A/N: A big thanks to realistjoker for beta'ing this for me. My goal was to create a story that could have conceivably taken place "between the scenes" of the classic Star Trek episode "Mirror, Mirror." There have been quite a few stories based on this episode. Well…here's my take.
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek.
Interlude
I hate spiders. I've always hated spiders. Sometimes, I think I decided to go into space just to get away from them. But they followed me. They became evil space spiders!
Okay, you're losing it, Ny. This isn't the best time to be thinking about your pet phobias, especially those of the eight-legged variety. But I can't help it. All I can think about is that night a couple of weeks ago when I asked him to kill that implacable thing of death, dangling from the ceiling of my bathroom. But when I pushed the phaser into his hand, he refused to do it, saying "I cannot! They are the official insect of the Motherland!" or something. But we both knew that he was just bullshitting. He wouldn't kill it out of some crazy sense of arachno-patriotism, but because he was one of the kindest, sweetest boys I know.
Well, just a few minutes ago, that kind, sweet boy tried to kill the Captain.
And the really crazy part? Nobody on the bridge seems to care. I mean, that's attempted mutiny, isn't it? And everybody knows that three procedures simply have to be followed in the event of an attempted mutiny. Number one: confine all non-essential personnel to quarters. Number two: seal the ship's most critical areas. Number three: kill all ship-wide communications. But is any of this happening? No! It's like this is some kind of regular occurrence. Everybody is still at their posts. The bridge isn't sealed. And, as far as communications is concerned, nobody has told me to do anything but sit here and look pretty.
"Were there any casualties, Mr. Ferril?" Not Spock asks the intercom on his armrest. Yes. Not Spock. That's my little name for him. I know it's kind of lame, but it's the only thing keeping me sane right now.
"Yes sir," Ferril's voice replies, a little too happily. "Hadley and Bryant. Wilson incinerated the both of 'em. Ha! Poor sap was expectin' a promotion for it and got nothin' but a sock in the jaw." His voice chuckles. "Good ol' Captain."
Not Spock nods. "And the fate of Mr. Chekov?"
"We're bringing 'im down to the agony booth, sir."
"Very well," Not Spock replies, as he clicks off the intercom. His face becomes thoughtful as he puts a hand on his chin in a disturbingly familiar pose. "Strange that he would leave himself so vulnerable," he continues, speaking lowly to himself. "He is never that careless."
I can't help but roll my eyes. Oh, sure. It's really strange that a captain would expect to wander around his ship without getting attacked by his own crew. Well, it seems that Pavel is going to pay dearly for it, because though I'm not sure what an agony booth is, I'm assuming it's related to that agonizer thing that Not Spock used on Kyle the minute we beamed aboard this nightmare.
Even now, as the transporter chief's screams are echoing in my mind, I wonder if Not Spock enjoyed what he did to him. It wouldn't surprise me. I mean, he did just try to browbeat the Captain into bombarding a planet full of innocent people didn't he? The Halkans must be the most wonderfully kind and peaceful race we've ever met. The Captain tried to buy some time for them, but I guess his authority only runs so far on this ship. And if that cold-blooded monster sitting in that chair has anything to say about it, pretty soon they're going to die by our phaser fire - millions of them - all because they don't want to give us their dilithium crystals.
And that's why I'm calling him Not Spock. Because even if I can somehow accept an evil Chekov and an evil Sulu, I can't accept that anyone by the name of Spock would be capable of doing anything so terrible.
I usually love it when he sits there. It's the only place on the bridge - maybe the ship - where I can spy on him without being worried he'll catch me. But now looking at him, I find myself feeling nothing but repulsion. Well, at least in the psychological sense. Because in the physical sense? I have to admit that he looks damn handsome in that beard. And then there's that dashing dress uniform he's got on. It's such a mysterious shade of blue that I can only guess at what material it's made out of. And is that gold trim going down the front? Along with those smartly placed medals, it makes him look so distinguished and aristocratic and...and...
Snap out of it, Ny! This is no time for your stupid schoolgirl fantasies. Not Spock, Not Spock, Not Spock. Keep repeating that mantra and take a few deep breaths. There you go. Good. Now, maybe I just need something to keep me occupied until the Captain can tell me how we're going to get out of this.
Feeling too petrified to do any meaningful work, I decide to tune into the communications network and listen to some ship-wide chatter. It's not a voyeuristic thing, as chatter mostly consists of operations reports and maintenance requests between different departments. Besides, everyone knows that if you want a private line when you make a call, you've got to flip the 'other' switch. Usually, I find myself tuning in because I find it soothing to listen to. I'm not sure why, as a lot of people would consider it boring. Maybe I just like the idea of everyone working towards the noble, common goal of running a starship, as cheesy as it sounds.
