King Hunt: a prolonged attack on the opponent's King, usually dislodging it from a shielded position via a series of checks and sacrifices

Captain's Log, Stardate 2264.9

We have been unable to contact any other survivors of the…destruction of the Federation starship U.S.S. Enterprise. To my knowledge, we seven and Lieutenant Uhura's three-man party are the only ten survivors out of over twelve hundred people. Let the record show that the cause of the self-destruct trigger, and the method of overriding the safety protocols in place to prevent this eventuality, are both entirely unknown, and while Commander Spock has a few conjectures regarding the level of intelligence and ability of the perpetrator we have no set conclusions or even suspicions as to the guilty parties. Let the record show that my Second, Lieutenant-Commander Montgomery Scott, was neither incompetent nor derelict in his duties, now or ever; nor was my Fourth, Lieutenant Nyota Uhura, to blame for surviving the explosion when her department personnel did not. Each of my surviving crew acted to the best of their abilities to save themselves, as protocol dictates in the event of a General Order Thirteen, and were not even on the scene when the self-destruct was triggered.

My highest commendations to Lieutenant-Commander Scott and Lieutenant Keenser, for spending their time in attempting to override the self-destruct, at the cost of being able to evacuate the ship. They gave their lives in the above-and-beyond performance of their duty.

My highest commendations to Lieutenant Jeffery Kyle, who remained at his post in the Transporter Room until the Enterprise's destruction. He was responsible for saving at least three members of my crew.

Known casualties: Ensign Petra Xanthos. Ensign C. J. Pha'ast-Movato. Lieutenant Lucia Marcella. Medical Assistant Tanya Bodine. Lieutenant-Commander and Chief Medical Of-Officer…Leonard McCoy. All others presumed casualties save for my landing party and Lieutenant Uhura, Ensign Vro-Hathwa, and Lieutenant Kevin Riley. Let the record show that my people were not to blame, and that the cause of the self-destruct being triggered remains unknown.

Lieutenant Uhura's last check-in indicated that her party has found shelter in some vegetation along one of the planet's rivers. I have instructed her to remain there while we attempt to extrapolate her position and reach their party. Mr. Spock is currently engaged in overseeing the set-up of a temporary camp, as well as trying to re-configure what technology we have besides the tricorders, which could possibly function as a subspace distress beacon. While I have the highest confidence in my First Officer's abilities both to command and to perform minor scientific wonders, there stands little chance of miraculously conjuring equipment we need out of the materials at hand. It could very well be several weeks before Starfleet Command receives our emergency jettison packet (and that's assuming it did actually get jettisoned before the countdown), and sends aid to the survivors.

In the meantime, we can do nothing but carry on. Much as I do not want to.

Jim flicked the tricorder's record button off before he embarrassed himself further in an official log. He'd thought that maybe four hours would let him get used to the idea of his ship going up in flames and his entire crew (practically) with it – but it was still as sickening a feeling as it had been earlier. He wanted nothing more than to fall apart quietly where no one could see – but a captain wasn't given that privilege of the common man. He had to soldier on, to lead a battle and try to end a war, and he had to stand strong when his crew felt like deserting or surrendering.

He'd been glad to see Anderssen have his minor meltdown earlier over the probable fact of his girlfriend's death. Now that the initial terror was dealt with he would be more stable now, and they needed his scientific mind. Spock had freaked out a little bit, bless his heart, but had hammered the final nail into the coffin of his capability of being a captain in his own right in demonstrating his ability to diffuse emotional tension with the appropriate amount of respect. Jim's only reservation against the promotion would be Spock's struggle to react properly and kindly to excessive human emotion; not all crews loved Vulcanic stoicism, or would tolerate it in a commanding officer.

But Spock had been, in a word, perfect, with his subordinate, not condoning nor compromising Vulcan principle with something so out of character as physical comfort – but had said the right things and permitted the lieutenant space and time rather than harshly demanding he continue work on his projects. It had been one of Spock's very few flaws during the early days of their first mission, and the Vulcan had grown much in the intermediary years.

