fanfic | stxi | leave no soul behind 3.6a/?
Title: Leave No Soul Behind 3.6a&b, 11,763 words of 120,000+
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 remarkable the_arc5, who edited a chapter that may as well be a fic in its own right, and did it in record time.
Author's Note: This is written for stripedpetunia on trek_exchange. So, as you can see, I got a lot of writing done on my holiday. Those of you who've been asking a lot of questions or raising some speculation should be pleased with this one ... and that's all I'm saying.
Broken into two posts because LJ is a word count Nazi.
previous
Ch 3.6a
Jim and Spock are walking briskly towards the epicenter of the blast that has decimated the Robicon Capitol Square. The place is already swarming with EPAS medical crew and Points. The dead are being laid out along what remains of the east wall of their council chambers, rather tastelessly but practically, covered by a few of the brightly hued tarpaulins that weren't required earlier in the evening.
Presents under the tree, thinks Jim, and feels intensely nauseated.
Gaila has stolen a headset and a mobile terminal from some poor hapless bastard and is coordinating the inbound and outbound flights like the pro she is. Jim spares a grin for her as they pass. She's still only got one shoe on.
Spock finally thumbs his comm, shutting off the deluge of information filtering through from Ops. "The Robicon armed forces are requesting an immediate explanation of the Tat'sar's presence, her cargo and her unusual energy signature," he says striding out so that Jim has to stretch to keep up. "Captain Taylor is coordinating a response with the Vulcan High Council."
"Alone?"
Spock spares him a glance that may be slightly pained. "I have requested a video conference be patched through at our current location, however, due to the ongoing interference, it may not be possible."
"Working on it!" Gaila shouts without looking up from her display.
"In the meantime, it is logical that we collect evidence that this act of terrorism is Robii in origin, rather than attributable to the orbiting Tat'sar as some members of the Robii population have postulated."
"Are you serious?" Jim raises a hand to his aching head. "Ask anyone who was here, they'll lay the blame squarely where it belongs."
Spock steps over a pile of rubble, arms shifting to assist his balance. "The parameters of sociology dictate that acts of terrorism almost never occur in the absence of provocation."
Jim uses his hands to scale the uneven mound and they come away dusty and white with particulates. "You're excusing them?" he spits a little blood from the split in his lip as he straightens.
Spock's mouth frowns. "I am not. Merely pointing out that there are always at least two sides to every story."
"Good, because 'Robicon for all Robii' is something of a contradiction when you start killing the people you're supposed to be championing." Spock slows, but Jim doesn't notice, angry as he is. "I mean, what a bunch of fucking cowards," he continues on, oblivious, feeling the remnants of explosive heat through the thin soles of his boots. "They obviously have no idea what the Federation stands for if they think that killing innocent people is going to hasten negotiations."
"You feel no responsibility for the current situation?" Spock asks.
Jim stops in his tracks and turns. "Are you serious?"
Spock resumes walking, drawing level with Jim as he speaks. "The two of us deliberately perpetuated the falsehood that the Federation is withdrawing from evacuation negotiations with Robicon IV. You do not recognise the correlation between our actions and the heightened state of political tension that prompted such action from within the Robii extremist population?"
Jim wants to say no, wants to dismiss it out of hand, but the thought sends a chill down his spine. "I didn't ... oh thanks for that," he scowls. "I really needed to feel worse about what happened here today. Not only was Nix destroyed, Chekov and Hannity injured, Uhura, Chapel and Gaila almost killed, but now it's all my fault."
"That was not what I intended to imply. I merely wished to impress upon you the interconnectedness of events. No one thing happens in isolation from another; however, it is not always possible to predict the many ways in which a single action may affect the continuum. It is logical to regret the loss of life and to analyze the precursors that led to this attack. It is not logical to assume full responsibility for the heinous actions of others."
It's one of the longest speeches Spock has ever directed at him, but that doesn't stop Jim from turning away, teeth gritted. "I feel so much better now." In fact, he feels like crap, but he pulls out his tricorder and starts taking readings. He's so focused on how angry he is, how guilty, that it takes a few seconds for the readings to register.
When they do, he turns to find Spock already looking at his own device.
They both raise their heads to take in the scene. There are maybe fifty EPAS crew working on stabilizing the wounded for transport. They are a sea of reflective piped suits. Reflective piped radiation suits.
Before either of them can say anything, McCoy appears waving his suited arms like a madman. "Son of an bitch, what the hell is wrong with you two?"
"Doctor ..."
"Spock, I don't care if you're Vulcan or not, you can't withstand this many rads without damage. And Jim!" McCoy raises his hands in supplication to whatever higher power might bear witness to this stupidity. "Just felt like a little stroll around ground zero did you?"
"Bones ..."
"Both of you, beam out now, straight to decontam." When neither of them move, he plants his hands on his hips and glowers. "Now!"
-:-
"How long do we have to be in here?" Jim calls through the transparent aluminium.
"Two to seven hours," McCoy calls back, not even looking up from his display. "Difficult to say without knowing how badly you were exposed."
"How long?"
"Dammit, Jim, I'm a doctor not a fortune teller!" he snaps. "Now change out of that suit and step into the booth, already! Spock, you too."
Jim sighs heavily but turns to face the disposal chute and starts flicking the pressure seals on his EVA suit. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Spock doing the same thing in the next cubicle. Obediently naked, Jim steps into the airtight booth used for gaseous decontamination. It always makes him feel slightly claustrophobic, but with an audience, he firmly tamps down his anxiety and shuts the airtight door. At least they don't have to endure a total body crew cut.
"Now, remember, kids," McCoy's voice comes tinny over the inbuilt speaker, "keep your eyes open and take deep, regular breaths. The nano molecules have to permeate your circulatory system in order for this to be effective. That's going to take time."
"Yeah, yeah," Jim mutters. "Get it over with, we need to talk to the Vulcan High Council."
The mic cuts McCoy's long suffering sigh halfway through, then plumes of shimmering air hiss from the cubicles vents. The gas is colourless, but distorts everything, and has an odour strongly reminiscent of hydrocarbons. It smells explosive and immediately irritates Jim's eyes, causing them to tear up. Pretty soon his nose starts running, too.
"Bones?"
"Just ignore it," the doctor advises. "Keep blinking. You can have a real water shower after this."
"What the hell is this stuff?" Jim complains, scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands.
"Polydeltanarcobendrite fifty percent to twenty five of oxygen and nitrogen apiece."
Jim rolls the unfamiliar term around in his mouth.
"You did ask," the doctor mocks with a twang of southern satisfaction. "It'll probably make you a bit light headed in a moment."
"Yeah, I'm feeling that." Jim throws out a hand to steady himself as black spots dance before his eyes. "Bones, I'm pretty sure I'm going to pass out. Just thought you should know."
"Hang in there, kid. You've got forty seconds to go."
"That's thirty nine too many," he protests, sliding down the wall as his legs decide to give up on this whole standing thing.
"Talk to me, Jim."
"What do you want me to say?" he gasps, ears ringing and vision tunnelling.
"How should I know?"
"How's Spock doing?"
"Better than you," McCoy counters. "You and your goddamn allergies, Jim. How you made it past childhood is a mystery to me, honestly."
"Wait, I'm allergic to this stuff and you knew?" He manages to muster a little righteous indignation.
"You're not strictly allergic."
"I'm not strictly your friend anymore, either."
"Okay," McCoy says, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. "You're both done with the gas, here comes the water-based solution."
"Wait! What the fuck?" Jim hollers as ice cold liquid rains down upon him from all angles. The gas is sucked out of the vents, replaced by normal air, but he's scrabbling around on the floor of the booth, trying to find a place where the freezing water won't reach. "You said a proper shower, not water torture! Why does it have to be arctic?"
"You think this is cold? What about Spock?" McCoy taunts. "He's from a desert planet and he's not crying like a baby."
"I am not crying."
"Tell that to the camera."
Jim's teeth are chattering but he forces himself to smirk. "Are you checking me out?"
McCoy just laughs and cuts the connection again. Shivering, Jim manages to push himself to his feet just as the deluge ceases. He's tingling all over, dizzy and half-blinded by the gas. Somehow, he manages to open the door and tumble out into the next cubicle, the clean side. The ship's normal temperature is almost tropical by comparison and he dries and dresses quickly, blond hair water-dark and dripping onto the collar of the loose scrubs McCoy has slipped through the hermetically sealed chute.
Looking up, he sees Spock turn at the same time, his image crisp and undistorted by the perfectly manufactured transparent aluminium. The dark grey scrubs hang off his lanky frame worse than Jim's and his hair is sticking up every which way from the rough towelling it's obviously been given. For the first time, Jim buys the fact that there's only a year or two separating them. Spock looks a bit lost without his uniform.
"At least the worst is over," he tells Spock, who can obviously hear him judging by the quirked eyebrow.
