kreylah - biscuit
pir mah - equivalent to strawberry toast
Why? Because I feel that Spock is the type for a quiet, dignified descent into madness, yes? Less crazed fits, more silent despair. And I wanted to write that scenario, because I am sadistic.
I know it's been awhile since I posted for TOS! I'm working on several (much) longer fics right now (one is eventual K/S slash, fantasy-ish - think like Mau - I have 14k already and K&S are not even close to meeting, send help) and a DS9 gen fic (20k - and that's only the first four chapters. I already have up to chapter 23 planned out, and I'm guessing there will be at least 30. What have I done). Anyway, I hope you enjoy the products of my unhealthy obsession.
Spock wakes cold. That is the first thing. He rises from his bed, puzzled at the chill bite to his quarters, and checks the temperature. Frowning, he sees the mechanism is broken, and makes a calm report to engineering.
"Lieutenant Morba to Commander Spock?"
Spock taps the intercom. "Spock here."
"Sir, we're having some trouble in Botany Lab II - the Irabian ferns seem to have, er, mutated."
"How so?"
"Well, they, uh - ate through through the floors. Sir."
"...I see."
"With your permission, Commander, we're about to just incinerate the lot; they're too dangerous to keep aboard."
"Understood. Proceed, and alert me when the task is done."
"Aye, Sir. Morba out."
This done, he prepares for shift - a task which encompasses only fifteen minutes, precisely - and leaves.
"Good morning, Commander," Ensign Presa greets him in the hallway. He nods politely in response.
Breakfast is Vulcan kreylah, dry but nourishing, and then it's time for his first shift. He is scheduled for double shifts today, but the first is bridge-duty at the science station, his preferred post.
"Morning, Mr. Spock!" Captain Kirk greets him cheerfully. "I forgot to ask last night - do you have that analysis for the Brescitine mission done? Starfleet's been hounding me."
"I will forward it directly, Sir."
"Excellent, excellent," and Kirk returns to speaking with a yeoman.
The shift is efficient, but routine; almost monotonous, truth be told, for the Enterprise is only assigned to star-charting at the moment. Thus Spock is not at all surprised when Dr. McCoy takes the lack of injured as sufficient reason to ignore other possible avenues of work and appear on the bridge.
Spock listens when McCoy actually mentions relevant ship-information - "Can't tell what's wrong with Ensign Daren yet, doesn't fit anything I've ever seen, but at least it doesn't seem severe, just - ah, uncomfortable - " - and then promptly tunes out the conversation as McCoy starts needling Kirk over the upcoming shore leave.
While Spock does not typically take leave, the crew could use a boost in morale. The latest string of milk-run missions interspersed with brief periods of pulse-pounding terror have left the crew somewhat uneasy. Shore leave will be good for them.
He takes his midday-meal in the mess - Vulcan plomeek soup - and McCoy, predictably, wrinkles his nose at the sharp scent. Spock shifts the bowl in an apparent attempt to make room for his padd, pointedly putting the container closer to the doctor. Kirk, tactfully ignoring the childishness of his two senior officers, asks Spock if he has received any word from Scotty about the temperature-situation.
It is still cold; for a Vulcan, freezing. But Spock doesn't calculate mild hypothermia will be an issue with him until at least another 32 earth hours have passed, so he does not mention this. "I have not spoken with Mr. Scott regarding the matter, Captain."
"Really? He said he needed to discuss something with you."
Spock quirks an eyebrow. "I will speak to him before resuming my post, then."
And he does. Scotty is puzzled. "Did I say that? I must have forgotten. Well, Mr. Spock, the odd thing is - "
The scream of a siren splits the air; the walls flash sweet-cherry red. Without another word Spock turns on heel and makes for the turbolift as Scott barks and hassles his crew into their proper stations.
Lieutenant Marle flashes him a relieved salute as Spock takes the science station.
"Situation?" Spock prompts before she can leave.
"An unidentified ship, Sir. They seem to be firing into space, at nothing in particular."
He nods curtly; she leaves.
Kirk swivels around in his chair. "Suggestions, Mr. Spock?"
Spock examines the sensor readout. "Exact type of vessel cannot be determined, but based upon their size and energy readout I would not consider them to be a threat against the Enterprise, Captain."
"Alright," Kirk agrees. "Shields down, then, let's look friendly. Mr. Sulu, Full impulse. Uhura - ?"
"Hailing on all frequencies, Sir."
Kirk smiles. "Right. For all we know they're doing some odd sort of weapons drill. Spock -"
Whatever Kirk is about to say is cut off by Spock himself. "Captain!" he snaps, flinching back from the computer screen. "We need shields - !"
The world mutes.
There is a roar that, paradoxically, sucks the sound from his ears. Everything rings dully as he stares, dazed, from a new position on the floor. There is a puddle of green reflecting the overhead lights, and a wet stickiness on his face; blood. But this is irrelevant.
Because Chekov is staring at the viewscreen with too-wide eyes, mouth open in a final gasp of surprise. His skin is burnt charcoal, and his mop of brown hair flickers gold with flames.
Sulu gapes for air on the floor. There is a metal shard in his stomach. As Spock watches the helmsman takes one last, rattling breath and grows still.
His mind slides past the twisted mass that is Uhura.
And Kirk -
"Jim?"
Spock's voice is a dry rattle, and useless. Because Kirk is gone, gone, his eyes blank and - and empty, but that's not right, he can't be - he can't -
The blood, the red-on-gold, is illogical. It makes no sense, none at all. Spock is about to say this, just for the comfort of hearing that logic aloud, when a bright glow on the cracked viewscreen distracts him. He twists his head, stares at the oncoming nova full-on, and dissolves into the black.
Spock wakes cold.
He also wakes in his quarters, heart racing dangerously. There is a mild beep from his computer terminal. "Heart rate suggestive of duress," recites the calm mechanical voice. "Disengage alert within fifteen seconds to cancel call to Sickbay."
"Computer, cancel call to Sickbay," Spock rasps.