Jim had no further objections, professional or otherwise, to Spock's moving on to his own captaincy. He was both proud of that fact, and deathly scared of its implications.

"Captain, sir?" inquired McDonnell, returning from reconnaissance.

"Yes, Mr. McDonnell," he replied, all professionalism and bland calmness. It wouldn't do to fall apart in front of any of them now, because they were all on the verge of a breakdown themselves. "Report."

"Mr. Spock reports the camp secure, sir, though there has been little progress in the construction of a distress beacon. We are, for the moment, stable."

Jim nodded absently, trying to pull his head back into the game.

"Sir, request permission to explore the uncharted and unscannable area?"

"Denied, temporarily," he answered, mitigating the curtness with a smile and a squeeze to the Security man's shoulder. "Let me confer with Commander Spock regarding securing this site and then we'll probably all go together. With a lack of communicators I don't really want us separating, even if the planet seems harmless. Seen too many horror holovids, you know?"

The ensign smiled a little and nodded in approval. "Safety in numbers, sir."

"Exactly. Get with Sulu, McDonnell, and see how the food situation's coming?"

"Aye, sir." The young man sent a spray of gravel flying as he sped off toward the navigator, who was poring over a portable toxin detection kit held over a disgustingly slimy-looking lichen. Chekov looked torn between disgust and scientific curiosity, and he was glad to see it; keeping them busy was going to be paramount for the next few days – weeks, or months, actually, since it no doubt would come to that – in order to keep their minds and spirits off the holocaust which had just destroyed the majority of their lives.

Spock looked up at his approach, and he noted the tension in the Vulcan's thin figure. "Once we're settled here I'll take over the grunt work," he said in an undertone, careful to keep his voice below a level which could be overheard by their subordinates.

"Unnecessary."

"Don't give me that. In your own terminology, Commander, you require meditation, and I require you to be at top performance in your duties. Therefore, I will take over the grunt work for such time as you deem sufficient. Understood?"

"Clearly," was the dry reply, though not without gratitude. "We are, I believe, at an impasse. Without additional equipment, I will not be able to produce anything of use to our predicament. Even I cannot make something out of nothing."

"Right, because only Scotty can change the laws of physics," he teased, and though he felt a stinging in his eyes at the thought of their brilliant CE, it was nice to remember him fondly. "I had forgotten, Mr. Spock. Do forgive me."

Spock looked up at him, the motion looking suspiciously like an eyeroll from his vantage point. "I am a scientist, sir; not a miracle worker." Eyes suddenly widening as the Vulcan realized how he had unconsciously phrased the sentence, Spock offered him an apologetic look.

He smiled, and laid a hand on the tense blue shoulder. "That's only the tiniest portion of your job description, Mr. Spock. I think the 'Fleet regards the majority of it as 'Jim Kirk's babysitter'."

"Which by definition would entitle me to hazard pay."

Anderssen, walking by with a load of dismantled electronics carefully wrapped in his black undershirt, suddenly cackled. That earned him a death-by-eyebrow from Spock and a shameless smirk from his captain; Jim was just glad to see the guy had it together at least visibly, since that was more than he could say he felt that he had.

"Yeah, I'll send the memo to Starfleet Command tomorrow; remind me, why don't you," he retorted dryly.

"Because you are so timely regarding the completion of paperwork."

"Hel-lo, that's what I have you for? I didn't ask you to be First Officer just to get my butt kicked every week in zero-G wrestling."

"An uncontracted, but not entirely unpleasant, benefit from the arrangement."

They were getting weird looks from the rest of the landing party, which was good; part of the reason he and Spock were regarded as The Command Team in the 'Fleet was their ability to play off each other to diffuse tension and ease stress in their crew. If that meant Spock poking at his recklessness or human illogic, or him teasing the Vulcan until the guy snapped in one form or the other – either way, it was just a coping mechanism, and while the present humor was a little pathetic it got the job done.