On my Enterprise, I'm usually able to pick up a bit of friendly banter in-between all the technical talk. But right now, as I listen in through my headpiece, I'm not getting any of that. In fact, there's not even so much as a single "please" or "thank you." Instead, there's a lot harsh language, and sometimes, even threats, to make sure requests are being carried out. Other than that, everyone seems almost...robotic to each other, as though no one is taking any joy in anything they're doing. It's only confirming for me the sense of hostility and coldness that permeates this entire ship. And, quite frankly, it's giving me the chills.
Just when I try to think of something else to keep me busy, an encrypted message starts to scroll through the readout on my console. Instantly, I recognize the familiar markings. It's the Captain! But soon I find myself shaking my head as I read and re-read the message. James T. Kirk may be the best commanding officer in the fleet, but the man can't type worth a damn. Still...I'm glad he's text messaging me instead of using the comlink. There's a lot of information to digest here, and I can't help but be wary at the prying ears on the bridge…two pointy ones in particular.
So, it seems that we're going to try and get back using the transporter. Well, I'm a communications officer, not an engineer, but I guess it makes sense: get out the same way we came in. It must be tricky work if Scotty needs Dr. McCoy to help him. But the problem is, when they're almost done their little tinkering, they're going to need me to distract Sulu from his console so he doesn't notice the increased power transfer to the transporter. Uh hello. Distract Sulu? I don't even want to go near Sulu. It's become obvious to me that that hideous scar on his face is the least hideous thing about him. Well, I guess I have two hours to worry about it, because the message says it'll take that long to set the whole thing up. I can only hope that Not Spock won't be on the bridge when the time comes, because otherwise, I don't know if I'll be able to...
"Lieutenant Uhura."
Oh my God. He's right behind me.
My breath catches in my throat as I look up at his face. Faintly, I realize that it isn't the cleanly cut beard that makes him so different. No. It's the coldness in his eyes, a coldness that seems to go beyond non-emotion.
"What can I do for you, sir?"
"You will stand when I speak to you."
I shoot out of my chair like a photon torpedo, hoping against hope that he doesn't look at the Captain's message on my console. But those cold eyes remain focused solely on me.
"This morning, I was reviewing your most recent subspace log," he begins.
Subspace log? This doesn't sound good.
"I saw numerous errors."
Errors? Nope. Not good.
"This is the fourth such inaccurate log you have filed in the past month."
Oh God. The fourth? "I'm sorry, sir, I..."
"You are 'sorry'?" For an instant, sheer incredulity flashes across his face. Then he takes a few steps in front of me, pacing like a panther. I can feel a breeze hit my bare tummy as he walks back and forth. I feel so...naked in this uniform.
He stops and stares once again into my eyes. "Lieutenant, at the risk of betraying some sense of...frustration on my part, my day is not running as efficiently as I had anticipated. And now I have discovered that I must occupy my time with a senior officer who is not taking her duties seriously."
"Sir, I do take them seriously, I just..."
"Cease speaking and listen. I wish for you to ready a connection to Starfleet Command. You will patch it through to my quarters. Afterwards, you will meet me there with the revised log. Do you comprehend?"
I meekly nod.
"We will review each item line-by-line." He holds up a forceful finger. "This time, Lieutenant, you had better hope it is error-free...for your sake. I will expect you in ten minutes." He glances towards the front of the bridge. "Mr. Sulu, you have the conn."
"Aye aye, sir."
Mercifully, he turns to leave. As soon as I hear the turbolift doors close behind me, I find myself exhaling. Looking around the bridge, I try to search out a sympathetic face or two, only to find that everybody's looking back at me with unabashed glee.
Especially one.
"Well, well, well, it looks like Little Miss Perfect is going to finally get her wings clipped. I say it's about time." Of course, it's Sulu. The bastard accosted me when I first came on the bridge, and now he's trying to get a few more potshots in. I feel a sudden urge to use my newfound knife to give him a scar to complement his other one. But all I have the courage to do is give him the dirtiest look I can muster.
I sit back down at my station and begin work on establishing a channel to Starfleet Command. I know I could very well be signing the Captain's death warrant, but I have no choice. Besides, if I don't do it, there are a hundred other people on this ship who can. Quickly locating the nearest subspace beacon, I key in the proper band for Starfleet Command. Over the next few minutes, I wait expectantly for the connection but I only get static. With a concerned frown, I spend more precious minutes trying it again.
Still static.
What the hell is wrong? I can usually do this in my sleep! Panicking, I begin to mentally check off the list to make sure that everything's okay. Communications station operational? Check. Subspace relay beacon path established? Check. Subspace band frequency inputted? Check. I try it again, but still nothing. Damn. My heart feeling like it's beating through my chest, I resist the urge to drive my fists through my console. Everything should be working!