"Call canceled."
Spock lays there a long moment, blankly, trying to process everything. He is on his bed. His physical form is unharmed. And the day -
"Computer, recite stardate."
"Today's stardate is 2243.15."
...Today is a day he has already lived through. He is uninjured. The Enterprise is whole.
No one is dead.
They cannot be dead, if Spock still lives. He takes a deep breath.
A poor dream? A possibility, but an unlikely one. Vulcans do not dream - not as humans do. It occurs to him to wonder, briefly, whether he has had a True Dream. Unprecedented for Spock, but some of Vulcan's strongest telepaths have the gift, and Spock has always been unusual in that regard.
Very, very unlikely, Spock assures himself. But the mere possibility leaves a cold weight in his gut that logic cannot dispel.
"Lieutenant Morba to Commander Spock?"
Spock rises, slowly, and taps the intercom. "Spock here."
"Sir, we're having some trouble in Botany Lab II - the Irabian ferns seem to have, er, mutated..."
"Proceed with incineration and alert me when the task is completed."
"Uh, yes, Sir - "
"Spock out."
He places a call to Engineering - his room is very cold - then dresses hastily, realizing his ruminating has made him late. Spock steps outside, and -
"Good morning, Commander," Ensign Presa greets him as he enters the hallway. Spock pauses for a moment, staring at the woman's back mutely as she walks away. Unperturbed with his lack of response, she turns a corner. There's a brief flash of her ponytail, and then she is gone.
Spock tells himself it is coincidence.
He goes to breakfast, stares at the replicator awhile, and then forgoes his preferred kreylah for a selection of Terran fruit. The disparity is reassuring. Logically, a True Dream would deliver an accurate account of events. Legends say true dreams cannot be circumvented. Therefore his experience must have been false. Perhaps Spock is, in fact, human enough for a fantasy-dream; under current circumstances the thought is much more a relief than it should be.
Spock arrives on the bridge.
"Morning, Mr. Spock!" Captain Kirk greets him cheerfully. "I forgot to ask last night - do you have that analysis for the Brescitine mission done? Starfleet's been hounding me."
...
...A coincidence.
"...I will forward it directly, Sir."
"Excellent, excellent." Kirk doesn't notice his hesitation. Flashing the first officer a quick smile, the captain turns back to yeoman Farla to discuss a report.
The star charts swirling before Spock's eyes are familiar. He has done this before. He remembers this, but that is not possible. The other events of the morning might be a compilation of coincidences, but for every decimal, every piece of math to be so exactly loyal to his memory...
What is going on?
Doctor McCoy comes to the bridge and updates the Captain on Ensign Doren's condition, then needles him about shoreleave - again.
Spock pointedly skips his lunch break.
It is very cold. Spock initially thinks, eighteen hours until hypothermia sits in, but that is incorrect. He has been exposed to the mild cold for less than eight hours, which is not dangerous at all, even to a Vulcan. He flexes his chilled fingers, uneasy.
Because Spock is watching for it he sees the ships immediately.
"Shields up," he barks. "Red alert."
He watches the blinking display of ships on his screen as the cherry-red flashing of emergency lights washes over the bridge. Behind him Uhura places a quick call to the captain. Spock shakes his head firmly when Ensign Marla tries to take his post. Kirk will be on the bridge any second, and Spock needs to be at the science station. He can't take his eyes from the ships for a second -
"Report, Commander."
Spock speaks slowly, his words an eerie parroting of a very similar situation. "An unidentified ship, Sir. They seem to be firing at nothing in particular. Exact type of vessel cannot be determined, but based upon their size and energy readout I would not consider them to be a threat against the Enterprise, Captain."
Kirk looks puzzled. "Then why did you raise shields?"
Spock pauses. He is not prone to 'feelings'; he cannot simply say that he thinks the choice is wise. Kirk will think him to have gone mad.
So for once he ignores Vulcan ethics and simply lies.
"The readings are somewhat inconsistent, Sir. It is possible they may be trying to trick us deliberately."
Kirk straightens, gaze hardening. "I see. Mr. Sulu, Full impulse. Uhura - ?"
"Hailing on all frequencies, Sir."
Kirk smiles tightly. "Right. For all we know they're doing some odd sort weapons drill. Spock -"
Spock is watching, watching, watching, and snaps out, "Captain, they're firing - !"
The world tilts.
There are flames sparking from the navigation console. Spock raises his heads through a swirl of nausea, numb, and stares into Ensign Chekov's dead brown eyes. Looks past him to Kirk, staring at the blossom of blood unfolding on the man's gold tunic. He waits, blankly, half-expecting to hear an order, but Kirk's mouth gapes open soundlessly. His eyes are empty.
There is a flare of white.
Spock wakes cold.
He also wakes in his quarters, heart racing dangerously. There is a mild beep from his computer terminal. "Heart rate suggestive of duress," recites the perversely calm mechanical voice. "Disengage alert within fifteen seconds to cancel call to Sickbay."
Spock stares at the ceiling.
"Five seconds."
"...Computer, cancel call to Sickbay."
Obviously, Spock rationalizes, he has not been dreaming. A time distortion is the logical conclusion. Other possibilities, given the Enterprise's history, include some sort of temporal or even mental distortion caused by a foreign party. Logically, he should report the matter, but he suspects that the truth will be hard for humans to believe.
There is no necessity to 'hurry' when time reverts itself at the end of the day. (Spock pushes back the image of hollow brown eyes, blood dripping from a gaping mouth). Therefore his first duty is to uncover more information about the situation.
"Lieutenant Morba to Commander Spock?"
Spock rises, very abruptly, and taps the intercom. "Spock here."
"Sir, we're having some trouble in Botany Lab II - the Irabian ferns seem to have, er, mutated..."
"Proceed with incineration and alert me when the task is completed."
"Uh -"
"Spock out."
Spock considers the intercom for a moment, then taps it again.
"Spock to Bridge."
"Uhura here, Sir."
"Call Lieutenant Marle to take the science station; I have work to attend to in the labs."