Sulu offered them a tentative smile as he approached, a staccato-chattering Chekov in tow. "Good news and bad news, Captain," he reported, saluting despite the obvious informality of their situation.

Jim knew it was his own gesture of respect and we're-all-coping-along-with-you-sir, and loved him for it. "Well let's have them, Mr. Sulu."

"Zhe good news is that nearly all of the species of flora on this planet are non-harmful for human – or Wulcan – consumption," the young navigator chirped, grinning at his tricorder. "Vill certainly be able to sustain us for indefinite period of time."

"…And the bad news?"

Sulu huffed in amusement, and jerked a thumb toward the nearest glop of ooze. "Most of it's going to taste like a hybrid of wet clay and rancid milk," he answered wryly, grimacing. "It's pretty disgusting stuff, but it's digestible by carbon-based life-forms. Won't harm your digestive system, sir, and qualifies as a vegetarian preference."

Spock's eyes flickered in somewhat surprised acknowledgement, and Jim tried not to sigh. His First still, even after so long, found it hard to accept that the crew was just as loyal and caring toward him as they were toward the captain – more so, in some cases. He couldn't find it in his heart to be jealous of that, because Spock deserved it.

That was what made the idea of losing his First to a career promotion so sickening; he knew half the crew might want to go with him. If Spock ever decided to mutiny, Jim would never stand a chance of keeping his ship intact. That knowledge both awed him and terrified him –

It hit him suddenly that there wasn't a ship, or a crew, anymore, and his eyes burned. He turned away from the group, rubbing a hand over his sunburnt forehead and nose, and inhaled slowly, trying to follow the few failed meditation lessons Spock had once been idiot enough to attempt teaching him. Quiet inhalation, picturing the tension and pain and anger flowing out of the gaping wound left by the explosion of his ship…outward into the dissipation of his extremities…out into the air, to vanish like vapor.

To heck with it, it hadn't worked then and wasn't working now.

"Have we set up camp to your satisfaction, Mr. Spock?" he snapped suddenly, interrupting Anderssen and Chekov's animated discussion of possibly utilizing various minerals found in the soil as crude power conduits.

Spock's delicate eyebrow tilted just a fraction, but he said nothing besides a quiet, "Aye, Captain."

"Then let's get this uncharted area explored while we still have daylight hours," he ordered, slinging a pack over his shoulder. Water purification tablets, basic first aid supplies, and emergency ration bars were basically all the supplies they had in the world, and probably would have for the next few months until they could be rescued. It would have to do. "About how long do we have left, Mr. Chekov?"

"Approximately three-point-five hours, sir. Daylight falls on zhis planet early in its solar cycle."

"Three-point-six-one, to be precise. And you are aware that early is a relative term, Ensign, dependent upon which point of observance you base –"

"Spock," he muttered, elbowing the Vulcan as he passed. "Easy on the kid."

"I heard that, and I am not kid!" The young Russian expostulated indignantly from behind them.

"Yeah, you are."

"I am not kid! I am tventy-three years old!"

"So's my baby brother, who's hasn't even taken the Kobayashi Maru yet," Anderssen snorted.

"Tell him not to bother," Jim called, booting a rock away from the trail before them. "I've been reliably informed that its creator is a royal pain in the –" he yelped as Spock turned, eyebrows clenched, and held up both hands in the universal don't-kill-me gesture, "Kidding, I'm just kidding! No nerve pinching the captain!"

"Three words," Sulu muttered as they picked their way over the craggy shale behind them.

Chekov perked up and glanced at him while snapping the lid shut on the tricorder to protect it from the dust they were kicking up. "Da?"

"Mmhm. Old. Married. Couple."

"Da," Anderssen echoed, amid a snort of muffled snickers from the Security detail bringing up the rear.


"…A transporter? In the middle of freakin' No Man's Land?" Greco voiced the sentiment they were all feeling, staring at the object within the shielded area.

"Operational, Spock?" Jim asked, staying a safe distance from the object per McDonnell's stressed injunctions and Spock's non-verbal backup glare.