McCoy appears along their shared frontage, a tray bearing two tumblers in his hands. With a bit of juggling, he manages to get one through the seal into each cubicle. "Drink up," he orders gruffly.
Jim picks his up and winces at the bland looking slurry. "What is it?"
"Shut up and drink it!" McCoy shoots a slightly abashed look in Spock's direction. "Sir," he adds for good measure.
Without further ado, Spock downs his, and never one to be left out of a drinking game, Jim follows suit. Almost instantly, he knows it was a bad idea. They turn to look at each other and Spock's eyes widen.
"Behind you," McCoy tells them helpfully.
Both of them sprint for the appropriate receptacle and obediently empty their stomachs. Cold, shaking and utterly wretched, Jim rinses his mouth and turns to look daggers at McCoy. Spock is still leaning on his own basin, head hanging, knuckles green from how tightly he's gripping the sides.
"I hate you," Jim whispers with feeling.
"You'd rather die a horrible death from radiation poisoning?"
"Maybe."
"Angels of mercy, give me strength!" McCoy rolls his eyes, then turns to his right. "You okay, Spock?"
"Suboptimal," Spock replies after a moment's pause, and his voice has never sounded quite so strained.
McCoy is quick to cross to his work station, lips pursed, to review the Commander's vitals. "Hmm," he says after a moment. "Bradycardia, tachypnoea and a little hypothermia." The frown deepens. "This procedure is standard protocol for your level of exposure. It's been tested on Vulcans and humans, I'm not sure why it's affecting you like this."
"As you are well aware," Spock manages hoarsely, "I am neither Vulcan nor human, but both."
"You think this is a side-effect of your hybrid physiology?"
"No other logical explanation is forthcoming," he whispers, swaying slightly before the basin.
McCoy shoots Jim a worried glance and takes a seat behind his terminal, fingers flying across the surface. A little concerned himself, now, Jim pushes off from the wall and crosses to stand at Spock's side of his own cubicle. The Vulcan is busy washing his face. Jim watches the shake in his hands with growing unease.
"Respiratory imbalance?" McCoy asks himself. "No, that doesn't fit. Circulatory compromise? Perhaps a vasodilatory effect of the PDNC? But that doesn't explain the ... wait!" The doctor rises to half-standing behind the terminal and attacks it with renewed fervour. "It's metabolic, all right. How bizarre."
"I am feeling strangely disorientated, doctor."
"Hang in there, Spock, I'm going to need you to hypo yourself." McCoy is rapidly selecting several compatible substances from the medical inventory and adding them to a capsule. He slaps it into place with a flick of his wrist and actually jogs to the chute. The jogging makes Jim nervous.
"I've programmed it for point oh five mics," McCoy explains as Spock makes unsteady progress towards the hypo. "We can dose you again every half hour as needed to a maximum of point two mics."
"Understood."
Spock reaches out with trembling hands and grasps the hypo. Jim finds himself with both fists pressed against the divider, itching to help. Spock looks like shit. All traces of green summoned by the intense cold have been banished. He's white as a sheet and perspiring lightly. The Commander presses the hypo to his neck with a hiss and then slips it into the pocket of his scrubs. His breathing eases a little but nothing else changes.
"Bones?" Jim queries anxiously, keeping his eyes on Spock who's leaning against the chute.
"Give it time."
Jim works his way along the wall until he's level with Spock, who raises his head just enough that the struggle to suppress his emotional response to the situation is clear as day. His own discomfort momentarily forgotten, Jim catches that pained gaze and holds it.
"You okay?"
"I have experienced more satisfactory states of being."
Jim fidgets. "Anything I can do?"
The Commander glances at McCoy. "A level of privacy would be welcome," he admits, lowering himself gingerly to the cot.
"Vitals stabilizing," McCoy summarizes. "I don't see why I can't leave you two alone. I'll be in my office next door. Buzz if you need anything, but the alarms will sound if the hobgoblin needs me."
With a press of a button, the doctor opaques the observation glass.
Conscious of Spock's desire to be unobserved, Jim puts his weight against his own cot in an attempt to shift it to the other side of his cubicle. The rooms are mirror images of each other, the beds placed close for companionship. Behind him, he hears a rustle of material and turns in time to see Spock curl in on himself. The Commander rolls on his side, facing away, his knees tucked to his chest.
"Do you want ..." Jim starts, thoroughly unsure.
"Conversation would be a useful distraction," Spock says tightly. "I must remain alert until such time as we are able to resolve the Tat'sar situation."
"All right, then." Jim aborts his furniture shuffling, suddenly feeling his own aching gut again, his own itchy eyes. "What do you want to talk about?"
"I have no preference."
It's remarkably unspecific for a Vulcan, and clearly indicates Spock's level of distress.
"Okay, um, did you hear about the experiment Scotty has going in Engineering?"
"I am unaware of any current experiments in Engineering." Spock reaches and pulls the blanket over himself, huddling into it. Jim notices he's tucked it tight under his chin.
"Scotty has this theory that we can add at least another point six to our warp capacity if we modify the nacelle buffers using an organic matrix rather than the synthetic standard issue." Jim shakes his head. "Seriously, he's wasted in maintenance."
"You believe there is merit in his hypothesis?"
Jim can hear Spock's teeth chattering but doesn't comment on it. "The preliminary figures look good," he allows. "The trick will be getting Captain Taylor to approve a small scale modification in order to test it." He shrugs in the near darkness. "I mean, I know we're not a science vessel, but you can't tell me another point six to our warp wouldn't be really useful from time to time."
"No," Spock coughs. "I can not."
Concern overwhelming the policy of minding his own business, Jim asks, "do you need McCoy?"
"Forward me Mr. Scott's proposal," Spock says, redirecting. "If it proves logical, I will endeavour to have a small scale test implemented during our upcoming shore leave."
"Okay, I'll do that." Jim smiles to himself. "Scotty's not going to believe I said anything. He's kind of terrified of you."
"I am unaware of ever having given Mr. Scott reason to fear me."
"It's not fear, exactly," Jim muses, letting his head fall back against the partition that divides them. "More like hero worship."
Spock's blanket shrouded form shifts slightly. "You are mocking me."
Jim whips around to stare at the back of Spock's head. "No, I'm really not. Scotty respects you."
There are a few moments of uncomfortable silence where he figures Spock isn't going to reply, but then, that quiet baritone voice filters through the transparent aluminium. "And you, Jim?"
Kirk feels something lodge in his throat. For a moment, he thinks he's going to be sick again, but it passes. "Yeah, and me."
Spock lies unnaturally still, somehow managing to suppress his tremors. "I was ..."
"Oblivious," Jim supplies for him. "Don't sweat it, we're just overly emotional humans, remember? I know you're not aware of it, probably don't even like it, but it does us a lot of good to have someone to look up to, something to aspire to."
"This is a surprisingly complex revelation," Spock admits, sounding the slightest bit unsure, "and a significant responsibility."
"It doesn't change anything," Jim argues. "You're still the same you, still doing the same job." He leans into the divider a little more, trying to catch a glimpse of Spock's profile, trying to judge the impact of what he's saying. "Is it really so bad to find out what you mean to people around here?"
"Captain Taylor is the most appropriate person upon whom the crew should direct their admiration."
"Pfft!" Jim dismisses that with a wave of his hand that Spock can't see. "Taylor commands the ship, but you command the people. That's all anyone cares about. It's Taylor's ship, but we're your crew."
"I fail to see ..."
"For God's sake, Spock, I'm not playing games," Jim finds he's just the tiniest bit angry. "I'm just being honest. If I thought you were the kind of CO who needed their ego pandered to, I'd have skipped out of here a long time ago. I thought you knew that."
"I apologize if I have given offense."
"Oh, just forget it," Jim sighs, settling himself on his own cot, barefoot and still cold. "We're probably talking at cultural counterpoints."
Spock says nothing, so Jim lets his eyes slip closed, finding that the mission and the decontamination have really taken it out of him. Swirling flames and jerky, flashing images play themselves out on the inside of his eyelids, but despite it all, he finds himself drifting towards sleep.
The sound of a hypo startles him back to wakefulness. Spock's hand falls to his side again.
"Starting to wear off?"
"It would seem so."
"Must be hard," Jim muses, "being so different." Realizing this could be a touchy subject, he scrambles to clarify. "What I'm saying is, I don't know how you do it. You just stepped into that booth, swallowed that awful shit and never hesitated. Thanks to my allergies, I've got more problems choosing a soda than you seem to have putting your life in McCoy's hands."
"For all his comments to the contrary, I do not believe the doctor wishes me harm," Spock says, sounding a little more together after his second dose.
"Still, that takes trust."
"I have not given the matter much thought. However, I believe you are correct." Spock sounds a little surprised and Jim wishes he had an expression to go on. "I do, indeed, trust doctor McCoy."
