Chapter 25 Conscience of the King Part 1

Stardate 2817.4

The mat knocks the wind out of my lungs on impact. The edge of the world blurs and I'm unable to suck oxygen back into my lungs. A spike of panic shoots through me, further aggravating the pain. It takes a moment to realize the strangled noises are coming from me. Air is flooding back and I'm trying to drink it in as quickly as possible.

Spock is leaning over me, fingers at my pulse points. "Attempt to even your breaths." A feat much easier said than done but I manage eventually. "Come, we must get you to sickbay. Can you stand?" He shifts, looking all but ready to haul me through the ship.

"Yeah. I'm fine though." I sit up with his hands beneath my shoulder blades, my heart still pounding my ears off. "Just got the wind knocked out of me. I shouldn't have twisted like that mid-air." I wave him off. I had been trying to out-maneuver a body throw – a spectacularly bad idea if I do say so myself.

"I insist." The set of his eyes and the grim line of his mouth leave no room for contradiction.

"Fine. But you'll have to drag me there." I was expecting him to cross his arms and glower until I got my lazy ass off the training mat. I was not expecting him to scoop me up like a sack of potatoes. The indignant and undignified yelp that was born in that room did not originate from me and I'll deny any allegations to the contrary till the day I die. I also do not almost nose dive out of Spock's arm in an aborted effort to escape what my brain perceives to be a gross breach of my friend's personal space – even if I wasn't the one who instigated it. I'm relieved Spock doesn't hurt himself twisting precariously to catch me the way he does. "I can walk," the burning red in my cheeks is quickly spreading up my scalp and down my neck as I stare up in mortification.

He sets me down, cool as a cucumber, and motions toward the door leading out of the gym. I've never been so grateful for an empty room before. The walk to sickbay is humiliating though. I do not look anything close to presentable during or after workouts. I'm sticky and sweaty and way too cold. My hair mats together in the ponytail and I wish I had insisted on a sonic shower before making the long trek to the infirmary.

Bones is testy as ever, complaining loudly and working the medical tricorder frantically over me. He runs a few tests several times convinced I must have broken something no matter how many times I assure him I'm fine, that Spock is always careful.

"Obviously not careful enough! You could have cracked a rib. Suffered a concussion." He scowls at my results for the umpteenth time and rounds on Spock. "You can't go around flinging people over your shoulder with that hobgoblin strength of yours! You outta know better."

"It was a lesson contained within a controlled environment. Nonetheless, it was an unforeseen miscalculation on my part. I will be more vigilant in the future."

"Doc you have to calm down. You're gonna pop a capillary. I'm fine, really. It was my fault anyway." I hold my hand up against the influx of objections. "Your gadgets and tests keep coming up negative on injuries, right?"

"Technically." He concedes with no attempt to reign in his frustration.

"Good. There's nothing to worry about," I say. He floods me with a variety of complications that could arise over the next day or so. "I'll report directly to you if I feel the least bit woozy or odd. Scout's honor."

"I don't see why you can't use the perfectly good machinery at your disposal. Your chances of obtaining an injury are significantly lower than sparring with a Vulcan." He broods.

"That is debatable." Spock challenges.

"Her currently sitting in sickbay isn't debatable." Doc barks back, arms waving emphatically in my direction.

"I don't see you getting upset like this with the other crewmembers."

"You aren't a crewmember!" He rounds on me, his eyes are bulging and glistening. I haven't seen that look in years. A few hundred years. The fear of a parent for a child. One I'd seen in my own mother's face several times before.

Spock's mouth opens in retort and stays parted when I pull Bones into my arms and lay my head above his heart. It's beating frantically and I worry about that aneurysm he's always going on about. He squeezes back hard, almost painfully, and rests his chin on top of my head. "I may not be a Starfleet officer, but I do serve a function aboard this ship. No matter how irrelevant to the Deep Space mission," I mumble into his shirt. "And I am in as much constant danger as the rest of the crew when shit hits the fan. I know I'd rather be able to throw a punch or dodge a blow from an attacker. Don't you?"

His grip loosens to a firm squeeze, gathering the will to steel himself. "Yes," with that puff of air most of his strength seems to drain right out of him. "I'm just an old country doctor with a soft spot for his daughter and an old ninny. Forgive me for getting up in a tiff?"

