fanfic | stxi | leave no soul behind 1.3/?
Title: Leave No Soul Behind (1.3/?) 4,432 words of 71,000+
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 magnificent the_arc5, who managed to beta this even though she's dying from the influenza ((hugs)).
Author's Note: This is written for stripedpetunia on trek_exchange and I'm chuffed nobody's had to wait more than a handful of days for this next chapter. And for those who are wondering when the action starts again, give me just a sec ...
previous
Approximately one hour later, Jim takes his seat next to one of the other twenty or so new recruits. The young man's blacks look just as pressed and offensively new as his own.
"Jim Kirk," he says with a wide smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
The recruit turns to face him and Jim is struck by the youth and innocence in his face. "Chekov," the boy says proudly, "Pavel Andreivich."
Jim's smile morphs into one of true amusement as the kid's thick Russian accent washes over him. "Chekov, eh? What are you, Ops?" he guesses, craning his neck to peer at the boy's tabs.
"Not exactly, sir" Chekov shakes his curly head. "I'm a pilot primarily, but I am doubling."
"Doubling?"
"Yes, sir," he nods, and there's that grin again. "Our Diwision Commander has asked me to cross-specialise in Ops," he confesses rather proudly, "in nawigation."
Kirk snorts through his nose but recovers quickly. "Navigation, eh?"
"Yes, sir. I graduated top of my class in astrogation, astrophysics and varp propulsion."
"Well, good for you, kid," Jim slaps him on the shoulder, then winces as the kid's skinny frame rocks with the force of it.
Chekov frankly beams under the mild praise and Jim is going to ask him exactly how long it's been since he'd started shaving when the three-toned whistle to attention sings over the comm. Everyone around him sits a little straighter as Commander Spock makes his way to the podium with long, measured strides. Jim tries not to buy into it. He's used to being disappointed by his commanding officers. One year in Starfleet has taught him the virtue of not putting people on a pedestal, especially if they hold your life in their hands. Still, there is something about the fast and all-pervading hush that falls over the new recruits and the numerous representatives from Prime Divisions medevac crews that impresses him despite his self-preserving cynicism. As Spock takes the podium he eyes the crowd, gauging their attentiveness. You could have heard a pin drop.
"Your punctuality is noted," the deep, level voice begins without preamble. "The purpose of this briefing is to provide a brief overview of Prime Division's core structure and standing orders. I anticipate the duration of this phase to be approximately one point five hours, at the conclusion of which, there will be a short recess. Food and beverages will be available from the replicators at this time." He pauses and glances down at his PADD.
Kirk has the feeling the momentary gesture is an act, that Spock has the entire content of his presentation memorised and could have performed it by rote. He has no idea where this certainty comes from.
"At approximately thirteen hundred hours, we will reconvene for a brief summary of our current mission, anticipated crew rotation and specific divisional considerations. Please take the opportunity during lunch to confirm your crew allocation, alpha or beta signifier and provisional roster. The data will be available from all information points within this room." Spock's eyes roam over the crowd. "Questions and comments are welcome, however, I would ask you to withhold enquiries of an individual nature until the conclusion of the day, at which point your Section Chiefs, the other Divisional Commanders and myself will be available for consultation. Does anyone require clarification?"
A single hand is raised and Spock zeroes in on it immediately.
"Ensign?" he acknowledges.
"Commander, is there any truth to the rumour that EPAS is about to be restructured?" the youngster calls out clearly. "If we become part of Starfleet, how will that affect our current operational treaties with both the Klingons and the Romulans?"
A murmur goes up around the room and Jim finally sits straight in his seat. He wants to catch a glimpse of the brave soul who's raising an issue like that in a public forum, and on his first day, too.
Spock lifts a hand and immediate hush descends again. "Your question is intriguing, however such discussions fall outside the purview of this briefing. No doubt most of you are aware of the circulating rumours, despite my ongoing efforts to discourage them. Until definitive information is available on the subject, it would be illogical to speculate on the potential repercussions of an administrative restructure. I would advise you to outline your concerns and submit them to your superior officer through established channels."
The ensign's face falls and he seems dissatisfied, but appears to weigh the pros and cons of further debate with their DivCo in front of a total audience of approximately eighty persons, and decides against it. Jim hasn't heard the rumours and resolves to fill himself in at the earliest opportunity, despite the Commander's opinion of scuttlebutt. In his experience, rumours have a nasty habit of coming true, especially when you don't want them to. He can think of nothing worse than an EPAS governed by the Admirality. Shit, they're half the reason he left Starfleet.
"If there are no further questions?" Spock looks around the room, clearly unshaken by the first, rather controversial one.
Nobody so much as breathes.
"Very well. As you are undoubtably all aware, the Emergency Personnel Ambulance Service, or EPAS, was founded at the turn of the century by a cohort of retired Starfleet captains. Initially a simple charitable organisation and not-for-profit 'humanitarian' group," he pauses and Kirk might have detected a slight expression of irritation at the terminology, then again he might have been imagining it, "EPAS became an official branch of the Federation of Sentient Planets' Auxillliary Corps on stardate twenty one sixty one. Since then, it has operated as a a semi-independent branch of Starfleet, governed by civilian interests rather than those of the military."
