Final Days
by
Pat Foley
Chapter 1
The Officers' Lounge on Fleet Base One was nearly deserted in third watch. Seen through the window-like viewscreens, Earth revolved lazily, Sol's dawn line still bisecting the Atlantic Ocean, hours from San Francisco and Fleet HQ. Even the first shift officers were still dreaming in their beds. Those sitting at a secluded table had been drinking and nattering for hours, indicated by the detritus surrounding them.
With his jaw clamped over the dregs of an unlit cigar, Garrison was watching light playing off the cut glass tumbler in his hands, partially filled with melted ice and whiskey. Jose Tyler had chosen brandy as his sole poison, and was breathing it in, a bit too drunk to swallow another mouthful. Across from them, an old schoolmate eyed the officers and the Fleet trappings, nostalgia laced with superiority and a bit of envy. 'Parsley' Purslane had once fought and bled with them in Academy cadet ranks. He'd been invited to join them this evening as a courtesy for old times' sake, though shortly after his commission, he'd married the daughter of a man in Federation Service and resigned the Fleet. Now he was administrator of a colony world. Colonial Administrators carried with them the trappings of political power and some social status that even Fleet acknowledged. At least they did for their own former fellow officers, even those that had, by disability or choice, forsaken their first true service.
So Purslane had been invited in, and introduced around, sharing some reminiscences of Academy days. He was not, it was understood by his polite fellow classmates, the equivalent of hairy men, commissioned Fleet officers. 'Parsley' felt the subtle disparagement of his civilian status. But he was enjoying seeing a nostalgic glimpse of a life he'd abandoned more than a dozen years ago, both thrilled and a trifle superior of it at the same time.
Some of the viewscreens flickered, and the view of Earth below - now the sunrise line was just kissing the eastern seaboard of the Americas - was replaced by one of a Constellation class Starship, dropping from system-regulated impulse power into mere thrusters, before bright ropes of light indicated the base tractor beams had latched on to bring the great ship into a docking berth. A muffled cheer rose from some of the officers ranged around the room at table, and Purslane frowned in puzzlement. "Something unusual about a docking maneuver?"
Garrison looked over to Tyler, one equal to another, ironic and pitying their former colleague.
"That's Enterprise," Tyler said, more forgiving of such ignorant gaffes than his companion. "She's coming in after her five year. With not much of a butcher's bill in crew and officers, apart from security. And just look at her: pretty as an Admiral's yacht. She could just as easily be heading out, fresh as a daisy from the docks."
"Not like the garbage scows some of the Fleet drag in by tractor beam. But I'll wager her officers wouldn't bring her in any other way," Garrison said. "Certainly not Kirk and Spock."
"James T. Kirk?" Purslane asked.
"Wouldn't think you'd remember him," Tyler said. "He wasn't part of our class. Not like Spock. We served on the Enterprise, Gar, Spock and I. With Pike."
"No," Purslane agreed. "I didn't know Kirk to speak to at the Academy. But I've heard of him since, of course. Hard not to. 'Glory' Kirk?"
"Glory?" Garrison asked, mouth twisting over the characterization.
"The media started calling him that, particularly those out our way. One can't forget the Deneva infection that he stopped. Or the planet-killer. Our colonies were in line for those predations, if Kirk hadn't put himself in the way."
"I suppose that, stuck on a rock out in space, you'd worry more about those things," Garrison said uncharitably, also more than a little drunk.
Tyler shook his head, mugging slightly at Purslane. The now civilian, who being in politics, had restrained his imbibing a little more than the off-duty Fleet officers, magnanimously shrugged away the common spacer's insult.
"'Glory' Kirk," Garrison mused, "yeah, I guess I can see that. Though I doubt he'll find much glory back here at HQ, apart from that reflected from past deeds."
"Too true, Gar," Tyler said. "as it's been said, 'all glory is fleeting'(1). Never more true than in Fleet."
"Well, we won't forget," Purslane said. "We civilians owe him a lot."
"All in a day's work, in Fleet," Tyler promised. "I don't envy Kirk right now."
x x x
If Captain James T. Kirk was thinking at all about glory, he was in agreement with his fellow Fleet officers. And that, even at its sweetest, it wasn't worth losing the job that enabled the possibility. As he presided over the end of his ship's mission, he'd rather have traded places with himself five years ago, a wet behind the ears Captain, with the two and a half bars of braid showing he had less than five years seniority. Far better that than to be ending his mission, no doubt with honors, promotion and more braid before him. But also with the prospect of leave-taking. And the sense that the best part of his life might be passing.
