"I have noticed even people who claim everything is predestined, and that we can do nothing to change it, look before they cross the road."
― Stephen Hawking
"Report!"
Red alert lights flood the ship halls, klaxons blaring on the offbeat. The sound's so loud and jarring it threatens to stop his heart in its tracks, vibrating straight through the soles of his feet to the tips of his teeth.
He can imagine the stampede of officers rushing back and forth as they run to their posts beyond the Bridge. Here, the air is stirred into chaos— a chaos that stretches between the alarms with urgency so tangible time shows its relativity. Every second is full.
It is as if Kirk can feel the exact moment when Spock's gaze falls upon him.
"Back to your station, Mr. Spock."
"Captain."
The ship slams forward on its axis. An ensign yells as she all but falls towards the navigations monitor, grabbing hold of the controls as soon as she's righted. Shields are dropping at exponential rate.
"It appears we are well and truly—"
Kirk's hand has grasped Spock's forearm to offer balance. The unexpected contact, however brief, is sufficient cause for Spock to pause before continuing with the appropriate vernacular;
"… trapped."
The Captain lets go.
One more second drags by and it appears as though a retort is on the Captain's mind or perhaps, a command. A retort, Spock has observed, is more likely. Suddenly, a conduit bursts from its connector above Lieutenant Uhura's console, spraying out writhing wires. The gush of noise drowns out her frustrated shouts until a pair of officers rush to cut the mains.
Whatever Kirk may have been thinking has been whisked away.
"Lieutenant, I need visual!"
"Sub-space communications are down, sir!" Uhura yells, slapping a palm against the newly deadened screen. "No visuals or audio of any kind."
"Uhura, reroute data feed to main screen." Kirk commands in one tight breath and Uhura immediately overtakes Spock's abandoned console.
Telemetry readings explode across the main view screen in bright electric blue. The bridge is bathed by sharp white equations, like the beginning projections of a hologram in a darkened room. There's a hush as Kirk's eyes fly back and forth, reading as fast as he possibly can.
"Leung!"
"Object bearing 180, mark 240," Ensign Leung rattles automatically.
"Ensign Azad, evasive manoeuvres."
"Port thrusters not responding," Azad replies without looking away from the helm. "Sir, if we lose auxiliary—"
"We're not losing anything." Kirk snaps.
"Captain," Spock says, almost gently.
Kirk looks up. The data flickers across his face in strangely intricate patterns, like snowflakes piling up with dangerous persistence; a prelude. Then Kirk drops his gaze to stare straight ahead, his expression blank, cold.
"Back to your station, Commander."
"Scanners indicate the gravitational field is expanding," Spock ascertains his voice is devoid of inflection as he reads from the science console's monitor. "The gravitational pull of the twin stars is immense. Currently, auxiliary power is holding. However, warp capability is offline and impulse power alone will result in engine burn out. The ship is not equipped with alternative propulsion methods."
"What about tractor beams?"
"Computer indicates eight cells are functional," Uhura reports.
"More than enough," Kirk is on the edge of his seat. "Transfer coordinates to a shuttlecraft—"
Spock spins in his chair. "There is a 93.7 percent probability tractor beams will not hold inside the ionic disturbance if we were to utilize our shuttlecrafts to perform a tow, which is what you have strategized, if I am not in error."
"Noted." Kirk rotates his jaw and his lips press together in a thin line. The ship veers.
"Bearing 090, mark 270!" Leung shouts.
"Uhura—"
"Comms are still useless, sir, and auxiliary failing!"
The klaxons are sounding faster now.
The computer rears to life and the entire bridge is washed in red glow.
"Hull breech in T-minus—"
The unavoidable vibrations have set his body thrumming, blood rushing. A pipe bursts from beneath the engineering station, wailing and hissing as acting environmental officer Renault rolls out of the way. Vaguely, it registers to Spock that he has stood up from his station.
"Captain."
When Kirk whirls in his seat, it is only then that Spock realizes he has spoken. "The ship is caught. Without magnitudinal propulsion we will not break free. Please advise."
A strange sort of laugh escapes Kirk, as if without permission. "Maybe I should get out and push."
"If you are attempting to joke, I do not share your amusement in the current situation."