"It appears to be so, Captain, though it is of a manufacturing origin completely alien to me," his CSO replied, inspecting the platform and then moving to its control board. "Mr. Greco?"

"Never seen the like, sir, and I'll wager I've seen about every type of UFP transporter there is; it's standard procedure for Security, at least according to Mr. Scott's brand of it. Ever since that noob from the Academy last year mixed up the dispersal pattern on that Klingon transporter we nicked from Outpost Fourteen, he's made all of us memorize the different makes and enough information to complete a safe transport even without a pad. Wouldn't like to try it m'self, though," he muttered, inspecting the controls.

"Mr. Chekov?"

"No idea, Mr. Spock." Wide blue eyes scanned every inch of the controls excitedly, fingers hovering over textless buttons and panels with the itch of curiosity. "Perhaps is voice-activated?"

"Negative, unless it is isomorphically controlled. But this series of switches most resembles a power coupling on some extremely obscure United Federation of Planets experimental models from the last century…" The Vulcan carefully flipped a series of levers.

Greco and McDonnell leaped into action, yanking Spock and the young Russian to a safe distance away as the machine suddenly whirred into life, lights flashing on simultaneously and the padd power circuits revving into life.

Nothing else happened.

"Overreaction much, guys?" Jim asked, laughing, and slung an arm proudly around each of them while they stood, sheepish, as Spock calmly returned to the transporter console.

"It does appear to be in working order, Captain," the Vulcan declared after a few moments of fiddling with various switches and (thankfully) encountering no booby-traps. "While the technology is partly unfamiliar, partly reminiscent of our own, the entire apparatus does appear to, in theory at least, be fully functional."

"Am I the only one who thinks it's really weird that a transporter randomly exists on a planet that's not supposed to exist, and that doesn't have any sort of even sentient – much less intelligent – life forms on it?"

"Negative," Greco said bluntly. "It screams booby-trap to me, sir."

"Especially as a set of coordinates appear to be pre-programmed and locked into the transport beam," Spock affirmed. "The lock encryption is entirely unfamiliar to me; I doubt it can be disengaged and re-programmed."

"Where are the coordinates?"

"Apparently the primary raised plateau we saw upon our initial aerial reconnaissance, sir. It is one of several inexplicably and apparently haphazard elevated areas in the unique topography of this planet."

"We have any idea what's up there?"

"Negative." Spock shook his head, fingers still flying over the consoles without needing to look at what he was doing. "When scans revealed treacherous landing conditions and no life of any sort, plant or intelligent animal, was scanned, I declined to permit an exploratory landing party, Captain."

"And so you should," he said reassuringly. "But now I wonder what, exactly, is up there."

"I have a really, really bad feeling about all this," Sulu muttered. "I flew the shuttle myself over the plateau, Captain, and there's no way there could be sentient life there. It's all rocky ground, ravines and crevasses. No one could even explore there without some hefty safety equipment."

"So why, then, is the transporter locked onto those coordinates?" Anderssen mused, walking around the pad to the other side and crouching to run tricorder scans of the base. "It appears to function along the same principles as any other transporter. Mr. Spock?"

"I concur, Lieutenant. However, I do not see a way to disengage the lock on the coordinates."

"Supposing we could unlock it," Jim asked, turning to his First, "do you think we could lock onto Lieutenant Uhura and her party and beam them back?"

"In theory, since the lieutenant does have a communicator. However, I should be reluctant to risk the transport with alien equipment. Without a modern stabilization matrix and a complete pattern lock on the two parties not holding the communicator, transport would not be entirely without risk. However, Mr. Chekov would be more knowledgeable regarding the feasibility of manual computation than I; he is unmatched in that particular field."

The young man blushed a fiery red at the words, which coming from Spock amounted to the Vulcan holding a bouquet of flowers and wearing a t-shirt that said I 3 Moscow. Relations between the two had been a little strained initially during the first five-year mission. Chekov had blamed himself for months, for not being able to lock onto Amanda Grayson when Vulcan imploded, and Jim had finally, as Captain and friend, stepped in and explained to Spock that humans blame themselves for things whether they were their fault or not, and that they didn't know they were forgiven until they were told. Spock had trusted his judgment of character, and had under his suggestion sought out the young man toward the end of their first year, informing him accordingly that it was futile to blame himself and that Spock would never have thought of doing so.

