Disclaimer: Star Trek characters belong to Paramount.
Author's note: This is not a direct sequel to Expanding the Oecumene, but it follows its events chronologically. The events described here happen during Spock's first post-Academy assignment.
Beta: Thank you, Cuppy. All mistakes are mine.
Codes/Rating: S, Drama/General, R
Summary: Pre-TOS. During his first post-graduation posting, Spock goes through an unexpected ordeal. Character piece.
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The Crash
By
Anna Amuse
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1. The Crash
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He raised his head slowly, feeling a thousand of miniscule drills boring into his temples, the stinging pain eating at him with gusto. He coughed, trying to refill his lungs with oxygen, but all that was available was an overpowering nauseating cocktail of smoke and burnt. He pushed off the ground, the motion bringing the realization that he had been lying flat on his stomach. Slowly, he came to his feet, his body obeying his commands, but he didn't quite feel it. He looked around and saw only fire and piles of banged up metal. Somewhere nearby a baby was crying with heartbreaking abandon. That was when it came back to him.
The crash.
Spock blinked several times, trying to extinguish the burning sensation in his eyes, assaulted by the smoke. Everywhere he looked were the remains of the shuttle, pieces of the passengers' luggage and body parts.
…
"Spock, where the hell do you think you're going?"
"I wish to explain to the captain that his piloting style is unacceptable. He is carrying twenty-six passengers, and we are getting dangerously close to the meteor stream. The safety protocols—"
"Spock, sit back down this instant. This is a civilian shuttle, for heaven's sake. The captain knows this space, he knows what he's doing. If I had a girlfriend like that, I'd probably be showing off, too."
"But this is—"
"I said, sit down before you made us both look like idiots. That's an order."
…
He didn't have time to comply, Spock remembered vaguely. The meteor rain hit them. The pilot lost control in seconds. Spock, who wasn't even in his seat never mind using seat belt, was thrown flying across the passenger compartment along with bags and whatever people were holding in their hands. He remembered the screaming and the haze, but he was already one inch away from unconscious by the moment of impact.
He looked around, fighting the disorientation. From the looks of it, he was thrown out of the shuttle when it hit the ground. Fortunately perhaps, he reflected numbly as a series of small explosions erupted in the remains of the main compartment. The baby wailed louder, and that had finally prompted Spock to action. He staggered towards the burning debris.
"If anyone can hear me, call for help," he said hoarsely, trying to make himself be heard. As stupid as the procedure seemed when he studied it, he knew it must be done. "If anyone can hear me..."
A muffled sound came from one of the mounts of burnt plastic and ripped metal. Spock rushed over there and helped a man out. He looked completely dazed.
"Sir, are you in pain?"
The man looked at Spock without any hint of coherent thought. But he was standing, if somewhat shakily, and Spock concluded his injuries could not be life threatening.
"Sir, you need to clear this area, it is not safe."
No reaction.
"Can you hear me?"
A blink.
"Wha-what?"
Spock took him by the elbow gently but firmly and turned him around, away from the remains of the shuttle.
"Do you see that hill?" Spock pointed at the nearest altitudes. "I need you to go there and wait. Do you understand?"
The man was seemingly trying to focus.
"Sir?" Spock's tone became slightly impatient. There could be other survivors here. "Do you understand?"
At last, the man nodded and moved awkwardly towards the spot Spock had pointed at. Spock left him to it, immediately returning his attention to the debris field. He felt quite shaky himself, but being a Vulcan, he could not afford to submit to it. He had mastered the techniques that made his body obey whether it was inclined to or not. That human didn't have such an edge.
Attracted by a strange sound, Spock walked around one of the major pieces of the shuttle and nearly stumbled over another human. He was sitting on the ground, clutching his head in his hands and making a deep humming sound. He looked up, and Spock flinched. It was Wilson.
"Spock..." the Lieutenant muttered dimly.
…
"Ensign, I'm tired sick of watching you showing off. You think you're smarter than any of us, fine. Keep it to yourself, if it's not too much of a bother, would you?"
"I merely pointed out that the young lady was in error—"
"Spock! I want to be very clear on this. I could give a damn."
"Sir?"
"Just—shut up, okay? You're scaring everyone off. I had to put up with you for two full days and I've just about had it. Consider yourself under orders not to speak unless spoken to."
"I believe we are off duty."