Uhura does not question him; "Yes, Sir."
Spock is interrupted several minutes into shift.
"Kirk to Commander Spock."
Spock touches the intercom, anticipating the request. "I have just forwarded you the report for the Brescitine mission, Sir."
A brief pause. "Oh. Good, thank you. Kirk out."
Spock is grateful that his actions typically go unquestioned. He commandeers an entire lab, unwilling to chance having his work seen by a curious subordinate. This done, he pulls up the sensor readings from the area the Enterprise is charting and places it beside a ship diagnostic.
Paying strict, unusual attention, Spock can find trace indications of weapons-fire in the surrounding space; less than a day old. The isolytic bursts correspond to the flash of white light he has seen, though Spock cannot imagine how the tiny alien ship of memory had the power or technological capability to possess such weapons.
However, he detects no temporal disturbances, nor signs of one. An isolytic burst could cause a temporal anomaly, as they can cause tears in subspace. But it's perplexing for that anomaly to be so strangely centered around one individual; although, it is egotistic to imagine that he has anything to do with the anomaly. Perhaps he retains his memories of the 'future' due to his status as a Vulcan, and thus a telepath?
Either way the implications are disturbing. If the temporal distortion occurs after being fired upon, or as the firing occurs, then Spock has no way of gaining meaningful data. This leaves him with two options. First, he might find some way to divert the ship's course without eliciting the captain's suspicion. Second, he can assume that the cause is not the firing-event itself and proceed to investigate other avenues. But the first option, being more likely, should be attempted first.
Obviously, Spock needs to find some way to divert the ship in contradiction to Starfleet's orders.
...The idea he has will not, Spock suspects, endear him to the captain.
The red alert sounds.
Spock pauses for a moment, just staring at the flashing lights. He should be moving to the halls, to the turbolift, to the bridge, but -
"Commander Spock to the bridge."
Starting, he moves.
Lieutenant Marla turns to him as Spock steps onto the bridge, but he is late. Behind her head the screen flares nova.
Spock stares blankly at the reddish smear that had been her head; her body topples over slowly, like a puppet with its strings cut. But that is the first flash, and the transparent-aluminum window is still holding. Illogical, he thinks, staring at her bleeding neck, at Chekov's scorched form. How are these the results of an isolytic burst?
His thoughts are floating, spinning away out of reach. Spock looks down, slowly, at his own numb and twisted body as the light grows blinding -
It is cold.
"Heart rate - "
"Cancel medical alert."
He dresses swiftly, rummages for a tiny packet from his belongings, grabs a data padd, and manages to make it from his room quickly enough to avoid crossing paths with Ensign Presa.
He arrives at the mess hall early enough to catch Kirk, just finishing a meal. As he'd expected, the captain has chosen to eat early so he can do a quick round around the ship before the beginning of alpha shift.
"Spock! You're up early. Couldn't sleep?"
"I do not - "
"Require as much sleep as us humans, yes yes," Kirk waves away the comment. "Do you happen to have that report for the Brescitine mission done?"
"I do." Spock holds forth the data padd. "There was one matter I wished to discuss with you - "
Deliberately clumsy, he drops the padd. Kirk automatically bends to pick it up from beneath the table, and Spock taps the contents of a tiny packet over the captain's drink. His eyes flicker around the room; no one seems to have noticed.
Kirk, though, eyes his subordinate oddly while handing back the equipment. "You alright, Spock?" He asks doubtfully. Clumsiness in a Vulcan is typically Very Not Good.
"Quite well, Sir."
"Hmm," says Kirk, and takes a sip of water.
"Vomit everywhere," McCoy reports, not a scrap of pity in his tone. "I've told him to quit eating so much in the morning. Especially chocolate."
"Indeed. Is it serious?"
"Probably just a twenty-four-hour thing. Maybe some bad replicated protein. Nothing to worry about."
Spock nods, and McCoy exits.
Spock decides it is wise to wait, for the purpose of discretion. He walks around the lower decks - thoroughly terrifying several newer crewmembers - and then pointlessly and pointedly vanishes into the briefing room for several long minutes, making sure the bridge crew is aware of this detour.
When he steps back onto the bridge, he takes the captain's seat. "Mr. Sulu, make for the Valantian system, warp factor four."
"Sir?"
"Our orders have changed."
Uhura eyes Spock oddly - no new orders have come through - but it is perfectly possible that Spock has old orders of which she is unaware, and the communications officer says nothing.
"Aye, Sir. Warp factor 4."
Naturally, the change does not go unnoticed.
"Uhura says we haven't received any new orders, Spock."
"That is correct, Sir."
"Then may I ask what you're doing with my ship?"
Spock deliberately pauses. "Sir, is your illness affecting your memory?"
"I - what?"
"You yourself gave me the orders, Sir, prior to entering Sickbay." Spock pauses a beat. "Memory lapses are fairly frequent in conjunction with high fevers."
(Of course, the Vulcan spice making Kirk ill shouldn't cause anything of the sort, but - "
"...I see. I'll speak to Dr. McCoy. Kirk out."
Spock steps back, regarding the intercom thoughtfully.
His bluff will not bear under even a thin examination, but Spock will be content to avert the ship's danger. Any consequences thereafter are minor in comparison...
The emergency lights in his quarters start flashing.
"Commander Spock to the Bridge!" Uhura calls over communications.
Not possible. A coincidence, a different reason - they are over six hours away their original path at warp 4. The alien ship was not actively pursuing the Enterprise, so how - ?
But Spock has no answer he arrives on the bridge, and for a moment he freezes. The ship looms ominously on the viewscreen
Lieutenant Marle steps away from the science post. " An unidentified ship, Sir. They seem to be firing at nothing in particular - they are not responding to our hails." She frowns.
"Shields up," Spock says, knowing it is useless.
The door to the bridge opens. Kirk steps forward, clutching his stomach. "What's going on?" He demands.