But the worst of it, Kirk thought, was that no one, so far as he could see, shared his attitude. Oh, there was already a trace of nostalgia, even sorrow, at the end of mission. But everyone seemed to be looking forward to at least three to six months of home leave, or shore leave, before shipping out again. If they chose to ship out. Scotty was anticipating supervising a proper refit for the Enterprise, not the jury-rigged one she had nine months ago. A refit where she'd get the latest Vulcan-designed warp engines delivered by Shikahr Enterprises, with no stinting for the limitations of her present frame and structure, all to be upgraded to the new codes. McCoy, apparently regretting even more his sojourn in Boston that had led him to Starfleet, seemed to have resolved the ghosts of his past, and kept going on about the delights of Atlanta. Uhura and Sulu talked of home, families, hobbies and burned up their personal subspace time making plans. Chekhov was buttonholing every officer above him in rank for recommendations that he'd hoped would jockey him into a year's instructorship at the Academy. Irina had messaged him, saying she was back in the Haight area of San Francisco, missing him. With a spaceman's acute homesickness for any port, he'd forgotten and forgiven their earlier incompatibilities. They were more mature now, he argued. They were talking of marriage. His fellow officers, remembering her with cooler heads but recognizing how a new officer could react to a mission end from their own past experiences - the longing for home, port, perhaps a family life to take the place of the lost place on ship - held their tongues and didn't dissuade him, hoping it wouldn't be the disaster they anticipated. Every officer deserved some special welcome home.
Kirk knew he was in for at least six weeks of debriefings and meetings, and then conversations about where to go next. He was impatient even at the thought of them. He knew where he wanted to go next, it didn't require any discussions.
Spock, typical for him, wasn't talking at all or reacting to the emotional subtext of his colleagues. Even if he wasn't quite business as usual. On a ship concluding a mission, he couldn't be bothered, given his job was actually the most extensive. An exec was responsible for every liter of water, ounce of food concentrate, the functionality of every system, the accountability for every phaser weapon and photon torpedo. All the ship's books, the ship's inventory, the ship's status, rested on his shoulders to resolve. He was awash in inspections, reviews and reports.
Kirk had to sign the reports, because he was ultimately responsible. He even read them, though he knew there was not an iota of possibility there would be a decimal point wrong or a possibility of error or corruption. He read them because he was expected to be familiar with them, though the Admiralty wouldn't care - it would be the dockyards, ordinance, and the purser's office who'd get involved on any problems with the books. Beyond someone grossly carrying the Enterprise away and replacing her wholesale, the upper echelons of the Admiralty would leave bookkeeping to nitpicking conversations between lower administrators and the execs of Starships.
Kirk read them, part longingly, part nostalgically, more than from any sense of their accountability. They were his first command in digital form. His Enterprise, toted up and accounted for in Spock's neat prose, the Vulcan's signature in facsimile at the bottom of every regulated form.
Just keeping himself to strict business in the face of all these endings, took so much control on Kirk's part that he found himself at times akin to Spock when he once had turned the Enterprise around and headed for Vulcan. Kirk thought of taking control of his ship, his only for a few weeks longer, breaking out of her dutiful course home, and heading to the outer rim of the galaxy. His sleep was disturbed with repetitive dreams filled with the same fervent longing. Except even if he did, his crew, giddy with the prospect of leave, would mutiny. And he'd have no biology for an excuse and no T'Pau to back him. Even Sam Cogley couldn't get him out of that mad act.
So he headed down to Sickbay late one afternoon, nursing an incipient migraine born of tension, tension he never suffered in the prospect of battle. He interrupted McCoy regaling his medical staff with a tale of the effects of a Georgia barbecue, several mint juleps and a dive into an old swimming hole. The Chief Surgeon broke off his punch line at the sight of Kirk's set face, disappointing his amused audience.
"In my office, Captain?"
"Yes, Doctor."
One the door had closed behind him, McCoy gave him a searching glance. "Headache, right?"
"A doozy."
"Coming home's supposed to be the end of tension, not make it worse," McCoy suggested, with the skillfulness of a surgical probe.
"Not for us command types," Kirk said, tossing back the pills, sans benefit of water.
"Guess not." McCoy winced as Kirk crunched the bitter tablets. "Are you trying to punish yourself?"
"Just trying to get through this, Bones."
"Have you talked to Spock?" McCoy asked, knowing that for James Kirk, the best solace next to his mission, his ship and his orders, was his Vulcan officer's friendship.
"There's only one thing more obsessive than a new Captain bringing in his command for the first time, Bones," Kirk began.
"A Vulcan bringing in his only ship and home for the last time."
"He has a history with her I'll never have," Kirk said, forgiving and resentful at the same time. "And he's leaving her, maybe forever."
McCoy made a face. "I hate it when you command types talk about a ship like a woman."
"He doesn't think of the Enterprise that way. More as his duty. And his home. He's determined that everything will be perfect. Scotty of course, is aiding and abetting him, if not helping to drive it, as far as the engines go. Everything is going to look better than newly issued. Like when I first stepped on board, but even better. Vulcan pride rivals that mad Scot's pride."
