Thanks to my beta reader, Djinn1, for all her time, encouragement, support and inspirational stories. The characters aren't mine (if only) but this story is.
Empty
It is dark and something is wrong.
Wrong but he can't immediately say why. He doesn't feel in danger. There's no memory of an imminent threat. No memory...?
Where is he?
It's ok. He's noticed it happens more often now - that disconnected feeling on waking. It will go. He just has to wait a minute - for the dreams to dissolve and reality to crawl down the check list. First...
Planet or ship?
Answer - ship. His ship. That hum as comforting and familiar to him as his own heartbeat. Plus one then.
Next - injured? Is this sickbay?
He's learned to stretch gingerly when regaining consciousness. Too often that first movement brings pain, jaw-clenching pain, even when muffled by meds. He's half listening for McCoy - the worried, "Jim?" But not this time. No pain. Plus one again.
Actually he feels great. He hasn't slept this well for months. Doesn't usually sleep this well unless...
Does he have company?
"Lights."
No, he is alone. And in his quarters. The usual. Minus one.
He grins to himself. It would have been good to wake up next to someone feeling this buzz, this alive - he knows exactly what would have happened next. For a moment he can almost sense the warmth, the connection. It's been far too long. He recognises the familiar ache - a need that extends further than the physical. Although that's there too...must be morning then. Alpha shift.
But something is wrong.
The lights should have come on with the chrono alarm. He shouldn't be this rested. And why can't he remember what's happening today?
He rolls up and onto his feet. He's dressed, in his uniform - has he slept like this?
And the ship - she doesn't sound right. It's so instinctive, so integral this connection that he doesn't question it, just knows. Something is out of kilter. No, not out of kilter. Something is too in kilter. The hum is right but the upper irregular notes are missing - there's a lack of sibilance and no...randomness.
He shakes his head - strides over to the comms unit.
"Kirk to Bridge."
Nothing. Not even static. Damned unit must be malfunctioning. He ignores the inner voice telling him that's unlikely. Maybe it's just comms to the bridge that are out.
"Kirk to engineering. Scotty?"
Nothing. Must be the unit. Swearing softly, his early morning joie de vivre fast dissipating, he heads for the door and the corridor comms unit. But before he can get his finger on the button, he stops.
Something is very wrong.
The corridor is deserted. If this is alpha shift then everyone has overslept. Even on gamma shift, it's never this quiet. And again those missing notes at the top of the hum.
Slowly he lifts his finger, presses the button. Already suspects this is more than a broken comms unit.
"Kirk to bridge. Spock - respond."
Silence.
He turns away, thinking. Sets off towards the turbo lift. Still no-one.
He's frowning but the shift from frustration to controlled calm, to a lightning rundown of the possibilities, is almost instant. He's had years of this - years of dealing with the unexpected from a standing start. Revels in it - that's what they say. Command comes as naturally to James T. Kirk as breathing.
He's heard them say it - read it in the Star Fleet commendations. Yet he feels no pride in what he hears, no sense of superiority. After all he knows what they don't say, what they don't see.
They talk about the decisions that went right. They choose to forget all the times the decisions went wrong. No. All the times he went wrong. And his mistakes cost lives. They don't know the price he's paid for life in the centre chair. The whispers of uncertainty in his ear that he has to ignore to do his job.
And the whispers are there now as he runs through the scenarios - turning the corner into the empty mess. His crew - 430 men and women - they rely on him to keep them safe, they're his responsibility... And they're nowhere to be seen.
-oOo-
Captain's log. Star date - unknown.
"I am alone on the Enterprise. The entire crew appears to have left the ship - or been beamed off by some unknown entity, some force now no longer apparent."
His voice seems to echo around the bridge. Lights winking by vacant chairs. An empty view-screen. Who the hell is he talking to?
"It sounds bizarre. Ridiculous even. But there are no signs of a struggle. No damage to the Enterprise far as I can determine although all communication channels are dead. I have been unable to contact Starfleet Command. As my first officer is so fond of saying, when one has ruled out everything that is possible, whatever remains, however impossible, must be the truth."
He pauses.
Reluctant to confront the other possibilities. Decides they must be recorded.
"There are alternative explanations for the situation I find myself in. I still have little memory of the day before I awoke. I may be under the influence of an alien substance, an unknown drug given to me for some purpose I do not yet understand."
Another pause. He hasn't forgotten Gideon. The fake Enterprise - Odona - how they'd manipulated him.
"Alternative possibility - this Enterprise could be an illusion - generated to persuade me to reveal sensitive information. Or to extract something from me."
He glances over his shoulder. The doors to the turbo lift stay closed. There are no faces in the view screen. Not this time.
"And of course there is a third option - I may have lost my mind."
He stops recording. Does he feel crazy? It wouldn't be the first time he's lost his marbles. Or half his marbles, in the case of that transporter accident which gave the whole crew a chance to ogle their captain's split personality. Then there was the Psi 2000 virus, the neutraliser on Tantalus penal colony - he should recognise the signs of mind meddling by now.
But this feels different. Different even from those hours on Gideon. He hadn't really believed in that Enterprise from the moment he stepped off the transporter. She'd never sounded right. This time she's real. A little off her game but real. He can feel the connection.
Omicron Ceti III. That was the closest comparable experience. That moment he beamed back to the ship only to discover they'd all left without him. The plant spore mutiny they called it, when they felt ready to joke about it. Took him a while to see the funny side. It was mutiny after all - vacuous smiles couldn't disguise the fact they'd ignored their captain's orders. Even though he knew there was a chemical explanation, it rankled.
