A/N: I've been watching Star Trek: The Original Series, and I'm really beginning to appreciate the Golden Trio of Spock, Kirk, and Bones. This one-shot is an extension of Ep. 30 ("Operation: Annihilate!") from three different POVs. Direct quotes from the original episode are written in italics to distinguish them from my own prose; I would like to emphasize that I own nothing and do not intend to make any profit from this. This is merely an experiment in POV.
If you haven't watched TOS, I highly recommend it. Once you get past the dated special effects and the 60s-based sexism, the pathos, philosophy, and incredible characterization make it clear why Star Trek is one of the most iconic science fiction shows of all time.
Bones
I had a bad feeling about it from the start, from the moment we moved into the star system being slowly overcome by madness. When that pilot flew into the sun, the bad feeling became a certainty. I've been the Chief Medical Officer on the Enterprise for a long time, and over time, I've developed this sense. I know when things will go wrong—and when things go wrong, Jim always seems to get the worst of it.
Take us to Deneva, Jim said, and his voice was grim. His muscles were tense as he rose from the captain's chair, and I knew then that he knew. Still, we exchanged the pointless exchange that perhaps the Denevan pilot was suffering from madness. Of course he was. We knew that, but we still played out the exchange. It was necessary, just as my next question was.
Your brother Sam, his family, I said. Aren't they stationed on this planet? Of course they were, and we both damn well knew it. He didn't answer right away, but he didn't have to.
The Captain Kirk everyone sees is a brilliant captain and whether he would admit or no, he employs ruthless logic almost as often as Commander Spock. The Jimmy I know carries more burdens than he can ever admit, more pain than he can speak, more emotion than he can ever show. I'm not superstitious; I'm a man of science—but if ever someone's personal life was cursed, it might just be James Tiberius Kirk. I could see it already. Kirk never snapped at Uhura, and he certainly didn't question her inimitable skills or impeccable professionalism. Yet here he was, tight anger in his voice.
I'm not interested in your excuses, Lieutenant. Usually, Jim uses titles as terms of endearment. Sometimes, he uses them to exercise command. Rarely does he use them as weapons, sharp consonants spat too loudly and too close. Apparently, that moment was one of those rare occasions where he attacks unjustly. His pain was coming to the surface, marring that ruthless logic, disturbing it.
When we beamed down to the planet and had to stun the citizens running at with clubs, of all things, even I began to lose my cool. Something was very wrong here, and I said so. The certainty kept rebounding in my head—and it was confirmed only a few minutes later. When we found his brother's lab, Jim was concerned only with his sister-in-law Aurelan, his compassion and concern clear on his face as he tried to calm down the screaming woman. I, on the other hand, looked past Aurelan to the body on the floor. The certainty became a sick, grief that tore at me, one that I had felt too many damn times. It was a grief not for myself, but for the man gently sitting Aurelan down in a chair.
The body was Sam. Jim's brother was dead.
I did not watch the body. I watched Jim, intent, gauging his reaction. Oh, he said, and the reaction was involuntary, like the sound of someone who had been punched in the gut. Sam. I looked down then for a moment, unable to watch, but only for a moment. Jim kept going because that was he always did, but I could see the effort it took him. At least his nephew was alive—for now. Jim called his nephew by name, and his veneer wavered again. He was the kindest to children, for he had never been allowed the happiness that a child should, and I knew that he was thinking now of Peter's loss, perhaps more than his own.
When Spock came back into the room, having tactfully exited to record something or other, he went straight to the captain. I didn't see their faces, but I caught the gist of the exchange. Spock endeavored to comfort Jim; Jim cut him off. Neither action was customary; neither captain nor first officer was satisfied with the result.
I told Jim what I knew, when we got back to the Enterprise and checked the condition of the few remaining members of Jim's family. I knew only that they were in terrible pain, but I may as well have been speaking for Jim himself. I had to watch as he took Aurelan's hand. I had to watch as the brave, sweet woman defended her fellow colonists and gave us the information we needed in her last breaths. I had to watch as Jim lost another family member. I could only stand helplessly as Jim's face took on the same expression it had when he saw Sam. A normal man would have cried. Jim only looked lost, placing Aurelan's hand on her body uncertainly, standing uncertainly, looking at the boy with desperate uncertainty. Grief temporarily stripped the captain of decisiveness, but I saw his shoulders set as he left the med bay. His command wasn't compromised yet.