"Well, that's good," he says, wishing away the sudden stab of jealousy.
"I also trust you, Jim."
And now he feels like a total bastard, because that's what he'd been hoping to hear. "Really?"
"I would not have assumed your survival today, otherwise. Deploying another shuttle on the basis of any other outcome would have been unjustifiable."
"It wasn't a matter of duty?"
"Duty requires that I balance the odds of success against those of failure. Without being able to surmise your team's survival, I would not have been able to justify the risk. The primary duty of any EPAS Point is to ensure a reasonable margin of safety in all field operations. My trust in you and your abilities provided an acceptable risk to benefit analysis."
"That sounds ... technical." Jim's not sure whether he's pleased or confused.
"It is really quite simple," Spock says, sounding more and more like his usual self as McCoy's drugs do their job. "Similarly, preceding our altercation with the Robii insurgents, I predicted that you would be able to disarm at least one Robi without assistance. I have occasionally observed you sparring with Security personnel in the gymnasium."
"What if I lost out? Someone could have died."
Spock turns his head then, dark eyes fathomless. "Is that not the essence of trust?"
Jim swallows. "I suppose so."
Another shiver runs through Spock's body and he settles his head back on the pillow. "Computer," he calls a little more strongly. "Request channel to Captain Taylor."
Request denied. The Captain is unavailable at this time.
"Request channel to the XO."
Processing.
There is a brief pause followed by the click of connection.
Harris here, Commander. What can I do for you?
"I require the latest diplomatic updates routed to the terminal in decontamination booth alpha three." Spock's eyes may be pressed closed in discomfort, but his voice is almost a perfect approximation of his usual tone. "Please inform Captain Taylor that I am available to assist with negotiations should it be required."
I'll do that sir, but I thought you and Nix's crew were scheduled for at least another few hours in decontam.
"There is no reason why I cannot assist from my current location."
If you say so, sir.
Jim grins to himself. Apparently the XO has learned his lesson when it comes to keeping senior EPAS personnel out of the loop. The terminal in Spock's cubicle chimes promptly; another indication that Harris doesn't want to find himself on the receiving end of Vulcan disapproval again.
With a wince he can't quite hide, Spock pushes to his feet but doesn't abandon the blanket. With it huddled around his shoulders, he seats himself and taps the screen to bring it to life. From where Jim is sitting on his cot, it affords him a view of the back of Spock's head; a view which is endearingly disordered in his opinion.
"You're going to take a conference call in a decontam booth?"
Spock turns. "Is there an alternative I have overlooked?"
"Well no, but ..."
I can patch you through now, sir.
"Proceed," Spock acknowledges, letting the blanket slip from his shoulders and out of sight.
Jim gets up stiffly and crosses to his own terminal. His brain feels like cotton wool, but he figures he may as well make himself useful. They're in the midst of a delicate political situation and nobody is at their best right now. They need to pull together. He starts to collate all the data that's been uploaded from tricorders and ship's sensors into one neat little package.
Taylor appears within an internal communication. He looks tense. "Commander, I'm glad you've joined us. It seems things are a little more complex than we first anticipated."
Spock quirks an eyebrow. "Indeed?"
"The Vulcan High Council is refusing to allow a delegation of Robii diplomats to externally inspect the Tat'sar in order to establish that the ship is in no way linked to the Romulan threat or the recent acts of terrorism. Captain Senekot is also continuing to deny the need for medical care aboard his ship."
Jim tuts under his breath, because really, if the Vulcan's are still quibbling about letting EPAS so much as take a look at the hull, what makes Taylor think they're going to welcome the Robii with open arms?
"Perhaps a mutually satisfactory compromise can be reached," Spock offers, visibly suppressing his tremors. "Might I speak with the High Council?"
Taylor waves a hand expansively. "Be my guest."
The screen blanks to the EPAS logo while the communications are rerouted. Jim knows he has only seconds to say what he wants to say, perhaps not even that long. He knocks on the divider to get Spock's attention.
"We have to get aboard the Tat'sar," he says urgently, "and ideally one Robi to shut them up."
Spock is pale, his hair wild, but his eyes are sharp. "Captain Senekot will never agree to such terms."
"Then we have to find a reason that the Vulcan High Council will."
The terminal bleeps its five second warning and Spock raises an eyebrow. "Can you be more specific?"
Jim raises a finger as he turns back to his terminal. "Leave it with me," he promises, accessing the Federation Legal Database.
Spock's face flickers into a momentary frown before he has to turn to face the six senior Vulcans that appear on his screen. "Honoured members of the Council," he acknowledges.
Sarek leans forward slightly, involuntarily. "You are injured?"
"A precautionary measure only," Spock corrects him, the inclination of his head taking in his current state of disarray and unusual attire.
"Commander," one of the other Vulcans redirects. The intuitive screen zooms in on her silver-haired features. "Can EPAS confirm the thermonuclear nature of the explosions detonated on the fourth planet of the Robicon system?"
"We can," Spock says firmly. "Preliminary readings are being made available for your records. The more comprehensive report will follow once sufficient resources can be reallocated from our humanitarian efforts at the scene of the attack."
"Commander, can you explain why the Robicon Council saw fit to scan a Vulcan science vessel, when that vessel has diplomatic immunity and has expressly stated that no scans are to take place?"
"Robicon IV is not a member of the Federation," Spock counters, "and is thus not bound by the rules of our diplomacy."
Silence among the Council is tacit acknowledgement.
"Spock, that does not explain how the Stalwart obtained its own readings," Sarek presses.
"There was an instrumentation malfunction that resulted in minimal data feedback being recorded from certain sensor wavelengths only," Spock regurgitates the same story he had fed them earlier that day. "Regardless, the fact remains that we are aware of the need for medical aid aboard the Tat'sar, and you have yet to offer a viable explanation as to why you have not taken advantage of EPAS facilities and expertise."
"It is a Vulcan matter," the same elderly council member says quickly, earning herself a curious glance from Sarek.
Spock's eyes shift to one corner of his screen as Jim pumps his fist in triumph and pipes him a highlighted section of the Federation Treaty.
"And yet, the people in question are not all Vulcan," Spock says reasonably, his eyes flicking side to side as he scans the document. "This results in a forfeiture of diplomatic immunity."
"You are referring to clause epsilon delta five nine point six three," Sarek clarifies, being well versed in all current diplomatic treaties. "It does not require Vulcan to relinquish the Tat'sar's cargo to Federation agents."
"No, it does not," Spock agrees, pausing to glare at Jim who is wildly gesticulating at himself, the sickbay and in the general direction of the Vulcan ship. "However, the treaty clearly stipulates that representatives of the Federation have a duty of care to all citizens, a duty which overrides basic diplomatic immunity. Unless you can cite a higher regulation preventing EPAS intervention on board the Tat'sar, we are duty bound to assure ourselves of her passengers' well-being."
"Unacceptable," the elderly Vulcan states firmly.
"With all due respect, Madam Councillor, I do not understand your objection."
"It is not your place to understand, simply to obey."
Spock straightens slightly, throwing off whatever pain might be lingering from his reaction to decontam. "I am a Federation officer, Madam. I will obey every legal order passed down through the chain of command. At such time as I am expressly forbidden to follow the dictates of the Federation treaty, I will be sure to abide by your request and leave the Tat'sar and her living cargo in peace. Until such time, it is my duty to inform you that a two-person inspection team will prepare to board."
The Council exchange meaningful glances. Of them all, Sarek is the only one whose expression hints at confusion. "Spock, can this not wait?"
Spock allows himself no expression. "Even if I could in conscience delay the delivery of medical aid to those aboard the Tat'sar, I doubt the Robicon Council will accept anything other than immediate confirmation of the ship's peaceful intent."
"It is plain to see the Tat'sar is a Vulcan ship," a new Council member breaks in.
"To those who have never before compared the two, Vulcan and Romulan technology is similar in many ways," Spock reminds them. "With the additionally incriminating presence of the energy signature, the burden of proof clearly lies with Vulcan."
"We acknowledge no energy signature," the female councilor says sternly, at her Vulcan best.
"Yet it has been detected by both EPAS and Robii sensors." There is a tinge of sarcasm in Spock's tone now, and Jim wonders if he is tiring of all the political posturing. "I anticipate you will find it problematic to appease the Robicon Council with anything other than this show of faith."
Sarek leans forward, hands on the council table. "What do you suggest?"
"Allow one Robi representative to accompany the EPAS assessment team."
"No," the Council says immediately, in unison.
Jim screws his nose up in frustration. That was a pretty adamant refusal, and from the slight hint of expression on Spock's face, he realizes. The best they can hope for now is that an external view of the ship will satisfy the Robi officials.
"Unless you wish to create a major diplomatic incident, I suggest you submit to an alternative method of reassuring the Robi," Spock advises. "I doubt their trust in EPAS is sufficient that our word alone will suffice."
