face.
"Perhaps you do not yet comprehend the scope of it," his father suggests. Spock's hands tighten around each other, so he promptly hides them in the small of his back, a gesture that Sarek knows is becoming habitual. "Your mother has had twenty one years among us. She has learned much about Vulcan intolerance."
"The principles of IDIC are ..."
"Principles only," Sarek cuts him off. "Can you truly say otherwise, given your own experience? What is it the other children used to call you?"
"Mongrel," Spock supplies, owning the word rather than letting it own him. "Amongst other things."
"And these are the peers you would trust to comprehend your desire to abandon intellectual pursuits and live amongst humans?"
"One can hardly join EPAS and cease to exercise one's faculties, Father."
"Will they understand that?"
"Should it matter?"
"Perhaps not, but I would advise you to consider whether or not it will."
Spock straightens imperceptibly. "To let communal ignorance influence my decision in this matter would be illogical."
"I am not suggesting otherwise."
"What are you suggesting?" Spock demands, the barest hint of emotion creeping into his voice, as only happens inside the family home.
Sarek regards his half-human son with a fondness he hopes the young man can sense. "Merely that it is possible you have allowed your desire to leave Vulcan and its somewhat secular social mores to obfuscate the potential obstacles to your satisfaction in life."
"My...satisfaction?"
"Spock, it is not logical to spend your hundreds of years living a life that does not satisfy you in a way that our people find difficult to acknowledge."
"You are speaking of happiness," Spock infers, his eyes flicking to the side, skittish in the way they would never be during a conversation on reproduction, bodily functions, or any other topic that customarily embarrasses human youths.
Sarek allows the barest hint of a smile to grace his lips. "Yes, I am speaking of happiness."
"Very well," Spock allows, on sufferance.
"Your continued perception of emotion as something disgraceful is unwarranted. The only harm in experiencing emotion lies in an inability to control our response to it. Vulcans feel deeply; more deeply even, than humans. You can hardly be ignorant of this fact."
"I am not ignorant, Father." Spock graces him with a meaningful look.
"Your difficulties in managing your emotions do not necessarily correlate with your human heritage. Many Vulcans also struggle to establish reliable control at your age."
"I am seventeen, Father. Most Vulcans my age are still considered children."
"And it is a source of frustration to your peers that you are not," Sarek acknowledges. "Perhaps your mother and I did you a disservice when we decided to allow your natural human maturation to dictate your majority, but I do not think so. Although you cannot see it, you are far more emotionally and intellectually mature than non-hybrids of the same age. Your mother's contribution to your genetic make up offers advantages I believe are often overlooked."
"Advantages I can best apply in an environment where my differences are not a barrier to continued advancement." Spock takes a deep and measured breath. "I find the concept of remaining here, of continuing my studies here to be...stifling. Amongst aliens, my age and my race will merely be identifiers, rather than curiosities."
"Beware the assumption that by leaving Vulcan behind you also abandon racism." Sarek's silvered brows lower into a frown. "I can assure you, to do so would result in disappointment."
"I am accustomed to disappointment in that area."
"So speaks a true adolescent," Sarek observes dryly.
Spock has the grace to blush slightly. "My response was uncalled for. I apologize."
Sarek waits until the green bleeds from Spock's cheeks before speaking again. "The VSA truly frustrates you so completely?"
"It does."
"Should you join EPAS, you have considered the requirements of living and working amongst a primarily human crew?"
"I have."
"The constant empathic noise, the casual physical contact, the expectation of small talk...the food?"
Spock's lips twitch. His father's opinions on human vegetarian dishes are well known amongst the whole extended family. It is a favored topic during the human celebrations Amanda persists in organizing and a poorly concealed source of amusement to her. "I will manage adequately."
Sarek nods, rubbing his palms along his robed thighs. "Very well."
"You approve?"
"I neither approve nor disapprove. I am merely respecting your decision as an adult." Sarek looks fleetingly perturbed. "Your mother will be most displeased that I failed to dissuade you from this course of action. I would advise making other arrangements for the evening meal."
"Understood." Spock's voice is level but his eyes are shining.