No, wait. Maybe it's the band frequency for Starfleet. I know it off by heart in my universe, but maybe it's different in this universe!
But just as I'm about to try it once more, my Incoming Message indicator starts to beep.
Oh no. Someone is calling me, and I don't have to check to know who it is. For a moment, I contemplate not answering it, but I realize it will only make things worse if I don't.
Almost wincing, I tentatively push the button. "Uhura."
"Lieutenant," a deep voice replies. "I have just entered my quarters only to discover that the channel to Starfleet Command has not yet been established. You can imagine my astonishment can you not? That so quickly after admonishing an officer for not performing her duties properly, I discover yet another facet of her apparently boundless incompetence?"
"Uh, yes sir. I had difficulties...uh...finding the subspace beacon and uh..."
I'm met with deathly silence. For the next ten seconds, nothing but white noise emerges from the speakers in front of me.
And then he speaks. "You have precisely 4.2 minutes to arrive at my quarters with your corrected subspace log."
More silence.
"When you do, please ensure that you have your agonizer with you."
The channel clicks off.
Sulu turns his head towards me. "You know, when he puts it on you, I hope he leaves it on for a long...long...time."
Laughter spreads across the bridge.
That fucker. I've just about had enough of him. "Shut up," I shoot back.
Yeah, that'll show him, tough girl. But then I tell myself to forget it, as I've got another asshole to worry about. Quickly finding the correct frequency to Starfleet Command in the database, I establish a channel and patch it through to Not Spock's quarters.
Now the last thing I have to deal with is the subspace log. Oh sure, it sounds like a simple little exercise, but I barely manage to suppress a sob as I watch the hundreds of entries download into my PADD. Who am I kidding? I'll never be able to check them all in time. There are usually so many errors, I once developed an algorithm to help correct them. But it never catches everything.
Every time a crewmember makes an outgoing subspace communication, they are required to input who they are and who they are calling, among other things. But there are always mistakes, like typos and blank spaces. And although I'm not the one who makes the mistakes, I'm always the one who has to correct them before they're submitted. I've talked to other communications officers on other ships and none of their commanding officers give a damn if there are mistakes. Of course, my Spock does, but at least he would never consider torturing me over it.
Quickly getting out of my chair, I practically run towards the turbolift. "Take over for me," I tell a technician sitting at the Engineering station, not caring whether he obeys or not.
Once inside, I command the lift to take me to Deck 5. As I hear the familiar hum of the lift kicking into gear, I realize that I forgot about the agonizer. Frantically, I search about my uniform, praying that I already have it on me, just like Chief Kyle did. Thankfully - or not - I soon find the little triangular device attached to my belt. Well, at least if I give him this, he won't have an excuse to use something that'll cause even more pain. Because given the amount of errors I think are in that log, there's going to be a world of it.
As I try not to think about what's awaiting me in his quarters, the lift comes to a stop. In my haste to get out, I almost run into a security officer that I don't recognize at all. Giving him a mumbled apology, I just keep on going. I've seen a lot of security officers wandering this ship, many more than there are on my Enterprise. But why are there so many? To remind everyone that they are under constant surveillance from a higher authority, like in a totalitarian society or something? Given the Nazi-esque salutes these guys were giving the Captain a while ago, I'm beginning to think so. Well, if the effect they want to create is one of intimidation, they're certainly succeeding.
Walking briskly down the corridor, my jaw drops as I see who's coming towards me. It's someone who I never thought I'd see again. Marla McGivers. I always get along with almost everybody on the Enterprise, but I never did with McGivers. As the ship's resident historian, she always held herself above the rest of us "cultural plebeians" with her oh-so-precious doctorate degree in the arts. Of course, everyone soon discovered that she also had a degree in treachery after she allowed that megalomaniac Khan to seduce her into betraying us.
Automatically, my thoughts turn back to just a half hour ago, when I saw Christine as I made my way to the bridge. I greeted her with a smile, but her only response was to call me a bitch and give me a look like she wanted to claw my eyes out. It practically broke my heart to be treated that way by her. Well, if Christine hates me in this universe, I can only imagine what Marla thinks of me.
"Nyota darling!"
I gasp. Nyota...darling? There are very few people who call me Nyota in my universe: Christine, my mom, my dad, my sister...and the occasional boyfriend. Now, I'm hearing it from a woman I'd just as soon drop out of an airlock.
Marla puts a concerned hand on my arm. "Oh dear, you don't look well. Are you okay?"
"I can't talk, Marla. I've got to go."
Marla merely shakes her head, and softly clutches my shoulders. "Surely it can wait. What's wrong?"