Spock does not look at the Ensign. Rather pointedly, Kirk thinks. Is this history lesson always part of the intended orientation briefing? It's possible. Certainly, the Commander remembers to look down at his PADD as though checking his notes, but the gesture doesn't exactly exude authenticity.
"I have chosen to belabour a fact with which you are doubtless already familiar for the express purpose of reinforcing our chain of command. Within the USS Stalwart, standard Starfleet hierarchy applies, with crew members reporting upwards within their unit, thence to their Section Chiefs, Divisional Commanders and finally to the ship's Captain. However, unlike Starfleet, Captain Taylor reports directly to the Minister for Health on the Federation Council, not to the Admirality. This structure ensures us independence of action and a degree of self-determination the like of which is unprecedented within primarily military organisations such as Starfleet itself. Some would argue that this is the basis upon which EPAS has been able to forge lasting treaties with antagonistic forces, whilst Starfleet has not. Such treaties permit us to operate within the neutral zones, combat areas and front line deployments with minimal risk of being identified as viable military targets. Such freedom of movement is essential to the accomplishment of our standing orders."
Kirk feels a slow smile taking hold of his face as Spock turns to less general matters and hones in on the specifics of their deployment in the Romulan Neutral Zone. The Commander might have discouraged unofficial rumour mongering, but he'd quite clearly expressed his opinion of their potential militarisation. Glancing around the room, Jim sees several other poorly concealed smiles and some openly admiring expressions. Yeah, he thinks, Spock might speak like a Vulcan, but he understands the human psyche well enough. There are few humans and no Vulcans he'd ever met who could have managed something that subtle and still been direct. Jim has a feeling he can learn a lot from his new CO.
-:-
Jim has double-checked his assignment and signifier, unwilling to risk humiliating himself if Hannity has given him incorrect information. It's there on the cortex - Kirk, J.T. Point (1st grade), Medevac Shuttle ED996, designation Beta. During the remainder of the briefing, he's felt his initial trepidation at serving under Spock's command slowly dissolve into one of guarded curiosity. Although by no means an expressive speaker, Spock has managed to hold the crowd's interest with almost superhuman ease. The only time Jim felt his attention wandering had been when Spock yielded the floor to his contemporaries, taking a seat in the front row, his back ramrod straight and hands clasped neatly in his lap.
Now that the general briefing is over, they've been ordered to report to separate training rooms on a crew by crew basis. The Nix crews are designated aft rec room four. Jim makes his way through the ship carefully, not wanting to be the first new recruit to arrive, but remembering Hannity's warning that Spock disapproves of tardiness. In the end, he nearly is late, simply because the ship is unfamiliar. He pauses to let the doors swish open and is greatly relieved to find only eight of Nix's ten crew present.
Hannity is standing next to the Commander, a glass of water cradled in one hand. She spares him a wink as the last two crew sneak in the door a full two minutes prior to the scheduled commencement time. He mimes wiping the sweat from his brow, which makes her smile at him but earns him a curious look from Spock. Jim escapes the Commander's raised eyebrow by pretending he doesn't see it.
"If everyone is assembled then I suggest we commence." Spock places his untouched glass of water onto a nearby table, the movement so precise that the liquid hardly ripples. "Our transit time to the Eridani Sector is approximately thirteen days, nine hours. During this time, we are presented with the unique opportunity of having both alpha and beta crews available for training simultaneously. Once deployed, beta shift will acclimate themselves to working during ship's night and alpha will maintain their current hours of duty." He pauses, dark eyes flicking between Kirk and Chekov, both newcomers, as if to say, I trust this arrangement is satisfactory?
Neither says anything and Spock moves on. "Simultaneous training offers us a unique opportunity to form interpersonal understandings and technical skills that will enable us to function more cohesively as a field unit. Any and all conclusions you may reach about each other over this period should not be underestimated. Whilst rare, there are instances where crew members have to serve double shifts within their complementary unit. The circumstance of cross-rotational shift work is less disruptive if a pre-existing reciprocally functional relationship exists."
Kirk wonders why he can't just say, it helps to get to know one another.
"To further this endeavour," Spock continues, oblivious to Jim's inner critique, "I now invite each of you to step forward and introduce yourselves." His eyes settle on the only other Vulcan in the room. "T'Loren?"
With a slight inclination of her head, the diminutive woman stands and surveys their loose semi-circle with equanimity. "Live long and prosper," she begins, raising one delicate hand and letting it fall again. "I am called T'Loren. I was born on Vulcan-that-was in the province of Raal which abutted the Voroth Sea. Before enlisting in EPAS I considered further study in diplomacy and xenolinguistics. I hold the rank of Lieutenant Commander and have served as Point Two on beta shift for nine months, two weeks, six days and four point nine hours."