The countdown enters its final seconds.
The constant barrage of sound grinds to a dull drone. The ship rocks and slams backward, throwing officers off their feet. The sharp scent of smoke fills the air and with a high-pitched hiss, steam gushes through the floor plates.
All the lights go out.
No one makes a move.
"End of Simulation." The computer intones.
"Jim." Spock says into the darkness.
"We're dead." Kirk answers dryly. "You call that a performance? This is the part where we all fall down."
Ensign Azad dramatically does just that.
San Francisco Bay appears almost untouched when embraced by its customary thick cover of fog.
The sky is painted a thin watery gray behind the clouds, a dreary canvas which only serves to make the city's devastation stand out in stark relief. Amongst the crumbling skyscrapers is the constant stream of response shuttles, tiny black silhouettes drawing dotted lines along the horizon. Excavation teams have been working tirelessly to clear the dangerous wreckage that has made an unfortunate home in the estuary and city.
Those first days in the fallout were the most frantic, emergency personnel and civilians joining officers on the ever growing list of causalities. Star ships weren't meant to break atmosphere, let alone impact. Even now, months later, there is debris stretching as far as the Ivory Coast. Occasionally, one can hear the dull thud of an explosion as a still-charged phaser bank detonates in the no-fly zone. Perhaps, it will be many years yet before all traces of Vengeance have been removed.
Spock slips off his officer's hat and turns away from the window to take a seat.
"He wasn't ready," Uhura begins arbitrarily after they have taken the first tranquil sips of their tea.
Spock recognizes this fragment as a precursor to a deeper conversation about the morning's simulation involving Captain Kirk.
"It was my impression that no one is truly ready to fail, as is the designed purpose of the test."
Uhura blows out a breath, an action which has become customary in marking social cues Spock has missed. He controls a swell of apprehension.
"I understand the Kobayashi Maru, Spock. Though, just because I understand doesn't mean I agree."
"A delicate distinction," Spock commends.
It is disconcerting Lieutenant Uhura's first impression of his response is that he has intentionally implied unfamiliarity with a test she has participated in many times. However, it has become evident apologizing for behavioral missteps Uhura has already deemed unsatisfactory is the wrong course of action. After many categorical sighs, Spock has learned this much.
"Fear." Uhura says, tone curiously like a question with too many answers. She uses one long finger to spin her teacup around its saucer by the arm. It is a nervous trait.
"That's something our crew's got in spades. Every day we're earth-side is another I see people in the streets who look like their whole world's been destroyed. First, the Federation's right arm gets cut off and now Starfleet's the weakest it's ever been. Fear is everywhere, Spock—does anyone really need more?"
"No." Spock replies without pause. There is no need to revisit his own motivations to avoid such an experience, yet he is unsure of which statement she requires a response to first. In truth, he has made similar observations about the looming consequences that must be faced by Starfleet.
"You shouldn't have approved the session."
Uhura's true aim has come to light quicker than anticipated.
"I see." Spock straightens in his chair just a fraction. "It was the Captain's decision."
"Doesn't make it right."
Spock must concede the point. He, of all people, should know this better than any.
"Only an idiot would go back for more." Uhura allows a short puff of laughter to cushion the displeasure in her words. It is a behaviour Spock somewhat admires for its dual purpose of scorn and comfort.
"It was..." A breathy ironic chuckle intersects, "It was hard to watch."
"I wish to express gratitude for your attendance in spite of such."
"Well, you know me. Can't turn down the opportunity to enrich an ensign learning experience by slapping a few consoles. I'd even call it altruistic." Uhura replies candidly.
Spock, of course, does not laugh. Though he understands the human propensity to disparage oneself in order to create humour, he does not approve.
He realizes the source of Uhura's previous concern.
Her smile slips away before she takes another sip of tea, frowning as though conflicted.
"You have not yet spoken the extent of your troubles," Spock observes.
"You're right."
He nearly allows himself to be pleased for making the correct observation before it becomes apparent he has provided segue into a topic he would much rather not discuss. Uhura regards Spock for this uninterrupted moment and silence hangs between them long enough for his apprehension to return.