If McCoy were here he'd be able to explore how he's feeling about this - his empty Enterprise. Lighten the mood with a quip or two about the loneliness of command.
If Spock were here, they'd be well on the way to a rational explanation by now.
But he has to examine how he's feeling without their help. And what he feels is unexpected.
Yes, he's worried - they are his crew after all. But he can't shake the conviction that they're ok. That this isn't about them.
The morning energy hasn't left him. He's still buzzing from a good night's sleep. And buzzing from something else. The conundrum facing him is offering focus; he's completely engaged, determined to solve this mystery. He's not bored.
And there's no immediate danger. There's no decaying orbit, no relentless countdown as life support dwindles, no landing party facing extinction if he doesn't act, or if he does. The helm is showing the Enterprise is merely drifting forward in space. In the absence of a tangible threat, everything can run on automatic for days, weeks even.
"That's my girl," he murmurs, patting the command console on his armrest. Doesn't even have to pretend the way he usually does when he talks to his ship - there's no-one around to see. He finds he's grinning. It's... exhilarating, liberating, baffling in equal measure. But it's not a no-win scenario.
-oOo-
The noise is getting louder. It draws him from the turbo lift along deck 12, walking more slowly now as he targets the source, adapts his scenarios.
For what seems like hours he's prowled the endless empty corridors hunting clues. Visited parts of the Enterprise he hasn't been to since their mission started. He can't remember the last time he enjoyed himself this much. But he's realising he didn't know his best girl as well as he'd thought - and he's identified why she sounds wrong. The starship's mechanics are fine. He's been to the engine room - it all sounds smooth as silk even without Scotty to babysit. What jars is the absence of voices - the loss of human chatter, laughter and movement that are as much a part of life on ship as the whirr of artificial air, the low murmur of warp drive.
But now he can hear an echo of what's been missing. It's irregular - a thump, a hiss, then a double thump. It's not automated. It sounds random. It sounds...human.
He's left this corridor until last. After all it seemed unlikely he'd find his crew hiding out in the gym. But now, as he pauses outside the door, he wonders what he'll find - a fitness fanatic who opted for an extended workout rather than a mass beam out? The terrifying sit ups monster?
He steps quickly inside. Scolds himself for the continuing lightness of mood. This is serious. Star Fleet wouldn't be too impressed to see their golden boy, no closer to solving the empty Enterprise mystery than he was when he woke up, grinning in the dark.
In the dark? Usually the gym lights are on a motion sensor. But he can turn the gloom to his advantage. Cautiously he moves forward, hugging the curve of the wall and keeping a tight grip on the phaser he's picked up just in case. The noise is coming from the far end and he wants to see before he's seen.
Thump... Grunt… thump, thump. Gasp.
He creeps closer. A black shape, getting larger. Suddenly it's huge. Rushing him at speed - hitting him with such force he's off his feet and gasping to reinflate his solar plexus from a prone position before he has time to even think about firing.
He groans, reaching for the weapon that's clattered out of reach. But before he can get to it, he hears another gasp. This time it's unmistakably human, female and... familiar.
"Captain? Captain Kirk? Is that you, sir?"
The lights blink on and he blinks back, trying to focus on the silhouette looming above him, offering a hand.
"Chapel? Nurse Chapel? What the hell?"
"Sorry, sir." Is that a smirk he can see? It's gone before he can be sure. "I didn't mean to…I mean, I didn't realise you were there, here, I mean..."
"As you were, Chapel."
What's that about? Why's he fallen back on parade ground speak?
Trying to reclaim some shred of dignity, he ignores the proffered hand and attempts to leap to his feet with more springiness than he feels. Steps round the leather strike bag that sent him flying. Who would have thought his ship's nurse could pack such a punch?
She's flushed and breathing hard but she doesn't look as exhausted as he'd expect after what appears to be a lengthy session. Various bits of gym equipment are scattered across the mats. She's pulling off her boxing gloves, trying to hide her embarrassment at bowling over her commanding officer
But she's not able to suppress the glint, the sparkle of amusement in her eyes. Blue eyes. Funny that, he doesn't think he's ever noticed the colour of Chapel's eyes before. He clears his throat.
"So... " His voice sounds hoarse. She really winded him. Come on, Kirk. Pull yourself together, man.
"So - Chapel. Report. I mean..."
God, he sounds like the worst kind of command automaton. Tries again. More gently this time.
"What are you doing here? Where's Bones?"
A flicker of annoyance.
"We're not joined at the hip, you know. And what does it look like I'm doing?... Sir."
The 'Sir' is an afterthought. He can see her realise how insubordinate she sounds. She looks down. Swallows. This isn't the Chapel he knows.
That Chapel, the nurse with the strong fingers and soothing voice who's treated him for so many injuries over the years, that Chapel would never have talked back to an officer.
Mind you, he can't imagine 'that Chapel' sweating away her spare time in the gym. And that's some muscle definition she's got going there - biceps, triceps, probably some other ceps under the regulation Star Fleet singlet. And she's done something to her hair. He hasn't seen her for a while - it's quite a transformation.
She's noticed him checking her out. Lifts her chin.
"Sorry, sir. You gave me quite a start. I wasn't expecting anyone..."
"No. Well, you gave me a bit of a shock too." He rubs his midriff ruefully. Decides he won't call her on her attitude. There are more immediate concerns. "I'd like to hear what you're doing here. You do realise you appear to be all I've got left of my crew."
"All you've got left?"