Spock steps forward, pre-empting T'Loren's movement to regain her seat. "Lieutenant Commander, you may recall that humans customarily exchange details of a more personal nature when participating in such introductions," he encourages, his tone skirting the edge of apologetic.
T'Loren blinks, her dark eyes fixed on Spock's. "I have an interest in nineteenth century Terran poetry," she adds in a monotone. "I do not care for caffeinated beverages. I find the ambient temperature of the ship to be approximately eight point six degrees below comfortable." She raises an eyebrow. "Is this satisfactory?"
There is no challenge in her tone, only a question.
Spock nods. "Affirmative."
T'Loren sits.
A short man, whipcord lean and with a slightly manic look about him goes next. He clears his throat somewhat self-consciously. "I'm Leonard McCoy and I'm human," he stops to roll his eyes, "obviously ... I'm from just outside Mississippi to be precise." He shifts from foot to foot and Jim starts to pity him a little.
"I'm a doctor," he adds gruffly, "majored in surgery, xeonbiology and psychology. I served ten years in Starfleet after I graduated, before ending up here with you fine people. I have a daughter, Joanna, back home." He smiles, a quick lopsided tug of the lips. "She's just started Junior High and is planning to become a doctor, just like her daddy."
Once again, Spock is forced to intercede as McCoy moves to sit down again. "Some personal information, doctor?"
McCoy scowls mightily. "My likes and dislikes, you mean? Why Spock, after all this time, you want to be friends?"
Jim catches his breath, his eyes glued to the Commander's face. McCoy's tone is amused, but not exactly subordinate.
"Such exchange is customary, is it not?"
McCoy stares Spock down, that selfsame smirk on his lips. "My favourite colour is blue. I'll drink anything from moonshine to Andorian ale, but I prefer Saurian brandy. I think transporters are a damn fool way to get around, but mostly," his bushy eyebrows take on a life of their own, "mostly, I'm curious to hear what scintillating personal titbits you're gonna share with us." He shrugs. "Three years serving on Nix with you and I don't even know how you take your coffee."
The room is tight with tension and silence.
"I do not drink coffee," Spock says after a beat, as though it were common knowledge.
"Oh, no you don't!" the doctor chuckles, when Spock turns to Chekov. "You're not getting out of this that easily! Come on, it's your turn, let's hear what you like to have for breakfast, or how much shellack it takes to maintain that indestructible hairdo of yours!"
Everyone freezes, drinks halfway to their lips, eyes darting to one another as if to confirm that, yes, McCoy really has just sassed their DivCO. Several of the more established crew purse their lips in either disappointment or irritation, Jim can't tell. Based on that he deduces that this show of disrespect is nothing new. Along with everyone else, Jim watches Spock. The next move is his.
"Come on, Spock!" McCoy coaxes, his voice laced with amusement and a little condescension. "You started this love-in, show us what you've got!"
Rather than put his doctor on report, publicly berate him or react in any of the other ways Jim has anticipated, Spock simply stands, hands clasped behind his back, calm and collected.
"I was born on Vulcan-that-was in a small city on the outskirts of Shi'Kahr. My father is the Vulcan ambassador to Earth and my mother was a human woman," he pauses, "a teacher. She perished during Nero's attack on our homeworld."
Several crew murmur in sympathy and Spock's eyes flick to the left and right, then settle back on McCoy.
"I attended the Shi'Kahr Academy and studied science, specialising in xenobiology, physics, medicine, mathematics and xenoecology. Upon graduation, I was offered a place at the Vulcan Science Academy, which I turned down in favour of joining EPAS. I served under Admiral Pike as his Point One on the USS Stalwart until such time as his injuries precluded ongoing command. I then accepted the vacant posting as Divisional Commander at his recommendation."
His eyes narrow on McCoy, their darkness suddenly hard, and yet ... is that humour in the mix? Jim leans forward in his chair unconsciously.
"For recreation, I play the Vulcan lyre and practice meditation," Spock adds, his tone conversational. "When it is available, I prefer to eat gespar for breakfast," his eyes drill into McCoy, "and I utilise no adhesive compounds for the purposes of styling my hair."
The tension catches and holds for a moment, then, to Jim's surprise, McCoy bursts out laughing. "All right, all right, you green-blooded bastard," he chuckles. "Full points to you for calling my bluff. Perhaps you can play us a song on that lyre of yours when we're done here."
Spock's eyebrows twitch. "Unlikely." He turns and gestures to Chekov.
The young Russian is frozen in his chair, thoroughly intimidated by the showdown he's just witnessed, however friendly it may have been. His eyes are wide under his mop of curls and Jim has the feeling the kid probably couldn't even remember his own name right now, let alone deliver an abridged biography of Chekov, Pavel Andreievich.
With an upswell of protectiveness he didn't know he had in him, Jim stands up.
"My name's James T. Kirk. I was born in space, but raised in Iowa and I couldn't wait to get the hell out of there, not that it's a bad place, it's just a little too ... little for me." He stops, waiting for and receiving a nod from Spock that allows Chekov time to regroup.
