DISCLAIMER: I believe that Shimona belongs to Barbara Hambly, and the Sulamids to Diane Duane. I hope they will take my borrowing of these characters as a tribute. Paraborg owns all else. Except for Larssen.
She's MINE!
Acknowledgements: Mary Ellen Curtin spotted some crucial problems with an earlier draft of this. She never saw the whole thing, and I probably didn't pay enough attention to what she did say, but on plot, MEC rocks! Islaofhope,
tireless beta! Remember this? Bet you thought it had gone to the great dead story spike in the sky! Isla beta'd this and despite the fact that her eyes had to have been crossing by the end, she was still spotting extra spaces at the last page. Not only does she have eagle eyes, she has an unerring ability to put her finger on exactly the point that is holding a story back. I probably haven't done justice to her comments in the changes I made, but I know that this story would have been a lot weaker without Isla. Any errors, bad writing,
poor plot points, and sloppy dialogue that remains, is, of course, entirely my fault. No, actually, I'll blame my muse.
Synopsis: After a difficult mission at Ser Etta, the Enterprise is due a refit and her crew are due some shore leave. Starfleet has other plans, however. The most concession they'll make to Kirk's request for a break is a milk-run mission ferrying diplomats from two warring species (The Sythenes and the Voucheron) to a peace conference. And we all know what happens when you ask the Enterprise to transport diplomats...
CAST OF CHARACTERS
GoldenGalactic!Kirk
TheLesserAngsty!Spock
I'mNotJustThePhoneGirl!Uhura
I'mJustACountryDoctorFromGeorgia!McCoy
WhatAreYeDoinToMyBAIRNS!Scotty
IDoHaveAJobOnThisShipYouKnow!Chapel
NoOfCourseIDon'tFlyByTheSeatOfMyPants!Sulu
ShootThemAll!Chekov
as well as several poor fools in red shirts, assorted OCs and divers aliens.
I've decided that these stories (this, the The Difference It Makes, and the forthcoming "Arrows of Desire") are set in a 'nowhere' time in the first mission. That is, lots of familiar crew are aboard, and they have been for quite a while (even late additions such as Chekov) and some crew who were only in one season of TOS are still here (like Janice Rand) It's well before the end of the first five year mission and Kirk's promotion to the admiralty, they're all young and gorgeous, and I've probably given some of bridge crew inadvertent promotions.
This story takes place about two or three months after the end of The Difference It Makes.
Captain's Log, Stardate 2032.9
We are on route to the Vouche System, to collect the diplomats from Vouche II and convey them to negotiations between the Vocherons and their long-term enemies, the Sythenes. These two peoples have been at war for generations, but both have recently expressed a desire for peace. The Federation Senate hopes that peace between the two will allow both to develop the stable world government which would render them eligible for entry to the Federation. However, as the situation is still fragile, the Enterprise will provide a neutral ground for the diplomatic talks.
Personal Log, James T Kirk, Stardate 2032.9
After the strain of our last mission, which put a lot of pressure on both crew and ship, a diplomatic mission is just what we need. Although I anticipate considerable pressure on my temper, playing nice with two warlike peoples shouting at each other over my conference table, this should give Scotty time to get the engines overhauled and complete some of the repairs we've been putting off. Hopefully, I'll be able to stand down some of the crew on rotation as well. Although they'd never show it, the absence of shore leave has hit them hard. The same could be said for me! I was looking forward to a few weeks on a planet, or at least a Starbase, where Ann Ridley and I could finally talk about things without a red alert going off in the middle of the conversation. Perhaps I can persuade Ann to stand her lab down for a while, and she and her staff can join the light duty roster. A bit of light duty and some time to ourselves is just what the doctor ordered for crew and captain alike.
"It's just what you ordered, Bones." Kirk said mildly, trying not to laugh.
"'Shore leave' is what I ordered!" McCoy said. ''Light duty' isn't the same. It doesn't even sound the same! Listen to me carefully, Jim. 'Light duty'. 'Shore leave'. See? Completely different vowel sounds. Totally opposite consonants. And nowhere NEAR the same meaning."