She's confused. Something in her eyes tells him she's not in the loop on this one - not quite with it. Bit like him when he came to this morning. He holds her gaze. He needs some answers now.
"Yes, Chapel. You're it... Your crewmates have all gone AWOL. Think. Just how long have you been working out in here? How did you get to the gym?"
She reacts to his shift in tone. Seems to recognise the steeliness although he hasn't raised his voice.
"Er... I... I'm not really sure when I came in, sir."
She pauses. Frowns. "I don't remember." He watches her engage her brain, think back,. It doesn't take her long to figure out what's missing. "Actually I don't remember how I got here either. Do you think...?"
She's running the scenarios. He recognises the signs. She's working through her own checklist, discarding theories, extrapolating. A less experienced crew-member would have had at least a moment of panic right about now. But Chapel lost her rookie status a long time ago.
"I need my tricorder."
He can see she's arrived at the drug/noxious substance theory he had as number one on his alternatives list. She's starting for the door - all business now, embarrassment seemingly forgotten. Then she turns back. There's that glint again.
"You mean we're really the only ones on board? I wondered why I had the machines all to myself for so long." The grin is an echo of the one he had on the bridge. She's already caught up - living in the moment and ignoring the darker possibilities.
Suddenly he's glad she's the one who's ended up sharing this slightly surreal experience with him. Spock would have been great at curbing his wilder theories - running his inbuilt logic software through the facts. McCoy - well, McCoy would have had them both on biobeds from the start - and leached away the joy of his empty Enterprise with his grumbles about the lack of staff. But Chapel - now this could be fun...
-oOo-
"Just one more test, sir. Hold still."
She looks up from the computer to her patient on the biobed. No, not her patient, she reminds herself. Her captain. Her captain who's looking grumpier by the minute.
"Dammit, Chapel. You've run every test in the book. This is getting us nowhere."
She frowns at the screen. He's right. They're no further along than they were two hours ago. And something's off with the diagnostics computer, which isn't helping to speed things along.
She knows how much he hates being a guinea pig - hates anything medical. McCoy had to come up with some pretty creative ruses just to get him in for the regulation check-ups.
It's no surprise that a man who's been critically injured in the line of duty so many times resists spending more hours than he has to in sickbay. The scars tell their own story. Sometimes the gap between injury and treatment is too long even for Star Fleet regenerators to work their magic.
But she's always enjoyed treating him - and not just because she gets a chance to admire the scars close up. Unlike most of her patients, he never complains when he's injured. His first thoughts are always for the crew, his ship. Waves away the pain meds so he can stay sharp, stay in charge. Stoic - that's Jim Kirk.
But he's complaining now. Apparently this isn't "fun".
"Sir, just because the tox screens are showing negative doesn't mean we can rule out a chemical agent." She can see he's not listening. He's got that look again – his damned ship is on transmit and he's on receive.
She tries to keep the irritation out of her voice, reminds herself she's already on thin ice after her flash of temper in the gym. Tries again with her best 'Spock the scientist' voice.
"What we're seeing - the empty ship – it could be a shared illusion linked to the memory loss. Or the memory loss could be linked to the same event that's spirited away the crew. But then - logically - we'd expect to see ship-wide contagion on the tricorder readings…"
He grins. God, that Kirk grin. She's heard Janice go on about it enough times - thought she was immune. But then it's been a long time since she's been exposed to the close-up.
"All right, nurse. After that spot-on impression, you get First Officer privileges. But we're not going to find the answers sitting in sickbay. And that damned computer needs a reboot."
She has to agree. It's running slow. She's turned off voice command to input direct but it's not helped. There's a lag – almost as if every result is being filtered remotely. And entire databases seem to be offline.
He's off the biobed now, standing over her shoulder. She's suddenly self-conscious – realises she's still wearing her skimpy gym outfit. Not sure he's aware of his arm brushing her side as he scrolls down the screen. Then he turns - a question in his eyes - and she knows he's all too aware. Is she about to get a blast of the famous Kirk seductive charm? First time for everything.
There's a vibration. A crackle in the air.
"Chris, can you feel that?" he asks, and his voice is soft.
Oh, so it's Chris now, is it? She can feel herself leaning in. But before she makes a complete fool of herself, she realises he's really asking. Then the earth moves...for both of them.
The jolt throws her hard against him, then back onto the floor. She's up in an instant but he's faster.
"Damn, I should never have left the bridge. Chapel, are you all right?"
She nods, doesn't waste her breath on words. She's already following him through the door, her long legs easily matching his pace as they race for the turbo lift. The Enterprise is under attack.
-oOo-
"Red alert."
His order is a reflex as the lift doors open but there's no-one to hear. No-one but Chapel and she's already well aware of their alert status.
On autopilot he heads for the centre chair, then realises there's little point in taking the command position when there's no one to command. He scoots over to the weapons console - scans the screen read-outs.
"Shields holding at 80 percent." Thank God he'd left the bridge on yellow alert. It had all been so calm when he left he'd wondered if it was necessary.
"Sensors showing no vessels, Captain. But there's an energy pulse to starboard. Possible cloaking device – range 6, no... 5 thousand kilometres – bearing 2327 mark 56."
He glances over his shoulder. Chapel's gone straight to the science station - looks as at home there as she did at the diagnostics computer. Since when did she get so comfortable on the bridge? She's sent the figures direct to his console.
He reorientates the central viewing screen to centre on the co-ordinates. Magnifies. Nothing. Not even a ripple in the star field.
