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The Needs of The One
Chapter Ten
"Sir, I've come to report a missing crewman."
Spock abruptly halted, transferring Jim's chessboard to one hand before pivoting, regarding the chief of security with an inquisitive stare. The burly man stood rigid at parade rest, broad shoulders squared—the skin encompassing his brown eyes taut with stress. Albeit he was indubitably off duty, he could not disregard a critical matter as this especially with the possibility of an intruder lurking about.
"And who would that individual be, Mr. Hendorff?" He inquired, eyebrow arching.
"Lieutenant-Commander Montgomery Scott, sir." The muscles in his throat contracted as he swallowed nervously, "He has been missing for several hours, and we haven't been able to locate him."
Ticking his head slightly, his eyebrows furrowed imperceptibly, "Have you verified his absence with the analog system?"
Nodding curtly, he intoned, "Yes, sir. All shuttles and pods are accounted for as well. He has inexplicably vanished from the ship."
"It is illogical as there are no other methods of abandoning the vessel."
"I know, sir, but it appears he has."
This was exceedingly peculiar and disconcerting—the engineer was notorious for his unduly protective and overbearing disposition with his sector. It was quite uncharacteristic of him to abandon his post without proper authorization.
"I see. Assemble the entire security personnel and conduct a thorough investigation. I grant you permission to access the ship's database if deemed necessary—report directly to me in precisely one hour."
The man gave a hastened salute, "Understood, sir."
He nodded in acknowledgement as the man rotated on the balls of his feet, marching dutifully down the deck. Scrutinizing the man's broad back momentarily, he pivoted and sauntered off in the opposite direction toward the med-bay.
The remainder of his shift had been anything but productive. He endeavored to maintain his undivided attention by assaying the current situation with the ostensible theory of an intruder and ingratiating himself with the delegates to the best of his abilities—finding it odd that his father was not amongst them—instead of permitting his thoughts to wander to the wellbeing of his friend. It was illogical to be preoccupied whilst on duty especially when Jim's health was in the capable hands of Doctor McCoy.
Vulcans do not worry.
As he was about to round the threshold into the medical bay, he was nearly startled as Jim bolted from the main ward. The blond man jerked with alarm as he came to an abrupt halt, blue eyes widening marginally, the flesh of his cheeks flushing—dressed in his regulation blacks that appeared too baggy for his frame.
"Captain?" Spock inquired with incredulity, utterly perplexed by his unexpected presence, "You are leaving?"
"Uh, yeah." Flashing a wary grin, he offered a canny reply, "Bones just released me—I was just about to go look for you, actually." Averting his gaze, he brushed passed him, striding toward the lift.
Spock was dubious that Jim had attained optimum health in such a short interval and was also quite certain the doctor would not have allowed him to leave with minimum protest. The strange sensation that something was amiss confounded him—prompting him to stalk after the man with haste.
"Are you certain you are well enough—?"
"Yes, Mr. Spock." He riposted with a clipped tone.
They swiftly entered the lift, observing Jim carefully as he pressed the pad of his thumb against the control pad, leaning his back against the curved wall, folding his arms nonchalantly over his chest. Spock was baffled how he had seemingly recovered, absent of any evidence of his prior ailment—his healthy radiant glow returning to his skin.
Narrowing his eyes slightly, he inquired with underlining suspicion, "Captain, do you still desire to proceed with my previous proposition for a chess match?"
"That was the plan." He stated with a sheepish smile. "But I'd rather play it in my quarters."
Peculiar—Jim would normally protest against the consistent use of his title while they were off duty, yet he had not commented or demanded to be addressed by his name.
"I see."
The lift's doors hissed as it deposited them onto the designated deck, scrutinizing the blond man heavily as they departed. He remarked how Jim's natural gait had taken on a singular limp strangely on the opposite side of the tube's prior location, his hips rotating a few degrees more than normal with each step as though he were suppressing the urge to strut. Spock could not recall a subsequent injury that could potentially explain this development.
"Do you desire me to apprise you of all recent reports, Captain?" He emphasized the title, grasping the grip of his phaser—anticipating his response.