The Vulcan Council glare at each other silently, then at Spock, then at each other again. The tension is self-evident, even if their faces are largely blank. Spock waits expectantly, outwardly calm, even though Jim can see he is struggling a little more for each breath. His ribs retract with each inhalation, the accessory muscles working hard. If this call doesn't end soon, they're going to see just how sick Spock really is, or else he's going to have to use the hypo. Either option is an admission of weakness Spock can't afford if he wants to maintain the upper hand in this negotiation. Jim finds himself taking even, measured breaths as though that might somehow assist Spock to do the same.
"An external visual assessment at an orbit of five hundred klicks may provide the reassurance they seek," Spock suggests, the slightest hint of a wheeze in his voice.
Sarek's eyes narrow but he nods. "We shall discuss the possibility. In the meantime, submit your candidates for the EPAS inspection team for our review." He glances pointedly off-screen, to where Jim is sitting, out of view and unacknowledged. "Timely and forthright resolution of this issue will be facilitated by careful selection on your behalf."
Jim is not quite sure whether he's just been handed the seal of approval or been banned, or even if Ambassador Sarek could possibly infer who it is that exists just out of his line of sight.
Spock inclines his head. "Understood."
Sarek nods in return. "Until we speak again."
"Live long and prosper," Spock says correctly.
"Peace and long life."
The connection blips out of existence and Spock slumps slightly even as Captain Taylor appears on the screen. "Spock, the Federation will never accept a two-man team as our total input into the situation!"
"I am aware," Spock manages, the light sheen of sweat on his face catching the light.
Jim glances at the chrono. Spock is ten minutes overdue for his hypo.
"We're due to make a report to the Minister for Health within the hour, how do you expect me to explain that we're sending two unarmed officers into a potentially hostile situation?"
"We have no reason to believe ... that the Tat'sar in any way constitutes a threat to EPAS ... Robicon IV or the Federation as a whole." Spock is forced to break his sentence to breathe, and damn if Taylor doesn't even notice.
"Still, Spock! Two people? Is that the best you could do?"
Jim clenches his hands into fists. His swollen lip stings anew as he presses it tight in an effort to bite back his angry retort. The team is more than Taylor has managed in the entire time since the initial discovery.
"Should anything untoward be detected by the team," Spock swallows and takes a quick breath, "it will be grounds for further Federation intervention."
Beneath the terminal, Spock's legs have begun to tremble and Jim finds himself whispering under his breath, urging Taylor to shut up and cut the connection, to accept the logic of what Spock has orchestrated.
Thankfully, Taylor seems to absorb that in a positive light. "I can probably sell that to the Minister. Good work, Commander. When are you out of decontam? It goes without saying that I want you on the away team."
"Doctor McCoy estimates only hours," Spock says tightly.
"Keep me informed, Taylor out."
The screen is barely blank before Jim is out of his seat, paging McCoy, slamming his fist into the buzzer just as Spock fumbles the hypo with shaking hands. The instrument drops to the floor with a metallic tinkle.
"Dammit, Bones! Get in here!"
He appears almost immediately, too quickly to have been summoned by Jim, doubtless alerted to Spock's distress through the sensors in the room. He's pulling on the first layer of his radiation suit when Jim knocks on the aluminium to get his attention.
"Just let me through!" he gestures at the partition between their rooms. "I'm already exposed, so minimal additional risk."
McCoy hesitates, one leg already in the suit.
"Bones!"
"All right, all right!" the doctor capitulates, his worried frown fixed on Spock, who is clearly experiencing some serious vertigo as he bends to retrieve the fallen hypo. "Just remember, point oh five mics, no more!"
"Got it," Jim calls, already moving to the place where the partition is drawing apart, folding back into the walls with a barely audible hiss. He's through before the gap is really wide enough, and down on his knees in front of Spock. He gets the hypo in his hands and pressed against Spock's neck, but forces himself to pause, to check the dose, just to be sure. Point oh five mics. He thumbs the control and a muted hiss precedes Spock's almost imperceptible flinch.
Jim slaps the hypo down on the terminal and pushes Spock gently back into his seat. "Easy, Commander."
He looks terrible, eyes pressed tightly closed, lips parted as he works for every breath. His eyelids are tinged blue in the harsh sickbay lights, his hair sticking to his brow. Jim has him by both arms, and blessedly, the shaking is already easing. A few more breaths and Spock's face relaxes a degree or two.
"Better?" he asks softly, the worry plain in his voice.
"Yes."
It's only a whisper, but Jim can feel sudden tension under his hands and abruptly lets go. He backs across their newly combined cubicle until he can sit on his own cot, watching Spock in profile. Vulcan privacy is so important, so fundamental. It might be strange to think that someone as outgoing as Jim understands that need, but he does. There are parts of his own life, parts of himself that he likes kept apart; things that are his and his alone.
"You're not going to be able to go on that team," Jim tells him, even if it does sound like a question.
"No," Spock agrees, forcing his eyes open and turning slightly to face Jim's side of the room. "That seems unlikely."
"Unlikely?" McCoy growls. "I expressly forbid it!"
"The doctor expressly forbids it," Spock echoes, his words less clipped than usual as his eyes slip closed again.
Jim fights down a smile, because it seems Spock is a bit screwy when on a patented McCoy concoction.
Bones offers a smirk in return. "His metabolic system is unique," the doctor sounds defensive but still amused. "I haven't found anything I can use that doesn't have some side effects. Get more than point one of soraphine in him and," he gestures at Spock battling to keep his eyes open. "Better than the alternative though, you'll agree."
"I believe I shall ..." Spock makes an abortive gesture at his cot.
"Hell yes, don't let him sleep in the chair," McCoy offers as he turns and stalks back to his office. "Chiro never got that last lot of kinks out of him."
Jim gives a thumbs up to McCoy's retreating back and goes to help. Turns out that all he really needs is to be pointed in the right direction, after that there's nothing left for Jim to do except straighten the blanket over him and place the hypo on his pillow, within easy reach.
"This is unacceptable," Spock murmurs, seemingly half asleep already. "I shall endeavour to speed the process by using a light trance. You may need to strike me in order to wake me."
Jim frowns. "Strike, like hit?"
"Is there another definition?"
"Well ... no."
"Then why did you ask?"
Jim curses his split lip as another smile threatens to engulf him. "Because I'm an illogical human."
"Very true," Spock acknowledges as he rolls stiffly onto his back.
"How long do you need for this trance?"
"Efficacy is directly proportional to duration," he whispers. "However, do not permit me to remain unconscious should the Tat'sar deployment be approved, or if there is an urgent communication."
"Okay."
Spock's breathing becomes deeper and more regular, his hands relax at his sides, fingertips resting lightly on the blanket. It gets to the point where all his baselines, heart rate, respiration, metabolics, sink so far that McCoy sticks his head out of his office to see what's going on. When he notices Spock flat out on the cot and Jim sitting on the edge of his own, just watching, the doctor shakes his head and mutters something about crazy Vulcan voodoo before disappearing again.
Alone in the new silence, Jim can't deny his own fatigue. Lying down on his own cot, curled up on his side, he promises himself a few minutes and lets his eyes slip closed.
-:-
"Spock?"
Jim tries shaking him a little harder. It seems impossible that anyone could sleep through someone shouting at them and almost rolling them out of bed, but the Commander is managing. With an uncertain glance at McCoy who mimes a decent backhand, Jim slaps Spock lightly across the face. When it garners no response, he does it again, this time hard enough to leave his palm tingling.
Spock's eyes snap open. "Lieutenant Kirk."
"Commander," Jim replies, feeling unaccountably awkward. "You did say to ..."
"Yes," he interrupts, sitting upright so quickly that Jim is forced to spring back. "Quite so."
"The Vulcan High Council have approved both the EPAS inspection and an orbital observation by the Robicon government," Jim informs him. "I would have woken you for the call, but it was just a transmission, not a comm."
"Very well," Spock nods, then directs a steady gaze in McCoy's direction. "My uniform, doctor?"
"Not going to happen," he drawls. "You're not beaming anywhere for at least another twelve hours. You've got enough soraphine in your system to flatten a donkey. I'm clearing you for light duties only."
"You do understand the difficulty inherent in this proscription?"
"I do," McCoy nods, "but I won't put political expediency ahead of my crew. You of all people should understand that."
They lock eyes for a few moments, but Spock nods his acceptance sooner rather than later. "In that case," he turns to Jim, "Lieutenant Kirk will take my place on the away team."
Jim actually finds it relatively easy to subsume his response to Spock's confidence. It sits beneath the surging tumult of curiosity, suspicion and urgency he feels about the Tat'sar in general. Beaming across is a great privilege and an even bigger responsibility, but riding high on a bare hour's sleep, Jim feels up for anything.