Now, Chekov worshipped the ground Spock walked on, and Spock had found himself a little protégé It was different, but effective, and the captain and first officer's wasn't the only relationship that had been born, strengthened, and tried by fire through initial mutual conflict. Jim thought it was adorable, and it did his heart good to see Spock running his Science labs with an iron fist and a cherubic Russian shadow. Chekov was going to be a supernova of a Chief Science or Tactical Officer someday; the kid was almost lethally brilliant, and had been personally trained by the best scientist and First Officer in the Fleet for the last half-decade.

"I vould not like to risk it unless absolutely necessary, Keptin," Chekov was saying, nervously inspecting the controls. "To bypass computer control is such complicated calculation, there is much room for error..." He flicked a glance at Spock, who made a minute shrugging gesture with one shoulder. "I vould not risk it unless the Lieutenant and her party are in immediate danger and need emergency beam-out," he then said decisively.

Jim nodded, trusting their judgment. "Very well then, gentlemen. Mr. Spock, speculation?"

Only a nanosecond of hesitation, but it was enough to alert him before the quiet "Negative, at this time," was spoken.

He shot his Exec a look that clearly said they would continue this later, and turned back to the others. Darkness had begun to settle over the unfamiliar planet, and the terrain would become treacherous in short order as they had only the lantern applications in the tricorders to light their way. "Right, we need to get back and set up camp. There isn't anything else we can do here until we have daylight." A chorus of agreements. "Stay in L formation, and keep the person in front of you within eyesight. If you see something which needs investigating, alert Mr. Spock, but let's try to move quickly. With our luck, even if our tricorders say there's nothing here that can eat us I wouldn't be surprised at this point."

A smattering of ever-so-slightly nervous laughter punctuated his statement, and he smiled, letting Greco move toward the front as the Security man gave him a pointed look.

Sulu took point while Spock moved behind to confer briefly with Anderssen, and Jim tried to be glad that he still had these few, these faithful few, instead of dwelling on the fact that his entire crew had been decimated in the space of just a few short hours.

They trekked back to their makeshift campsite in relative silence, each lost in his own thoughts as the realization of their true situation set in with the fall of night. By the time Anderssen and Chekov had got a fire going, using the emergency flint in the landing party's sole survival kit so as to save power in their one phaser (Jim was going to change that policy as soon as he got back to civilization, because one phaser wasn't enough for emergencies), the sun had set completely, leaving only an orange glow to their east and star-studden darkness above them.

Sulu and Chekov disappeared a few minutes after the ration bars had been doled out, and he let them; everyone had to assimilate the losses of today in their own ways, and he wasn't going to insult what crew he had left by reminding them of safety protocols which they already knew. Greco and McDonnell took first watch, and after checking in with his captain Anderssen rolled himself up in a inflatable thermal blanket and fell silent, Jim hoped asleep rather than thinking about his most-likely dead girlfriend.

He'd asked Spock to check in with Uhura, and had received a slightly grateful, if knowing, look in return, about an hour ago, and had watched as his First built a tiny fire, more glowing embers than anything else, several meters from the main campsite. Probably trying to reproduce the fire-pot which was a Vulcan meditative aid, he guessed, and he made sure to stay a safe distance from what he knew was a sort of telepathic bubble, based on previous experimentation in similar situations. His mental turmoil would only harm and distract, and he kept away until he saw signs of awareness begin to resurface in the calm face.

Sitting down Indian-style on the other side of the glowing coals, he waited, hands loose on his knees, for Spock to surface. And, about fifteen minutes later, he did.

"How is it?" he asked, and knew Spock would recognize the captain and not the friend, inquiring as to the mental state of his XO.

"Manageable," was the quiet reply. "I…am grateful for the time of solitude."