Without glancing behind him or breaking stride, he replied flatly, "Not right now, I'm still a bit tired."
Jim's indifference triggered a confirmation to his speculations. With fluid motion, he dropped the chessboard on the ground with a loud clatter, latching onto the man's shoulder, bringing him to a halt while simultaneously un-holstering his phaser—aiming it point blank at the base of his skull.
"What are you doing?" The man intoned, "This can be perceived as mutiny, Mr. Spock."
"Indeed. Your proclamation would be merited if you were the Captain." He stated in a monotone voice, "Identify yourself."
In a motion nearly too quick for him to follow, the imposter whirled around in a blur, landing a solid blow to his jaw—knocking the phaser from his grasp in his momentary daze. Blocking the ensuing blow, he countered with a swift punch to the man's face—the crunch of his nose as it broke against his knuckles grated against his ears. The force sent the man flying into the bulkhead, sliding before slumping on his knees onto the floor, bright red blood gushing from his nostrils.
Spock fisted his hand into the imposter's shirt, hoisting him up off the floor before slamming him hard against the bulkhead for the second time.
A sinister laugh slipped from between his blood stained lips, eyelids shooting open to reveal a set of atypical eyes. One orb remained the remarkable blue and the other a bright yellow with a red rim encompassing the pupil—the colored blue contact clinging onto the dark bottom lashes.
"What gave me away?" He asked with a wry grin.
"Identify yourself." Spock reiterated darkly, "And what have you done with the Captain?"
"Now, now," He cooed, "I thought Vulcans were supposed to be patient and docile." Smiling as Jim's form unexpectedly commenced an astounding transformation—the skin darkened in hue, ebony hair mingled with the blond as it rapidly cascaded over the now skeletal shoulders. Spock watched with immense fascination as the apparent female completed her external alteration—the broken nose astonishingly remedying itself. She scrutinized him with an amused gaze as she continued, "Although, I think I prefer you this way. It's quite arousing."
Spock's eyes ghosted over her form briefly, disregarding her comment as he stated, "Under Federation penalty, you are required to identify yourself and how you were able to board this vessel."
She purred, "If I were you, I'd use that logical mind to listen before your 'regulations' end up killing your captain."
The words elicited the perturbing constriction to reoccur in his side, "Where is he." He demanded with a low growl.
The smile expanded, "I'm glad I have your attention. Let's move this conference to somewhere more private, hmm? Oh, and if you call your little guards, it will only seal your captain's and a few other individuals' fate, so let's not make any rash decisions."
Tightening his grasp on the fabric, he stated grimly, "Return him, he is ill."
"All the more reason for you to listen—I have a message for you." His eyebrow arched curiously at her remark. "Now, if you don't mind, this is no way to treat a lady."
"Jim! C'mon, kid, wake up." A muffled voice filtered into the silence, tugging him from the eternal black as it progressively intensified in volume. "I know you can hear me." Although the words were scolding, the tone was anything but.
Grudgingly, he pried his eyes open, blearily staring up into the face of the familiar doctor. He attempted to speak, but only a strangled sound escaped him.
"You won't be able to speak or move just yet." Bones informed, voice echoing, "You were administered one hell of a tranquilizer. I would know, I was given the same thing—the effects finally wore off a couple hours ago." He groused through gritted teeth.
The world spun beneath him, shapes and colors shifted in his vision sending a wave of nausea flooding over him.
"I can bloody well agree with tha'!" Another face loomed over him, "I'd rather be struck down by lightning than come out of tha' stupor!"
"I hear ya." Bones breathed, returning his attention back to Jim, "Unfortunately, I don't have any hypos for the massive headache you're about to endure. I'm just glad they allowed me to remove the tube and keep my tricorder." He muttered, "Just hang here with Scotty while I check on the Ambassador." Vanishing from view, loud clinks reverberated through the area as he shuffled over to his other patient.
The Scotsman leaned in further, making a wild gesture with his arm that caused the world to sway, bile burning up his throat. "I don' know wha' happened, Jim. One minute, I was talking to Spock and tha' next thing I knew, I was lyin' here like you are right now."