He senses the danger before it hits even though there's nothing on his screen. Seems more in tune with his ship than ever before. The blast almost rocks him off his feet - forces him to cling to the edges of the console. Not for the first time he wonders why Star Fleet engineers didn't think to install seat belts on the bridge of a starship.
"Shields at 50 percent. Arm photon torpedoes. Spread pattern, distance detonation." He's talking to himself again. A timed torpedo blast might just shed some light on this.
Fingers flying over the console, he's thankful he's never had a hands-off approach to command. It's the little things that earn you your crew's respect. Little things like making sure you can do their job better than they can.
But damn - this is tricky. Weapons systems on a starship aren't designed to be operated by a one-man band. To get the distance rather than an impact detonation he'll have to route targeting via the science station. Override the safety controls. Scotty wouldn't be happy. But then Scotty's never happy.
He punches in the necessary code. Glances over at Chapel who's still scanning.
"Targeting online, sir."
She's good. He's not even told her what he's doing and she's ahead of the game. She raises her head - meets his eyes with a level gaze. If he didn't know better, he'd swear she's enjoying this.
"Captain. Energy pulse now closing. 4 thousand kilometres. Targeted."
He leans across the console, double checks he's got the right combination of switches engaged. Then hits bombs away. "Fire!"
Two explosions. The first is immediate - directly across the bridge and behind him on his right.
The second is delayed - the white-blue blur from the exploding torpedoes outlining a shape he doesn't recognise - it's not Klingon, not Romulan shaped. A bird's nest of tubes and tangles, it's barely ship shaped. Then suddenly it's gone. Winking out as if someone hit delete on the view screen.
The silence is only broken by a fizzing noise from overloaded circuits. An acrid smell of melting plastic... and something else.
Silence.
Chapel. She's slumped in her chair. Not moving.
"Chris..." He's by her side in an instant. She's not groaning. He knows that's a bad sign. Snaps into field medic mode. ABC. Airway, breathing, c… What's c? He always forgets c.
"Chris, it's ok. You'll be fine. Just hang in there"
Excellent - platitudes. Just what she needs after experiencing the wrong end of another great Kirk decision. He can hear Scotty's voice now - "The engineers put those safety controls in for a reason, Captain."
The feedback has singed one side of her hair but the burn doesn't look too bad. She's unconscious but she's breathing. He has to get her to sickbay. "Bones," he mutters, "This would be a really good time to make a reappearance."
The turbolift takes forever. It's no easy task carrying her dead weight. She's nearly as tall as he is. And she's spent a lot more time at the gym.
She's moving in his arms. Coughing. "Sir, put me down."
"Nearly there, Chris. Just a few more minutes."
"Jim... Put. Me. Down."
Startled he obeys, gently lowering her to her feet just as the doors open. She's wobbly so he slings her arm round his shoulders as they start down the corridor to...
Sickbay. Where's sickbay?
It's so unexpected he can't take it in at first. The corridor just... ends. No sign of blast damage. No forcefield blocking a gaping hole into space. Just a bland blank wall in regulation Star Fleet grey. And no sickbay.
-oOo-
She can feel his shoulders slump in shock. Lifts her head. Her vision is still blurry but she can make out the wall ahead. What the...? He's brought them to the wrong deck. Or maybe the turbolift...
But no, this is deck 5. After almost five years she knows her short walk to work better than any other part of the ship. It doesn't make any kind of sense.
She feels sick. Cold. Makes a rapid medical assessment. She's in shock. And so is the man beside her judging by his uncharacteristic freeze.
"Jim."
He turns his head. He hasn't told her to drop the sir but she figures it's the best way to get through to him.
"My quarters. There's a field medic kit..." She's coughing. Bile in her throat. Great, she may be about to throw up all over her commanding officer. Impressive.
She watches him snap back into command mode. Can see him reprioritise…deal with the urgent, the impossible can wait.
" Right." Then he hesitates. Of course, he doesn't know where her quarters are. Why should he? It's not like he was a regular visitor or anything.
"5-F, 235 - down there on the left."
He turns. Lifts her arm more firmly across his shoulders and she's glad of the support. Black dots across her vision. She just manages to palm the door and the dots join up. One big black dot.
-oOo-
Wetness. On her face - now on her lips. She struggles to focus. His face is inches away - there's concern in his eyes… hazel - her favourite colour, as of about 30 seconds ago.
"Sir?"
"Shhh... Chris. Just drink."
She's on her bed. He's on her bed. Holding up her head so she can swallow. The anti-shock meds from the field kit - the liquid's sweet. He's sweet.
Tries to tell him. Lifts her hand to his cheek. "You're sweet, sir."
That smile. Gentle this time. "I nearly killed you, Chris. Think you can call me Jim."
"No." He mustn't think... Her voice is croaky. She coughs.
"No - you had to..." It's all coming back to her. The weird clarity at the science station. The energy pulse...
"Did it work? Did you get it? Is the ship safe?"
A strange look comes into his eyes. He frowns.
"That's odd. I haven't really thought about the ship since... Yes, the ship's safe. We got it... Whatever 'it' was."
Then he's gone. Where's he gone? He mustn't go. She struggles to sit up. But he's just bent down to the field kit. A whirring noise she recognises as the hand-held regenerator.
He holds it up to the side of her head. He's careful. It takes a while.
"Does this thing work on hair?"
She manages a weak grin. "Don't think so, no."
She raises her hand to touch the frizz on one side of her head. An attractive bald patch. Lovely. She touches the skin. Strange…
"Jim, pass me that mirror."