Sarek stands stiffly and crosses to his son, barely an inch between them now, but Spock is still rail thin, his Vulcan metabolism struggling to wrap enough muscle around bones that grow with human alacrity. "I trust I do not need to remind you that the career you have chosen is dangerous, and that neither your mother nor I will tolerate less than a one hundred percent survival rate from you."
Spock nods, accepting the warm, dry palm against his cheek with nothing more than a blink of surprise. His father has not touched him thus since his first day of school. The memory of that gesture goes someway towards consoling the grief he feels when the tears roll down his mother's cheeks and she refuses to speak to him.
He never has a chance to tell her that he made the right decision, or that he never intended it to hurt her, because the silence lasts ten years and then Vulcan is destroyed.
His father inherits her silence like he shoulders his grief; with a purposeful stoicism that brooks no intervention. Gone are the reassurances, the encouragement, the belief in Spock's ability to excel. He turns to Pike as proxy, but his own guilt inhibits the desire to explore his human side. They will never be friends, merely colleagues. He comes to view the rest of the Division in a similar light, leaving him once again differentiated; a singular specimen, set pointedly apart.
Spock discovers a new capacity within himself for regret.
-:-
It's a dozen or more years ago.
Jim Kirk at fifteen grits his teeth and does something he never thought he'd do.
The steps leading up to Christopher Pike's house are many and wide, forcing him to lean into each one, his gangly legs pulling tight against the soft, worn fabric of his jeans. It's a warm San Francisco night, just about dusk, when he's almost certain people will be home. He knows instinctively that he'll never be able to force himself into this twice over. He buzzes before he can hesitate.
His mom opens the door and his heart lodges in his throat.
"Jim?" she asks, eyebrows raised but very calm. "I thought you were in Iowa."
"I'm not."
"I can see that."
He shifts uncomfortably, fingers knotted in the jacket he holds in his hands, the only other possession he's brought with him apart from the clothes he stands in and the motorcycle parked in the street. "Mom, I need your help."
She's very quiet, very still. Only her eyes move, taking him in, weighing him and assessing him. He does his best not to wilt under the scrutiny. "I don't think I can help you," she says finally. "You shouldn't have come here."
"I know, but I..."
"Jim," she says, reaching out and gripping his arm hesitantly. "You shouldn't have come."
His eyes sting but he nods, teeth gritted as though he can hold back the tide through sheer force of will. "Problem is, I don't have anywhere else to go."
"The judge said ..."
"Fuck the judge," he whispers tightly. "Have you seen the place? Have you seen it, Mom?"
"Jim, you're in breach of your parole."
He waves a hand over his shoulder, into the night, into the darkness of his past. "By the time they figure out where I am, I'll be long gone. No police here, Mom, I wouldn't do that to Chris."
"You're already doing it," she frowns at him. "They'll trace you and they'll come here and they'll question him. They'll question me."
"And what will you tell them?" he demands, hating the way his voice breaks, leaping octaves, betraying his desperation.
"I'll tell them what I'm telling you; go back to Iowa, Jim. Do your time."
"Why do you blame me for this?" he demands, hot tears rolling down his cheeks. "You know what happened, you were there in court, you heard it all."
"Do your time, Jim." She folds her arms across her lean chest, toned and pale below her rolled up sleeves. "Maybe then we can be a family again."
He laughs and wipes his eyes angrily on his jacket, the zipper rough against his cheek. "Yeah, sure."
She sighs, long and heavy. "I do love you, Jim."
"Then why won't you help me?" he presses, voice ratcheting still higher, making him sound twelve again, pushing him back into powerlessness.
"I am helping you." She shakes her head sadly. "You're just too young to understand." With that, she steps back inside the house and shuts the door.
Jim stands there for two breaths, maybe three, just staring at the wood. It takes effort to breathe, to fight the panic, because his choices are now juvie or the streets and he doesn't know how long he'll last in either situation. With nothing to look forward to, with nobody in his corner, it all seems rather pointless. Why bother? Why keep fighting when it would be so much easier to sit somewhere and let the world come at him, his defenses down?