"My father was in Starfleet. He was captain of the Kelvin for about twelve minutes before Nero put an end to that. My mother served too, so you could say this life is kind of in my blood." He licks his lips and steers himself onto safer territory. "I gave regular service a shot. I was there at the Battle of Vulcan and I did my part," his eyes flick between Spock and T'Loren in silent apology. "It wasn't enough."
Jim is suddenly at a loss for words. His throat is dry. What could he possibly say to follow a memory like that? His hands clench at his sides and he bites down firmly on the inside of his cheek. Is he supposed to tell them that was the day he'd lost the faith? Realised that the reason his father died was nothing more than a fucked up twist of fate destined to be repeated ad infinitum throughout the universe? That one raving despot has decided that life is cheap and revenge is everything, which gives the universe a license to go utterly batshit insane? Look at the Klingons now, or the chaos amongst the unfederated planets. He shakes his head slightly, trying to clear it. It's not news; it's not even his news. The Romulan conflict shouldn't feel so personal, Jim knows that, he really does.
"Your pass-times, Lieutenant?" Spock prompts him quietly.
Jim looks up. Those alien eyes, so recently fathomless and cold, are trained on him now, and Jim sees something entirely different in their depths. Compassion? Understanding, maybe? He looks around the room, but nobody else, not even T'Loren appears to have noticed that spark of emotionality so quickly shuttered. Spock's words, that look, it's permission of sorts; a subtle acknowledgement and reassurance. Speak of whatever you will, it can not trivialise our loss.
"Back home we had a farm and used to breed quarter horses." Jim musters a smile. "I played football in high school but mostly I just tinker with cars and motorbikes when I've got some downtime, not that there's much of that these days."
His wryness is not lost on the rest of the crew and they smile or snort as one, lightening the mood further.
Spock inclines his head, hiding his expression but acknowledging something at the same time. Those eyes might be fixed on the floor, but Jim has the overwhelming certainty that his keen, pointed ears are noting every word. It should make him feel like he's on trial; like this is yet another aptitude assessment, but it doesn't.
"That's all there is, really," he apologises, unable to look away from Spock. "Just your average son of a bitch trying to make a difference, I suppose."
If there is something more in that, something else between the lines, the Commander seems to be giving every impression of not having noticed.
-:-
Late that night, Jim lies awake in his bunk with flimsies and PADDs scattered across the covers. He rolls onto his side, pulling a face when the hard corner of some part of his reading jabs him in the flank. He settles with one arm folded under his head, disdaining the pillow. The room is quiet except for his deep sigh.
His mind wanders back through the briefings and strategy 'freshers. He plays back the Beta crew meeting and tries not to think of T'Loren's measuring stare. Shit, he knows there's a reason he and Pavel are there. They don't just create new positions in EPAS, there's got to be a vacancy, and that only happens when someone's promoted or someone dies.
Lt. Commander Sally Morrison.
Jim rolls the name across his tongue, whispering it into the still half-light of his cabin.
She's the reason he's now part of Nix's crew. God only knew who Pavel was replacing. Morrison had died some time ago; nearly four months by Jim's rough estimate, but hadn't been replaced until now. He wonders if Alpha and Beta took turns doing double shifts, or if they pulled extra crew from the floating pool. Somehow, Jim can't picture them letting just anyone fill her shoes. He'd put money on the fact that the Vulcans pulled the doubles; they needed less sleep after all.
Uncomfortable again, he rolls onto his back, an arm flung over his head, sheltering himself in the angle of one elbow. He needs a good night's sleep and curses the irony of the blissful one he'd had the night before, when it didn't matter so much. He'd completed basic with flying colours. He knew his shit, remembered his protocols and understood his role as a Point One. That didn't mean that the training schedule Spock and T'Loren had issued them was going to be easy.
Without having to look, he scrabbles around with his fingertips and holds the flimsy up to scan it once again. Three days of solid EVA training starting tomorrow, Wednesday. That would take them right through to Friday when they were scheduled to arrive at the very edge of the Romulan Neutral Zone. He guesses that makes sense. You don't want to be caught with your pants down and your personnel scattered against the stars when a call comes in to evac somewhere or other. All the systems training could be done in shifts once they arrived at their destination; all that stuff was ship internal.
Three days of EVA training.
Three days.
Angry with himself, Jim scrubs at his eyes and resolutely sweeps the paperwork onto the floor.
He needs to sleep.
"Computer, lights to zero. Open communications channel, program selection Iowa State News Cast, retrospective stardate twenty four hours, volume ten percent."
- Acknowledged -
There is a moment's pause as the signal is triangulated this far out from Earth. Then the familiar drawl of a midwest accent filters into the room. Jim stares up into the darkness and waits.
... A politically shaken Federation Council promised Sunday a sharper focus on jobs and the economy for Iowa, but key advisers were less sure-footed on health care reform. They took a wait-and-see approach as the dust settles from the punishing losses suffered at the hands of Nero and his splinter group of terrorist Romulan extremists. Latest poll numbers show a significant drop in confidence for the President, primarily because of the slow economic recovery and double-digit unemployment ...
