BIG BANG: This Place at the Crossroads (0/5) (prologue)
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THIS PLACE AT THE CROSSROADS (0/5) (Prologue)
Artist:summerslaughter
Mixer:summerslaughter
Series: ST XI
Character/Pairing(s):Kirk/Spock
Rating:PG-13
Word Count: ~33647
Summary: Starfleet intelligence says that Earth is decades away from developing warp-technology. Then again, Starfleet intell didn’t count on one James Tiberius Kirk getting anywhere near the issue.
Warnings/spoilers: none
Link to Art: Here.
Link to Mix: And Here.
Disclaimer: Star Trek and all related people, places, things and events are the property of Gene Roddenberry, Viacom, Paramount Pictures, CBS and other very important people who are most decidedly not me. No money is being made off of this and no copyright infringement is intended.
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A/N: The idea for this came to me one day watching Michio Kaku's tv show Sci-fi Science and the episodes about building an interstellar spaceship. That is first how I was introduced to Miguel Alcubierre and his paper The Warp Drive: Hyper-fast Travel Within General Relativity, which inspired a great portion of the fake!science in this. Other references include: Richard Obousy and Gerald Cleaver’s paper Warp Drive: A New Approach, lots of Wikipedia abuse and just general consulting of Memory Alpha, Memory Beta, and my mathematics textbook.
Before I get into the actual fic, I need to thank some folks: First, I want to thank vellum, who was a super-awesome beta and put up with my last minute scramble to the finish line, adrya00 who said that my two points of view sounded too similar, and subsequently made this thing suitable for human eyes, summerslaughter , who liked the idea so much she signed up to be both my artist and mixer, and didn’t run away screaming when I emailed her a truly hideous Quasi-Modo-style version of the story and even made me fabulous little page breakers while she was at it, Pistachi O’Mint for general cheerleading, mutual k/s flails and assuring me that people actually find my story interesting, and chickienine , for listening to me whine about this since pretty much day one, not getting sick of my complaining and woe even though she doesn’t even ship k/s, cheering me on in the depths of my despair and making disapproving faces at me when I (rather frequently) decided to give up on this thing.
Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan stands before the Vulcan High Council with the four representatives of the leaders of the Federation and Starfleet. They are Cardassian, Ferengi, Betazoid, and Andorian, and together they provide a united front to make their case to the Vulcan High Council. The hall is silent, and while the room has been designed to let in natural light, it is dark with the anticipation of a proper morning.
“Peace and long life, Ambassador Sarek,” T’Pau of Vulcan intones solemnly. “What business brings you before the council today as a civilian?”
Ambassador Sarek nods his head in acknowledgment of the Vulcan.
“We have come to request a ship of the Vulcan Science Academy to be commissioned for the Federation,” he says. “The Federation is considering First Contact with Sol III. I have suggested we allow a member of the Federation a time of observation on the planet to assess the readiness of its populace for such an endeavor.”
The Vulcan at the end of the High Table shifts in his seat slightly. His name is Sardak, and hair is dark grey in the shadows of the chamber, his eyes unforgiving and icy.
“What significance might Sol III have for the Federation?” he asks.
“Sol III is in contested space,” Sarek explains. “Its cosmological neighbor, Draylax, has long sought to lay claim upon that region of space so that it might create the beginnings of an empire.”
“Is the planet warp-capable?” the youngest of the High Table asks.
“It is not,” Sarek answers. “Starfleet intelligence, however, has reason to believe it may yet achieve warp technology within the next two decades.”
“And, if a Vulcan ship were to be commissioned for this experiment, how would it defend itself should a Draylaxian vessel attack?” Sardak asks. “Draylax is a known sympathizer to the Klingon Empire, which grows in number and wartime technology every day. A vessel of the Vulcan Science Academy would be ill-equipped to defend itself.”
“How would you know anything of the Klingon Empire?” the Cardassian asks as a murmur sweeps through the Federation representatives.
“It matters not from where I have obtained this information, only that it is known,” Sardak answers dismissively.
“The task we are to set is one of high priority, and therefore, immense secrecy,” Sarek says, silencing the Cardassian with a swift, knowing look. “We hope to use a ship of the Science Academy, as its studies are renown throughout the federation for stealth and discretion. None but those directly involved will have any knowledge of this endeavor.”
The High Council is silent at that. The Vulcans exchange glances with one another while Sarek and his troop await the decision.
“Very well,” Sardak says at long last. “We will grant the Federation the proper funds and supplies it will need for such an endeavor. We will also recommend that Spock, son of Sarek, may lead this enterprise.”