Spock
There was little I could do to comfort the captain. I deduced at once that the human corpse on the floor was the captain's brother. Brother. A curious spasm of deeply buried emotion disturbed my thinking, and I exited the room under the pretense of scanning the surrounding environment.
Unfortunately, while the increased distance may have granted reprieve from the troubling situation to a human, I was not human. I was a Vulcan, and my ears could not help but hear the sound the captain made. Oh, he said, soft and surprised. In my childhood, I once observed a small mammalian creature as it stumbled upon a sharp stone, falling and injuring itself badly. The sound it made was distinctly similar to the one the captain had just made.
I waited approximately 36 seconds in an attempt to respect the human customs of grief before returning to the main room. Jim was moving towards the pale blue walls, leaning against it as though he were injured. I knew the likelihood of physical injury at this juncture was extremely low, based on observation, but I moved to his side anyway. At the sight of his face, I lost my own composure. I illogically attempted to reassure the captain. I opened my mouth and shut it again. Captain, I said at last. I know how you must fee—but Jim cut me off. I quickly buried a swift flash of human hurt, and I resumed my composure as Jim left, leaving me in command of the landing party.
When the captain rejoined us on the planet, his body language had changed. His brown eyes had hardened, and the stiff lines of his shoulders and neck indicated that his emotional equilibrium had been upset. Of course, humans' emotions were far more easily disturbed than Vulcans', but I knew this human's emotional status almost better than I knew my own. Something had happened to worsen the situation. The woman, I realized, after a moment's thought. Given her poor condition, she had likely died, and Jim was suffering. He was angry and hurt, somehow experiencing both of these emotions simultaneously and to an extreme degree. We went to investigate the buildings again; the captain had joined us just as we heard the buzzing sound that indicated the presence of whatever creatures had been causing this madness.
Logically, there is little I could have done to prevent the next unfortunate event, but the fact remained: however unintentionally, I added to the captain's pain. We rose and turned to exit the building where the oblong, flattened creatures had affixed themselves to the ceiling and walls. Seven seconds later, something struck my back, and pain tore through me. Agony forced me, against my will, to react in an extreme fashion, and I stumbled backwards, arms upraised. My human side, half of my being, was being tortured, every nerve screaming in pain. My body hit the cold floor with great force, and the captain turned back to try and support me. I could only distantly, with my Vulcan half, register Jim's touch. Normally, the slightest touch from Jim lit up my senses with overwhelming, vibrant warmth. Now, I was cut off from that warmth. I barely felt the captain's arms as he half-lifted my uncooperative body from the floor. Spock! The pain was too great. I could not answer. Spock!
I did not lose consciousness until back on the Enterprise, when Dr. McCoy injected me with a strong sedative. Even then, whether because of my unique physiology, the parasite I could feel twining around my nervous system, or a combination thereof, I regained my senses in a short amount of time.
It was that very parasite that led to my next, illogical course of action. The parasite attacked my human half so strongly that I lost control and attempted to take control of the ship. It was a strange experience. I felt as though I were watching a strange, demented version of myself from inside my own body: a vague and unsatisfactorily abstract way to describe it, but accurate nonetheless. Fortunately, as I tried to explain to the captain and Dr. McCoy shortly thereafter, I am a Vulcan. Pain is a thing of the mind, I said, and it was true. I underestimated the scale of the creature's attack only at first, but I was able to generate the appropriate amount of resistance thereafter. An inconvenience, I said, but in truth, it was far more than that. I could not keep my speech from halting, my body from tensing, my face from stiffening, all in response to the pain the parasite inflicted. Evidently, my body language proved to be more persuasive, for the Captain informed me that I must stay restrained. I was half of that mind myself, and that would not do.