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 magnificent the_arc5, who managed to beta this even though she's dying from the influenza ((hugs)).
Author's Note: This is written for stripedpetunia on trek_exchange and I'm chuffed nobody's had to wait more than a handful of days for this next chapter. And for those who are wondering when the action starts again, give me just a sec ...
previous
Approximately one hour later, Jim takes his seat next to one of the other twenty or so new recruits. The young man's blacks look just as pressed and offensively new as his own.
"Jim Kirk," he says with a wide smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
The recruit turns to face him and Jim is struck by the youth and innocence in his face. "Chekov," the boy says proudly, "Pavel Andreivich."
Jim's smile morphs into one of true amusement as the kid's thick Russian accent washes over him. "Chekov, eh? What are you, Ops?" he guesses, craning his neck to peer at the boy's tabs.
"Not exactly, sir" Chekov shakes his curly head. "I'm a pilot primarily, but I am doubling."
"Doubling?"
"Yes, sir," he nods, and there's that grin again. "Our Diwision Commander has asked me to cross-specialise in Ops," he confesses rather proudly, "in nawigation."
Kirk snorts through his nose but recovers quickly. "Navigation, eh?"
"Yes, sir. I graduated top of my class in astrogation, astrophysics and varp propulsion."
"Well, good for you, kid," Jim slaps him on the shoulder, then winces as the kid's skinny frame rocks with the force of it.
Chekov frankly beams under the mild praise and Jim is going to ask him exactly how long it's been since he'd started shaving when the three-toned whistle to attention sings over the comm. Everyone around him sits a little straighter as Commander Spock makes his way to the podium with long, measured strides. Jim tries not to buy into it. He's used to being disappointed by his commanding officers. One year in Starfleet has taught him the virtue of not putting people on a pedestal, especially if they hold your life in their hands. Still, there is something about the fast and all-pervading hush that falls over the new recruits and the numerous representatives from Prime Divisions medevac crews that impresses him despite his self-preserving cynicism. As Spock takes the podium he eyes the crowd, gauging their attentiveness. You could have heard a pin drop.
"Your punctuality is noted," the deep, level voice begins without preamble. "The purpose of this briefing is to provide a brief overview of Prime Division's core structure and standing orders. I anticipate the duration of this phase to be approximately one point five hours, at the conclusion of which, there will be a short recess. Food and beverages will be available from the replicators at this time." He pauses and glances down at his PADD.
Kirk has the feeling the momentary gesture is an act, that Spock has the entire content of his presentation memorised and could have performed it by rote. He has no idea where this certainty comes from.
"At approximately thirteen hundred hours, we will reconvene for a brief summary of our current mission, anticipated crew rotation and specific divisional considerations. Please take the opportunity during lunch to confirm your crew allocation, alpha or beta signifier and provisional roster. The data will be available from all information points within this room." Spock's eyes roam over the crowd. "Questions and comments are welcome, however, I would ask you to withhold enquiries of an individual nature until the conclusion of the day, at which point your Section Chiefs, the other Divisional Commanders and myself will be available for consultation. Does anyone require clarification?"
A single hand is raised and Spock zeroes in on it immediately.
"Ensign?" he acknowledges.
"Commander, is there any truth to the rumour that EPAS is about to be restructured?" the youngster calls out clearly. "If we become part of Starfleet, how will that affect our current operational treaties with both the Klingons and the Romulans?"
A murmur goes up around the room and Jim finally sits straight in his seat. He wants to catch a glimpse of the brave soul who's raising an issue like that in a public forum, and on his first day, too.
Spock lifts a hand and immediate hush descends again. "Your question is intriguing, however such discussions fall outside the purview of this briefing. No doubt most of you are aware of the circulating rumours, despite my ongoing efforts to discourage them. Until definitive information is available on the subject, it would be illogical to speculate on the potential repercussions of an administrative restructure. I would advise you to outline your concerns and submit them to your superior officer through established channels."
The ensign's face falls and he seems dissatisfied, but appears to weigh the pros and cons of further debate with their DivCo in front of a total audience of approximately eighty persons, and decides against it. Jim hasn't heard the rumours and resolves to fill himself in at the earliest opportunity, despite the Commander's opinion of scuttlebutt. In his experience, rumours have a nasty habit of coming true, especially when you don't want them to. He can think of nothing worse than an EPAS governed by the Admirality. Shit, they're half the reason he left Starfleet.
"If there are no further questions?" Spock looks around the room, clearly unshaken by the first, rather controversial one.
Nobody so much as breathes.
"Very well. As you are undoubtably all aware, the Emergency Personnel Ambulance Service, or EPAS, was founded at the turn of the century by a cohort of retired Starfleet captains. Initially a simple charitable organisation and not-for-profit 'humanitarian' group," he pauses and Kirk might have detected a slight expression of irritation at the terminology, then again he might have been imagining it, "EPAS became an official branch of the Federation of Sentient Planets' Auxillliary Corps on stardate twenty one sixty one. Since then, it has operated as a a semi-independent branch of Starfleet, governed by civilian interests rather than those of the military."