"No, we're not! At least, you're not. Why don't you go calculate something... somewhere? A few hours would do nicely. Don't hurry back. Now dash!"
…
Spock leaned forward slightly.
"Sir, are you injured?"
Wilson shook his head and immediately groaned.
"Either we landed on a galloping pitch or... I got a concussion."
He took the hand Spock offered him and together they pulled him upright. Immediately, the human swayed, and Spock grabbed his shoulders to steady him.
"I'm okay," Wilson muttered. "Just a little dizzy. It'll pass."
"Sir—" Spock started to protest, but Wilson's look silenced him.
It was most peculiar, this mute communication that had passed between them at that moment. They were no longer an annoyed human and an annoying Vulcan. No longer a life-of-the-party and a sourpuss forced into each other's company. They were two Starfleet officers in the middle of a force majeure situation involving a number of civilians and consequently automatically in charge of it. It didn't matter that they were only an ensign and a j.g. lieutenant. While Jerry Wilson felt undoubtedly better at ease with any of the shuttle passengers before the crash, right now Spock was the only other person who spoke his language, even though it involved little actual speaking. He knew the Vulcan was reading him perfectly.
The two of them were on one side and everyone else on the other.
"God, I'm sick," Wilson groaned, still very dazed. He looked back at the biggest piece of the passenger compartment that remained intact. "I feel like throwing up just looking at it," he admitted. "Can you check in there? I'll try to see if there's anyone left out here. And find that child."
"Yes, sir," Spock nodded, but he hesitated still, for the moment he let go of Wilson, the Lieutenant reeled nearly tripping over.
"Go, for heaven's sake," Wilson waved at him, forcing himself to stay on his feet. "I'll be fine."
Spock complied. The passenger compartment was filled with acrid smoke and smothery heat, radiating from what appeared to be everywhere. In the uneven, flickering light of fires, Spock made his way through the horrific exhibition of twisted metal and melted plastic. He looked inside the pilot's cabin and was hard-pressed not to back away immediately. Blood was everywhere. The pilot lay sprawled all over the control panel, arms and legs stretched beyond what a humanoid body could endure. His beautiful companion, who wasn't quite so beautiful anymore, was on the floor, covered in pieces of plastic and plexiglass that had cut right trough her. Spock remembered her silvery laughter from seemingly just moments ago and had to suppress a shiver, suddenly very grateful for his Vulcan training.
He withdrew, turning his attention to what used to be a comfortable passenger cabin. He crossed two destroyed sections, coughing at the violent smoke attack, and nearly stumbled over the baby.
In a mock manifestation of the triumph of child-safety protocols properly engaged, the baby was still sitting in its special chair, held in place by soft but obviously effective restraints, encased in a shimmering bubble of forcefield, maintaining breathable atmosphere within. The child was red-faced from crying and was tugging at the restraints stubbornly, its head whirling around in a desperate attempt to locate its mother.
Spock frowned, trying to remember. There was a woman on board, a quiet, tired-looking woman in her late thirties. She was accompanied by a teenage girl, and they had a baby. Spock looked around, waving the smoke off, if only for a few seconds, ignoring the continuing assault the baby's crying was making on his ears. The baby was in no immediate danger, the others might have been. He located the woman in a moment, curled up under the remaining seats at the opposite wall. Her head was smashed brutally, obviously having collided with a sharp object of some kind. Dead on impact.
Suddenly, a muffled noise came from a pile of debris on the other side of the passageway. Spock's head snapped up sharply, and the next second he was already on his knees in front of the heap, helping someone to get from under it. It was the same girl he remembered. Coughing and breathing raggedly, she emerged with his help from the floor, shaking. Her eyes were swollen and red, irritated by the smoke. She glanced at Spock wildly, clearly disoriented.
"Can you stand, Miss?"
She looked up at him as if at a loss to figure out what he was asking. Her gaze slid over to the woman, and she whimpered hysterically.
"Mrs. Sana... oh, no."
She made a move as if to go to her, but Spock's hands kept her in place firmly.
"We need to clear this area," he spoke right into her ear. "Do you understand? I must check for other survivors. Can you take the baby?"
"What?" she looked at him, no more coherent than a moment ago, but then the sound registered and a miracle happened.
