Remnants of the Past
I awake from the dream with a start.
It has been forty-nine hours since the battle with the USS Vengeance. It has been forty-nine hours and twenty-seven minutes since the battle with Khan and it has been just as long, longer, since Captain Kirk died of radiation poisoning.
With a sharp inhale of breath, I sit up. Sleep has become a foreign thing, even though Doctor McCoy insists that I get some rest. This would be exponentially easier if there was not the looming fact that Captain Kirk is asleep and he may never wake up.
This fact alone makes sleep almost impossible.
If it were not for this, there are other reasons that sleep does not come naturally. For one, it is in a Vulcan's nature to, in a time of crisis, take very little rest. I know that I am running on low power due to the emotional strain of Captain Kirk's death and the resulting fight with the augment that had saved his life. However, stress tends to make one's adrenaline system work on overload, rending sleep impossible.
Secondly, there are... To say nightmares would not be the correct description, but they are not the pleasant dreams of chess games and New Vulcan. But there are not nightmares... They are memories.
Not my memories, no, but still a part of my own consciousness. While fighting with Khan, I had been focussed solely on extracting some satisfaction from the breaking down of the man who had broken all that I, all that the Enterprise, had known. Certain things happened upon that garbage trow that I am not happy about, but they are actions that I took; therefore, I take full responsibility of the ramifications.
During some point that I still do not comprehend when or how it happened, my fingers fell into points on Khan's visage that are familiar to any Vulcan. The mind meld. Unwittingly, unwillingly, for a few seconds, I was in Khan's mind.
It was an arrangement of pictures that continue to haunt my unconsciousness. There were families, happy. And then they were suddenly no longer happy, no longer welcome, exiled from a world that they had been genetically engineered to live in. A stolen ship and life on the run. Fear, panic, anger, and hurt filled the void created by the loss of happiness. Frozen faces. Darkness that was vanquished by light that was the future. More anger, more pain, humiliation. Not being able to do anything against your tormentor was not a good feeling when your family was in danger. Loyalty dictated action. Take everything with a grain of salt. Do everything desired. Wish/command scenario. Vengeance will come, eventually, quick and sharp like the flash of a dagger, like a starship through the night. Planning, precision, betrayal so strong that it could cripple one's mind. Panic. Plans gone wrong. Terrible sadness, mind crushing loss. And then only vengeance. A desire for vengeance that would lead into dark and terrible things, but no matter. There is nothing left. No families. Nothing to live for, only anger to pull from, feeding the obsession, fueling the fire. Fragments of a child, blood transfusions, and bombs. Satisfaction of watching the London 'archives' burn, satisfaction in the knowledge that Marcus would be accessible soon. One meeting, one room, many explosions and further blood and death. Blonde hair, broken ships, hiding away on a deserted planet. Secrets. War? Possible war. And then, seventy-two. Seventy-two. Surrender. Unassurance but necessary to figure out as plans unfold. Busy, bustling ship, smaller than Marcus's dark horse, yet infinitely more populated. Familial. The Captain- blonde hair- full of fight and adrenaline and maybe, just maybe something that could be manipulated. Planning, plotting, everything falling into place. Marcus: predictable. The blonde man falls into his traps. Space dive, fighting, Marcus, Kirk. Vengeance fulfilled, family required. Do anything for family. Loyalty and perseverance. Betrayal again, anger, fists flying and blood spilling. Then- darkness, falling into darkness.
I let out a weary sigh.
Sometimes the memories that get dredged up are more than just fleeting mind meld memories. Sometimes, scenarios actually play out in my head. Sometimes the memories show Khan, hands in manacles behind his back and healing cuts across his cheekbones. There is a gigantic black 31 painted on the wall.
I can only assume that this memory in particular is a remnant of Khan's stay in Section 31. While Khan was a misdirected man, he did not deserve the pain of torture under an Admiral's hand. No member of any race or species should be forced to undergo that.
Sometimes the memories show a brunette women, warm brown eyes and the feeling of tender touches. Whispered names- Marla- flicker past the edges of consciousness before the warm, pleasant feeling fades away to nothing but angry darkness.
Given the emotions associated with this memory in particular, I can only assume that this Marla was of some particular emotional importance to Khan. Peculiar... There are no records that Khan had a wife. In actuality, however, there are no records on Khan to say whether or not he had a wife. The only records that Starfleet have possession of are the records of one John Harrison. And John Harrison was only a figment of a madman's imagination.
Khan is a man who has broken nearly every code in the Regulation handbook. Despite this, there is a part of me that wonders what Khan would have become had Alexander Marcus not set his eye on him.
From a logical standpoint, the fact that Khan would do anything for his family is an understandable statement. Highly emotional, but logical to any species ruled by sentiment. If he was Captain upon his own ship, it would have been his responsibility to take care of his crew... his family, in such a word. Due to advances made by a misdirected Starfleet officer, Khan's dedication had become an obsession. And the obsession had caused problems far beyond what even the most intelligent Starfleet officer could have predicted.
And yet...
No man deserves to die without a trial. That is a fact that I impressed upon Captain Kirk's mind for the duration of our mission and I still stand by it. However, the trial of a man who attacked a Starfleet Captain, an Admiral- however misguided- who sent his ship on a collision course with Starfleet Headquarters, would most likely not gleam results of a beneficial kind to the augment. Khan believed that what he was doing was the final option... but how would that stand in a trial?
I resist the urge to sigh again and push the blankets away. After swinging my legs over the side of the mattress, I stride to the window to look outside. San Francisco is still recovering. It will continue to be in the recovery stage for a while.
Questions of Khan are thoughts that I do not need to be pondering. Khan is no longer my problem, no longer a problem at all; he has been returned to his cryotube where he can bring no further danger. He has been returned to his family, once and for all.
Somehow, I think, this is not what Khan wanted when he set out on his mission. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately for us, there is nothing else for us to do.
The accidental mind-meld has seriously upset my line of thought. The turmoil of Khan's most private thoughts and experiments are keeping me awake at night.
With a sigh finally breaking my contemplative façade, I reach for the standard issue Vulcan robes and retire to the en-suite washroom in hopes of a meditation that will not be disturbed.
Because I still think it totally looked like Spock accidentally did a mind meld with Khan during that fight scene. And of course Khan's mental workings would bother Spock, especially during the period where they didn't know what would happen to Kirk. But, you know, that's just me thinking outside of the box. :p Random muses.
I do not own Star Trek. Thank you! :)