Spock does not look at the Ensign. Rather pointedly, Kirk thinks. Is this history lesson always part of the intended orientation briefing? It's possible. Certainly, the Commander remembers to look down at his PADD as though checking his notes, but the gesture doesn't exactly exude authenticity.
"I have chosen to belabour a fact with which you are doubtless already familiar for the express purpose of reinforcing our chain of command. Within the USS Stalwart, standard Starfleet hierarchy applies, with crew members reporting upwards within their unit, thence to their Section Chiefs, Divisional Commanders and finally to the ship's Captain. However, unlike Starfleet, Captain Taylor reports directly to the Minister for Health on the Federation Council, not to the Admirality. This structure ensures us independence of action and a degree of self-determination the like of which is unprecedented within primarily military organisations such as Starfleet itself. Some would argue that this is the basis upon which EPAS has been able to forge lasting treaties with antagonistic forces, whilst Starfleet has not. Such treaties permit us to operate within the neutral zones, combat areas and front line deployments with minimal risk of being identified as viable military targets. Such freedom of movement is essential to the accomplishment of our standing orders."
Kirk feels a slow smile taking hold of his face as Spock turns to less general matters and hones in on the specifics of their deployment in the Romulan Neutral Zone. The Commander might have discouraged unofficial rumour mongering, but he'd quite clearly expressed his opinion of their potential militarisation. Glancing around the room, Jim sees several other poorly concealed smiles and some openly admiring expressions. Yeah, he thinks, Spock might speak like a Vulcan, but he understands the human psyche well enough. There are few humans and no Vulcans he'd ever met who could have managed something that subtle and still been direct. Jim has a feeling he can learn a lot from his new CO.
-:-
Jim has double-checked his assignment and signifier, unwilling to risk humiliating himself if Hannity has given him incorrect information. It's there on the cortex - Kirk, J.T. Point (1st grade), Medevac Shuttle ED996, designation Beta. During the remainder of the briefing, he's felt his initial trepidation at serving under Spock's command slowly dissolve into one of guarded curiosity. Although by no means an expressive speaker, Spock has managed to hold the crowd's interest with almost superhuman ease. The only time Jim felt his attention wandering had been when Spock yielded the floor to his contemporaries, taking a seat in the front row, his back ramrod straight and hands clasped neatly in his lap.
Now that the general briefing is over, they've been ordered to report to separate training rooms on a crew by crew basis. The Nix crews are designated aft rec room four. Jim makes his way through the ship carefully, not wanting to be the first new recruit to arrive, but remembering Hannity's warning that Spock disapproves of tardiness. In the end, he nearly is late, simply because the ship is unfamiliar. He pauses to let the doors swish open and is greatly relieved to find only eight of Nix's ten crew present.
Hannity is standing next to the Commander, a glass of water cradled in one hand. She spares him a wink as the last two crew sneak in the door a full two minutes prior to the scheduled commencement time. He mimes wiping the sweat from his brow, which makes her smile at him but earns him a curious look from Spock. Jim escapes the Commander's raised eyebrow by pretending he doesn't see it.
"If everyone is assembled then I suggest we commence." Spock places his untouched glass of water onto a nearby table, the movement so precise that the liquid hardly ripples. "Our transit time to the Eridani Sector is approximately thirteen days, nine hours. During this time, we are presented with the unique opportunity of having both alpha and beta crews available for training simultaneously. Once deployed, beta shift will acclimate themselves to working during ship's night and alpha will maintain their current hours of duty." He pauses, dark eyes flicking between Kirk and Chekov, both newcomers, as if to say, I trust this arrangement is satisfactory?
Neither says anything and Spock moves on. "Simultaneous training offers us a unique opportunity to form interpersonal understandings and technical skills that will enable us to function more cohesively as a field unit. Any and all conclusions you may reach about each other over this period should not be underestimated. Whilst rare, there are instances where crew members have to serve double shifts within their complementary unit. The circumstance of cross-rotational shift work is less disruptive if a pre-existing reciprocally functional relationship exists."
Kirk wonders why he can't just say, it helps to get to know one another.
"To further this endeavour," Spock continues, oblivious to Jim's inner critique, "I now invite each of you to step forward and introduce yourselves." His eyes settle on the only other Vulcan in the room. "T'Loren?"
With a slight inclination of her head, the diminutive woman stands and surveys their loose semi-circle with equanimity. "Live long and prosper," she begins, raising one delicate hand and letting it fall again. "I am called T'Loren. I was born on Vulcan-that-was in the province of Raal which abutted the Voroth Sea. Before enlisting in EPAS I considered further study in diplomacy and xenolinguistics. I hold the rank of Lieutenant Commander and have served as Point Two on beta shift for nine months, two weeks, six days and four point nine hours."
Spock steps forward, pre-empting T'Loren's movement to regain her seat. "Lieutenant Commander, you may recall that humans customarily exchange details of a more personal nature when participating in such introductions," he encourages, his tone skirting the edge of apologetic.