"And that makes it even harder for you. Have you offered to help?"
"He has his duty and, as he puts it, I have mine." Kirk blew out a breath. "And mine seems to be to preside over the dissolution of everything I love, with a noble face."
"You won't lose Spock," McCoy said. "Or the Enterprise. Not forever. Even if you don't work together again, as closely, anyway, you'll-" He broke off, frowning in annoyance at a yellow alert siren.
"That's from Engineering," Kirk said, checking the board. "Spock and Scotty are there!"
McCoy paused only long enough after Kirk to grab his kit.
They came across a scene of near chaos. An engineering ensign was on his knees on the ground, white faced in shock, but McCoy discovered, scanning him frantically, that it was all emotional. He looked up to hear frantic calls from inside a nearby Jeffries tube and came to understand the crewman he'd been treating for emotional shock had ignored a safety warning and absently started up a circuit with someone inside. He was no less surprised then, given Kirk's commands into the tube, to see Scotty and one of his lads pull the unconscious Vulcan out. Spock wasn't breathing, his lips chartreuse.
"Out of my way," McCoy snapped, brushing the rescuers aside. He went to work with hypospray and cardiostimulator. In only a few seconds, Spock's heart had been restarted. The Vulcan coughed and drew a breath, color rushing back to his face and he even moved to sit up.
"Easy there," McCoy said, supporting the Vulcan with a hand behind his back. "We'd lost you for a moment."
"Spock!" Kirk said, pushed back beyond the medical staff, his voice rising in reproach, demanding an explanation.
"I am sorry, Captain," Spock said, shaking his head as if to clear it, still fighting for breath. "I can't think how-"
"You've nothing to be sorry for, Mr. Spock," Scotty said, giving his assistant a disgusted look. "It was McClellan, here, who nearly killed you."
The young technician moaned more than Spock had, still keening on his knees on the floor, wringing his hands. "I'm that sorry, sir," he said. "I didn't see the-"
"Because ye didn't look, ye silly man," Scott said. "Head full of shore leave before we're even in the system boundaries." He turned to glare at his crew. "All of you are. Ye'd best remember the ship isna in port yet! I don't want to have to pull another man back from the dead because yer all so daft ye can't mind yer duty!"
Half the gathered crowd hurriedly went back to work with a renewed conscience.
"Consider yourself on report, Mr. McClellan," Kirk said sharply.
"For two credits, I'd put him in the brig. But I suppose," Scott said slowly, relenting as McClellan slumped moaning again, "gi'en Mr. Spock is well enough," he eyed the Vulcan critically, "report will do for now."
"And two days suspension from duty, without pay, confined to quarters," Kirk said to the young crewman. "And consider that lenient."
Spock looked grave and severe in turn, but he didn't argue.
"You're done for the day too," McCoy said to Spock. "I want you in Sickbay."
"I would recover better in my own quarters," Spock argued perfunctorily.
"Your nervous system just had a tremendous shock," McCoy said. "I want to monitor you for at least the rest of this afternoon. Give me a couple of hours. Then, if you can eat a good supper, you can sleep in your own bed tonight."
"That's an order, Spock," Kirk said.
"Yes, sir," Spock said, subdued, pensive eyes on his Captain.
"He'll be all right, Jim," McCoy pausing by Kirk's shoulder, as his medics escorted Spock away.
"Maybe Sarek was right," Kirk said, his face white with his own unresolved shock. "It is time. How often can even a Vulcan cheat death on this mission and survive?"
"Well, this particular Vulcan just managed it once more. You take a little down time too, Jim. I don't like your color."
"Down time is all I can look forward to," Kirk answered, as he followed McCoy out of Engineering.
x x x
Light-years away, on Terra, Federation Ambassador-at-Large Sarek straightened abruptly and visibly. He was sitting at a conference table across from Federation High Council member Ydat Khoreem.
"Sir?" Khoreem asked, when Sarek didn't reply. After a long, long moment of frozen stillness the Ambassador's shoulders, his wooden expression, both relaxed slightly.
"Are you quite well?" Khoreem asked again, well aware that Sarek had had a heart problem.
"Yes, quite," Sarek said and returned to the discussion as if nothing had occurred, putting the incident out of his disciplined mind.
It wasn't until much later, late evening by Enterprise time, that Sarek was reminded.
Spock had been relieved to be released from sickbay, where there was little privacy. In his quarters, he finished the reports of his day's inspections, dictated his log entry, meditated, and then, adhering to McCoy's stern warnings, went to bed.