McCoy scans him twice with the tricorder, seeming almost disappointed when his rad levels are negligible.
To part 3.6b ...
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 remarkable the_arc5, who edited a chapter that may as well be a fic in its own right, and did it in record time.
Author's Note: This is written for stripedpetunia on trek_exchange. So, as you can see, I got a lot of writing done on my holiday. Those of you who've been asking a lot of questions or raising some speculation should be pleased with this one ... and that's all I'm saying.
Broken into two posts because LJ is a word count Nazi.
previous
Ch 3.6a
Jim and Spock are walking briskly towards the epicenter of the blast that has decimated the Robicon Capitol Square. The place is already swarming with EPAS medical crew and Points. The dead are being laid out along what remains of the east wall of their council chambers, rather tastelessly but practically, covered by a few of the brightly hued tarpaulins that weren't required earlier in the evening.
Presents under the tree, thinks Jim, and feels intensely nauseated.
Gaila has stolen a headset and a mobile terminal from some poor hapless bastard and is coordinating the inbound and outbound flights like the pro she is. Jim spares a grin for her as they pass. She's still only got one shoe on.
Spock finally thumbs his comm, shutting off the deluge of information filtering through from Ops. "The Robicon armed forces are requesting an immediate explanation of the Tat'sar's presence, her cargo and her unusual energy signature," he says striding out so that Jim has to stretch to keep up. "Captain Taylor is coordinating a response with the Vulcan High Council."
"Alone?"
Spock spares him a glance that may be slightly pained. "I have requested a video conference be patched through at our current location, however, due to the ongoing interference, it may not be possible."
"Working on it!" Gaila shouts without looking up from her display.
"In the meantime, it is logical that we collect evidence that this act of terrorism is Robii in origin, rather than attributable to the orbiting Tat'sar as some members of the Robii population have postulated."
"Are you serious?" Jim raises a hand to his aching head. "Ask anyone who was here, they'll lay the blame squarely where it belongs."
Spock steps over a pile of rubble, arms shifting to assist his balance. "The parameters of sociology dictate that acts of terrorism almost never occur in the absence of provocation."
Jim uses his hands to scale the uneven mound and they come away dusty and white with particulates. "You're excusing them?" he spits a little blood from the split in his lip as he straightens.
Spock's mouth frowns. "I am not. Merely pointing out that there are always at least two sides to every story."
"Good, because 'Robicon for all Robii' is something of a contradiction when you start killing the people you're supposed to be championing." Spock slows, but Jim doesn't notice, angry as he is. "I mean, what a bunch of fucking cowards," he continues on, oblivious, feeling the remnants of explosive heat through the thin soles of his boots. "They obviously have no idea what the Federation stands for if they think that killing innocent people is going to hasten negotiations."
"You feel no responsibility for the current situation?" Spock asks.
Jim stops in his tracks and turns. "Are you serious?"
Spock resumes walking, drawing level with Jim as he speaks. "The two of us deliberately perpetuated the falsehood that the Federation is withdrawing from evacuation negotiations with Robicon IV. You do not recognise the correlation between our actions and the heightened state of political tension that prompted such action from within the Robii extremist population?"
Jim wants to say no, wants to dismiss it out of hand, but the thought sends a chill down his spine. "I didn't ... oh thanks for that," he scowls. "I really needed to feel worse about what happened here today. Not only was Nix destroyed, Chekov and Hannity injured, Uhura, Chapel and Gaila almost killed, but now it's all my fault."
"That was not what I intended to imply. I merely wished to impress upon you the interconnectedness of events. No one thing happens in isolation from another; however, it is not always possible to predict the many ways in which a single action may affect the continuum. It is logical to regret the loss of life and to analyze the precursors that led to this attack. It is not logical to assume full responsibility for the heinous actions of others."
It's one of the longest speeches Spock has ever directed at him, but that doesn't stop Jim from turning away, teeth gritted. "I feel so much better now." In fact, he feels like crap, but he pulls out his tricorder and starts taking readings. He's so focused on how angry he is, how guilty, that it takes a few seconds for the readings to register.
When they do, he turns to find Spock already looking at his own device.
They both raise their heads to take in the scene. There are maybe fifty EPAS crew working on stabilizing the wounded for transport. They are a sea of reflective piped suits. Reflective piped radiation suits.
Before either of them can say anything, McCoy appears waving his suited arms like a madman. "Son of an bitch, what the hell is wrong with you two?"
"Doctor ..."
"Spock, I don't care if you're Vulcan or not, you can't withstand this many rads without damage. And Jim!" McCoy raises his hands in supplication to whatever higher power might bear witness to this stupidity. "Just felt like a little stroll around ground zero did you?"
"Bones ..."
"Both of you, beam out now, straight to decontam." When neither of them move, he plants his hands on his hips and glowers. "Now!"
-:-
"How long do we have to be in here?" Jim calls through the transparent aluminium.
"Two to seven hours," McCoy calls back, not even looking up from his display. "Difficult to say without knowing how badly you were exposed."
"How long?"
"Dammit, Jim, I'm a doctor not a fortune teller!" he snaps. "Now change out of that suit and step into the booth, already! Spock, you too."
Jim sighs heavily but turns to face the disposal chute and starts flicking the pressure seals on his EVA suit. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Spock doing the same thing in the next cubicle. Obediently naked, Jim steps into the airtight booth used for gaseous decontamination. It always makes him feel slightly claustrophobic, but with an audience, he firmly tamps down his anxiety and shuts the airtight door. At least they don't have to endure a total body crew cut.
"Now, remember, kids," McCoy's voice comes tinny over the inbuilt speaker, "keep your eyes open and take deep, regular breaths. The nano molecules have to permeate your circulatory system in order for this to be effective. That's going to take time."
"Yeah, yeah," Jim mutters. "Get it over with, we need to talk to the Vulcan High Council."
The mic cuts McCoy's long suffering sigh halfway through, then plumes of shimmering air hiss from the cubicles vents. The gas is colourless, but distorts everything, and has an odour strongly reminiscent of hydrocarbons. It smells explosive and immediately irritates Jim's eyes, causing them to tear up. Pretty soon his nose starts running, too.
"Bones?"
"Just ignore it," the doctor advises. "Keep blinking. You can have a real water shower after this."
"What the hell is this stuff?" Jim complains, scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands.
"Polydeltanarcobendrite fifty percent to twenty five of oxygen and nitrogen apiece."
Jim rolls the unfamiliar term around in his mouth.
"You did ask," the doctor mocks with a twang of southern satisfaction. "It'll probably make you a bit light headed in a moment."
"Yeah, I'm feeling that." Jim throws out a hand to steady himself as black spots dance before his eyes. "Bones, I'm pretty sure I'm going to pass out. Just thought you should know."
"Hang in there, kid. You've got forty seconds to go."
"That's thirty nine too many," he protests, sliding down the wall as his legs decide to give up on this whole standing thing.
"Talk to me, Jim."
"What do you want me to say?" he gasps, ears ringing and vision tunnelling.
"How should I know?"
"How's Spock doing?"
"Better than you," McCoy counters. "You and your goddamn allergies, Jim. How you made it past childhood is a mystery to me, honestly."
"Wait, I'm allergic to this stuff and you knew?" He manages to muster a little righteous indignation.
"You're not strictly allergic."
"I'm not strictly your friend anymore, either."
"Okay," McCoy says, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. "You're both done with the gas, here comes the water-based solution."
"Wait! What the fuck?" Jim hollers as ice cold liquid rains down upon him from all angles. The gas is sucked out of the vents, replaced by normal air, but he's scrabbling around on the floor of the booth, trying to find a place where the freezing water won't reach. "You said a proper shower, not water torture! Why does it have to be arctic?"
"You think this is cold? What about Spock?" McCoy taunts. "He's from a desert planet and he's not crying like a baby."
"I am not crying."
"Tell that to the camera."
Jim's teeth are chattering but he forces himself to smirk. "Are you checking me out?"
McCoy just laughs and cuts the connection again. Shivering, Jim manages to push himself to his feet just as the deluge ceases. He's tingling all over, dizzy and half-blinded by the gas. Somehow, he manages to open the door and tumble out into the next cubicle, the clean side. The ship's normal temperature is almost tropical by comparison and he dries and dresses quickly, blond hair water-dark and dripping onto the collar of the loose scrubs McCoy has slipped through the hermetically sealed chute.
Looking up, he sees Spock turn at the same time, his image crisp and undistorted by the perfectly manufactured transparent aluminium. The dark grey scrubs hang off his lanky frame worse than Jim's and his hair is sticking up every which way from the rough towelling it's obviously been given. For the first time, Jim buys the fact that there's only a year or two separating them. Spock looks a bit lost without his uniform.
"At least the worst is over," he tells Spock, who can obviously hear him judging by the quirked eyebrow.