I am a Vulcan, I said out loud as soon as the door to the medbay hissed shut behind them. I had to overcome this at once; I was needed. I am a Vulcan. There is no pain. The technique, while rudimentary, sufficiently reinforced my mental effort to the point where I successfully overcame the parasite's pressure. I immediately moved to the transporter room, where I attempted to persuade Mr. Scott of the paramount importance of transporting down to the planet. Again, I was unsuccessful in my attempt at persuasion, and to his professional credit, Mr. Scott held me with a phaser long enough for the captain to arrive.
It was fortunate that I had steeled my mind's defenses. When I told my captain of the plan to capture one of the creatures, his face became wary. I suspected that at the current time, he was suspect to emotional vulnerability, especially in the face of potential danger to crew members. Dr. McCoy protested as well, ever mindful of his patients' conditions. Nevertheless, I persisted, and of course, I was right. I was already infected; I was the most logical choice. Mr. Spock, your logic, as usual, is inescapable, the captain admitted finally. A curious choice of words, and yet more evidence of the captain's state.
Kirk
I hated sending him down to that planet alone. He was in so much pain, and yet he continued to soldier on, his voice relentlessly throwing out deduction after deduction. I knew that Spock wasn't cold-blooded, no matter what insults Bones threw his way, but still, seeing him unable to suppress the expression of that pain upset me. I moved around the ship restlessly, roaming from Peter's side in the infirmary to the bridge to the science labs, getting more frustrated at each stop. Could I do nothing to help the one remaining member of my brother's family? Could I do nothing to help the million people on the planet below? When Spock finally rematerialized in the transporter room, still standing, I released a breath I didn't realize I had been holding.
We regrouped in one of the science labs, the parasite specimen carefully contained in a round glass container. It looked like an enlarged, red-streaked amoeba, or possibly the most disgusting scab ever seen. I eyed it warily, but my attention was soon drawn back to Spock. Bones was running a tricorder over Spock's tense shoulders. I assure you I'm alright, Spock told Bones, but his voice shifted ever so slightly on the last words and betrayed him.
Sure enough, Bones countered that Spock may be in control— but you're far from alright, he finished. Spock simply brushed this fact off—as though it didn't matter that half of him was in agony. Still, Spock's calm voice, as always, helped ground me. Together, we were able to reason out the nature of the parasite: a single brain cell. Together, all the creatures made a massive, collective organism. Different than anything we had ever seen before and yet, there was hope. My mind racing, I remembered the Denevan pilot. He said, a moment before he crashed into sun, that he was free of the organism. Something about the sun had destroyed the creature. I ordered a complete analysis within the hour. Bones raised his eyebrows and Spock shifted, but they agreed.
I knew I was pushing them, but I needed to solve this issue, and failure was not an option. I'm sorry, Captain, Bones said. Impossible, he said. I turned away, frustration bleeding out into my voice as I snapped. We had the most advanced technology in the galaxy aboard this vessel! Why could we not figure out how to kill a single, floppy cell?! I understand your concern. Bones again. Your affection for Spock. Your nephew. No, it wasn't that. Couldn't he see? Couldn't he understand? Of course, the sight of my nephew helpless sent anger racing through my veins. Of course, Spock was everything to me. But it wasn't just that—it was never just that. Bones ought to know that by now. It's always the ship, the crew, the innocent people on the planet below. I told Bones as much in halting tones, memory of Tarsus IV forcing their way in.
God, it was times like these that I hated being in command. And still, Spock and Bones bickered, talking as though killing a million civilians or letting a star system fall into ruin were the only two alternatives. I will accept neither of those alternatives, gentleman, I snapped, my patience at an end. I cannot let this thing expand beyond this planet, nor do I intend to kill a million or more people to stop it. I want another answer. The command crew exchanged glances, and my frustration grew. I want that third alternative! I exclaimed, my voice rising and my fist thumping on the table. I strode out, keenly aware of the silence behind me. I knew I was losing control of myself. But what was I supposed to do, when my two best friends suddenly failed to see beyond the obvious, like I had always depended on them to do?
I had calmed down only slightly when they approached me in a meeting room a few minutes later. Spock requested permission to go down to the planet and die, along with the million people and my nephew. Request denied, I said flatly.