He turns, jacket trailing from one hand and gets as far as the gate before he hears the door open again. The firm, heavy stride tells him it's not his mom, so he keeps walking, shoulders hunched, frowning through the tears. He's almost to the bike when a strong hand grips his shoulder. He shrugs it off, but Chris is adamant, so he gives up the second time it lands.
"Jesus, Jim, hold on a second."
"What for?" he flails, jacket slapping against his thigh. "So you can tell me you're sorry?"
Pike's lined face softens around the edges, the creases and furrows relaxing into something gentler, something Jim doesn't really have a word for. "I am sorry," he says gruffly, shifting his grip and pulling Jim against his chest. "You have no idea how sorry I am."
Jim tries to stay rigid, tries to fight the feeling, but Chris' breath is warm against his scalp and his arms don't so much capture him as welcome him. It's too much, it's all too much, and he gives in.
Pike moves to accommodate the new pliancy, one arm wrapped around Jim's shoulders and the other warm at the back of his head. "There aren't words for how sorry I am, kid. When they passed sentence I had to leave, I hope you understand, I had to. I couldn't sit there and listen to all the bullshit, even though I wanted to be there for you. I'll never forgive myself for that."
Jim just shakes his head, unsure of everything.
"I want you to let me do something for you," Pike continues, peeling Jim off his chest to hold him by the shoulders and stare into his eyes. "And I want you to hear me out, because it's going to sound crazy."
He nods, sniffing. “Okay.”
"Enlist in 'Fleet."
"Enlist?"
"I'm only a Divisional Commander, but I've got friends in high places; it comes with the territory. I can get your record sealed, your parole changed to a conscription. You can do the coursework on a scholarship ..."
"They'll never let me," Jim shakes his head. "That's insane."
"Here," Pike releases him to rummage in his pockets, pulling out a flimsy, a San Francisco ID and a fistful of untraceable generic credits. "Take it and get out of here."
Jim throws an anxious glance at the house, only partially shielded by the street trees. "She doesn't know you're doing this."
"The scholarship exam is tomorrow morning, oh eight hundred at Starfleet Academy."
"I haven't said yes," Jim protests, but his hands have a mind of their own, stuffing the spoils of Pike's generosity into his jeans, shaking a little with the fresh surge of hope that floods him.
Pike grabs him into another fierce hug, crushing Jim's hands between them and pushing away so quickly that both of them stagger a little. "Go on, get out of here."
"Mom's going to kill you."
"She's welcome to try."
Jim scrambles to pull on his jacket as the front door slams again and running steps reach his ears. "I don't know what to say, I ..."
"Just get!" Pike is walking backwards, ready to head his mom off at the gate. "Take a bath and find something conservative to wear, there should be enough for that."
Jim nods, throwing a leg over the bike and throttling on just as his mom bursts into the street. In the single look he throws over his shoulder he sees that Chris has one arm around her waist, stopping her from doing something; what it is, he's never sure.
That night, Jim uses up all the credits on a cheap hotel room, a haircut and the first decent meal he's had in days. New clothes can wait; he sits that entrance exam in his dusty old jeans and creaky leather jacket, grinning at the point of his stylus as the answers fall into place. He hasn't been to school in four years, slept longer last night than the previous week put together and has absolutely no idea what he's doing, but he's a goddamn genius and he scores in the top third percentile.
The straight-laced recruiting officer who gives him the result looks shell-shocked. Jim just thanks her with a wink and a smirk, hardly caring that he's got a night of sleeping rough ahead of him. Tomorrow he'll have a Starfleet ID instead of a borrowed one, and a tenuous grasp on a future that offers some small hope of escape. Pike's charity still makes him uncomfortable, but for all his bravado, his ego's in pieces and he's not about to let this chance pass him by.
-:-
Spock generally prefers dictation software for both his professional and personal communications. So it is with some irony that he acknowledges the desire to physically type his letter to Jim at the very point in his life where such an action has been rendered impossible. It is thirty two days since his secondment aboard the Tat'sar began and he is confined to quarters.
"Computer," he commands, voice hoarsened by the uncomfortable circumstance of being propped up by pillows. "Begin recording personal transmission."