"The doctor is essentially correct," Spock said, drawing a snort from McCoy. "Although his linguistic analysis is regrettably lacking in precision, he has expressed the core of the matter."
"Thank you, I think. Jim, you can't keep these people going like this! They need a proper rest after that last bit of business, not just a few hours more sleep!"
"I know that, you know that, and Spock apparently knows that," Kirk said patiently. "If Starfleet knew that, we wouldn't be having this conversation. There's nothing I can do about it, Bones. Just draw up the light duty rotation roster on an as-needs basis and get back to me when you're done." He stood up, stretched a kink in his back where a bad fall on the last landing party had not quite settled, and went on, "And now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a lot of reading to catch up on. Three hundred years of military and political history, to be exact."
"Captain," Spock said, "to be exact you would have to say 'Three hundred and 17 years of military history. For complete accuracy, using the Vocheron accounts of the these most recent hostilities, three hundred and seventeen years, three months, fourteen days and-"
"Spock." said Kirk wearily. His First Officer subsided. "Is there any ship's business that can't wait until we're underway?"
"No, captain."
"Good. I'll be in my quarters, gentlemen, catching up on my education."
As Kirk left, McCoy turned to Spock. "Are you SURE there isn't any ship's business Jim needs to deal with?"
"I believe that is what I said."
"The rescheduling in science section doesn't need to be brought to his attention?"
"Scheduling has always been a matter for departmental heads."
"How about the falling efficiency levels, the eight crew on light duties and four referred to Harb Tanzer in recreation?"
Spock paused. "There have been some adjustment difficulties in science section," he conceded. "however, they are within my area of responsibility and do not need to be referred to the captain."
"Don't give me that, Spock! What's going on down there?"
"Doctor, the science labs are located on decks one through seven inclusive, and cannot therefore be referred to as 'down', in any sense of the word, from sickbay."
McCoy gave up. "Just remember," he said warningly, "if those ratings drop much further it WILL be business for me as CMO, and I'll have no hesitation about referring it to Jim to get to the bottom of it."
"I am sure you will act according to your duty." Spock said coolly, and left.
Logically, he should have anticipated the conversation. The falling efficiency rates in Science, and the number of crew suffering stress related ailments, was unacceptably high for any Starfleet ship, but particularly unusual on the Enterprise. He knew his own efficiency was less than it should be. But how to explain his problem to the doctor?
Worse still, how to explain it to Jim?
"Captain, the Vocheron Ambassador wished to speak to you."
"Onscreen," Kirk said, and stood up from his chair.
At first sight, the Vocheron were not simply humanoid, they were human. The ambassador appeared to be a stately man of advanced years, with a mane of white hair and an imperious bearing. Kirk knew, however, that this surface appearance concealed vast differences in anatomy and physiology, and so was prepared when the Ambassador opened his mouth to speak and revealed rows in tiny tentacles instead of teeth.
"Kirrk." The Vocheron said, his voice slurring the word. "I am Ammbassador Tssyin, of the Vouche. Welcome to our sspace, captain. I trust you are readdy to receive myy party?"
"Yes, sir, as soon as we confirm your requirements,"
"Our needss are - ssimple." It was a terrible smile. Kirk was surprised at his own instinctive revulsion. After all, Starfleet did not post people to exploration missions if they had any hint of buried xenophobia, and Kirk had seen plenty of aliens in the past few years whose appearance was bizarre by human standards.
"Then, ambassador, we'll be happy to beam you up as soon as you're ready. Shall we say five minutes?"
"Indeed. Ourr thankss for this sservice you do us."
"You're welcome. Kirk out." He turned back to his chair, touched the intercom. "Mr Kyle, prepare to beam the Ambassador and his party aboard in 300 seconds."
"Aye, sir."
Another channel. "Bones, they're coming aboard. Meet me in Transporter room two in three minutes."