"Least I can do, now that I know what it does to you," he answered lightly, playing with a sparkly pebble, laced with flecks of quartz. "Think you'll hold up all right until we're stabilized here?"

"I have every confidence. The…backlash, would be your most similar Standard term, is not severe with a non-telepathic majority."

He nodded, processing this, and gave his First a few more minutes to collect his thoughts. Then, leaning forward into the glowing warmth of the embers, he regarded the Vulcan with a flinty gaze. "And are you prepared to tell me your 'suspicions' now, Mr. Spock?"

"I have no proof, Captain –"

"Spock I don't need proof!" he exclaimed, slamming a fist into his knees. "Someone just blew up my freaking ship, and if you think you know who it was then tell me who's responsible, Commander!"

"I do not believe a human agency was responsible."

Starting, he blinked at the impassive face across from him. "What?"

"No crewman would have had the capability to override the safety protocols and failsafes to initialize an internally-triggered self-destruct sequence. Even you or I, who possess the computer capability and the verbal override capability, would not have been able to bypass every safety measure in place to do so without several hours of painstaking decryption. No on aboard would have that knowledge in addition to the retinal and voice imprint necessary to finalize the order." Spock's eyes were troubled. "None of your crew were responsible, Captain."

He hopelessly dropped his head into his hands, pressing icy fingers against his eyebrows in an effort to ward off the mother-of-all-migraines which was threatening to drive a stake through his brain. "Who, then?"

"As I said, no human agency could possibly have been responsible. Therefore, when you eliminate that segment of those in the vicinity at the time –"

He froze, ice flooding through him despite the warmth of the fire. "Oh God."

"Negative, at least not in the Divine Standard of Morality sense." Spock looked away for a moment, eyes darting to the sky as a shooting star – or maybe a bit of the hull, he reflected bitterly – streaked across the midnight expanse. Then he turned back, resigned. "But a pseudo-deity, at the least. The only logical conclusion to draw, Captain, is that Q destroyed the Enterprise. There is, I am afraid, no other theory which explains all the facts."

He pulled his knees up and hugged them, staring into the fire. "I thought I passed his tests, Spock. Why did he blind me and then remove the blindness, if I didn't pass them?"

"I do not know," was the gentle reply. "Nevertheless the fact exists that he is the only being who could have single-handedly triggered an internal self-destruct, other th…he is the only possible culprit."

He'd caught the slip, though, and lifted his head, a sick feeling clawing its way up his throat like the protein bar had come alive and was Not Happy about its location. "Other than me," he finished Spock's thought, lips twisting bitterly. "You can say it, Mr. Spock, because it's for sure going to be the first thing Starfleet Command will say. Can you imagine the inquest over this?"

"I have no desire to."

"Me neither," he choked into his knees. "And you know what the worst of it is, Spock?"

"Negative." Spock's voice was barely a whisper, and the unspoken sympathy there nearly sent him over the edge into tears.

He reeled back from it, firmly refusing. "The worst thing is that even if I didn't set the destruct and give the codes – I still killed them all, regardless," he said hollowly, staring into the dying flames. "Q warned me, you heard him – everything I love, everything I am, destroyed if I didn't change."

"You have not yet had opportunity to show that you have," Spock offered quietly. "Therefore that criteria is not met. Whatever Q's reasoning, your actions were not responsible. If he wished to destroy the Enterprise, then he would do so despite or in spite of you."

"Keep telling yourself that, Spock," he responded with bitterness, standing to his feet. "Because I sure can't believe it. Come on, we need to get Sulu and Chekov back here before they freeze to death, and you're taking the extra thermal blanket, by the way."

Proof of Spock's preoccupation, and his disturbed state of mind, were evident in that he did not speak until they had all gathered back around the fire.

Anderssen was sitting up, blinking sleepily and hair sticking out in all directions, so Jim didn't feel bad about talking if it wouldn't keep him awake. Greco and McDonnell were still out on patrol, but were within shouting distance if they were needed. He owed them a massive commendation if he ever saw civilization and 'Fleet service again.