To this day, a large part of Spock's Starfleet interactions concerning human emotions have been mitigated by Uhura. While her compassion has, and always shall be, of great value to Spock, he regrets that no medium exists between himself and the Lieutenant where their own communication is concerned.
He takes a careful sip of tea, which turns into swallows as he drains the liquid and sets the cup back atop its saucer.
Uhura leans forward on her elbows, slowly reaches out, and gently pushes the set out of the way.
"You're not ready either, are you? To talk about it, I mean."
It is irrational to be weary of something he has been expecting. It is irrational and yet he has not been able to quell the strangely welcomed ignorance. He knows that ignoring something will not make it go away but self preservation seems to dictate the opposite.
It is irrational, and therefore a dilemma on which he can base no merit. It is illogical to expend time discussing subjects which have no merit.
"Spock."
He is certain that he has given no outward indication, but somehow, Uhura unerringly knows when he is ready to dismiss a topic. It would be imprudent not to answer, despite his unpreparedness. She is, of course, one of the few Spock cannot ignore.
"No, Nyota. I am not."
"You can't keep eating in here, you know." McCoy says grimly upon entering the lab office.
Kirk doesn't bother to answer since the fork's already halfway into his mouth. It's a simple fare of chicken, carrots, and peas. One of the fastest programs on the replicators, which means it's also one of the most tasteless. But mealtimes are just easier this way, to get in and get out.
"I have a good reason." Kirk replies once he's finished chewing deliberately slow, just to see that vein on the side of McCoy's neck start to bulge. "Been working on my speech!"
"Oh goodie," McCoy rolls his eyes.
The small desk in Research Library lab 3 is scattered with data sticks and PADDS. The glassy lights from their screens cast weak shadows across the stacks of archaic hard copy books in the dull overhead fluorescent. Kirk taps and enlarges a portion of the text file on a PADD nearly resting on his plate.
"Revenge is a dish best served cold. Klingon proverb I looked up. Witty and relevant, considering section 31's got 73 super humans on ice."
"Yeah, sure, Jim." McCoy replies, terse and disapproving, but takes a seat anyway. "If you think throwing Klingon party favours at the Admiralty during the service is a good idea then I should've left your mouth disconnected."
Kirk grins at the thought of the discomfort on Admiral Komack's face but then sobers when he realizes McCoy's gripping the table edge with white knuckles. Kirk feels cowed for momentarily forgetting; the more McCoy threatens the more he cares.
He mutters, "Always a new and creative way of saying 'shut up.' That's what I like about you, Bones."
"Pity you never listen."
Kirk double taps the screen and the file disappears.
"Too soon?" He asks lightly, stabbing at his food.
"You've been hiding in here for every meal since—" McCoy cuts himself off. Perhaps, out of respect for Kirk's feelings on the subject, but more likely because Kirk chooses that moment to loudly gnash on the slab of bland chicken.
Kirk chews perfunctorily and doesn't remove his eyes from the PADD, hoping McCoy won't call him out on the evasive manoeuvres. He can practically hear McCoy's lips tighten into an impressive surly line.
"Well, what do they say, Jim? The chain of command is often a noose for the guy on top."
"Finally, he admits to thinking of me on top!"
McCoy snorts and Kirk can't help the answering grin that spreads across his face.
He feels McCoy's warm hand touch his arm, squeeze once and then retreat. A lump forms in his throat. For some reason, he feels young. He hasn't felt young in a long time.
"Think about it. It's not healthy, staying cooped up alone like this –at least eat one vegetable off your plate, Jim!—" McCoy's eyebrows are clashing madly on his face. "Even when you're off with the relief efforts, you go in alone." He holds up a hand when Kirk's mouth drops open to protest. "As your doctor, I've checked your logs."
They regard each other for a moment.
"You know, the crew doesn't bite." McCoy says lightly.
Kirk half-heartedly spears a single pea with the tip of one fork prong already loaded with chicken and presses it to his lips. "Maybe I do."
"Well, what about Spock?"
Kirk nearly chokes. Actually lands himself in the middle of a coughing fit and McCoy is around the desk, pounding on his back in a flash.
"What?" Kirk wheezes out.
What about Spock?
"My god, man, can't you even swallow like a normal human being?"
Kirk smirks behind watering eyes, pushing the food tray away.