McCoy appears along their shared frontage, a tray bearing two tumblers in his hands. With a bit of juggling, he manages to get one through the seal into each cubicle. "Drink up," he orders gruffly.
Jim picks his up and winces at the bland looking slurry. "What is it?"
"Shut up and drink it!" McCoy shoots a slightly abashed look in Spock's direction. "Sir," he adds for good measure.
Without further ado, Spock downs his, and never one to be left out of a drinking game, Jim follows suit. Almost instantly, he knows it was a bad idea. They turn to look at each other and Spock's eyes widen.
"Behind you," McCoy tells them helpfully.
Both of them sprint for the appropriate receptacle and obediently empty their stomachs. Cold, shaking and utterly wretched, Jim rinses his mouth and turns to look daggers at McCoy. Spock is still leaning on his own basin, head hanging, knuckles green from how tightly he's gripping the sides.
"I hate you," Jim whispers with feeling.
"You'd rather die a horrible death from radiation poisoning?"
"Maybe."
"Angels of mercy, give me strength!" McCoy rolls his eyes, then turns to his right. "You okay, Spock?"
"Suboptimal," Spock replies after a moment's pause, and his voice has never sounded quite so strained.
McCoy is quick to cross to his work station, lips pursed, to review the Commander's vitals. "Hmm," he says after a moment. "Bradycardia, tachypnoea and a little hypothermia." The frown deepens. "This procedure is standard protocol for your level of exposure. It's been tested on Vulcans and humans, I'm not sure why it's affecting you like this."
"As you are well aware," Spock manages hoarsely, "I am neither Vulcan nor human, but both."
"You think this is a side-effect of your hybrid physiology?"
"No other logical explanation is forthcoming," he whispers, swaying slightly before the basin.
McCoy shoots Jim a worried glance and takes a seat behind his terminal, fingers flying across the surface. A little concerned himself, now, Jim pushes off from the wall and crosses to stand at Spock's side of his own cubicle. The Vulcan is busy washing his face. Jim watches the shake in his hands with growing unease.
"Respiratory imbalance?" McCoy asks himself. "No, that doesn't fit. Circulatory compromise? Perhaps a vasodilatory effect of the PDNC? But that doesn't explain the ... wait!" The doctor rises to half-standing behind the terminal and attacks it with renewed fervour. "It's metabolic, all right. How bizarre."
"I am feeling strangely disorientated, doctor."
"Hang in there, Spock, I'm going to need you to hypo yourself." McCoy is rapidly selecting several compatible substances from the medical inventory and adding them to a capsule. He slaps it into place with a flick of his wrist and actually jogs to the chute. The jogging makes Jim nervous.
"I've programmed it for point oh five mics," McCoy explains as Spock makes unsteady progress towards the hypo. "We can dose you again every half hour as needed to a maximum of point two mics."
"Understood."
Spock reaches out with trembling hands and grasps the hypo. Jim finds himself with both fists pressed against the divider, itching to help. Spock looks like shit. All traces of green summoned by the intense cold have been banished. He's white as a sheet and perspiring lightly. The Commander presses the hypo to his neck with a hiss and then slips it into the pocket of his scrubs. His breathing eases a little but nothing else changes.
"Bones?" Jim queries anxiously, keeping his eyes on Spock who's leaning against the chute.
"Give it time."
Jim works his way along the wall until he's level with Spock, who raises his head just enough that the struggle to suppress his emotional response to the situation is clear as day. His own discomfort momentarily forgotten, Jim catches that pained gaze and holds it.
"You okay?"
"I have experienced more satisfactory states of being."
Jim fidgets. "Anything I can do?"
The Commander glances at McCoy. "A level of privacy would be welcome," he admits, lowering himself gingerly to the cot.
"Vitals stabilizing," McCoy summarizes. "I don't see why I can't leave you two alone. I'll be in my office next door. Buzz if you need anything, but the alarms will sound if the hobgoblin needs me."
With a press of a button, the doctor opaques the observation glass.
Conscious of Spock's desire to be unobserved, Jim puts his weight against his own cot in an attempt to shift it to the other side of his cubicle. The rooms are mirror images of each other, the beds placed close for companionship. Behind him, he hears a rustle of material and turns in time to see Spock curl in on himself. The Commander rolls on his side, facing away, his knees tucked to his chest.
"Do you want ..." Jim starts, thoroughly unsure.
"Conversation would be a useful distraction," Spock says tightly. "I must remain alert until such time as we are able to resolve the Tat'sar situation."
"All right, then." Jim aborts his furniture shuffling, suddenly feeling his own aching gut again, his own itchy eyes. "What do you want to talk about?"
"I have no preference."
It's remarkably unspecific for a Vulcan, and clearly indicates Spock's level of distress.
"Okay, um, did you hear about the experiment Scotty has going in Engineering?"
"I am unaware of any current experiments in Engineering." Spock reaches and pulls the blanket over himself, huddling into it. Jim notices he's tucked it tight under his chin.
"Scotty has this theory that we can add at least another point six to our warp capacity if we modify the nacelle buffers using an organic matrix rather than the synthetic standard issue." Jim shakes his head. "Seriously, he's wasted in maintenance."
"You believe there is merit in his hypothesis?"
Jim can hear Spock's teeth chattering but doesn't comment on it. "The preliminary figures look good," he allows. "The trick will be getting Captain Taylor to approve a small scale modification in order to test it." He shrugs in the near darkness. "I mean, I know we're not a science vessel, but you can't tell me another point six to our warp wouldn't be really useful from time to time."
"No," Spock coughs. "I can not."
Concern overwhelming the policy of minding his own business, Jim asks, "do you need McCoy?"
"Forward me Mr. Scott's proposal," Spock says, redirecting. "If it proves logical, I will endeavour to have a small scale test implemented during our upcoming shore leave."
"Okay, I'll do that." Jim smiles to himself. "Scotty's not going to believe I said anything. He's kind of terrified of you."
"I am unaware of ever having given Mr. Scott reason to fear me."
"It's not fear, exactly," Jim muses, letting his head fall back against the partition that divides them. "More like hero worship."
Spock's blanket shrouded form shifts slightly. "You are mocking me."
Jim whips around to stare at the back of Spock's head. "No, I'm really not. Scotty respects you."
There are a few moments of uncomfortable silence where he figures Spock isn't going to reply, but then, that quiet baritone voice filters through the transparent aluminium. "And you, Jim?"
Kirk feels something lodge in his throat. For a moment, he thinks he's going to be sick again, but it passes. "Yeah, and me."
Spock lies unnaturally still, somehow managing to suppress his tremors. "I was ..."
"Oblivious," Jim supplies for him. "Don't sweat it, we're just overly emotional humans, remember? I know you're not aware of it, probably don't even like it, but it does us a lot of good to have someone to look up to, something to aspire to."
"This is a surprisingly complex revelation," Spock admits, sounding the slightest bit unsure, "and a significant responsibility."
"It doesn't change anything," Jim argues. "You're still the same you, still doing the same job." He leans into the divider a little more, trying to catch a glimpse of Spock's profile, trying to judge the impact of what he's saying. "Is it really so bad to find out what you mean to people around here?"
"Captain Taylor is the most appropriate person upon whom the crew should direct their admiration."
"Pfft!" Jim dismisses that with a wave of his hand that Spock can't see. "Taylor commands the ship, but you command the people. That's all anyone cares about. It's Taylor's ship, but we're your crew."
"I fail to see ..."
"For God's sake, Spock, I'm not playing games," Jim finds he's just the tiniest bit angry. "I'm just being honest. If I thought you were the kind of CO who needed their ego pandered to, I'd have skipped out of here a long time ago. I thought you knew that."
"I apologize if I have given offense."
"Oh, just forget it," Jim sighs, settling himself on his own cot, barefoot and still cold. "We're probably talking at cultural counterpoints."
Spock says nothing, so Jim lets his eyes slip closed, finding that the mission and the decontamination have really taken it out of him. Swirling flames and jerky, flashing images play themselves out on the inside of his eyelids, but despite it all, he finds himself drifting towards sleep.
The sound of a hypo startles him back to wakefulness. Spock's hand falls to his side again.
"Starting to wear off?"
"It would seem so."
"Must be hard," Jim muses, "being so different." Realizing this could be a touchy subject, he scrambles to clarify. "What I'm saying is, I don't know how you do it. You just stepped into that booth, swallowed that awful shit and never hesitated. Thanks to my allergies, I've got more problems choosing a soda than you seem to have putting your life in McCoy's hands."
"For all his comments to the contrary, I do not believe the doctor wishes me harm," Spock says, sounding a little more together after his second dose.
"Still, that takes trust."
"I have not given the matter much thought. However, I believe you are correct." Spock sounds a little surprised and Jim wishes he had an expression to go on. "I do, indeed, trust doctor McCoy."
"Well, that's good," he says, wishing away the sudden stab of jealousy.