Ambassador Sarek clasps his hands behind his back and does not quirk an eyebrow.
“I am sorry Sardak, son of Kilev,” he begins, “but I do not understand the logic behind your decision to recruit my son into this project.”
“It is only a suggestion, Sarek. If you find a more logical candidate for this endeavor, then you are free to disregard our suggestion.”
“Your suggestion,” Sarek repeats. “I see.”
The Federation representatives offer no response to that; they all know that a recommendation from the High Council is as good as law; how heavy the words of six Vulcan senators can be on the Federation that Vulcan itself had founded only a handful of decades ago. After a pause, Sarek begins again.
“Ministers, I thank you for your cooperation in this matter. Live long and prosper.”
“Peace, and long life,” they return as one.
"Look Jim, it's all well and good for you to talk about those equations for your thesis, but practically? The technology doesn't exist."
And okay, yeah, Jim sort of gets that; blah blah blah funding issues. Whatever. But he knows somewhere in the pit of his stomach that his equations aren't just theoretical science. This could really work.
"Pike, look-"
But Pike just shoots him that glare over the top of the desk, the one that had him fidgeting in his seat with something really close to contrition a few years back. Now it hardly even ruffles his feathers. Jim shuts his mouth and pouts.
"I'll call up some friends at the International Center for Space Exploration; see if we can drum up some funding for you. Just go enjoy your doctorate or something."
Jim grins, wide and relieved, salutes sloppily and makes Pike roll his eyes.
"Sure thing, Admiral."
Christopher Pike is a retired Admiral, who now works closely with the ICSE (formerly known as the National Aeronautics and Space Administration before it got swallowed up by the Federal Union), and is pretty familiar with the latest technological advances. He knows what he’s talking about.
But Pike is wrong about this. Jim doesn't care what anyone fucking says about his thesis; those guys at Cambridge can all go to Hell as far as Jim’s concerned. He’s tortured himself over the math involved for nearly three goddamn years, and the certainty that flows through his veins isn't idle hope, but the sheer calm that numbers always bring to him. He can feel it vibrating under his skin, excitement and hope in equal measure. Interstellar space travel is possible.
He remembers when he finally got those damn equations right, when he'd abandoned his brand new PADD and had written the whole set on those out-of-date white boards, stepping back from the numbers and dropping his marker because, holy shit, he'd done that. Most of his professors still think he's crazy; he's got a bunch of email rotting on his PADD from his physics professor in particular, explaining to Jim ad nauseam how it's impossible to travel faster than the speed of light, and never mind any of that space-warping business Jim's been prattling on about in his papers.
And so, because he's officially James Tiberius Kirk, PhD and his thesis has been published and is considered a breakthrough in space travel, he sends the guy a copy of his paper and tries not to be too smug about it.
When he gets back to his apartment, he finds that Bones is still locked in his room, feigning sleep (read: nursing a hangover). But because Jim is the best Best Friend Ever, he only stays long enough to grab his leather jacket and put the aspirin and a glass of water somewhere in plain sight. He is, however, a self-proclaimed douchebag, so he opens all the windows and lets the bright afternoon sunlight flood the living room-slash-kitchenette, and slams the door behind him.
Already there's an email from Pike on his PADD. On it is a name, an address, and a single sentence. You'll need to set up a team if you want to go through with this; Scotty's a good place to start.
Jim smirks down at the screen before pulling up a browser and finding where exactly this Scotty guy lives. He makes plans to drop in and introduce himself later on in the week, reigning in his enthusiasm just a bit. Out there somewhere, the galaxy is calling, but he’s got a date with the beach, a can of beer, and a girl in a little pink bikini that he can’t miss.
The galaxy’ll be there when he gets back.
And besides, the sun’s out, and summer’s starting with a PhD on his wall and a dream for the future bright in his heart, and Jim Kirk really sort of loves his life.
Spock has not been in communication with his father in three-point-six years now, since the afternoon when he formally announced his intention to transfer from the Vulcan Science Academy to Starfleet. He still vividly recalls the disappointment Sarek had not allowed to show on his face, the unsubtle press of his lips as Spock tried to explain to him the logic behind his decision.
Spock himself sees the logic in his decision, and this fact alone is enough to keep him content. And yet, when Spock receives a transmission from his father one day, he cannot say that he is unaffected by the attempt at possible discourse.
It is Starfleet business that Sarek wishes to speak of, and while it is not precisely unheard of for an ambassador to relay specific Starfleet information to him, Spock maintains the illogical hope that perhaps his father has given in to a pesky Betazoid emotion that Amanda has no doubt hammered into him after decades of marriage.