"Oh, I give up." An extra hard wallop lands on Kirk's back at that with an exasperated grumble.
Kirk clears his throat and waves away the scanner that's pushed up against his jugular.
"I'm wearing you down, Bones."
"And I've got the gray hairs as proof." McCoy just sighs and there's the quick chirp of his communicator going off. Such was the life of a Starfleet officer.
Kirk tries to seem curious as McCoy checks the message but he's suddenly lost all appetite. The bottom of his stomach feels like it's been yanked down to his feet.
McCoy stands and straightens his uniform.
"I've gotta go to Emergency. They're calling in extra hands."
"More survivors?" Kirk asks, voice sounding vaguely hollow to his own ears.
"Yeah. And it's been what, 8 months?" McCoy shakes his head as if exasperated, but both of them aren't strangers to the utterly devastating crush of pride when someone's name is deleted off the list of presumed dead.
McCoy makes a face of long-suffering, "They've got kids doing triage, Jim. It's like I'm running an after-school special."
Kirk pulls up a half smile, glad for the banter. He can tell McCoy is comforted by it too.
"I'd say that's perfect, for a great father figure like you—"
The look on McCoy's face makes him stop short.
"Jim," He says in a low, almost gravelly tone. It makes Kirk's stomach spike with a strange unpleasantness. "Promise me you'll think about it. God knows why, but I know you prefer being back up in the vacuum instead of down here."
In fact, Kirk has done little else than think. It's all he thinks about these days. He's thought so much that he doesn't need to think about it anymore. He already knows what must be done.
Kirk eyes the PADD. "That's the problem, Bones. No one's getting grounded."
"Don't know that for sure, but they'd love to make you the exception. Go to head with the Admiralty on this and you know there'll be a tribunal. It'd eat up more time than looking for a needle in a haystack."
At the words 'eat up' McCoy roughly slides Kirk's tray back in front of him with one well-meaning, if not slightly protective shove. He pockets the still-chirping communicator and backs away, looking harassed when the lab's doors slide open and he's got no choice but to leave.
"Don't worry. I understand." Kirk dutifully picks up his fork instead of the stylus he actually wants. It's reassuring to see some of the tension in the doctor's shoulders disappear. "Catch you after your shift?"
"Yeah," McCoy smiles and blows out a breathy laugh. "A lot can happen in a year. We get five. Damned well better give yourself every minute."
"Fancy meeting you here," Kirk greets warmly as he jogs up the wide stone steps to Cochrane House.
Its high windows are gleaming in the morning sun, the ancient brick glittering and giving off the faint, almost sweet, baked aroma that traditional aluminum structures lack. Ironically, the prestigious building named for Zefram Cochrane is one of the only unaffected structures from the crash. Kirk is starting to see there's something to be said about relics.
He squints against the glare.
Spock is a tall figure in gray amongst the loitering cadet reds, a lone lock of black hair wafting in the breeze from under his officer hat.
"Captain, as we had previously arranged to meet at this time, there is no reason to—"
"Yeah, no reason." Kirk interrupts, quickly hauling open one of the classical wooden doors by its antique handle and ushering him inside. "Call it a piece of my humanity at work, Mr. Spock."
Spock tilts his head and follows Kirk's lead.
"The order has been issued." Admiral Komack informs them once they've been seated in his office.
"So, it's official." Kirk says first, the sinking feeling that's been growing in the pit of his stomach suddenly deepens, as if he's been walking through the shallows and just dropped off into the deep end of the pool.
Komack nods, but his chin stays lowered and he examines his folded hands for a moment. Whether it's out of reflection, respect, or sanctimonious glee over the fact that his off-the-wall order has gotten the go ahead, it's hard to tell.
"You are referring to the reverse activation clause," Spock clarifies the rumours that have been coming down the pipeline.
The little-known clause, to Kirk's knowledge, is outdated and supposed to be gathering dust in the fine print of Starfleet regulations. More and more frequently, a sharp spike of unease at how militarized things have become stabs him in the gut. The feeling twists and Kirk grinds his teeth together.
Admiral Marcus was just the beginning.
Komack smiles, thick crow's feet framing his eyes, "Met with overwhelming approval. The Enterprise's new roster is complete, just in time for the rechristening. I have high hopes for your speech."