He's stern. "Chris, this is no time to be touching up your make up. Anyway, you look fine. You look great actually."
"Liar. Just pass it over."
Reluctantly he hands her the compact from the side of the bed. Yes, as she suspected. Second-degree burns already starting to disappear thanks to her own private nurse. It should hurt like hell. But there's nothing.
"What have you given me? Pain meds?"
He looks down at the field kit, seems embarrassed.
"I didn't think I should until you were conscious. Just the anti-shock stuff. What do you need?"
"It doesn't hurt."
He looks sceptical.
"No, really sir. I'm not being heroic about this. It doesn't hurt."
She pats herself down. Everything seems fine, no other damage. Nerves in perfect working order. In fact some of them are working better than others and she suspects she knows why. There's a tingle factor sitting just inches away. And the anti-shock meds are doing their stuff. She's feeling better by the minute.
"Thank you, sir. You ever want to think about switching to a career in medical when this mission's over, I'll give you a recommendation."
"I told you, call me Jim…" He stops. A sharp change in tone. "What did you say?"
"I said you'd make a fine physician, Captain…"
"…when this mission's over," he finishes. He's suddenly far away. "Chris, the memory loss…the mission…something's just come back to me."
It's coming back to her too. The five-year mission. The month-long countdown. The night-long party. How could she have forgotten? The life she's known for so many years ending. A new life beginning.
She'd decided…. What had she decided? To change her hair… to get fit… but what about the important stuff? Why can't she remember?
"Jim…"
He's not looking at her. His shoulders are sagging. He looks bereft.
She leans forward. Touches his arm. Her captain, but not for much longer. What had he decided?
"Jim."
He looks up. She's never seen such sadness. An emptiness in his eyes.
"Chris… I'd forgotten. How did I forget?"
She remembers now: he's losing everything - everything that matters to him. His ship -his crew - his purpose. Wasn't there talk of a desk job at Star Fleet? She can't see him behind a desk.
"Chris…" His voice cracks. And then she's leaning into him. Desperate to comfort. She's never seen a man more in need of a hug.
And then the hug turns into something else. His hands are round her face. His lips are on hers. And she's lost in the best kiss of her life.
"Jim." She clutching his back, running her hands down his spine, her fingers through his hair. He groans, pushes her back into the pillow. Deepens the kiss until she thinks she might pass out. His hands are gentle. God - is this man good at everything? She has a feeling she's about to find out. Now she's the one groaning.
He pulls away. His eyes worried.
"Chris, I'm sorry. You're hurt. I shouldn't…. we shouldn't..."
"I'm fine, Jim. You're fine. I told you – no pain. See."
She's pulling his hands back onto her face. But the moment's gone. She might not be in pain but his pain is in plain sight. He's withdrawn and hurting and there's not a damn thing she can do about it. He runs a finger down her cheek, as if trying to take the sting away. He smiles. A smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"You should sleep. And I need to… check on a few things. Will you be okay for a while? It shouldn't take long."
She nods. And the truth is she does need to close her eyes. If she could just rest, maybe things would become clearer. Her memory feels like a patchwork quilt and the moths have got in. Big holes. The trouble is she's not sure she wants to patch the gaps.
-oOo-
He has to get back to the bridge. Needs to get home, sit for a while.
Home. He should stop thinking of the bridge as home. Bad habit. It was only ever temporary. He knew it was temporary. A five-year mission - he's explained it to others often enough. So why did he kid himself he'd found his life's work?
The lift doors open and he's walking through the way he's done a thousand times before. Checks the view screen - nothing. Wanders past the engineering consoles all blinking benignly. Then back past the useless comms desk to the science station. He needs a damage report after that last attack. Odd how he hadn't thought of that before.
The ship's fine - no hull breaches, no intruders, no casualties - well, one casualty. He smiles. Chris. She's one tough cookie. He's not sure why he feels so protective of her. She seems plenty able to take care of herself.
He goes back to scanning. Time to start investigating the impossible. Where the hell is sickbay? Surreal question - surreal situation. He wants to go back through the timeline, look at the archive but the library tape's offline - greyed out. He slams his hand on the console in frustration.
He heads over to the centre seat. His centre seat - but not for much longer.
He knows he should be focused on their current predicament. Not sure why he assumes there'll be some sort of resolution, except things always do seem to work out in the end.
But once this is over, it really will be the end. No more strange new worlds - no more waking up to a new crisis in a new star system - if this is Tuesday it must be Corinth IV. No more banter on the bridge. It's taken five years to build the finest crew in Star Fleet - it will take just one homecoming to scatter them to the stars.
He listens. The hum seems muted. Even the Enterprise has gone quiet on him. There's a suspicious lump in his throat. Good thing starship captains don't cry. Groaning, he puts his head in his hands. He's never felt more alone.
-oOo-
She's starving. Can't remember the last time she had a solid meal. And Jim's still not back. Gingerly she sits up and checks her head. Runs through the post concussion checklist. Blurred vision? Nope. Headache? Nope. Memory loss?
The patchwork quilt is still looking pretty threadbare. But some things are coming back into focus.
The party - the 'mission accomplished' party. She didn't want to go. She remembers that much. Remembers Nyota almost dragging her into a dress and down the corridor to the rec room.
But despite their best efforts, despite the large quantity of cocktails themed around their favourite shore leave planets, it still felt more like a wake than a celebration.
And Kirk was the worst. It would have been better if he'd sat in the corner and sulked. They all knew that's what he wanted to do. But instead he seemed determined to be the life and soul of the party. That brittle laugh, the alien anecdotes getting wilder and wilder - insincerity in their captain was slightly terrifying.