Standing by.
"Recipient; Acting Divisional Commander James T. Kirk, EPAS vessel designation Stalwart."
James T. Kirk, identification nominally verified.
The door chimes.
Spock turns his head gingerly towards the sound. "Computer, pause recording. Open door."
Paused.
Seamlessly, the white panel recedes into the wall cavity and a young Vulcan scientist steps politely inside, allowing it to close automatically behind him. "Commander, the healer has requested a verification of your well-being," Eli says, somehow managing to convey a degree of apology in his perfectly emotionless words.
Spock glances down at his bandage-smothered hands and tries to ignore the fresh stab of pain generated by the movement. "You may report an incremental improvement in my condition. However, I fail to see why the healer discharged me from sickbay if his level of concern over my health is such that he requires updates on an almost hourly basis."
If Eli registers the frustration in that observation, he makes no sign. "In actual fact, the healer is increasingly confident of a functional rehabilitation. I sought the information for my own benefit."
Surprise chases away the other swirling emotions that have been plaguing him and Spock raises an eyebrow. "Your concern is unexpected."
Eli flicks the fingers of his left hand unconsciously, a thoroughly un-Vulcan gesture. "May I sit down?" he asks, neatly avoiding the question that wasn't quite a question.
"Of course."
"With your permission, I would seek clarification of your actions," he opens, once again a perfectly calm Vulcan paradigm.
"Pertaining to the manner of my injury?"
"I fail to comprehend the logic of attempting to stabilize a warp coil without proper protective equipment."
"There was insufficient time to procure it."
"The likelihood of death, let alone significant injury was approximately ..."
"I calculated a four point two percent chance of completing the repairs without harm," Spock interrupts, knowing the math and infinitely more comfortable with acknowledging it himself rather than being lectured about it.
Eli studies his face, dark eyes strangely luminous as the silence holds between them. Finally, his slender shoulders straighten and he blinks. "There were seventeen crew members present in Engineering at the time of the coil failure," he says at last. "The design of the ship is one heretofore unseen in this universe."
"Containment breach was imminent," Spock reminds him.
"You were unfamiliar with their equipment; there were many others better qualified to effect repairs."
"None of whom appeared to be doing so." He feels the rightness of his decision come over him once again; a peace born of certainty. "It is an incontrovertible truth that sentient beings hesitate when faced with life-threatening situations. There is no shame in their actions; it takes intensive training and practical experience to overcome that instinct. However, immediate action was required."
"At what cost?"
Spock frowns. "The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one," he reminds the young scientist. "It is the Vulcan way."
"And yet, acting in direct contradiction of that tenet is what brought you to us," he challenges. "Or is it only singular others who warrant such exceptions, not the singular self?"
Spock ought to be offended by the implication and the youngster's apparently intimate knowledge of the reasons for his secondment. He should probably be formulating a carefully emotionless reprimand and channeling any negative feelings into more constructive pathways. Instead, the entirety of his reaction is tethered to the past, embedded in the memory of his overwhelming need to find Jim, no matter what the cost. It is not rage he feels, or mortification; it is a hollow sense of loss mixed with the rush of realization that this is what Jim does; this careless, reckless prostitution of self. It is ingrained in every illogically brilliant idea, every unthinkingly self-sacrificing action, every moment Jim extends himself beyond the reasonable to save a life.
Spock has the uncomfortable feeling he may be shaking, and worse, that it may be visible to Eli. "Leave me," he requests tightly.
"I apologize if I have given offense," the youngster wavers, already halfway to the exit. "I assure you it was not my intent."
"No," Spock says softly, far too preoccupied with his own thoughts. "No, of course not."
The door slides closed.
Spock sits for a long time, having nothing but the soft whisper of environmental controls and the tumult in his mind for company. Two hours pass as his thoughts chase themselves unproductively and his heart races, fluttering in his side. He disdains his analgesics and bronchodilators, leaving him with a deep physical pain and a sense of breathless heaviness, not unlike the rare moments he succumbed to tears as a child. He must make a choice.