"Captain, you should be in Sickbay - "
Kirk's eyes widen, looking beyond Spock to the viewscreen -
Spock is on the floor, clutching the captain's bleeding form. Blood pumping from his stomach, Kirk reaches out and scrambles weakly at Spock's arm, gasping. His flailing stains Spock's shirt with long smears of red. His eyes are huge and white-rimmed.
The captain's mouth opens once, twice. With a raspy, shuddering exhale the man's body goes still, and the world starts to glow -
It is cold.
"Heart rate at medically dangerous level," the computer declares, not giving a choice this time around. "Medical alert initiated."
"End medical alert," Spock commands. He tries to rise, stumbles standing up, and folds over to the floor.
The computer ignores him.
The world is spinning. The world is still. The world is a yellow-red tunic, split open to display the gleam of organs and a weakly pumping heart. No, no. There is a way to stop this. There must be.
Why is it so cold?
The intercom beeps; "Lieutenant Morba to Commander Spock?"
"Burn them," Spock says, quite uselessly. He stares at the intercom, then, steeling himself, tries again to rise.
The world tilts, and the door slides open.
"Spock!"
Arms are bracing him a moment later, blue sleeves weaving in and out of vision.
"What happened?"
"...Nothing," Spock says, because that is true enough to everyone but him. "A momentary disorientation."
"Like hell it was. You're coming to Sickbay, now."
Spock is too tired to protest.
It is still very cold, and even worse is the sterility of Sickbay. Once there he uses his mental disciplines to focus on lowering his heart-rate while increasing blood-pressure, hoping to gain some warmth. His internal clock is broken, and tells him he should be experiencing hypothermia, though his body disagrees.
"Can't get the blasted temperature up," McCoy says, "But that shouldn't be a problem for you - yet. So what was that?"
The doctor is frowning at a tricorder, obviously puzzled.
"As I said, a minor disorientation. My meditation ended... poorly."
"I'll say. Well, the tricorder agrees with you, but to be on the safe side I'm keeping you under observation."
That will not do at all. "I am needed on the bridge - "
"I'm sure they'll survive one day without you," McCoy insists.
Which is so, so wrong, but Spock cannot think of an adequate argument.
So he feigns complacence, at length; but when McCoy returns to his office he makes straight for the exit.
If anyone is surprised to see the first officer tinkering with the warp system, they are too tactful to say so. Scott, Spock well knows, is occupied in life-support working on the temperature issue. With no one else willing to question him, Spock is thus left free to directly access the ship's computer and feed it new directives.
Twenty minutes later, the Enterprise slows to a halt.
Spock has since returned to his quarters - returning to Sickbay will seem very suspicious if his absence was noticed - and is only resigned when the Captain's voice comes over the intercom to say, "Commander Spock to the bridge."
Spock does not move.
It is direct disobedience, but Spock has gone to far greater lengths in the past. He waits.
Ten minutes later, his door again slides open.
Kirk enters first, grim-faced, followed by an openly irritated Doctor McCoy. Spock rises to his feet, standing at attention before them.
"Commander Spock." There is no warmth in the captain's tone. "Apparently our system has been hacked. Mr. Scott says it will be at least twenty-four hours until the engines can be restarted."
"How unfortunate," is the bland reply.
"His engineers tell me you were seen at the main computer today."
"Against medical orders!" McCoy bursts out, apparently unable - or unwilling - to restrain himself. "I'm starting to wonder if the problem isn't just your head!"
This sparks an idea. "Captain, I am uncertain of what you are accusing me."
"Don't play the fool, Spock. You have to have a reason for this."
Spock focuses inward, on the complex interplay of nerve, muscle, and gland. He lowers his heart-rate carefully. "While I did visit engineering this morning, it was with the sole purpose of ascertaining..."
The room blackens; Kirk fades from view.
"Spock? Spock!"
"I have no idea, Jim. There's no medical reasoning for it."
"That's not good enough, Bones!"
Spock keeps his eyes closed. His abused heart is fluttering in his side. If he keeps up an act of illness-induced insanity, the captain will hopefully be too distracted to pursue the ship's engine issue too vigorously. Shortly Spock will learn if the ship has finally escaped the hostiles.
It is easy to trick the monitors, keeping his vitals just at the border of unconsciousness. Even McCoy thinks he is truly oblivious to the world. At length he can sense the captain's restlessness; but the man does not leave.
Not until the red alert begins.
There is a swift patter of feet as the captain hurries from Sickbay; an accompanying stomp signals that McCoy is preparing for a possible emergency. Spock waits one beat, then opens his eyes.
He rises, an icy pulse of understanding spiking through his chest. McCoy walks back into the room, freezing at the sight of him. "What are you doing out of bed?"
There is a flash.
McCoy scrabbles for purchase against a small medical cart, gasping. Blood spills out against the cool metal, dribbling onto the floor. McCoy raises terrified blue eyes to look at Spock, who is somehow on the floor again.
All is white.
It is cold.
There is no alert from the computer. Spock's heart is calm, steadily beating. From his position on his narrow regulation-sized bed he stares at the ceiling blankly. The ceiling is sleet-gray, but his mind's eye is filled with swimming blue.
Spock takes a deep breath, then carefully rises to stand beside the intercom.
"Lieutenant Morba to - "
Spock slams his hand against the intercom button a little harder than strictly necessary. "Proceed with incineration."
"...Yes, Sir."
He does not bother to end the call properly. Spock lowers his hand, then holds it in front of his face, briefly, to watch how the digits tremble.
For some reason, he can't quite breathe properly. Illogical.
Spock folds his legs, sitting on the floor in a meditative position. Logic. Yes. He just needs to consider his situation logically. It must work, in the end.
Moving the Enterprise from her original course is plainly useless. However, the fact that the ship keeps appearing in spite of the Enterprise's repeated change of position indicates that the other is in some way intentionally responsible for this anomaly.
Spock simply cannot imagine how, much less why.