I do not know how much longer I can hold out against the pain, he said, and God, those words killed me. Still, I stuck to my reply. Could they not see this? Something about the sun killed the creature. Finally, I rose, pacing to the other side the room, fiddling with the panels, listening to them list obvious aspects of the sun. And as always, the sound of their voices drew me back to reason. Light, I said. The creatures were sensitive to light! We didn't understand completely, but we didn't need to. I had found the answer, Bones had asked the right questions, and Spock knew how to bring the sun to Deneva because he was Spock.
Your figures are, of course, accurate, I told him a few minutes later as we gathered in the lab to test the theory. They were. The creature was killed after only a few seconds of exposure to brilliant light, but my mind raced ahead to the real problem at hand. There wasn't time to help each person on the planet in controlled conditions. I twisted my hands together as I explained this to Bones, my voice rising again. We have to duplicate the conditions on the planet! I half-shouted, and my then my voice died as I realized the obvious, terrible solution. Spock.
I turned, and there he was. Offering to sacrifice himself—again. I couldn't do anything but agree completely, and Bones was forced to agree as well. The three of us stood in silence for a moment, each of us, all of us, hating the circumstances which forced us to work this way. Then Spock turned and walked into the experimental chamber, not much larger than a closet.
Mr. Spock's the best first officer in the fleet, said Bones. For Bones to say that—but there was no alternative. As soon as Bones brought the dials down, I whirled to open the door. The creature was gone! Spock said he was free of it, and he would know. Hope rose instantly within me, greedy after having been quenched for so long—and then Spock bumped into the corner.
I am also, he admitted, his voice not entirely steady, quite blind. I put a hand around each of his arms, supporting him, sitting him down. When Nurse Chapel brought the results—the creatures could be killed by ultraviolet light alone, that Spock's sacrifice was unnecessary—I could say nothing for a moment, choked by feelings somewhere between rage and sorrow and helplessness while Spock said something irritatingly logical in an irritatingly calm voice.
Bones! I ground out finally, anger and accusation contained in a single, weaponized word. My friend looked at me helplessly, apology in his eyes. My mouth opened and shut, opened and shut again. Take care of him, I finally muttered and strode out, unable to stand watching Spock's unfocused gaze and Bones' guilty one any longer.
We scattered the satellites in an even orbit around the planet and initiated a steady stream of ultraviolet light. Just as Spock's figures predicted, the creatures began dying. Reports from the planet indicated that they simply…melted, their bodies turning into harmless vapor. My mind stuttered. It had worked. I thought of Bones and Spock, and a sick sense of guilt stirred in my stomach. I had treated Bones abominably. Spock had known what he was getting into. He said as much. I paged the sick bay to tell them the news.
Bones, I said, after a moment, hesitating. Bones, it wasn't your fault. Bones. Bones…I repeated, hesitating again. Finally, I fell silent. What more was there to say?
Thankfully, there was much more to say. Spock and Bones walked onto the bridge together a few hours later. Spock's focused eyes, the steady set of his gait, the amusement that colored his words had returned. Spock had returned. Bones didn't look hurt. My science officer walked to his station and sat down purposefully, explaining something about a Vulcan inner eyelid that activated instinctually and rendered his blindness temporary. I sat down in my captain's chair rather gracelessly, the tension leaving me all at once. Bones muttered something about not telling Spock he was the best first officer in the fleet. Spock thanked him with wildly expressive eyebrows. I tossed in something about Vulcan hearing.
The banter tossed back and forth between the one, two, three of us returned, our relief showing in snarky insults and witty rejoinders. God, I had missed this. This was what I had been so close to losing. I sat back, my heart ceasing to shudder, my muscles ceasing to clench, my mind ceasing to fail, for the first time since we came into the system. I had Bones at my side. I had Spock only a few steps away. My crew was safe, my nephew was alive, and a million people had a second chance at life. I ordered Sulu to move us forward, to the next step in our five-year mission, to boldly go where no one had gone before and…I stole another glance at Spock, just to be sure he was pressing the right controls and, well, breathing. Perhaps we could go a little less boldly for a while—just until I could be sure that my ship and her crew were safe and sound.