T'Loren blinks, her dark eyes fixed on Spock's. "I have an interest in nineteenth century Terran poetry," she adds in a monotone. "I do not care for caffeinated beverages. I find the ambient temperature of the ship to be approximately eight point six degrees below comfortable." She raises an eyebrow. "Is this satisfactory?"
There is no challenge in her tone, only a question.
Spock nods. "Affirmative."
T'Loren sits.
A short man, whipcord lean and with a slightly manic look about him goes next. He clears his throat somewhat self-consciously. "I'm Leonard McCoy and I'm human," he stops to roll his eyes, "obviously ... I'm from just outside Mississippi to be precise." He shifts from foot to foot and Jim starts to pity him a little.
"I'm a doctor," he adds gruffly, "majored in surgery, xeonbiology and psychology. I served ten years in Starfleet after I graduated, before ending up here with you fine people. I have a daughter, Joanna, back home." He smiles, a quick lopsided tug of the lips. "She's just started Junior High and is planning to become a doctor, just like her daddy."
Once again, Spock is forced to intercede as McCoy moves to sit down again. "Some personal information, doctor?"
McCoy scowls mightily. "My likes and dislikes, you mean? Why Spock, after all this time, you want to be friends?"
Jim catches his breath, his eyes glued to the Commander's face. McCoy's tone is amused, but not exactly subordinate.
"Such exchange is customary, is it not?"
McCoy stares Spock down, that selfsame smirk on his lips. "My favourite colour is blue. I'll drink anything from moonshine to Andorian ale, but I prefer Saurian brandy. I think transporters are a damn fool way to get around, but mostly," his bushy eyebrows take on a life of their own, "mostly, I'm curious to hear what scintillating personal titbits you're gonna share with us." He shrugs. "Three years serving on Nix with you and I don't even know how you take your coffee."
The room is tight with tension and silence.
"I do not drink coffee," Spock says after a beat, as though it were common knowledge.
"Oh, no you don't!" the doctor chuckles, when Spock turns to Chekov. "You're not getting out of this that easily! Come on, it's your turn, let's hear what you like to have for breakfast, or how much shellack it takes to maintain that indestructible hairdo of yours!"
Everyone freezes, drinks halfway to their lips, eyes darting to one another as if to confirm that, yes, McCoy really has just sassed their DivCO. Several of the more established crew purse their lips in either disappointment or irritation, Jim can't tell. Based on that he deduces that this show of disrespect is nothing new. Along with everyone else, Jim watches Spock. The next move is his.
"Come on, Spock!" McCoy coaxes, his voice laced with amusement and a little condescension. "You started this love-in, show us what you've got!"
Rather than put his doctor on report, publicly berate him or react in any of the other ways Jim has anticipated, Spock simply stands, hands clasped behind his back, calm and collected.
"I was born on Vulcan-that-was in a small city on the outskirts of Shi'Kahr. My father is the Vulcan ambassador to Earth and my mother was a human woman," he pauses, "a teacher. She perished during Nero's attack on our homeworld."
Several crew murmur in sympathy and Spock's eyes flick to the left and right, then settle back on McCoy.
"I attended the Shi'Kahr Academy and studied science, specialising in xenobiology, physics, medicine, mathematics and xenoecology. Upon graduation, I was offered a place at the Vulcan Science Academy, which I turned down in favour of joining EPAS. I served under Admiral Pike as his Point One on the USS Stalwart until such time as his injuries precluded ongoing command. I then accepted the vacant posting as Divisional Commander at his recommendation."
His eyes narrow on McCoy, their darkness suddenly hard, and yet ... is that humour in the mix? Jim leans forward in his chair unconsciously.
"For recreation, I play the Vulcan lyre and practice meditation," Spock adds, his tone conversational. "When it is available, I prefer to eat gespar for breakfast," his eyes drill into McCoy, "and I utilise no adhesive compounds for the purposes of styling my hair."
The tension catches and holds for a moment, then, to Jim's surprise, McCoy bursts out laughing. "All right, all right, you green-blooded bastard," he chuckles. "Full points to you for calling my bluff. Perhaps you can play us a song on that lyre of yours when we're done here."
Spock's eyebrows twitch. "Unlikely." He turns and gestures to Chekov.
The young Russian is frozen in his chair, thoroughly intimidated by the showdown he's just witnessed, however friendly it may have been. His eyes are wide under his mop of curls and Jim has the feeling the kid probably couldn't even remember his own name right now, let alone deliver an abridged biography of Chekov, Pavel Andreievich.
With an upswell of protectiveness he didn't know he had in him, Jim stands up.
"My name's James T. Kirk. I was born in space, but raised in Iowa and I couldn't wait to get the hell out of there, not that it's a bad place, it's just a little too ... little for me." He stops, waiting for and receiving a nod from Spock that allows Chekov time to regroup.