My own laughter comes out in a soft puff of air. "I'll be more careful. I promise." He sends me off with an incredulous grin, a gentle swat on the arm, and another promise from me to report to him immediately if I feel the slightest bit off.

Spock is waiting for me outside of sickbay. He'd left to give Doc and me a private moment at some point; or as a strategic retreat from the flagrant emotionalism of the two humans in the room.

I rejoin Spock on my maroon carpet after a sonic shower and a quick change of clothes. He recently extended an invitation for meditation training to me. So far we've covered only breathing techniques, but he's assured me mastery of this first step is key. The meditation firepot sits on the center of the rug, luscious red embers glow welcomingly from within intricate filigree. I take my spot across from Spock, cross-legged and back straight. Easily, the most difficult aspect of meditation for me thus far is focusing solely on the firepot while somehow not letting my posture slip. But it is crucial I maintain good posture while meditating as it aids against unnecessary back and neck pain at the end of long mediation sessions. Spock is a strict enforcer of this rule.

"It appears your lack of sustained good posture will remain a great determent for the foreseeable future. I should not be surprised given that Terrans do not seem to enforce this training in their formal curriculum." He says an hour later.

"Am I getting better though?" I stretch my arms towards the ceiling and away from my screaming shoulders.

"Nearly imperceptibly, but yes."

I extended all my limbs away from my torso as my back rests against the floor. "Any way I can train meditating lying down?"

"Yes. However, that is not the ideal position to begin training."

"Why?"

"For many reasons. First and foremost, you lack the discipline to keep yourself from slipping into sleep."

I turn my chin to look at him and sweep my hands against the rug. "I guess that makes sense. It's really comfy down here."

He shakes his head but lies down parallel to me, the meditation pot glowing softly at our hips. "You would be an inexorably bad influence on my meditation habits were I not so firmly disciplined."

"That's fantastic news. I don't have to feel guilty then," I laugh.

He glares at me with mock disapproval, the giveaway is in the soft upturn of his lips and relaxed lines of his shoulders. The lines around his eyes soften and the soft wisp of rising cinders reflect dancing specks in his eyes. The air is warm and sweetly scented, the ground is soft and padded. I even my breath, Spock's brown eyes grounding me to the moment. I breathe and release, breathe and release until nothing exists but the breath in my lungs and the swirling sparks in Spock's eyes. And it slowly dawns on me that I've been staring into Spock's eyes for gods' know how long.

Spock is the first to break the silence. "Fascinating. I've never witnessed someone use another as a focal point in meditation."

I cringe. "Is that good or bad?"

"Neither."

"I didn't even notice I was meditating."

"I became aware. You applied the breathing technique correctly and achieved a basic form of meditation."

"Kudos to me for not falling asleep."

"Agreed."

Afraid I've been making eye contact for too long, I turn my gaze toward the ceiling.

"Jim visited me yesterday evening." Spock pauses before continuing tentatively. "We engaged in two rounds of chess."

I face him again to find his gaze is averted toward the ceiling. "That's great news, Spock." I smile and tug at his sleeve so he faces me again. "He'll start coming by your place like usual in no time, you'll see." I wriggle the hem of his sleeve in happy emphasis.

"Thank you," he nods solemnly.

After lunch we meet Kirk at the bridge, Spock is curious as to what has caused the detour from our present course. Unsurprisingly, it is a scientific breakthrough that needs confirmation. Dr. Leighton - a friend of Kirk's – called in the favor and Kirk acquiesced as it could be of great advantage to the Federation. Dr. Thomas Leighton discovered an extraordinary new synthetic food that could end the threat of famine on Signia Minor – a nearby earth colony.

"That would be quite a discovery," agrees Spock. "However, it requires a course diversion of 3 lightyears. It is a large risk should it prove to be a false lead."

A shadow crosses Kirk's face in less than a blink. "We are the nearest Starship, and the famine in Signia Minor is of great concern to the Federation. It would be worth the risk, even if it didn't pan out."

Spock nods his agreement once more. He himself is dedicated to the eradication of famine – his personal project on hardy grain is a living testament. "Of course, Captain."