Jim attempted to respond again, drawing forth another strained whine.
"Ah, don' try it laddie. Trust me—it's just a waste of time." Raising a hand, he scratched his head feverishly, "If I had known you were in such bad shape, I probably woulda stopped by…" He trailed off, averting his gaze.
"Don't beat yourself up." Bones stated as he hastily returned, the loud clinks echoing through the enclosed space again, "I'm sure he isn't all that upset about it." It was awkward having them speak about him as though he weren't in the room, and once Jim was capable, he was certainly going to tell him off for that. "Jim, we're being held prisoner by Klingons."
"Aye." Scotty interjected, "Seems as though we were somehow beamed aboard their ship—at least tha's tha' theory anyway."
"Well, it's the only one that makes sense." Bones continued, "I'm not exactly sure why we were the targets. I would say it's our rank, but that doesn't seem to fit since Sarek's here too." Pausing for a fleeting moment, a small grin steadily formed on his face, "Even though this is serious, I can't help but like the fact you can't speak. Nice change of pace really—hearing my own voice." He stated, eyes widening with emphasis.
Jim willed his still slightly numb hand to hover an inch in the air, curling his fingers into a rude gesture.
Bones let out a short laugh, "Love you too, kid."
"Hey, you're movin' now! Tha's good."
Only it wasn't. Besides the billowing bouts of nausea, the massive headache Bones had forewarned him about suddenly smashed into him—the pain ripping down his skull. He released a groan, squeezing his eyes shut as he rode through it—forcing tears from his eyes.
"And there's the headache." Bones deduced with an audible exhale of breath, placing a piece of cloth over his eyes gently.
"I certainly don' envy you, lad." Scotty stated solemnly, placing a supporting hand on his shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze.
A loud screech of a door opening reverberated through the room followed by a set of thundering footfalls, increasing in intensity as they approached them.
"vIH." The brusque voice commanded.
"Dammit, how many times do I need to say this—I don't understand you!" Bones groused before the sound of clinks echoed again as he was violently shoved away.
A hand suddenly clamped down onto his arm with enough force to bruise, yanking him upright which caused the world to take an unexpected lurch to the right—his head lolling just as bile spewed from his mouth, cascading down the front of his medical gown and splattering onto the pallet.
The Klingon cried out with revulsion, jumping back slightly to avoid the mess, hand remaining latched onto his arm. It wasn't long before the contents of his stomach had emptied—the fortunate upside of the coma—and once the Klingon had noted his semi-adequate recovery, he roughly tugged him from the pallet, supporting his dead weight with ease as he snaked an arm around his waist.
"Where are you taking him?" Bones demanded as the Klingon began to half-drag Jim through the room. "Hey!"
The world reeled as the Klingon hastily spun them around, hearing a crack and a pained grunt as he administered a powerful blow to the man's jaw—Bones landing on the ground with a loud thud a moment later.
"Do not touch me, Human." The Klingon sneered, jerking Jim as he promptly headed back toward the door.
"I knew you big-headed bastards could speak standard!" Bones exclaimed, "Where are you taking h—!"
The rest was curtailed as the heavy metal door swung shut behind them. Jim blinked rapidly as he was dragged down a narrow corridor, steam brushing against his face as they passed exposed pipes—quickly surmising they were being held in the bowels of the ship. Although he was still in the thralls of a drug-induced haze, he feebly attempted to remember the route to the turbolift in the event they were able to make an escape.
The ride in the lift was short and uncomfortably silent before the doors hissed, sliding open to reveal the bridge.
"My words are truth." The Klingon—that Jim could only assume was the captain—declared at the center of the room, turning away from the view screen and extending a hand toward their general direction.
The Klingon clutching him quickly accepted the apparent approval to proceed, dragging Jim towards him before forcibly shoving him down onto his knees in a submitted gesture. Jim's breaths were labored, his body trembling as the tranquilizer's effects began to ebb. He glanced up toward the screen, sluggishly attempting to identify the blurry face on the screen.
"As I have stated," The Klingon captain reiterated, "we have Captain Kirk."
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