"I also trust you, Jim."
And now he feels like a total bastard, because that's what he'd been hoping to hear. "Really?"
"I would not have assumed your survival today, otherwise. Deploying another shuttle on the basis of any other outcome would have been unjustifiable."
"It wasn't a matter of duty?"
"Duty requires that I balance the odds of success against those of failure. Without being able to surmise your team's survival, I would not have been able to justify the risk. The primary duty of any EPAS Point is to ensure a reasonable margin of safety in all field operations. My trust in you and your abilities provided an acceptable risk to benefit analysis."
"That sounds ... technical." Jim's not sure whether he's pleased or confused.
"It is really quite simple," Spock says, sounding more and more like his usual self as McCoy's drugs do their job. "Similarly, preceding our altercation with the Robii insurgents, I predicted that you would be able to disarm at least one Robi without assistance. I have occasionally observed you sparring with Security personnel in the gymnasium."
"What if I lost out? Someone could have died."
Spock turns his head then, dark eyes fathomless. "Is that not the essence of trust?"
Jim swallows. "I suppose so."
Another shiver runs through Spock's body and he settles his head back on the pillow. "Computer," he calls a little more strongly. "Request channel to Captain Taylor."
Request denied. The Captain is unavailable at this time.
"Request channel to the XO."
Processing.
There is a brief pause followed by the click of connection.
Harris here, Commander. What can I do for you?
"I require the latest diplomatic updates routed to the terminal in decontamination booth alpha three." Spock's eyes may be pressed closed in discomfort, but his voice is almost a perfect approximation of his usual tone. "Please inform Captain Taylor that I am available to assist with negotiations should it be required."
I'll do that sir, but I thought you and Nix's crew were scheduled for at least another few hours in decontam.
"There is no reason why I cannot assist from my current location."
If you say so, sir.
Jim grins to himself. Apparently the XO has learned his lesson when it comes to keeping senior EPAS personnel out of the loop. The terminal in Spock's cubicle chimes promptly; another indication that Harris doesn't want to find himself on the receiving end of Vulcan disapproval again.
With a wince he can't quite hide, Spock pushes to his feet but doesn't abandon the blanket. With it huddled around his shoulders, he seats himself and taps the screen to bring it to life. From where Jim is sitting on his cot, it affords him a view of the back of Spock's head; a view which is endearingly disordered in his opinion.
"You're going to take a conference call in a decontam booth?"
Spock turns. "Is there an alternative I have overlooked?"
"Well no, but ..."
I can patch you through now, sir.
"Proceed," Spock acknowledges, letting the blanket slip from his shoulders and out of sight.
Jim gets up stiffly and crosses to his own terminal. His brain feels like cotton wool, but he figures he may as well make himself useful. They're in the midst of a delicate political situation and nobody is at their best right now. They need to pull together. He starts to collate all the data that's been uploaded from tricorders and ship's sensors into one neat little package.
Taylor appears within an internal communication. He looks tense. "Commander, I'm glad you've joined us. It seems things are a little more complex than we first anticipated."
Spock quirks an eyebrow. "Indeed?"
"The Vulcan High Council is refusing to allow a delegation of Robii diplomats to externally inspect the Tat'sar in order to establish that the ship is in no way linked to the Romulan threat or the recent acts of terrorism. Captain Senekot is also continuing to deny the need for medical care aboard his ship."
Jim tuts under his breath, because really, if the Vulcan's are still quibbling about letting EPAS so much as take a look at the hull, what makes Taylor think they're going to welcome the Robii with open arms?
"Perhaps a mutually satisfactory compromise can be reached," Spock offers, visibly suppressing his tremors. "Might I speak with the High Council?"
Taylor waves a hand expansively. "Be my guest."
The screen blanks to the EPAS logo while the communications are rerouted. Jim knows he has only seconds to say what he wants to say, perhaps not even that long. He knocks on the divider to get Spock's attention.
"We have to get aboard the Tat'sar," he says urgently, "and ideally one Robi to shut them up."
Spock is pale, his hair wild, but his eyes are sharp. "Captain Senekot will never agree to such terms."
"Then we have to find a reason that the Vulcan High Council will."
The terminal bleeps its five second warning and Spock raises an eyebrow. "Can you be more specific?"
Jim raises a finger as he turns back to his terminal. "Leave it with me," he promises, accessing the Federation Legal Database.
Spock's face flickers into a momentary frown before he has to turn to face the six senior Vulcans that appear on his screen. "Honoured members of the Council," he acknowledges.
Sarek leans forward slightly, involuntarily. "You are injured?"
"A precautionary measure only," Spock corrects him, the inclination of his head taking in his current state of disarray and unusual attire.
"Commander," one of the other Vulcans redirects. The intuitive screen zooms in on her silver-haired features. "Can EPAS confirm the thermonuclear nature of the explosions detonated on the fourth planet of the Robicon system?"
"We can," Spock says firmly. "Preliminary readings are being made available for your records. The more comprehensive report will follow once sufficient resources can be reallocated from our humanitarian efforts at the scene of the attack."
"Commander, can you explain why the Robicon Council saw fit to scan a Vulcan science vessel, when that vessel has diplomatic immunity and has expressly stated that no scans are to take place?"
"Robicon IV is not a member of the Federation," Spock counters, "and is thus not bound by the rules of our diplomacy."
Silence among the Council is tacit acknowledgement.
"Spock, that does not explain how the Stalwart obtained its own readings," Sarek presses.
"There was an instrumentation malfunction that resulted in minimal data feedback being recorded from certain sensor wavelengths only," Spock regurgitates the same story he had fed them earlier that day. "Regardless, the fact remains that we are aware of the need for medical aid aboard the Tat'sar, and you have yet to offer a viable explanation as to why you have not taken advantage of EPAS facilities and expertise."
"It is a Vulcan matter," the same elderly council member says quickly, earning herself a curious glance from Sarek.
Spock's eyes shift to one corner of his screen as Jim pumps his fist in triumph and pipes him a highlighted section of the Federation Treaty.
"And yet, the people in question are not all Vulcan," Spock says reasonably, his eyes flicking side to side as he scans the document. "This results in a forfeiture of diplomatic immunity."
"You are referring to clause epsilon delta five nine point six three," Sarek clarifies, being well versed in all current diplomatic treaties. "It does not require Vulcan to relinquish the Tat'sar's cargo to Federation agents."
"No, it does not," Spock agrees, pausing to glare at Jim who is wildly gesticulating at himself, the sickbay and in the general direction of the Vulcan ship. "However, the treaty clearly stipulates that representatives of the Federation have a duty of care to all citizens, a duty which overrides basic diplomatic immunity. Unless you can cite a higher regulation preventing EPAS intervention on board the Tat'sar, we are duty bound to assure ourselves of her passengers' well-being."
"Unacceptable," the elderly Vulcan states firmly.
"With all due respect, Madam Councillor, I do not understand your objection."
"It is not your place to understand, simply to obey."
Spock straightens slightly, throwing off whatever pain might be lingering from his reaction to decontam. "I am a Federation officer, Madam. I will obey every legal order passed down through the chain of command. At such time as I am expressly forbidden to follow the dictates of the Federation treaty, I will be sure to abide by your request and leave the Tat'sar and her living cargo in peace. Until such time, it is my duty to inform you that a two-person inspection team will prepare to board."
The Council exchange meaningful glances. Of them all, Sarek is the only one whose expression hints at confusion. "Spock, can this not wait?"
Spock allows himself no expression. "Even if I could in conscience delay the delivery of medical aid to those aboard the Tat'sar, I doubt the Robicon Council will accept anything other than immediate confirmation of the ship's peaceful intent."
"It is plain to see the Tat'sar is a Vulcan ship," a new Council member breaks in.
"To those who have never before compared the two, Vulcan and Romulan technology is similar in many ways," Spock reminds them. "With the additionally incriminating presence of the energy signature, the burden of proof clearly lies with Vulcan."
"We acknowledge no energy signature," the female councilor says sternly, at her Vulcan best.
"Yet it has been detected by both EPAS and Robii sensors." There is a tinge of sarcasm in Spock's tone now, and Jim wonders if he is tiring of all the political posturing. "I anticipate you will find it problematic to appease the Robicon Council with anything other than this show of faith."
Sarek leans forward, hands on the council table. "What do you suggest?"
"Allow one Robi representative to accompany the EPAS assessment team."
"No," the Council says immediately, in unison.
Jim screws his nose up in frustration. That was a pretty adamant refusal, and from the slight hint of expression on Spock's face, he realizes. The best they can hope for now is that an external view of the ship will satisfy the Robi officials.
"Unless you wish to create a major diplomatic incident, I suggest you submit to an alternative method of reassuring the Robi," Spock advises. "I doubt their trust in EPAS is sufficient that our word alone will suffice."