The three of us part ways. Spock to his project in the science department, Kirk to beam down to the planet, and me to meet Sabine. Not for the first time, I wonder why the companionship services are located on the lower decks instead of near sickbay. It is quieter down there, I muse. The pace is slower. There are fewer people not-quite-running but not-quite-walking zipping through these halls. The promise of a nap keeps my footfalls light and quick.

The scent burning in Sabine's room is clean, like raindrops on grass. It is immediately welcoming and I join Sabine on the couch. I lie my head on a comfortable lap and skilled fingers work on my scalp after a happy exchange of greetings. I'm mush in the hands of my therapist-slash-masseuse within seconds. My mind relaxes and I feel light, a soft cloud of fluff dancing in aimless circles.

At my desk a few hours later, I look up from a half-completed questionnaire to grant Spock access to my room. He carries a distinctly disgruntled cloud around him like repellent.

"What's wrong?"

He takes a heavy seat across from me, elbows on my desk, his hands forming a steeple. "We have been diverted from our course again. By eight light-years this time."

"Why? Where?" That was really unusual and mildly worrying.

"The Benecia Colony. We are ferrying the Karidian Company to their next destination."

I frown. "Actors. But why? The Enterprise isn't in the habit of playing taxi."

Spock hums in affirmation. "The captain was very clear in that he did not appreciate commentary to the contrary." He shakes his head. "And it would be very unlike him."

"Unlike him to what?"

"To shirk his duties in lieu of pleasure."

"Could it be a covert mission?"

He nods pensively. "Possibly. However, standard procedure would dictate the first officer be debriefed. The captain may be unorthodox, but he is calculating and strategic."

"You're confident he'll fill us in when he deems the time is right?"

"Affirmative."

"That doesn't mean we shouldn't keep our eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary." I point out.

He pins with me an intense gaze, the mischievous tilt of his lips transforming him into a sly imp.

Stardate 2818.5

The next afternoon I'm on the bridge waiting for Spock to go to lunch. Kirk's brooding more than usual, asking curious questions about Riley of all people. Riley, who is getting transferred/demoted back to engineering. And Kirk is real snippy about the matter. Spock, Uhura, and I share a quick look before feigning normalcy and heading off the bridge.

We take our seats in the rec room, all our trays filled with fruit cubes for once. Uhura slings her arm over my shoulder.

"Well, the captain sure has been snippier than usual." She spears a green cube and wastes no time digging in.

"We've noticed." I laugh. "Maybe Riley fucked up on something important?"

"Unlikely." Spock grouses. "I would have taken notice of a slip on his part. Particularly if it were serious enough to warrant a demerit or demotion."

"Technically it's only a transfer." Uhura points out with a wave of her fork for emphasis.

Spock nods in acquiescence, a crease forming on his brow. He eats the rest of his meal in silence, opting to check out of the conversation I carry on with Uhura. Apparently, the troupe is putting on a show for the crew the day after tomorrow. Spock's frown is still firmly in place when we part ways from Uhura and make our way toward sickbay.

I bump his shoulder gently as we make our way down an empty corridor. "Riley's transfer still bothering you?" I had seen him place the transfer order on his PADD shortly before our meal concluded. I'd also seen his lips pinch in a grim line when a ping came through – very likely Riley inquiring what he'd done wrong.

"It was an unusual request that implied dissatisfaction with an officer. And yet no customary reasoning was supplied. It is unlike the captain's usual behavior. He is one of the most reasonable, if not logical, humans I have known. I wish to understand."

I nod. There's got to be something else going on. Kirk's acting weird. And when that happens – there's always something happening just out of view. "So we're snooping."

"We –" he faces me with the aura of utmost dignity, "are gathering information."

"That's what I said." I laugh, walking past him and into sickbay.

Doc is sitting at his desk in an uncharacteristically good mood. The half-empty shot glass in his hand is a good hint as to why. He greets us warmly and nods good-naturedly, even with Spock standing three feet in front of him. He continues to smile and sip at his drink – Saurian brandy, I think – even as Spock airs his concerns about Kirk's recent behavior.

"Spare me your philosophical metaphors, Doctor. The captain is acting strangely. I'm asking if you've noticed."