"Wish we had s'mores," Sulu said wistfully, poking the flames idly with a stick from one of the few scraggly trees they'd cut down for fuel.

"Some more what?"

Tragedy forgotten for the moment in the fact of utter shock, Jim stared at his first officer. "Are you seriously telling me you've never had a s'more before?"

Spock's expression clearly said you are a moron, and a repetitively obvious one. "Negative."

"Geez, we'll have to introduce you to them when we get back to civilization," the helmsman declared, grinning. "Is it true that Vulcans can't fully metabolize chocolate, like humans don't metabolize alcohol?"

"I fail to see how that is applicable, nor how it is any business of yours, Mr. Sulu."

Jim hid his grin in his blanket. Vulcans – half-Vulcans at least – could indeed get drunk from chocolate, though they could also become intoxicated from liquor if it were strong enough (basically, something strong enough to make a Klingon comatose). He'd found that out the interesting way when he'd been staying on New Vulcan for a weekend of shore leave.

His older self evidently knew precisely what a Vulcan's tolerance levels were better than said Vulcans themselves. They'd had two slightly tipsy Spocks on their hands for the better part of a night, and it was so totally worth the silent treatment for three days afterwards. That was one thing on which he and Old Kirk totally agreed.

"A s'more is made of chocolate bar, graham cracker, and marshmallow, Mister Spock," Chekov had taken pity on his mentor and explained. "They are traditional camping food, especially vhen campfires are to be had. And –"

"If you say marshmallows were invented in Russia I'm gonna deck you, I swear," Sulu warned him, only half joking.

"Pah, everyone knows that is not true," Chekov scoffed, nose upturned.

Surprised, Sulu huddled down into the blanket with a sigh of relief.

"It is graham crackers zhat were. Also – aaaghhhrrrrft." The rest of the sentence was smothered in the blanket the helmsman threw over his head and stuffed in his mouth. A friendly wrestling match ensued, and other than an injunction to take it well away from the fire Jim stayed out of it.

Spock watched in mild fascination.

"Working off stress," he explained. "And a lot safer than decking a fellow officer because it built up too much." A rueful smile accompanied the words, and he saw the answering glint in Spock's eyes.

Anderssen had given up trying to follow either the conversation or the half-Russian, half-Japanese mudslinging which was going on behind him, and plopped over again, snoring.

Jim smiled into the fire. "S'mores can be made without chocolate, by the way, if you're interested."

"I have no desire to inflict complex carbohydrate chains upon my digestive system, when the items have less nutritional value than the packaging in which they are wrapped."

"On second thought I'll give you double chocolate when we make them; maybe it will mellow you out a little," he teased, bumping the Vulcan gently with his shoulder.

"Is that a legitimate side effect, given their name?"

He stared for a minute before realizing Spock was serious. "Uh…no, no, it's not. And it's spelled m-a-l-l-o-w, not m-e-l-l-o-w. Wasn't punning with you. Ah…and they don't grow in marshes, either."

"Marshmallow." Looked like the guy was sounding it out, no doubt deciding its illogical etymology factor on a scale of mildly-intriguing to humans-as-a-race-are-brainless.

"Mmhm. Look, I'll take first watch. Don't argue with your captain, mister," he added, shaking a finger in the Vulcan's amused face. "I need you at your brilliant best in the morning. Besides," he looked down at his hands. "I'm not sure I can sleep tonight."

"Do you require company?" Spock asked quietly.

He flicked a smile, brief but genuine, at his friend, and patted the dust-coated blue sleeve. "No, but thanks. Hey could you make sure Greco and McDonnell only stay out there for another hour and then turn in too, before you go?"

"Affirmative," Spock replied as he rose to his feet, silent as a cat. "Good night, Jim."

"Good night, Spock." He blinked, as the shadows wavered in the fire's glow, and shook his head before making himself comfortable with a tricorder tuned and his ears open for signs of danger.

Why did he suddenly have Row, Row, Row Your Boat going through his head?