"My father was in Starfleet. He was captain of the Kelvin for about twelve minutes before Nero put an end to that. My mother served too, so you could say this life is kind of in my blood." He licks his lips and steers himself onto safer territory. "I gave regular service a shot. I was there at the Battle of Vulcan and I did my part," his eyes flick between Spock and T'Loren in silent apology. "It wasn't enough."
Jim is suddenly at a loss for words. His throat is dry. What could he possibly say to follow a memory like that? His hands clench at his sides and he bites down firmly on the inside of his cheek. Is he supposed to tell them that was the day he'd lost the faith? Realised that the reason his father died was nothing more than a fucked up twist of fate destined to be repeated ad infinitum throughout the universe? That one raving despot has decided that life is cheap and revenge is everything, which gives the universe a license to go utterly batshit insane? Look at the Klingons now, or the chaos amongst the unfederated planets. He shakes his head slightly, trying to clear it. It's not news; it's not even his news. The Romulan conflict shouldn't feel so personal, Jim knows that, he really does.
"Your pass-times, Lieutenant?" Spock prompts him quietly.
Jim looks up. Those alien eyes, so recently fathomless and cold, are trained on him now, and Jim sees something entirely different in their depths. Compassion? Understanding, maybe? He looks around the room, but nobody else, not even T'Loren appears to have noticed that spark of emotionality so quickly shuttered. Spock's words, that look, it's permission of sorts; a subtle acknowledgement and reassurance. Speak of whatever you will, it can not trivialise our loss.
"Back home we had a farm and used to breed quarter horses." Jim musters a smile. "I played football in high school but mostly I just tinker with cars and motorbikes when I've got some downtime, not that there's much of that these days."
His wryness is not lost on the rest of the crew and they smile or snort as one, lightening the mood further.
Spock inclines his head, hiding his expression but acknowledging something at the same time. Those eyes might be fixed on the floor, but Jim has the overwhelming certainty that his keen, pointed ears are noting every word. It should make him feel like he's on trial; like this is yet another aptitude assessment, but it doesn't.
"That's all there is, really," he apologises, unable to look away from Spock. "Just your average son of a bitch trying to make a difference, I suppose."
If there is something more in that, something else between the lines, the Commander seems to be giving every impression of not having noticed.
-:-
Late that night, Jim lies awake in his bunk with flimsies and PADDs scattered across the covers. He rolls onto his side, pulling a face when the hard corner of some part of his reading jabs him in the flank. He settles with one arm folded under his head, disdaining the pillow. The room is quiet except for his deep sigh.
His mind wanders back through the briefings and strategy 'freshers. He plays back the Beta crew meeting and tries not to think of T'Loren's measuring stare. Shit, he knows there's a reason he and Pavel are there. They don't just create new positions in EPAS, there's got to be a vacancy, and that only happens when someone's promoted or someone dies.
Lt. Commander Sally Morrison.
Jim rolls the name across his tongue, whispering it into the still half-light of his cabin.
She's the reason he's now part of Nix's crew. God only knew who Pavel was replacing. Morrison had died some time ago; nearly four months by Jim's rough estimate, but hadn't been replaced until now. He wonders if Alpha and Beta took turns doing double shifts, or if they pulled extra crew from the floating pool. Somehow, Jim can't picture them letting just anyone fill her shoes. He'd put money on the fact that the Vulcans pulled the doubles; they needed less sleep after all.
Uncomfortable again, he rolls onto his back, an arm flung over his head, sheltering himself in the angle of one elbow. He needs a good night's sleep and curses the irony of the blissful one he'd had the night before, when it didn't matter so much. He'd completed basic with flying colours. He knew his shit, remembered his protocols and understood his role as a Point One. That didn't mean that the training schedule Spock and T'Loren had issued them was going to be easy.
Without having to look, he scrabbles around with his fingertips and holds the flimsy up to scan it once again. Three days of solid EVA training starting tomorrow, Wednesday. That would take them right through to Friday when they were scheduled to arrive at the very edge of the Romulan Neutral Zone. He guesses that makes sense. You don't want to be caught with your pants down and your personnel scattered against the stars when a call comes in to evac somewhere or other. All the systems training could be done in shifts once they arrived at their destination; all that stuff was ship internal.
Three days of EVA training.
Three days.
Angry with himself, Jim scrubs at his eyes and resolutely sweeps the paperwork onto the floor.
He needs to sleep.
"Computer, lights to zero. Open communications channel, program selection Iowa State News Cast, retrospective stardate twenty four hours, volume ten percent."
- Acknowledged -
There is a moment's pause as the signal is triangulated this far out from Earth. Then the familiar drawl of a midwest accent filters into the room. Jim stares up into the darkness and waits.
... A politically shaken Federation Council promised Sunday a sharper focus on jobs and the economy for Iowa, but key advisers were less sure-footed on health care reform. They took a wait-and-see approach as the dust settles from the punishing losses suffered at the hands of Nero and his splinter group of terrorist Romulan extremists. Latest poll numbers show a significant drop in confidence for the President, primarily because of the slow economic recovery and double-digit unemployment ...
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