-:-
Jessica Beimers-Pike flinches at the sound of something breakable striking the wall of her husband's office. She smiles blankly at the F-Sec official standing before her desk and pushes to her feet gracefully. "If you'll excuse me, sir?"
Without waiting for a response, she walks calmly to the double doors and slips between them, making sure to lock them behind her. Chris is leaning on his desk, fingers gripping the edge bloodlessly. Across the room, a picture frame lies shattered. She pointedly doesn't investigate which one he threw. Four years of marriage have taught her that he is indiscriminate in such moods, but it will still hurt if she finds it is the shot of them on the beach at Risa.
After giving him a few breaths to grow accustomed to her presence, she moves slowly across the room, her sensible heels tapping quietly against the polished floor. Her fingers with their blunt, practical nails find the nape of his neck and gauge the tension there. "Chris? What's happened?"
He clenches his jaw, visibly struggling with something. For a moment she fears another outburst, wondering which other memento will fall foul of whatever F-Sec or Starfleet idiocy has reduced him to this state, for surely the blame lies there. To her surprise, he crumples into the seat behind the desk, his one recalcitrant leg poking out at an awkward angle. He looks defeated. A thin tendril of anxiety begins to weave its way down her spine.
"Spock's been injured," he says gruffly, refusing to meet her eyes. "It's bad."
Wordlessly, she reaches out and takes his hand. His fingers weave around hers gratefully. "He's alive, then," she reminds him.
"I sent him there, Jess. Me. I sent him."
"You had no way of knowing this would happen."
Chris looks up, appearing stunned. "Do you know he's been an EPAS Point since he was twenty? That's almost a decade of putting himself on the line and he's never been so badly hurt as the moment I take him off it." His fingers clench and then unclench around hers, finishing with an apologetic pat. "I had to do something, be seen to be doing something at the very least. I could have transferred him permanently, or done the same to Jim. Hell, I could have assigned him a desk, put him in charge of the entire Ops department, where you know he'd do brilliantly." He waves his free hand around airily, mocking himself. "But no, I have to keep him out there, don't I? Because with Spock and Kirk heading Prime Division things get done." He punctuates each word with a jab of his finger into the desk. "They get done, Jess. You can't beat their save to loss ratios. They're hands down the best Point team in EPAS, but more than that, Prime Division scores better than any other in psych evals. McCoy gave me the figures before this whole Aspera thing went south, and they're remarkable. That crew, everyone on that damn ship, has been through hell and back twice over but they'd still go out again the moment those boys suit up."
She watches him stew in his own inner turmoil, notes the vein pulsing in his temple and the tight, angry set of his shoulders. "What do you need me to do?"
He starts nodding to himself, shallowly but with growing certainty. "Get me the Stalwart. They're going to find out somehow, but I'd rather it was through official channels."
One finger pressing into her earpiece, Jessica looks up. "What are you going to tell them?"
"Only thing I can tell them," he shrugs. "That Spock's alive. That Jim will be Acting DivCO a little longer."
"How will Jim react?"
"Badly."
-:-
-Incoming Transmission-
Origin: VSA Tat'sar, S'chn T'gai Spock, GCS vector: 20h 38m 12s, +42 01' 48"
Datestamp: 2262.1.14 local
Status: private correspondence
Recipient: Kirk, James T., Acting Divisional Commander USS Stalwart.
Language: Vulcan, Common. Translated: no.
Jim.
It is unlikely that I will be returning to the Stalwart. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I am not able to impart this information in person, as would be my preference. The frequency with which Federation encryption is broken prevents me from clarifying a great many things, so I am forced to rely upon your previously expressed friendship, and trust that you will not see my decision as anything other than an operational necessity.
Serving with you has been most gratifying. Please pass on my regards to the crew, especially to those of shuttle ED996 and to our new Captain.
Spock.
-End Transmission-
-:-
McCoy looks anxiously at Uhura's face when she lowers the PADD. Hell yeah, he could have just run it through the Universal Translator, he's not some backwater hick who doesn't know Vulcan text when he sees it, but it's pretty clear this is not going to be good news, and he prefers to hear that kind of thing from a human, not a machine.
"How bad is it?" he asks gruffly.