The message is unsurprisingly formal. Sarek maintains his requisite aloofness as he explains his upcoming mission, one that Spock is quite ill-prepared to carry out. He has a double-focus in general mineralogy and organic chemistry, a secondary specialization in comparative xenobiology, and is scheduled to serve in a three-year mission as Science Officer aboard the Federation class starship T’Plana Hath once he has finished his fourth year in Starfleet, in approximately seven point two months. He is still only a Lieutenant Commander. In no way is he qualified to head a sudden Intelligence operation.
And yet, Sarek’s face stares up at him from the prerecorded subspace transmission, unwavering as he explains the details of the endeavor to Spock. Priority level delta-blue, to be executed as soon as Spock has notified anyone with whom he may have had prior Starfleet engagements.
Spock will have to speak with Captain Nog, although he has a suspicion that Sarek’s formal courtesy would have seen that his commanding officer had been notified already. At any rate, Captain Nog is a Ferengi, and he has mentioned to Spock on several occasions that he understands when occurrences do not play out as one would hope. Spock is sure he will understand. It falls within the 88th percentile that Captain Nog will want to be a part of this assignment in some way also. He is fairly certain he will see the Captain at least once before he warps out to Sol III.
However, there is something decidedly suspicious about sending an under-trained Starfleet cadet onto a delicate mission that would have had a statistically higher chance for success with either an ambassador or an officer trained in stealth. That the Vulcan High Council has recommended him, too, is cause for concern; he does not understand why he would have been singled out by a group of Vulcans who have very little cause to respect him.
Hypotheses begin to coalesce in his mind, nothing more than un-Vulcan intuition with his lack of facts. However, he has received his orders from Starfleet Command, and the most Spock can do now is find another member of Starfleet who would in some way be useful to him in this unexpected endeavor.
Preferably, Spock needs someone who has at least been exposed to the mysterious planet Sol III before, as Spock has never heard of it before today. And while this narrows his search down considerably (the only ship to have catalogued Sol III as a planet worth note is the Mor’deck, whose crew at the time consisted of little more than three hundred Starfleet personnel), it is still tedious work, to wade through the records of the 167 crewmembers that may be of some assistance to him.
In the end, he sends a message to a Lieutenant Commander Gaila, who only has a secondary specialization on interplanetary relations and would not have ordinarily attracted Spock’s attention. However, she was part of the Mor’deck’s landing party, and in her extensive report on the planet, makes note of it as one which would assimilate well to the Federation.
He receives an answer to his query less than a day later. Commander Gaila is Orion, and she beams at Spock through the open connection as she goes on at length on how she would be honored to accompany Spock on his mission.
“Will you be able to secure passage to Vulcan?” he asks.
“Yeah it shouldn’t be a problem,” the Commander says brightly. “I’ll get there ASAP.”
“I see. If it is acceptable, I would send you the briefing for this assignment, along with the coordinates of your final destination once you reach the Vulcan Spaceport.”
“Perfect,” she answers; Spock can detect motion just off the screen. He supposes she is searching for something. “Is it cool if I ask for specific details?”
“Everything you will need to know can be found in the document I will send,” is the answer. Spock hesitates before adding, “However, I can say that it has to do with Sol III and the possibility of its entering into the Federation.”
The Commander twists her lips into an expression Spock has trouble identifying.
“Perfect,” she says again. “I can’t wait for that transmission.”
Spock inclines his head.
“I will await you in the appropriate spaceport,” he answers. “Live long and prosper.”
He waits until she has given him the standard Orion salute (“Pleasure find you”) before he cuts the transmission and sends her the briefing Sarek has attached to his own communication. Then, he reserves a seat on the next available shuttle to transport him from the T’Khut branch of Starfleet to the Vulcan Science Academy in Shi’Khar.
It would be a lie to say he is eager to return to Vulcan, as he has made it a point to give the planet a wide berth since his transfer. And although he has not traveled far-Vulcan’s sister planet has such a close orbit that at times Vulcan dominates the night sky and leaves the entire night as bright as dusk-it is still far enough away from the shame his species would bestow on him. To make matters worse, the ship he is to appropriate is from the Vulcan Science Academy; the one edifice Spock is sure he will not be welcome into.
However, what is cannot be changed. So, he packs a light bag with items he predicts will become useful on his mission, anticipating the hostility that will surely await him. He expects to spend the next two hours meditating, preparing himself mentally for the brief ordeal.
(next)