His mind keeps returning to the charcoal body of Ensign Chekov. The enemy's weapons - those must be the key. Perhaps his initial conclusions were incorrect; perhaps they are not utilizing isolytic bursts at all. But to be certain he will have to scan the ship's weapons from the bridge, with seconds to spare before they attack.
No other option presents itself. So, with an odd heaviness to his limbs, Spock unfolds, puts on his uniform, and goes to the bridge. Again.
"Morning, Mr. Spock!" Captain Kirk greets him cheerfully. Spock feels an odd twist of resentment at the sight of the captain's oblivious smile. "I forgot to ask last night - "
Spock steps in front of the captain, hands him the Brescitine mission report, and goes to the science station.
"...Thank you," Kirk says to his back, belatedly. Slowly, and with a little confusion, the human continues speaking to yeoman Farla.
He is starting to dislike the members of the crew he sees, day in and day out, fingers questing and moving in the same, repetitive motions, like character in an old holovid. Nothing seems real, because nothing matters when the day will reset within hours. Spock wonders if time loops can cause Capgras syndrome.
(Or, alternatively, maybe there is no syndrome. Maybe everything Spock's experiencing really is false. This thought is not anymore reassuring.)
Spock goes for a more direct route this time; he calls Kirk to a storage room, leaps out and closes the door over the captain's startled face, and with one Vulcan-strong fist disable the door's control panel.
"Spock?" Kirk calls, muffled through the metal door. "Spock!"
Spock heads to the bridge.
He times the approach perfectly, taking over for Marla just as the ship appears. He orders the red alert, because to do otherwise would be strange, then -
"Shields up," Spock snaps. "Ready weapons."
Uhura pauses to stare at him.
"Sir?" Sulu asks, uncertainly. "Perhaps we should wait until the captain - "
"That is an order, Lieutenant," Spock snaps. He should have at least 1.2 minutes until the captain can get out of the storage room- sufficient time if the crew does not question him. Court martial will be acceptable if he succeeds.
"Weapons ready, Sir."
"Target their weapons and fire."
"Sir!" Sulu sounds honestly appalled; he is not the only one staring. Chekov is leaning back from his console like it will leap up and strike at any second, eyes flicking between the Vulcan and the captain's communications panel.
"That is not a request, Mr. Sulu."
"But Sir, they haven't made any aggressive action - "
Twenty-one seconds until Jim reaches them. In one sharp move Spock strides across the bridge. A light touch, and Sulu is unconscious; he has aimed and fired the phasers before Chekov can even let out a cry of protest.
A hit.
And the ship appears totally undamaged.
Spock moves back to the science station, ignoring the collective horror of the bridge. His scans still show nothing, nothing useful, no signs of damage, nothing -
The turbolift door opens, and Kirk lunges in, making a beeline for his chair. "Why are we firing?" he demands sharply. "Spock?"
There is a tension on the bridge. Uhura will not look at him. Kirk seems to notice the unconscious figure of Sulu, being tapped frantically now by Chekov. "Uhura, call Medical," he orders, leaping back up. "The hell is going on here?"
"Mr. Spock nerwe pinched heem when Sulu vould not fire, Keptin!" Chekov cries, shaking Sulu roughly. "Ee haz gone mad!"
Disbelief. "Spock?"
Spock cannot bear to lie; he is saved from needing to do so. "Sir, they are firing - "
Smoke.
Gushing blood, the wail of an alarm. Over the crackling light of the bridge Kirk's dying eyes bore into him, filled with betrayal; then the bridge vanishes in another blinding flash.
Cold.
"Heart rate at medically dangerous level. Medical alert initiated."
Dead. Because he fired first? Of course not, they would be dead anyway. Probably. Possibly. Or perhaps that would have been the last cycle, if Spock had not intervened. Maybe the aliens had been about to end his torment, and now he has only provoked them further. Impossible to say. It is illogical to blame himself, when the outcome was already known, but the betrayal in Jim's face -
He is so, so cold. And shaking. Why is he shaking?
"Lieutenant Morba to Commander Spock?"
His internal body regulation tells him he is hypothermic. Except his body is not hypothermic. He is mentally hypothermic. Or possibly just deranged. Or both. His thoughts are not making much sense.
The doors slide open, and there is a distant voice. Something is fluttering quickly against his side, straining to get out. In sympathy, a cord along his neck shudders to the same beat. He feels flushed. And cold. Another paradox. Paradoxes are unpleasant.
"Spock?"
A voice. Blue. He should respond. But responding never helps. Hollow blue, dead blue. Dead, every time.
What is he doing wrong?
His face stings hotly. The sensation, after his numbness, is distantly pleasant. Another sharp warmth follows.
"Spock! Can you hear me?"
Alarm. Blue eyes. Blinking, light-filled eyes. Alive.
Not for long, but, yes, alive. Spock blinks slowly. The world is a sluggish, reddish-gray - but that is just the dim light reflecting off the usual trappings of his quarters. McCoy, out of place, stares at him with alarm. Spock notes absently that the man's features are strangely vague and undefined. "Doctor?"
"Spock, do you know where you are?"
Where is he? On the Enterprise. The whole, unmarked Enterprise. Which should be dead. Very, very dead. Even though ships cannot be dead.
There's that warmth again.
"Spock!"
Oh. That's a slap. "Enterprise," he manages.
This does not seem to placate the doctor. "We're going to Sickbay. Can you stand?"
Possibly. Either way Spock seems to be on a bed in Sickbay just moments later, so presumably some form of transport is arranged. McCoy is speaking urgently on the comm. panel, and Chapel is shining a light in his eye, asking gentle questions that Spock ignores.
Maybe he is just ill. Hallucinating the whole thing. Yes, that would make sense. Certainly more sense than a time loop. A mild disease which will be quickly, decisively and completely cured. And there will be no more dead eyes. Because everyone is alive, everyone.
Really.
And, oh, Jim is here. He's alive too, and his eyes are dark with concern, not with betrayal and anger. Much better. The anger was not pleasant to see at all, not when aimed at Spock, but he can deal with concern. Kirk's words flow over his ears, meaningless and pleasant and alive, and then he leaves.