He changed into fatigues, slipped between the covers of his bunk, and as a last activity before sleeping, withdrew his conscious telepathic awareness of the psionic hum of 430 human minds behind the hefty shields his relatively newly recreated parental bond afforded, much as a human would shelter from a rainstorm under an umbrella.(2)
Light-years away, Sarek felt Spock's withdrawal behind his shielding, both his own and the splash-by afforded by the parental bond they still shared. The elder Vulcan waited patiently for the long moments he estimated it would take for Spock to fall asleep. Then he used the increased contact Spock had initiated to do his own rudimentary assessment of his son's physical state. Sarek was neither a healer nor a highly skilled telepath. But such a basic parental function was well within his abilities, in spite of the physical distance.
Just on the edge of hazy, comfortable sleep, sensing his father dropping those barriers, Spock opened a conscious link within his own mind, something that he, as a very skilled telepath could easily manage. And as had become usual for him lately in this type of contact, he greeted his father with the words and language they'd once used with each other on a long ago vacation.(3) It had been one of the last times they'd interacted in a personable, near human manner, father to son, without the stoic trappings of Vulcan non-emotion. Since the reestablishment of their parental bond, Spock now inadvertently fell into that comfortable mindset during these informal mental contacts between them.
Ca va, Papa? he greeted his father.
Sarek lowered his own conscious barriers, partly amused, partly appalled at this casual greeting after a near life threatening event. Given recent events, I should be asking that of you, should I not?
It was an accident. I have recovered.
You are having accidents? Sarek asked, lapsing into acerbic and critical habits. Perhaps it is well past time for this mission to end, if you are overly fatigued enough for such careless occurrences.
Not mine, Spock clarified. Though I was subject to the results. A crewman merely engaged a circuit in spite of a warning beacon. I quickly recovered.
Sarek controlled his mental shudder. Another reason, perhaps, to avoid being subject to the inexpert attentions of these Earthmen.
You manage well enough, Father, in your human associations, Spock pointed out, a tacit reminder that Sarek's very life was tied to his human wife's.
Your mother is exceptional. Your safety is subject to the varying abilities of hundreds.
I've managed so far.
Acknowledged, Sarek agreed. But this accident highlights my legitimate concerns. Conscious that the exchange had been somewhat critical on his part, aware that Spock was withdrawing defensively in reaction, he unbent enough to allow Spock to sense something of his emotional concern. Even Vulcan as those emotions were, far more possessive and less giving than mere human love. I have only one heir, my son.
Spock allowed himself to bask a moment in that rare sharing from his father, something that had been so often missing in their early relationship due to the flawed construction of his first parental bond. I promise that I will be more careful, Father. And Enterprise is returning to the Sol system now. It won't be much longer before I am home. Then I will have a long leave. To discuss plans.
We will greet you upon arrival on Terra.
You need not travel for that, Father. Spock was shocked by such solicitousness. I will not be long returning to Vulcan. I did promise.
Your mother and I arrived on Terra for a Federation High Council Conference three days ago. We will be in residence some months.
I will be pleased to see you that much sooner, Father. Spock assured him, but frowning slightly, agile mind calculating suspiciously over the convenient timing of this trip.
Just take care that you do arrive," Sarek ordered, conscious that his perceptive son was perhaps seeing through the coincidence of his parents being resident on Terra when the Enterprise returned from its mission. And safely, my son. And now, given your recent near demise, I suggest you pursue the rest that this discourse has interrupted.
Yes, sir, Spock replied reflexively, an automatic response to Sarek's order, his mind retreating in reaction to Sarek's terse tone.
Sarek pulled himself back again from old, and perhaps thoughtless habits, to lower his emotional barriers just enough to let his son perceive his concern and regard. "Rest well."
Good night. Spock didn't mask a gratitude that extended not just to Sarek's words, but to the feeling Sarek had communicated to his son, past strict Vulcan control.
Sarek could feel his son's relief as the tension between them dissipated. Old habits indeed. But there was something else there too, behind his son's relief, something less estimable and far more in keeping with his son's character, when not strictly regulated by Vulcan discipline.
And thank you, Father, Spock added archly, a verbal gratitude reinforcing the mental one, so smooth butter wouldn't have melted in his mouth, even as Sarek was suspiciously calculating what device Spock was concealing.
One does not thank- Sarek began, automatically, still blindsided by suspicions, and then stopped. His son had, mischievously and predictably, dropped the conscious part of the telepathic link before Sarek could fully communicate the age old reproof. Laughing too, at getting his father to fall for the trap, or at least expressing the Vulcan version of having smugly pulled off a good tease.
Brat, Sarek responded, even as he reinforced his son's shields to ensure he did rest well. But Spock didn't reply, having withdrawn into sleep before his father could reply.
Predictable, Sarek thought, well aware he had been set up for the Vulcan version of a sehlat joke.
But he thought it fondly.
To be continued...
review, review, review
1. often attributed to Patton, George, also from the latin 'Sic transit Gloria mundi' - thus passes the glory of the world
2. see Home is the Sailor
3. see Small Talk