She wanted to help - they all did. Some of them feared for his sanity. And she was his nurse. That's why later she'd agreed to... What? Something...she remembers some sort of dire warning. Long discussions with Spock and McCoy. There was paperwork... Nope - she's still drawn a blank. And she's still starving.
She jumps off the bed and rummages around her bedside cupboard. Recently she's got in the habit of keeping a few energy bars handy for those early morning workouts when she can't quite face breakfast. She frowns. The cupboard is bare.
Slowly standing, she takes in her surroundings properly for the first time. They're her quarters all right, but things are subtly different. That picture of her and her mom - it doesn't live on the bottom shelf. The pile of padds is on the wrong side of the desk. And it's all a bit too tidy - suspiciously tidy.
Thinking hard she goes out into the corridor. Along to Nyota's room. Uses her medical override to palm open the door.
Yup, now she knows something's up. Nyota would never have left it like this. It's a standing joke that if an alien horde invaded the communications officer's quarters, she'd probably never notice... In fact it usually looks like the horde just left. Now it's pristine - even her lute is set at a jaunty angle.
She's got to tell the captain.
She heads out of the door at such speed she almost knocks him flying. Still manages to stand on his foot.
"Ouch, Chris. Twice in one day. Flattening your captain's a court martial offence, you know."
He's trying to make jokes but she can tell his heart's not really in it.
"Jim. You've got to see this."
"Hmmm...You look better. You hungry? I've suddenly realised I'm really hungry"
"Starved. But..."
"Tell me when we've got some food in front of us. The replicators should still be working in the mess hall. I've a hankering for something really fattening. Care to join me for dinner, Nurse Chapel?"
He makes a mock bow and offers his arm. She takes it, smiling in spite of herself.
"How can I resist, mon capitaine?"
She's glad to see he's attempting to regain some of his former good mood as they set off down the corridor.
"But Jim. It's the staff quarters - they've been tampered with. You should see..."
He's stopped. Not listening. She follows his gaze - his eyes are suddenly grim.
There's no mess hall. No replicators. Just a grey wall where the double doors should be. It's as if another entire section of the ship has just blinked out of existence.
-oOo-
Right. He's had enough of this. Spins on his heel and heads back along the corridor bringing a still protesting Chris with him.
"I don't understand. Jim, the mess - where did it...?
"I'm still hungry, Chris. We need to eat. No-one ever made a good decision on an empty stomach." His words are bright but his voice is sharp.
"But where…?"
"I've just remembered. There's a replicator in my quarters. Installed just in time for the next lucky guy. And there's a darned good bottle of Scotch. I need a drink."
She stops protesting. Stays silent as he almost frogmarches her through the doors. He doesn't usually allow his female staff into his inner sanctum. The ship's already a hotbed of gossip and it makes life... complicated. But who's to see? And anyway Chris isn't staff. She's medical. And a friend.
He feels like he needs a friend right now. He sloshes as he pours triple shots of Glenfiddich into glasses and pushes one over to her. She still hasn't said anything.
He raises his glass. Says loudly to the ceiling, "Here's to unsolved mysteries!" Drinks. The single malt is good. As it warms its way down his throat, he wonders briefly what effect it will have on his empty stomach.
She's not drinking. She's looking at him appraisingly - as if she's doing a medical assessment.
"Jim...don't you think…?"
He doesn't want to hear her diagnosis. Talks over her.
"Right, dinner." He slaps his hands together. The gesture feels like play-acting. He suspects she's not fooled by the fake bonhomie. "What's on the menu tonight? I'm in the mood for Italian, I think."
She looks down. Nods. "Whatever. You choose."
She says nothing more as he orders up lasagne, salad and two portions of tiramisu and brings them over to the table.
"Sorry. No flowers - no candles. Just can't get the staff." He laughs and can hear in his head how thin it sounds.
She doesn't react. Just starts eating. He joins her. God, he's ravenous. And so's she, judging by the way she's tucking into her plateful.
The food helps. So does the scotch. The knot in his stomach starts to loosen. He looks across at his dinner companion as she absently scratches the healing skin on her forehead. So brave…
Suddenly he wants to talk. To connect with this extraordinary woman he barely knows. They've spent the best part of five years together. She's seen him at his most vulnerable, probably seen him naked – she is his nurse after all. He reddens slightly at the thought. So why hasn't he really noticed her?
"You were quite something up there. On the bridge. Have you been doing some extra training? I didn't think there was much call for long range scanning in medical."
She frowns. "There isn't. And I haven't."
She takes a swallow of her scotch. Makes a face. He should have ordered up red wine with lasagne.
"I just seemed to know what to do. It all fell into place. Like I was channelling Spock or something." She smiles.
He remembers she had quite a thing for his first officer. McCoy was pretty relentless with his teasing.
"Spock. I know you liked him. Did you two ever...?"
"No, Jim. Like that was ever going to happen. He's very driven you know. Anyway, he only has eyes for you."
He smiles uncertainly. Unsure if she's joking. He knows there were rumours...
He pours some more scotch. Looks round his quarters then back at the bottle.
"This was one of my better ideas anyway. You can't get this stuff in the mess."
She looks at him and he knows what she's thinking. There is no mess. No sickbay. It feels as if the walls of the Enterprise are closing in, bit by bit.
He pulls over dessert and starts eating.
"I don't like being manipulated, Chris."
She looks at him. "Is that what you think is going on?"