Spock's mind starts to clear as the end of the 'day' approaches. It is possible that he is suffering a nervous breakdown of some sort. This would be more alarming if he could be realistically certain that anyone else will remember the occurrence.
Blue again, talking, rambling. Spock lets the meaningless muttering wash over him a moment, then interrupts, "Doctor?"
McCoy startles. "Spock! You with me?"
"Obviously," he answers, automatically.
McCoy is already moving to take more readings. "Spock, the hell was that? You just went catatonic - wait!"
Ignoring the doctor's protest, Spock rises waveringly to his feet. "There is no time - "
The red alert starts screaming its protest; McCoy swears, shoving at the Vulcan's shoulder futilely. "Get back down, dammit, you're not fit for duty - "
Spock thinks of red-on-blue, and it's a very easy decision to pinch McCoy's shoulder and head for the turbolift.
Kirk turns as the lift opens, plainly startled. His gaze locks with Spock, and behind him the fierce glow of a shot flares up the viewscreen in a halo of light.
It is cold.
Freezing. Glacial. Spock stares at the ceiling. Then he gets up.
He needs to investigate other causes, other possibilities, but - what? What else is there?
Spock researches the ship's weapons. He researches spatial anomalies. He researches temporal mechanics until his head is spinning with terminology. He takes the transporters apart and examines them, piece by piece, because the transporters on the Enterprise are often involved in temporal or quantum displacements, and why not. He finds nothing.
On one repetitive day he finds himself wandering through the recreation decks, just for something different, and he hears this conversation:
"I'm going stir-crazy," an ensign says. "It seems like we've been doing the same thing for months. Scan this star system. Log these numbers. Do this, do that, jump, sit, yes-sir no-sir. I need some fresh air!"
The lieutenant he is speaking with makes some comments about an upcoming shoreleave which, Spock knows, will never occur. He has to return to his rooms, forcing himself into unproductive meditation to try to quash a traitorous surge of fury. The ensign thinks he has lived a dull and repetitious existence, while Spock is trapped in a cycle of never-ending monotony and destruction by turns. He hates the time-loop and he hates this ship and he hates trying not to hate, because what's the point in being a respectable Vulcan if no one evens knows?
He tries to tell Kirk about the time loop seven times.
The first time, Kirk refuses to believe him, sending him to Sickbay for tests. McCoy agrees. As he explains, if Spock really is re-experiencing each day, losing one more doesn't mean anything. Spock thinks of blank blueness and red-on-gold, but that would be an emotional appeal, so he says nothing. McCoy finds nothing wrong with him. Kirk tells him something personal - a memory from his childhood, with Sam, something he has long been ashamed of - and within the hour he dies.
The second time, Kirk refuses to believe him despite the memory. McCoy agrees. As he explains, if Spock really is re-experiencing each day, losing one more doesn't mean anything. The captain gives Spock another memory, and within an hour he is dead.
The third time, Kirk refuses to believe him despite the two memories. Spock is sent to Sickbay. McCoy agrees. As he explains, if Spock really is re-experiencing each day, losing one more doesn't mean anything. Spock tries to argue that using this argument every day does, in fact, mean something. Kirk counters that Spock could perhaps have obtained the information about his past some other way - maybe even during one of their mind-melds over the years. Surely, after all, that is more likely than time travel.
Just one day, Kirk promises, and he dies.
The fourth time, Spock has three memories. Kirk wants to send him to Sickbay. McCoy agrees. As he explains, if Spock really is re-experiencing each day, losing one more doesn't mean anything. Spock vehemently disagrees - too vehemently, perhaps, and Kirk seems even more resolute.
The fifth time he mind-melds with Kirk. The captain believes. McCoy uses his medical override to have them both examined. As he explains, if Spock really is re-experiencing each day, losing one more doesn't mean anything.
The sixth time he mind-melds with Kirk and McCoy. McCoy announces that they still need to be examined, because Spock could merely have shown them memories produced by his own insanity. As he explains, if Spock really is reexperiencing each day, losing one more doesn't mean anything.
The seventh time he mind-melds with Kirk and knocks McCoy unconscious. Kirk refuses to believe this is necessary, despite the meld, and has Spock taken to the brig. Obviously, everyone dies.
Spock is starting to sincerely dislike McCoy, and the situation is hopeless.
It is startling how dull his captain is - how dull the entire crew is. Humans seem to possess a limited number of reactions based upon stimuli. Action, reaction. There is nothing dynamic in their behavior. They seem false, almost. Unreal. Just characters that are programmed, maybe, to smile and tilt their heads or shout in horror. But there is no thought, no life. They are the sum of their reactions, and that is all.
Spock has thought of social conduct in scientific terms before this long, long day, of course, but rarely with such loathing.
(He also thinks this is a very irritating time for McCoy to try to be logical.)
Perhaps he needs to die.
It is not a distressing thought. It should be, and Spock is aware of this. But while he watches all the others die, day after day, nothing changes. Yet Spock always remembers. Perhaps Spock is the variable that damns them all to this oblivious Purgatory. So, he will die before them. It is logical, Spock tells himself, and tries to ignore a feeling that is something like relief.
"Heart rate suggestive of duress," recites the calm computer-voice. "Disengage alert within fifteen seconds to cancel call to Sickbay."
Irrelevant. Spock rises and turns to the wall. He pulls off his black sleeping-robe, leaving behind a thermal regulation-black undershirt and shorts. Thin. He reaches out to pick up a slender, antique knife.
"Medical alert sent," the computer coos.
Spock grasps the hilt in both hands, sinking to his knees, and carefully places the blade-tip against his side, where his Vulcan-heart beats quick and frantic. He does not try to control the pulse. That, too, is now irrelevant.
The door opens just as he falls.
It is cold.
It is cold, and Spock does not care.
He should focus on fixing the loop. Warning his crewmates. Perhaps, if he is to forgo long explanations, just sequester himself in the labs again.