Amazed, Spock watched the momentary transformation of her expression. Only just she was a shocked, dazed, frightened young girl with no idea of what was going on around her. As the baby's crying sank in, she suddenly straightened, pushed Spock away with force that surprised him and rushed toward the wailing child. She deactivated the forcefield before Spock could say anything, and picked up the baby into her arms, clutching it to her with crushing strength of protectiveness. She looked over at Spock almost accusingly.
As the child immediately began to cough, Spock didn't spare time for questions. He took the girl by the elbow and pulled her towards the exit quickly, then simply lifted her over the sharp-edged piece of the hull and put her on the ground, pushing lightly in the direction of the distant hill. She started for it instantly, never looking back.
Somewhat relieved, Spock returned to his gruesome task. It appeared, however, that his luck had run out. There was no one else alive inside the ruined cabin. Only bodies. Only when he allowed himself to finally acknowledge that fact and left the remains of the shuttle, did it become clear how profound an effect the polluted atmosphere inside had had on him. As foul as the smell outside was, it was still a relief to breathe.
Looking around meticulously and listening intently in case someone was missed, Spock moved slowly toward the altitude he had sent the survivors to. He knew Wilson would have directed anyone he found there, too, as it was the only logical place to gather and wait. He wasn't mistaken. The Lieutenant walked over toward him, still looking groggy and shaken, but controlling his body's reactions tightly.
"Anyone else?"
Spock shook his head.
"No, sir."
"That makes nine, including you and me," Wilson told him and Spock couldn't suppress a wince. The shuttle passenger manifest read twenty-six plus the pilot. "That man over there has a serious head trauma," Wilson pointed at an elderly human, lying on the ground, moaning unceasingly. "The girl you found has a couple of ribs cracked or broken, I'm not sure. The Tellarite has a broken arm. The rest seem... intact." He grimaced at the word. "More or less, anyway."
Spock looked over the shivering, coughing people, sitting awkwardly on the ground, some close to each other, some deliberately away. The girl still held the baby tightly in her hands; the child seemed to be asleep, lulled by the comforting touch. The pain emanating from the group was so thick, one could almost see it. These people were anything but intact.
"Did you find the transceiver?" Wilson asked, knowing Spock would have checked for it.
"Yes. It's inoperable."
"Any possibility of repair?"
Spock looked at him.
"The transmitter coil is smashed."
Wilson pursed his lips.
"I see. Well then. I guess we're on our own. Where do you think we are?"
Spock frowned slightly, concentrating on recalling the last minutes of their flight.
"We passed the asteroid belt and Barmina's first moon. I believe it is safe to assume we landed on the second."
"Not the third?" Wilson asked dubiously. "I think we spent more time than it would have taken to reach the second moon."
"I believe not, sir," Spock said quietly, making sure Wilson was the only one who heard him. "If you recall, the pilot had spent a considerable amount of time... maneuvering. There is one other consideration."
"Starfleet outpost on the third moon?" Wilson asked and Spock nodded. "I guess you're right. They would have been here by now had they picked us up on their sensors, and they would have if we crash-landed on their heads."
"Indeed."
"Come to think of it, they should have picked us up anyway," the Lieutenant frowned and looked up in the sky as if in hopes of seeing a descending ship.
"Not necessarily," Spock shook his head. "Gravimetric distortions in this system are considerable, and the equipment they are using is at least twenty years old. They might have taken us for a meteor."
"Aren't you a bloody ray of sunshine," Wilson grunted, rubbing at his temples. "I seem to remember something peculiar about this system," he said in a subdued cracking voice. "Something about the rotation period of the planets and moons." He looked up at Spock. "Something nasty."
"An emotional term, but apt in regard to our current situation," Spock said. "These moons have a forty-nine hour cycle of rotation, if I recall correctly." He glanced at the pale horizon. "We are entering day time I believe. The temperature will rise up to fifty-five degrees Celsius."
"Ouch. Hot, but we'll live."
"That is not why the moon was labeled class L," Spock told him. "At night the temperature will fall to minus seventy."
Wilson simply looked at him. Then, he turned over to survey the survivors. They were all watching the two of them, obvious anxiety and fear in their eyes. The Lieutenant sighed, returning his gaze to the Vulcan.
"Well then, Ensign. I guess we'd better find a way to get out of here before the night comes."
Involuntarily, Spock glanced back at the destroyed shuttle. It was fortunate that as a Vulcan he did not believe in bad omens. The sight was far from encouraging, just like the odds against them. He swallowed the words ready to spring from his lips determinedly and followed the Lieutenant towards the others.