"I do. It's some sort of sick game. And I've decided to stop playing."
The dessert tastes bitter in his mouth. He pushes back his chair. Takes his glass over to the bookcase. He still likes to thumb through the old fashioned hardbacks, Shackleton, Churchill, Sun Tzu. Finds it comforting to connect to generations of long-dead readers.
The books are all in the wrong order. Somehow it doesn't surprise him. He sits on the couch with a sigh.
"Okay, so what were you saying about the crew quarters?"
She walks over and sits beside him, cradling her glass.
"They're too tidy. This isn't a ship where everybody's just up and left in a hurry. It feels like a stage set."
He nods in agreement. "So if this is a stage," he asks glancing upward, "where's the audience?"
-oOo-
The bottle's almost empty. She's sure she shouldn't be drinking only a few hours after she was rendered unconscious. But she's feeling reckless. He makes her feel reckless. She stretches out lazily and sneaks a peek at the man beside her staring into space.
They've both kicked off their shoes. Curled up on the couch like a couple of college roomies working through a particularly tough assignment.
They're no closer to solving the mystery. They've got theories - a ton of theories - but none of them quite match the facts.
"The thing is, Chris... She feels real."
"She?"
He seems surprised. "The ship, of course. The Enterprise. And if this is a set they've spared no expense. Before you got here, I did a complete ship-wide survey. Top to bottom. Nothing missing. Open all areas."
He turns - he has an expression she can't quite identify. A yearning.
"She's stopped talking to me, Chris."
It's back - that loneliness in his eyes. She's not used to seeing her captain look this defenceless. He's invincible, isn't he? The man who snatches victory from the jaws of defeat in a hundred crises – who always pulls the ship back from the brink - goes toe to toe with an entire dictionary of alien species and doesn't blink.
She sees him makes a mental shift. Pulls himself back from an abyss she can't see.
"They've offered me a desk job, you know. Admiral - Chief of Star Fleet Operations. Quite a step up from just one starship. Bones says I'm mad to be considering it."
She has to agree with her boss.
"So will you take it?"
"Not sure." His hand moves over hers, squeezes. It's a friendly gesture. So why does she feel it across her whole body? She's shocked by the sense of connection. He feels it too - she can tell by the way he's looking at her. "What do you think I should do?"
She looks down at their hands joined on the couch. He's asking her opinion. Captain James T. Kirk wants careers advice. From his nurse.
"I suppose you can't go haring across the universe for ever. And it might be a different sort of challenge." She doesn't believe the words even as she's saying them.
"Yeah." He runs his thumb across her palm and it feels astonishingly intimate. "So what about you? What have you got planned once homecoming's over?"
"I'm thinking of going back to medical school. Becoming a doctor. I want to specialise in post-traumatic stress."
She's suddenly getting a strong sense of deja vu. PTS therapies? Haven't they had this conversation before? She continues more slowly. "There are some exciting new therapies coming down the pipeline - Doctor McCoy is working on..." What? It was on the tip of her tongue but it's gone. She frowns but he doesn't seem to notice.
"That's great, Chris. Doctor Chapel, eh? If you need it, I'm happy to write you a recommendation." He leans his head on her shoulder and looks up at her, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I can certainly vouch first hand for your bedside manner."
He's so close she's shaking. He seems to realise - pulls away - his gaze troubled.
"Sorry, Chris, I didn't mean...I just get so..." He looks lost again. He's hurting.
Her mouth is dry. She's never wanted anyone this much.
"Jim." She lifts her hand to his cheek. She doesn't get any further.
Because he's kissing her and she's kissing him right back. Her defences are down – she has no defence against this man, so open, so vulnerable. And suddenly there's nothing but his lips, his hands, his skin on hers…the connection so intense she's not sure where she ends and he begins…
It's a good thing they're on an empty ship.
-oOo-
It's dark and something is right.
He can't immediately say why. For a moment he doesn't remember.
"Lights - low."
In the glow he can make out the dark hair beside him on the pillow. Can feel the warmth of her bare skin curled up against him.
Chris.
He should let her sleep but he can't resist pulling her closer.
"Mmmm." She turns, opens her eyes and her face is soft. Considering how little sleep
they've had, she looks incredible.
"G' morning." She's slurring her words.
He plants a kiss on her forehead. The skin is nearly healed. He intends to stop there but she's reaching for him and she's pulling him close, her touch gently demanding. He still wants her. Can't believe how much. This time there's no urgency to the connection, their joining is like coming home.
Later they share a shower and giggle like teenagers. Fight over what to have for breakfast. Talk, share, make love again, and again.
He feels... How does he feel? Liberated. Irresponsible. Not lonely. The opposite of lonely.
He's given up worrying about his future. About the incredible shrinking Enterprise. When he closes his eyes, he can picture the lights going out all over the ship. An ever-increasing circle of darkness centred on his cabin. The hum is so soft he can barely hear it.
There's only this, a bright bubble of life and light and laughter. So when they open the doors to his quarters and find the blank grey wall, they just smile, turn back to each other... and kiss.
-oOo-
It's dark and something is wrong.
"Chris?"
"Jim." The voice is worried. It's not her voice.
"Bones?"
"It's ok." The hiss of a hypo.
Pain. Inside. Chris. Where's Chris?
"Wait, Jim."
Yes, wait. For the dreams to dissolve and reality to crawl down the checklist.
Planet or ship?
Answer. Planet. No hum. But then he lost the hum, didn't he? He lost the Enterprise. She stopped talking to him. He thinks he should care more. Something's changed.