Instead Spock locks his quarters and curls on his bunk, staring at the far wall and ignoring an increasingly panicked series of com. calls. He ignores the pounding on his door that comes later, and the abrupt cessation when the red alert begins flashing. He ignores everything, in fact, right until the world flares white and he dies.
And then it starts again.
It is cold.
Spock does not answer the Ensign's comm-call. He also does not bother to lock the door, and after shifting falls off the bed and just lays on the floor, staring at his bland, too-familiar ceiling.
The door slides open.
"Spock!"
Kirk rushes forward, then stops as though puzzled. He expects Spock to be hurt. He is not - not physically, anyway.
"Seventeen years."
"What?"
"Seventeen years. And it never seemed dull. Now after a day it is all too familiar. Perhaps the passage of time makes small differences in the walls - differences too minor for the eyes to follow consciously, but just great enough to prevent insanity."
"What are you talking about, Spock?"
"The universe," Spock says, meaning the ship, which is now everything. "All of it. All the same."
Spock is sick, sick, sick of Sickbay, which is not a pun. He hates its sterile whiteness, most of all because it never stays white.
"Do you know what color the sickrooms are on Vulcan?" Spock asks no one in particular.
"I can't say I do," Nurse Chapel offers as McCoy and Kirk whisper lowly in a corner.
"Green. It is illogical to make a sickroom white. The blood shows too easily. You should change that."
"It's... not really my decision." Nurse Chapel sounds a little disconcerted. The whispering has stopped.
Spock tilts his head to scan the entirety of the room.
"...It would take two gallons to coat the entire main room evenly," he calculates.
"What, you mean paint?"
"Of blood," Spock tells her, annoyed.
"..."
"Spock," McCoy prompts, his voice uncharacteristically even, "Can you tell me the stardate?"
"It is stardate 2243.15. As it was yesterday, and as it will be tomorrow. Or it is stardate 2243.115. It is debatable. There are papers."
Temporal Mechanics. So imprecise, so illogical. Spock does not approve of illogical things. Like the white walls.
"Papers?"
"Not physically. It is an archaic term. No one uses paper anymore."
"Of course." And McCoy drags away the captain so they can whisper again.
(When they die this day, the hundredth day, Spock lasts long enough to look at the blood-stained walls and mutter "Illogical" right before he wakes up.)
(It is still cold.)
Spock is likely mad. He accepts this.
It is the only thing that makes sense. And the only possibility that offers a chance of redemption.
He just wants to be warm again, that is all. He feels frozen, hollow. Maybe warmth will help. Even a brief cessation from the iciness tearing at his limbs seems like something heavenly. So when he wakes Spock calls the bridge, telling the captain he means to assist the chief engineer with repairs.
"Not fond of the cold, huh? Alright, I'll call up a replacement. By the way - "
"I will send the Brescitine mission report immediately, Sir. Spock out."
He leaves and goes straight to a secluded section of Engineering to begin manual system checks. He has no interest in speaking with anyone today, or being around others at the day's end.
The burst circuit causing the maddening chill is found in an almost insultingly short period of time, for all the suffering it has brought Spock. Doubtlessly Scotty had merely investigated other potential areas of interest first (Spock's area would not typically be considered the most 'logical' place from which to start investigating), but he has to concentrate hard on sounding even and level and not insane as he meets Scott (alive, breathing, keep breathing, in-out) and reports the problem location.
Scotty beams. "Wonderful! I'll send the lads to fix it up right away. You'll have to tell me later how you knew where to begin searching."
Spock nods and murmurs something he doesn't remember.
He makes his way to his quarters, somehow. Once there he curls tightly on his bed, limbs trembling with cold and phantom-cold, and waits.
The warmth creeps through his numb flesh by slow degrees, starting as a slow tingle until his skin feels like it's blistering. It is almost painful, but pleasantly painful. He raises the heat to one-hundred eighty degrees Fahrenheit - extremely hot even by Vulcan standards - and simply enjoys the agony, and waits for it to end.
There are no calls from the bridge; perhaps Jim assumes he is still in Engineering, or simply attending to other business. After all, a proper Vulcan would never slack off during duty. A logical assumption, when logic works, except nothing is logical now. And Spock is not the same person of some two hundred-odd days ago.
Hours creep by in this manner. He counts the time until the red-alert almost automatically. One hour. Half an hour. Twenty minutes. Ten. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
And then.
Spock waits. The ship is silent, still.
Slowly, he sits up.
His head is foggy with the heat, his limbs slow to respond. Spock checks the chonometer. It is exactly one minute after the red-alert should have sounded.
Surely, surely the temperature can't have any bearing on the alien ship. There can be no correlation. It is illogical. The temperature deviation was caused by a flaw in a heating-system circuit. It absolutely cannot affect temporal displacements. It is not logical. It is not.
"Heart rate suggestive of duress," recites the computer, startling him. "Disengage alert within fifteen seconds to cancel call to Sickbay."
"...Computer. Cancel medical alert."
Any second.
Seconds tick by. Minutes.
He rises to re-check the chronometer a dozen times. An hour passes. Perhaps it is over. Perhaps the days will continue again, no one any the wiser. Perhaps he is saved, and perhaps -
The red alert starts blaring.
Spock goes to the bridge, which he has not done in almost a month's-worth of days. But he has to know. He steps onto the ship - takes one look at the world and the ship on the viewscreen - and turns right back around.
He has no desire to see what follows.
It is cold.
Again.
But something is burning low in his chest. Maybe, then, hope is logical.
It is cold, and Spock tells Scott where the problem in life-support is within moments of waking. Because he is still a scientist, and still knows that only one variable should be tested at a time, this is all he does.
Time trickles by. The usual red-alert time comes and passes, and then another hour. Spock finds he has a full two hours more than usual before the alien ship arrives, which is more even than the loop before.
The only conclusion is that the temperature affects whatever variable is causing the loop. Now he just has to discover
There are Good days, and Bad days, and Okay days. This is how the endless days are separated.