Although I'm in a rush for my life, I don't protest as Marla pulls me into a comforting hug. Right now, I don't care if I'm supposed to like this woman or hate her; I'll do anything for a friendly face.
"Oh, Marla, I'm in so much trouble. Commander Spock just ordered me to go to his quarters and..." My fear is so great, I find that I can't continue.
She gives me a puzzled look. "And...?"
"He's not happy."
She rolls her eyes. "Oh, he's not happy. Well, what else is new?"
"He...he told me to bring my agonizer."
Her eyes go wide. "Your agonizer?" Her voice drops to a near whisper. "Oh dear, that is new. Are you two hitting a rough patch?"
A rough patch? Yeah, I guess you could call it that.
Catching my arm, Marla draws me in closer. "Look, you know I'm your friend right? So just listen to me. You need to be strong. Especially now. Because whatever you did to help solve that little problem of his? I don't think it worked. In fact, I think he's gotten worse. So, just...do whatever he wants you to do, okay? Before half of the available men on this ship end up in body bags?"
I helped him solve a problem? What problem? "Marla, I don't understand..."
"You mean you didn't hear about what happened yesterday? He put Riley into a coma."
"What?" Did she say Riley? As in Kevin Riley?
"Yes, he put some sort of 'Vulcan death grip' on him for breaking a dilithium crystal." Marla shakes her head. "Well, a part of me can't blame him. I suppose those things are very hard to come by these days." She gasps. "Oh, that reminds me. Did you hear about Chekov?" Her mouth makes clucking sounds like a mother hen. "I hope they do take it easy on the poor boy. I mean, he is just trying to get ahead. Did I tell you he was going to take me to Risa on our next shore leave?" She sighs in resignation. "I suppose that's off now." Suddenly, her eyes light up. "Hey...do you think DeSalle might want to take me?"
"Uh...sure?"
"I tell you that man is going places," she says excitedly. "He just needs to work on his technique. You know...be a bit more subtle with his exterminations. Oh! Did I tell you that he dragged me into a maintenance shaft and had his way with me last night?"
I gasp in horror. "Really?"
"Yes. To tell the truth, I was hoping for a rougher ride than what I got," she says with a small shrug. "But overall, it was a pretty good time."
"Uh...okay."
Suddenly, with a sinking feeling, I look up at the clock on the wall, and my heart almost stops.
I'm late.
Even my Spock looks like he's ready to kill me when I'm late. I can only imagine what this Spock is going to do to me.
"Marla, I have to go. Now."
She sighs. "Yeah, so do I. You know...papers to do." Then her mouth curves into a salacious smile. "But hey, if you need help with him, just make sure you give me a shout, okay? After all, when it comes to solving a problem, two heads are better than one."
Having no idea what the heck she's talking about, I just shake my head and take off down the corridor. But in the back of my mind, I find myself thinking about something Marla had mentioned: papers? I wonder if she acts as the ship's historian in this universe, and if so, what role she plays exactly. If I know anything about totalitarian societies it's that they prefer to rewrite history rather than research it. Whatever the case, I can't help but admit that for a depraved psychopath she actually seems kind of nice.
What is this craziness? My best friend is my worst enemy. My worst enemy is my best friend. What am I going to find out next, that Khan Noonien Singh died for the sins of all mankind? Everything is so mixed up in this universe that I don't know what to think anymore. Wait a minute. If Marla is good, and everybody else is bad, I wonder what spiders are like in this universe. Maybe they're good too.
No. Spiders are evil everywhere. I'm sure of it.
Damn. Lose the spider-fixation, Ny. But I can't help it. I need to think about something, anything that'll get me through this.
I need to think about him. I need to think about his steady, calm, unflappable presence. But I have to wonder, could he even survive in this universe? There is so much good in him, so much gentleness. Almost no one else onboard can see it, but I can. God, I wish he was here right now. Has he discovered that we're missing? If so, is he worried about me in particular? Or am I just another member of an away team that needs rescuing? I don't want to think about it too much because I'm afraid I might know the answer.
Finally, I arrive at Not Spock's door, or at least what I'm hoping is his door. On my ship, Spock's quarters are in 532, but I've just realized that on this ship, they might be on another deck, entirely! Holding my breath, I push the door chime.
And almost immediately, a dark, unforgiving voice greets me through the intercom. "Enter."
Great. So I'm in the right place. But relief is the furthest thing from my mind. In another universe, I come here once a week for my ka'athyra lessons, always with a sense of anticipation tinged with longing. But now all I sense is fear. Looks aside, the monster in that room isn't the man I'm in love with. And I can't picture him playing anything as gentle as a Vulcan lyre.
To Be Continued…