"Chris?"
"Wait, Jim. She's coming."
Then it's dark again.
-oOo-
"Jim?"
"Shhh, Christine. Lie still."
"Doctor? Doctor McCoy."
"Yes. You've had quite a time of it. It's over now. How's the memory?
"Woozy. Coming back. Where's Jim? Your therapy - did it work?"
His voice is gentle.
"Jim's ok. It worked - thanks to you, Christine. He owes you. Starfleet owes you big time."
"But there were walls, Len. Walls on the Enterprise. That wasn't in the plan."
Another voice. His fingers are hot on her face. Not Jim. Spock. She can feel his thoughts. The meld.
Is this all right, Christine? Let me help.
Yessss. Oh God, now she understands. The Enterprise was hijacked. But they were so close to home, in Earth's backyard. On the flagship. They were supposed to be safe.
-oOo-
He's awake and they're arguing. Arguing over his head...which hurts.
"We should never have risked it. It was a damn fool idea from the start. I should have trusted good old fashioned meds rather than relying on a damned Vulcan mind meld."
"As I told you at the time, Doctor, a mind meld is not a medical tool with exact parameters. You said he needed to relive those last weeks on the Enterprise - to say goodbye, to work through what I believe you called 'his issues.' And a mind meld does have the advantage of few side effects when effecting amnesia."
"Side effects! You said a few hours and they were still out of it the next day… They were attacked, Spock. We could have lost them. Not to mention the fleet's flagship."
"If I remember correctly, Doctor, it was you who talked Starfleet into lending us the real Enterprise for the day. Your paper on the subject was very persuasive. It certainly persuaded Nogura. And Christine. We all talked through the risks. And it was her idea to join him in the amnesia."
"We should have stuck to the simulator. But the results weren't…"
He pushes himself up to a sitting position. His head is swimming.
"Gentlemen, will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?"
-oOo-
"5 million, 492 thousand, 642 to one?"
"Yes, Jim. The odds of the Xante warping in and encountering our therapeutic expedition on the Enterprise at that precise point in space time."
"And it was these... Xante... who fired on us?
"They didn't fire, Jim. A series of particularly aggressive scans. But the ship was under attack. You felt it. They started beaming over as soon as they realised the ship was virtually empty."
"But Chris was injured, Spock. I saw it. I caused it."
"Yes. I'm afraid the feedback loop was the result of your actions. Her burns were real. The Xante just removed the pain. They are not a vindictive species - apparently they are known more as commercial scrap metal dealers than warriors. And they have some empathic facility... But they did want the Enterprise. Once on board, they started occupying, putting up walls, driving you into a corner, blocking your scans - and ours. We were, of course, shadowing you on the Yorktown. It just took some time for us to realise what was going on. We managed to negotiate. No shots fired. No damage done. Although I am concerned your memory loss continues. Christine is waiting for you. May I suggest we complete this meld now?"
"Just one more thing, Spock. This 'experiment' - this revolutionary McCoy therapy you say I volunteered for. Borrowing the Enterprise from space dock. Who the hell signed the paperwork for all that?"
The eyebrow is up. Way, way up.
"Why Captain, or rather, Admiral. You did, of course."
-oOo-
The sun is warm on his back, the sand is warm between his toes, her hand is warm in his. They have a beach to walk on and no deadline. Nogura's told them to take as much time as they need. It feels odd to spend this long out of uniform, but he's in no hurry to rush back to his desk. Despite McCoy's therapy, he's never going to relish the routine.
She's told him he never will. He'll always hanker after the stars. But it's better.
It had been a dark period those few weeks after homecoming. He was a man obsessed - with losing the Enterprise, with losing his crew, at one point with losing his mind. The youngest starship captain in Federation history, the man with the meteoric career path, Starfleet's 'hero', and he was drowning in paperwork. For the first time in his life he was underperforming. He remembers the disappointment in Nogura's eyes.
No wonder he'd jumped at the chance to go back, back to the Enterprise and back in time. To blank out the pain, even for one day. This time he didn't mind being a medical guinea pig.
And McCoy's research suggested targeted temporary amnesia could be a breakthrough - could help thousands of hurting minds. It was enough to justify borrowing the Enterprise for a few hours. She'd been waiting almost three months for those promised refits. Nogura had waved it through - although Kirk noticed his support didn't extend to actually putting his name on the dotted line.
He grins. Beside him, Chris notices and smiles back. He can't believe they're together – doesn't quite dare to hope that the loneliness will stay away. They're still uncertain of each other, feeling their way.
But he's sleeping, he's laughing, he's said goodbye. He can think of a new captain on the Enterprise without pain. He's not sure how long it will last but for now he can finally contemplate a future away from his ship - perhaps even make plans…
He looks at Chris walking beside him, her face thoughtful. The report should make interesting reading. It hadn't exactly gone to plan. She'd argued for joint amnesia - said without it he'd see through her, and her attempts to counsel, in an instant. But she was supposed to be there to offer a human alternative to inanimate metal, as a sounding board, a friendly face. She wasn't supposed to end up in his bed. And the Xante - well, they weren't supposed to be there at all.
He tightens his hand on hers, lifts her fingers to his lips, and he promises himself he will get round to sending them that thank you message.
END
There's an M version of this story too if you search for it. Bet you can guess which bit has a few more words : ) I'd love to hear what you think about my take on the relationship between JTK and his ship.
And I have another story on the go with the same pairing (but not a sequel) -– "On the Road" . First 6000 words are published – hoping to get a another few chapters up very soon.