On Good days he grimly delves into the problem of the time-loop, experimenting with engineering systems to try to find a solution. On Okay days he sometimes does the same thing, when he remembers the existence of the time loop, but he finds it hard to focus. Often he settles for fixing the heating system and absconding to his quarters.
And on Bad days, he typically does not mark the passage of time at all. Sometimes he comes to awareness in Sickbay, rambling or gasping for breath with McCoy hovering around the biobed. Sometimes the days end early, with a prick to his heart and a slow narrowing of the world. Sometimes he wakes up on a Good day with no memory of the day before, uncertain how long he has been confused.
It is hard to tell, but Spock tries to keep track and it seems that there are far more Bad days than anything else.
Most days end with blood.
It is an Okay day.
Spock alerts Scott to the error in Engineering, and is glad as always to have a legitimate excuse to make the ship warmer despite the need for haste. After all, warming the ship increases the duration of each loop by two hours, so the few seconds needed to speak to Scott are not wasted.
But while he will now be more comfortable, his thoughts are confused. He knows himself well enough to not even try finding a solution today; that would be a useless endeavor. In the interest of preserving what little sanity he has left, Spock will use this day to relax.
A very familiar beep sounds.
"Lieutenant Morba to Commander Spock?"
He lets out a slow sigh.
"Spock here."
"Sir, we're having some trouble in Botany Lab II - the Irabian ferns seem to have, er, mutated - "
"Proceed with incineration."
"Uh -"
Spock ends the call, then pauses.
He has lived through 388 versions of the same day. But he has never paused to see to his labs; perhaps the experience will be a welcome diversion. With that in mind, he goes to Botany Lab II.
The Lab is a mess, as might be expected. Huge, pulsating red vines and barbed leaves are tangled throughout the entire room, having crept over the ceiling and the walls. The floor is, indeed, mostly corroded by some sort of acid. A mess of vines blocks the view, making it unclear how deep the foliage descends through the ship.
"Mr. Spock!" Lieutenant Morba exclaims. "You didn't need to come down here, Sir."
"I was merely curious. Are you having any difficulties?"
"No, Sir. Well - I sorta wish Mr. Scott had taken a little longer fixing the life-support. But it shouldn't be a problem."
Spock pauses. Considers. And reconsiders, because, no. It isn't possible. "...Please elaborate."
"Well, the heat seems to be helping the plant grow, and it's growing at an exponential rate. But I think we can keep up. It will just take a little longer to get rid of the whole thing."
"...Excuse me," Spock says, and leaves the lab.
Back in his quarters he falls to the floor, trying for the first time in weeks to meditate. His thoughts are too confused; the effort is fruitless. But he needs to regain control. He needs to think clearly. First he must confirm that the death of the organism coincides with the arrival of the unknown ship. And then -
And then, and then, and then - time will continue.
He returns to the lab two hours after what he considers the 'standard' end of the day. Morba nods in greeting.
"Mr. Spock," he says. "We're just getting the last of it."
Spock turns. An ensign peels a vine from around his arm and tosses the last of the plant into a portable incinerator.
The red alert starts to blare.
Morba looks up, alarmed. "This has been most enlightening," Spock says calmly. "Thank you, Lieutenant."
"Sir, shouldn't you get to the bridge?" Morba broaches hesitantly as Spock remains standing.
"From this location I would not make it in time."
"In time for what?"
There is a flare. The world rattles. Morba stares up at Spock from the floor, blood gushing from his head, and Spock dies.
It is cold.
It is also a Good day.
A very, very good day, even with the last memory of death. Spock rises smoothly.
"Lieutenant Morba to Commander Spock?"
"Do not harm the plant, Lieutenant. I am on my way."
"What?"
Spock ends the call.
"Good morning, Commander," Ensign Presa greets as he passes. Spock nods absently.
Upon reaching Botany Lab II Morba greets him, looking agitated. "Sir, the Iranian ferns have mutated - "
"I am aware. Please clear the lab."
"Sir?"
"Clear the lab, Lieutenant."
"Yes, Sir!"
The lab is cleared with alacrity. Alone, Spock bends over the nearest part of the fern and carefully places his fingers over it.
We waited.
"I did not understand."
We called. We showed you what would happen.
"You could have spoken to me."
You were not close. Not close enough. We called.
"You cannot stay aboard this ship," Spock says.
We exist, anywhere.
"I do not..."
A picture appears in his mind. The fern floating through space, arching forward and propelling itself with a tangle of vines before meeting the alien ship, which is manned with the symbiotic humanoid species that also lives on the fern's homeworld - underground, so the Enterprise had not encountered them on the initial survey of Irabia IV.
Spock hates this plant.
He hates the plant and the humanoid Iranians and this whole situation. The plant does not care. We could not die, it tries to explain. They knew. Our death called out. It could not be permitted to occur.
"I will get you off the ship. And you will not interfere with us again."
A vague sense of agreement is transmitted.
Spock stands up to find a com. panel. "Spock to Captain Kirk."
"This seems crazy."
An ironic choice of wording. "I am... aware."
"It's a plant. You're sure it's sentient?"
"I was able to meld with it."
"And what made you try that, anyway?"
"It communicated with me prior to this morning - in a manner of speaking." A pause. "It took awhile to understand the message."
"Well," shrugs Kirk. "No one's perfect."
They watch as the bundle of flailing vines is ejected from the airlock. In his mind's eye Spock has a vision of red-on-gold. "No," he agrees. "No one is."
Kirk inhales sharply as the vines flare out, then slowly undulate. The mass floats away, a giant leafy octopus inexplicably soaring through the stars.
"This job will never be boring," he says fondly.
Spock says nothing.
He cannot speak of what happened with Kirk; his past attempts have proven that much. He will keep his secret, then, but he does not know how to continue. How to move through time, which now seems so abstract, so meaningless.
How to remember that these people are real now, and will not reset at the end of each day.
He is alive. They are all alive.
"By the way," Kirk adds as they leave, "Do you have that report for the Brescitine mission done?"
"...No."