"You always do things in a hurry, don't you," McCoy grumbled, which Kirk took as a yes.
He closed the channel, said "Mr Spock?" and headed for the turbolift, Spock on his heels.
When the turbolift doors closed, Kirk turned to his First Officer. "What's your reaction to the Ambassador?" he said.
One eyebrow went up. "A brief observation over a view-screen is not enough to drawn any logical conclusions." Spock said.
"Not logical conclusions, Spock. Reaction. Impression."
"Immediate reactions are often deceptive." Spock said.
"Yes, well," Kirk said. "I find them often reliable, particularly from you."
"Perhaps, captain, because what you refer to as 'impressions' are, in my case, the result of analysis of multiple minute clues provided by body language and other aspects of demeanour."
"Just because you won't admit to intuition," Kirk said, grinning, "doesn't mean I don't have faith in your hunches."
"A most illogical statement, captain. However, to humour you-'
"*Humour* me!"
"Indeed, to humour you-"
Kirk turned to face Spock, grinning now. He felt a sudden surge of affection for the Vulcan, who was regarding him with an absolute poker face in which no-one could have read merry mischief. "Humour me, then."
"I also felt - unease." Spock was deadly serious now, although how Kirk knew that he couldn't have explained to save his life. "However, this is a common and irrational reaction to difference. I would hazard the explanation that the apparent similarity of the Vocherons to you and I being so great, the evidence of difference is more confronting. We should guard against such a reaction dictating our actions."
Kirk nodded. It made very good sense. Resolutely, he pushed down the slight queasiness he felt at the memory of that strange, tentacled mouth.
McCoy was waiting in the transporter room, tricorder at the ready.
"Put that away, Bones." Kirk said. "It's not polite to scan Ambassadors without permission."
"But, Jim," McCoy said, sounding for all the world like a child forbidden a new toy, "no-one's ever had a chance to scan the Vouche. This would be the first chance to get some data on their internal make-up, their -"
"I too feel a certain curiosity about the Vouche," Spock admitted. 'However, the captain is right. It would be a breach of protocol to examine them here and now. It may be possible for the captain to gain permission for an examination at a later date."
"The two of you will drive me distracted." Kirk said. "I have to somehow manage all of this, negotiations and all, end a three hundred year war - yes, all right Spock, a three hundred and five year, seventeen day war, and also persuade them to lie down on a diagnostic bed and say aaaah?"
"Three hundred and -"
"Spock!" It was a spontaneous cry from both humans, and the Spock was silent, glancing from one to the other with a suspiciously blank expression.
"We are seeking out new life, Jim." McCoy pointed out. " And this is it."
"All right! All right!" As the first sparkles of the transporter effect appeared on the platform Kirk drew himself up to be credit to the Federation. "I'll ask them. Later."
There were three Vocherons on the transporter platform, the ambassador and several others, one appearing female and the rest male.
"Welcome aboard, Ambassador." Kirk didn't offer to shake hands with the Vocheron. Instead, he lifted one arm shoulder high and turned his palm outwards. The Vocheron matched the gesture, and Kirk repressed a slight sense of queasiness at the way the arm bent in not quite the right places. What's the matter with me? he wondered.
"My sstaff," Ambassador Tyssin said, stepping down from the platform. "Aides Kythis and Sachys. And our sservants."
"Welcome aboard, Kythis, Sachys. Gentlebeings." Kirk said.
"We are pleassed to be here, Captain." one replied.
"This my First Officer, Commander Spock, and the Enterprise's Chief Medical Officer, Dr McCoy."
"Greetings," Tyssin said. "Thiss is a fine vessel, your starsship. My congratulationss to you."
"Well, *we* like her," McCoy said, beaming ingenuously. "Another thing we like, Ambassador, are these handy little medical tricorders. You see, you turn them on like -"
Kirk jostled the doctor's elbow and the tricorder fell to the deck. "Ambassador," Kirk said, "Would you care to see your quarters?"