Kirk knows he shouldn't fight it, but can't help bristling, "With all due respect, the Admiralty is wrong. You can't just—"
"Captain," Spock interjects but Kirk doesn't back down.
"—Sir, it's effectively a draft! The emergency is over. Starfleet doesn't need—"
"The emergency is permanent."
Komack's statement rams the words right back down Kirk's throat.
"Vulcan is gone, as you are well aware." Komack looks askance, slightly oversized neck straining against a too-tall uniform collar. "Our strongest allies, devastated. Earth may be the heart of the Federation, but Vulcan was the mind."
Kirk can practically feel the air around Spock turn frosty just before he speaks.
"Earth has incurred great loss as well, Admiral, including brilliant officers, many of whom were to serve on the Enterprise in her 5-year mission." Spock stares ahead unblinkingly, "Or has the results of the most recent tragedy and restoration efforts caused by Admiral Marcus and one, Khan Noonien Singh, gone unnoticed?"
Even though Spock's face stays carefully blank, Kirk's got a pretty good handle on reading him by now. There's pride there, and a touch of rebellion. It feels good to be on the same page.
It'll hurt, when things change.
"People are angry. People are dead." Kirk adds, conveniently ignoring as Spock's head swings to look at him. Kirk grips the thick wool at his knees. "Forcing first year cadets and veterans in their Emeritus years into service isn't going to help."
"Relax, Kirk. You're not getting invalids onboard, if that's what's bothering you." Komack isn't so much as ruffled, falling easily back into the bureaucratic tug of war. Kirk's teeth clack together tightly as the Admiral continues.
"I'd count myself lucky if I were you. Christopher always preached about you having something special, but frankly, no one else believes it."
Surprisingly, it is Spock who rises to his feet. "Captain Kirk's merits are—"
"Understood. Sir," Kirk says over Spock and rotates his jaw to keep from saying anything more. Resistance at this point will only be futile. Their side of the rope's been pulled tight.
Spock looks down and his gaze is a hot pour of confused indignation against Kirk's cheek.
"Good. Great." Komack pushes their contracts towards the edge of his desk, silky light from the file screens running down his face as eerie streaks.
"In a few hours, Starfleet will have given you two your own ship, gentlemen. Don't be late."
This speech had sounded so much better in his head.
"There will always be those who mean to do us harm. To stop them, we risk awakening the same evil in ourselves."
As Kirk addresses the waves of hopeful officers before the dais, he notices the main crew in the first row. The Admiralty is an overbearing presence to his back which is only tempered by knowing Spock's standing just off to the side. Not for long.
Kirk licks his lips and presses them together for a moment.
"Our first instinct is to seek revenge when those we love are taken from us. But that's not who we are."
Out the corner of his eye, the new official rank badges are shining in their velvet boxes, displayed by a proud row of cadets. Looking at their young faces Kirk knows they're better than revenge. That's what this mission is about. To show the universe that the Federation isn't crumbling, that moving forward still means something.
"We are here today to rechristen the USS Enterprise, and honour those who lost their lives nearly one year ago."
He grips the sides of the podium, stealing against the feeling that hooks into him tightly, pulling him farther and farther down into the pool of dread that's been steadily filling up.
Kirk is terrified.
And he is, if nothing else, just capricious enough to appreciate the emotional freefall he's plunged into in front of everyone.
The symptoms wash over like a tidal wave and he feels hot, nearly numb with it. His heart is slamming against his ribcage, wildly out of control, like his fear is a monster that's been caged and wants to get out. It tears at him, makes his knees freeze even though sweat has slicked his palms so that his hands slip away from the podium. He's locked to the spot and yet feels like he's running. Running far, far away.
The only consolation is that all these signs are so acutely familiar, so precise in their return, that by now covering it up with conviction has become simple.
"When Christopher Pike first gave me his ship, he had me recite the Captain's Oath."
Kirk swallows behind the tight collar of his uniform, squinting against the noon light.
"It's only fitting that I ask the same of her new captain."
There's sun in his eyes so Kirk takes a short step backwards into the shade, and oddly enough, in this moment, looking just past his shoulder, he finds a smile.
"Mr. Spock?"