The Vulcan Council glare at each other silently, then at Spock, then at each other again. The tension is self-evident, even if their faces are largely blank. Spock waits expectantly, outwardly calm, even though Jim can see he is struggling a little more for each breath. His ribs retract with each inhalation, the accessory muscles working hard. If this call doesn't end soon, they're going to see just how sick Spock really is, or else he's going to have to use the hypo. Either option is an admission of weakness Spock can't afford if he wants to maintain the upper hand in this negotiation. Jim finds himself taking even, measured breaths as though that might somehow assist Spock to do the same.
"An external visual assessment at an orbit of five hundred klicks may provide the reassurance they seek," Spock suggests, the slightest hint of a wheeze in his voice.
Sarek's eyes narrow but he nods. "We shall discuss the possibility. In the meantime, submit your candidates for the EPAS inspection team for our review." He glances pointedly off-screen, to where Jim is sitting, out of view and unacknowledged. "Timely and forthright resolution of this issue will be facilitated by careful selection on your behalf."
Jim is not quite sure whether he's just been handed the seal of approval or been banned, or even if Ambassador Sarek could possibly infer who it is that exists just out of his line of sight.
Spock inclines his head. "Understood."
Sarek nods in return. "Until we speak again."
"Live long and prosper," Spock says correctly.
"Peace and long life."
The connection blips out of existence and Spock slumps slightly even as Captain Taylor appears on the screen. "Spock, the Federation will never accept a two-man team as our total input into the situation!"
"I am aware," Spock manages, the light sheen of sweat on his face catching the light.
Jim glances at the chrono. Spock is ten minutes overdue for his hypo.
"We're due to make a report to the Minister for Health within the hour, how do you expect me to explain that we're sending two unarmed officers into a potentially hostile situation?"
"We have no reason to believe ... that the Tat'sar in any way constitutes a threat to EPAS ... Robicon IV or the Federation as a whole." Spock is forced to break his sentence to breathe, and damn if Taylor doesn't even notice.
"Still, Spock! Two people? Is that the best you could do?"
Jim clenches his hands into fists. His swollen lip stings anew as he presses it tight in an effort to bite back his angry retort. The team is more than Taylor has managed in the entire time since the initial discovery.
"Should anything untoward be detected by the team," Spock swallows and takes a quick breath, "it will be grounds for further Federation intervention."
Beneath the terminal, Spock's legs have begun to tremble and Jim finds himself whispering under his breath, urging Taylor to shut up and cut the connection, to accept the logic of what Spock has orchestrated.
Thankfully, Taylor seems to absorb that in a positive light. "I can probably sell that to the Minister. Good work, Commander. When are you out of decontam? It goes without saying that I want you on the away team."
"Doctor McCoy estimates only hours," Spock says tightly.
"Keep me informed, Taylor out."
The screen is barely blank before Jim is out of his seat, paging McCoy, slamming his fist into the buzzer just as Spock fumbles the hypo with shaking hands. The instrument drops to the floor with a metallic tinkle.
"Dammit, Bones! Get in here!"
He appears almost immediately, too quickly to have been summoned by Jim, doubtless alerted to Spock's distress through the sensors in the room. He's pulling on the first layer of his radiation suit when Jim knocks on the aluminium to get his attention.
"Just let me through!" he gestures at the partition between their rooms. "I'm already exposed, so minimal additional risk."
McCoy hesitates, one leg already in the suit.
"Bones!"
"All right, all right!" the doctor capitulates, his worried frown fixed on Spock, who is clearly experiencing some serious vertigo as he bends to retrieve the fallen hypo. "Just remember, point oh five mics, no more!"
"Got it," Jim calls, already moving to the place where the partition is drawing apart, folding back into the walls with a barely audible hiss. He's through before the gap is really wide enough, and down on his knees in front of Spock. He gets the hypo in his hands and pressed against Spock's neck, but forces himself to pause, to check the dose, just to be sure. Point oh five mics. He thumbs the control and a muted hiss precedes Spock's almost imperceptible flinch.
Jim slaps the hypo down on the terminal and pushes Spock gently back into his seat. "Easy, Commander."
He looks terrible, eyes pressed tightly closed, lips parted as he works for every breath. His eyelids are tinged blue in the harsh sickbay lights, his hair sticking to his brow. Jim has him by both arms, and blessedly, the shaking is already easing. A few more breaths and Spock's face relaxes a degree or two.
"Better?" he asks softly, the worry plain in his voice.
"Yes."
It's only a whisper, but Jim can feel sudden tension under his hands and abruptly lets go. He backs across their newly combined cubicle until he can sit on his own cot, watching Spock in profile. Vulcan privacy is so important, so fundamental. It might be strange to think that someone as outgoing as Jim understands that need, but he does. There are parts of his own life, parts of himself that he likes kept apart; things that are his and his alone.
"You're not going to be able to go on that team," Jim tells him, even if it does sound like a question.
"No," Spock agrees, forcing his eyes open and turning slightly to face Jim's side of the room. "That seems unlikely."
"Unlikely?" McCoy growls. "I expressly forbid it!"
"The doctor expressly forbids it," Spock echoes, his words less clipped than usual as his eyes slip closed again.
Jim fights down a smile, because it seems Spock is a bit screwy when on a patented McCoy concoction.
Bones offers a smirk in return. "His metabolic system is unique," the doctor sounds defensive but still amused. "I haven't found anything I can use that doesn't have some side effects. Get more than point one of soraphine in him and," he gestures at Spock battling to keep his eyes open. "Better than the alternative though, you'll agree."
"I believe I shall ..." Spock makes an abortive gesture at his cot.
"Hell yes, don't let him sleep in the chair," McCoy offers as he turns and stalks back to his office. "Chiro never got that last lot of kinks out of him."
Jim gives a thumbs up to McCoy's retreating back and goes to help. Turns out that all he really needs is to be pointed in the right direction, after that there's nothing left for Jim to do except straighten the blanket over him and place the hypo on his pillow, within easy reach.
"This is unacceptable," Spock murmurs, seemingly half asleep already. "I shall endeavour to speed the process by using a light trance. You may need to strike me in order to wake me."
Jim frowns. "Strike, like hit?"
"Is there another definition?"
"Well ... no."
"Then why did you ask?"
Jim curses his split lip as another smile threatens to engulf him. "Because I'm an illogical human."
"Very true," Spock acknowledges as he rolls stiffly onto his back.
"How long do you need for this trance?"
"Efficacy is directly proportional to duration," he whispers. "However, do not permit me to remain unconscious should the Tat'sar deployment be approved, or if there is an urgent communication."
"Okay."
Spock's breathing becomes deeper and more regular, his hands relax at his sides, fingertips resting lightly on the blanket. It gets to the point where all his baselines, heart rate, respiration, metabolics, sink so far that McCoy sticks his head out of his office to see what's going on. When he notices Spock flat out on the cot and Jim sitting on the edge of his own, just watching, the doctor shakes his head and mutters something about crazy Vulcan voodoo before disappearing again.
Alone in the new silence, Jim can't deny his own fatigue. Lying down on his own cot, curled up on his side, he promises himself a few minutes and lets his eyes slip closed.
-:-
"Spock?"
Jim tries shaking him a little harder. It seems impossible that anyone could sleep through someone shouting at them and almost rolling them out of bed, but the Commander is managing. With an uncertain glance at McCoy who mimes a decent backhand, Jim slaps Spock lightly across the face. When it garners no response, he does it again, this time hard enough to leave his palm tingling.
Spock's eyes snap open. "Lieutenant Kirk."
"Commander," Jim replies, feeling unaccountably awkward. "You did say to ..."
"Yes," he interrupts, sitting upright so quickly that Jim is forced to spring back. "Quite so."
"The Vulcan High Council have approved both the EPAS inspection and an orbital observation by the Robicon government," Jim informs him. "I would have woken you for the call, but it was just a transmission, not a comm."
"Very well," Spock nods, then directs a steady gaze in McCoy's direction. "My uniform, doctor?"
"Not going to happen," he drawls. "You're not beaming anywhere for at least another twelve hours. You've got enough soraphine in your system to flatten a donkey. I'm clearing you for light duties only."
"You do understand the difficulty inherent in this proscription?"
"I do," McCoy nods, "but I won't put political expediency ahead of my crew. You of all people should understand that."
They lock eyes for a few moments, but Spock nods his acceptance sooner rather than later. "In that case," he turns to Jim, "Lieutenant Kirk will take my place on the away team."
Jim actually finds it relatively easy to subsume his response to Spock's confidence. It sits beneath the surging tumult of curiosity, suspicion and urgency he feels about the Tat'sar in general. Beaming across is a great privilege and an even bigger responsibility, but riding high on a bare hour's sleep, Jim feels up for anything.
McCoy scans him twice with the tricorder, seeming almost disappointed when his rad levels are negligible.
To part 3.6b ...