"That wwould be agrreeable." Tyssin said, and Kirk signalled to the security team at the door.
"This way, sir." said one, and led the Vocherons out. When the door closed behind them, Kirk turned to McCoy. "I think you're the one who needs shore leave most, Bones." he said.
"You do, do you." McCoy said, with a look at Spock that Kirk couldn't read. "You do, do you, huh?"
Kirk stepped away from the rowing machine, his muscles trembling with the pleasant lassitude of a long workout. Bones had reminded him that he had been letting his exercise regime go over the past few months, and that 'too busy' might have applied when the Enterprise was under fire, but not at the moment. As usual when he started taking Bones' advice after a period of letting things slide, Kirk was surprised at how much better he felt for it. From experience, he knew that within a few weeks he would have forgotten the difference, and when the next crisis came along it would be all too easy to skip a meal, an exercise session or two... or three or four or two dozen.
Not this time, he thought firmly (as he had thought a dozen times before). This time I'll stick to it.
On his way to the shower, Kirk paused to watch Hikaru Sulu's martial arts class. As he stood there, Lieutenant Larssen took a blow to the stomach and doubled up, gasping.
Kirk had seen her here several nights a week since McCoy had certified her fit to return to full duty, and on each occasion she had been getting the stuffing beat out of her by one or another of the hand-to-hand combat teachers. Kirk was beginning to wonder if he should step in. Larssen's determination in the face of her demonstrated unsuitability might, by some, be considered admirable. Kirk had long since passed that stage of life where a willingness to endure pain for no purpose other than stubbornness looked like anything other than stupidity. Or instability.
Larssen flew through the air again, muttered something in a language Kirk didn't understand, and got up. Resolutely, she assumed the ready position, and failed to counter her opponent's hip lock and shoulder throw. This time, she rose more slowly.
Kirk shook his head, deferred the decision until he would have a chance to talk to Hikaru Sulu about the amazingly uncombative Lieutenant Larssen, and went into the showers. He was meeting Ann Ridley for dinner, and he was close to being late.
Of course, it was an even bet whether Ann would be angry with him over lateness or angry because he wasn't and she had an experiment she wanted to finish. Kirk stripped off and stepped into the sonic. He had been puzzled when Ridley had requested assignment to the Enterprise, although pleased she'd be aboard for longer and that he would have the chance to spend time with her when things were less ... tense than during the mission to Ser Etta Six. The benefits to her research had seemed an inadequate explanation, given the degree of her anxiety at being on board a ship of the line, although Kirk had seen by the number of papers she had published in the past few months that the benefits were real and substantial.
Ridley's apparent about-face had been further explained when it became clear that she, too, wanted to explore the possibility that the mutual comfort they had found with each other might lead to a deeper relationship. And, indeed, it might. Except...
Except Ann Ridley did not belong on the Enterprise. She did not belong on any starship, for that matter. Kirk had tried to assure her that she would get used to it, that she would learn to tell the difference between real danger and the insecurity of inexperience, but she had not seemed to ... and of course, there had been too much real danger over the past few months for his words to do anything but ring hollow.
Kirk had found himself on the verge of suggesting she go home several times, but each time the knowledge that his words would sound like a personal rejection had stopped him - and she was a hell of a scientist. The output from her lab was 4 points above even Spock's, and Kirk knew she was doing most of the work herself. She worked, god, how she worked! He had dropped by her lab on his way to duty some mornings and found her hunched over equipment, flipping through slides or running analyses. Twice, when he had said hello she had asked him if she was late for dinner.
It was when she wasn't working that was the problem. She made love to him with a desperation Kirk found unnerving and when they weren't coupling she was as likely to start a fight as a conversation.
He shook his head to clear it, and turned off the sonic. There was no rational reason for him to feel guilty. He had been honest with her, all the way along. It didn't help. He *was* responsible, even if the consequences of his actions had been unintended, unforseen. The road to hell, he thought with a certain wry desperation. The road to hell is paved...
He went to the comm. "Ann? Care to join me for dinner?