"I need to get up," she says, suddenly urgent. "Up, up, up, Leonard. Now."
"Your injuries ..."
"Where's Jim?" she demands fiercely. "If you can tell me where he is, I'll stay in bed."
Wordlessly, McCoy hands her a pair of slippers.
-:-
The gathered political mass of the Federation Security Council all rise. Pike follows suit, fingertips pressed into the table top for balance. President Wescott strides confidently down the aisle, a PADD held loosely in one hand. The last few months have aged him, etching more frown lines than laugh lines into his distinguished face. Pike only hopes he holds on long enough to see the end of this drawn out mess with Nero. He deserves that, for sticking to his guns against the naysayers. He knows the hopeless truth of their situation, but can't reveal it to the public, and it weighs on him in a way that Pike can relate to.
The President takes his seat and the room takes its cue in a wave of rustling fabric and shifting chairs.
The Speaker is the only one left standing. "The Council calls Acting Divisional Commander James T. Kirk."
Pike grits his teeth and leans towards his microphone. "Acting Commander Kirk is unavailable at this time, Mr. Speaker."
Floored, the Speaker looks to Wescott for guidance.
The President's face is slightly pained as he appeals to Pike with an open palm. "Where is he, Christopher?"
"Kirk has taken some personal leave, Mr. President."
Wescott breathes a long sigh through his nose. "You're telling me you don't know where he is."
"He's not obligated to give us an itinerary, sir."
The rest of the Council bristles, but the President just jerks his head over his shoulder. "We're taking a brief recess. Admiral Pike, a word?"
Pike collects his walking stick and PADD, accepting a brief pat on the hand from his wife as he awkwardly negotiates the slim gap between tables.
The President waits for him in the passageway. "My rooms," he commands, taking off at a pace that forces Pike to lean heavily on the stick to keep up.
"Ken, I ..."
"Not here," comes the sharp reply.
Pike closes his mouth with a snap. Sometimes it's still easy to forget they're not aboard the Kelvin together, both on the command track, both eager and naive. Neither could tolerate the 'Fleet infighting for long, or the lack of an exploration budget. Neither enrolled to be thugs or beat police, which is what most Constitution Class ships had become long before Nero appeared on the scene. Border tensions with the Klingons had transformed an idealistic peacekeeping armada into an overcautious, right wing military institution. Neither man wanted a piece of that, so Pike took his know-how and revolutionized EPAS, while Wescott formed an independent political party and ascended like a nascent star. Different lives, but driven by the same ideology.
Pike hobbles into the President's office and has the door closed behind him.
"Where the hell is he?" Wescott demands, wasting no time.
"I really don't know, Ken."
Wescott runs a hand down his face, pulling all the lines out of the skin only to have them reform in its wake. "This is very not good."
Very not good is code between them and Pike is forced to nod in agreement. "I know, believe me, I know."
"What are we going to do about this?"
Pike catches his old friend's eye and takes a deep breath. He's talked this over with Jessica and extracted promises from her that have broken both their hearts. He's emptied his bank account and brought in a few trusted people to redistribute some essential resources. Still, he hesitates, because he never thought to find himself in a situation like this. To be quite frank, it scares him and he's more than a little worried he's motivated by anger and revenge rather than desperation and ethics.
"Chris," the President says, drawing him back. "Everyone else might be content to imagine that 'Fleet can hold Nero off forever, or that the new peace with the Klingons isn't about them waiting to pick us apart once that crazy Romulan is done with us, but you and I know better. We have maybe two or three months before projections have Nero turning Earth into a gravitational blip, and that's only if he doesn't get tired of scaring the shit out of us by picking us apart stitch by stitch. It's psychological warfare at its best, but even crazy people get bored eventually. He will come for us, he will bring it to our doorstep and right now, we will lose. We can't afford to let that happen."
"I do have an idea," Pike admits, "but it's going to get me thrown out of the service and you indicted or worse."
"Worse is being crushed to a singularity and watching my daughter and your wife come along for the ride."
Pike nods, feeling his heart clench. "I need a ship."
"You've got it."
"No," he shakes his head. "Not just any ship."
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