"Negative." He tosses Spock's reservations over his shoulder. "You know this is the first time in a week that I've had time for a drop of a drew? Would you care for a drink, Mr. Spock?"

"My father's race was spared the dubious benefits of alcohol." He sniffs.

I decline as well. I'm more of a fan of cocktails.

Doc shrugs. "What are you so worried about anyway? I find Jim generally knows what he's doing." Doc is unmovable from his stance that Jim has plenty of motivation from "Juliette" – the blond actress the entire ship has gone out of their way at some point to catch a sight of her during dinner time. "Of course, your personal chemistry would prevent you from seeing that." I fidget uncomfortably and Spock straightens his spine, crossing his arms over his chest in exasperation with the direction the conversation has taken. "Did it ever occur to you that he might simply like the girl?"

"It occurred. I dismissed it." Spock paces pensively around Doc's side.

"You would," Doc mumbles under his breath, taking another sip from the glass.

"Jim wouldn't risk his reputation for some booty." I protest. "He was concerned enough diverting off-course 3 lightyears to check out a potential cure for a famine. Why on earth would he divert an additional 8 lightyears for someone he just met?"

Spock nods emphatically, filling doc in about Riley's transfer. But Doc's not having any of it – almost deliberately – and dismisses us from his presence to continue his evening in peace.

We make our way back down the long corridors. Doc's keeping his nose out of this puzzle – at least for now. But there is a mystery here and Spock's on the trail like a bloodhound. He requests we continue our inquiries in his cabin. I follow on his heel into the main room and he walks directly to the control panel to adjust the room's temperature.

I straddle the extra desk chair, the backrest against my chest. "So what are you thinking?" I ask, my eyes following him back to his seat.

"The Captain requested data files of survivors from the Kodos file." He rounds his desk, fingers already typing away before he even takes a seat. "He was particularly interested in the 9 eye-witnesses who can identify Kodos. His own name and Lieutenant Riley were mentioned. . . And I believe also Dr. Leighton's name."

"Who – or what – is Kodos?"

"A mass murderer. Kodos was a governor guilty of committing mass genocide."

". . . And Jim's a witness?" The information floats in the air and refuses to settle properly in my head. "Was he an officer there, or a civilian? How does any of this fit together?"

Spock's face is set in severe lines. He flicks a switch and the library computer comes online. "Full personal dossiers on the following names – Dr. Thomas Leighton, Anton Karidian, Lieutenant Kevin Riley." He pauses looking at me with trepidation and I nod. "And Captain James, T. Kirk." He instructs the computer to check their past histories for any correlation, item, or past episode or experience they all have in common.

The information I learn about Tarsus IV and Kodos is vile. Hundreds of years into the future, lightyears away from Earth, and humans continue to resort to mass murder to resolve dire situations. Genocide based on a madman's theories of eugenics decided the fate of four thousand colonists twenty-two years ago. My limbs start twitching the way they do when they sense danger. A heavy, uncomfortable weight settles in my stomach.

I finally turn to look at Spock. His eyes remain fixed on the floor. "Kirk had to be – what – fourteen?"

"Thirteen." He corrects.

"And Riley? Shit. He had to have been just a kid."

He finally peels his eyes away and their intensity bores into me. "They both were."

"Fuck. So was Dr. Leighton. I wonder if that's how they met." I deeply hope it wasn't. I try to imagine all three men as children bearing witness to such atrocities. Kirk – our captain and friend – carrying that level of mass trauma. My mind recoils and my stomach threatens to return its contents. Spock's warm hand squeezes my arm bringing me back out the dark tunnel. I grimace, thankful to have been snapped out of that. "But what does Anton Karidian have to do with any of this?"

"Unknown. There is no information correlating him to the survivors, other than his troupe of actors visiting the planet Dr. Leighton currently resides."

"Could he be one of the survivors who changed his name?"

"It could explain why there is no information to him prior to twenty-two years ago," Spock concedes.

"Can we reach out to Dr. Leighton? We could try making a few discreet inquiries." But Spock is already shaking his head, eyes scanning the monitor. "Yeah, I know. There really isn't a tactful way of casually bringing up a mass genocide you witnessed as a kid. But he's our best shot at more infor –"

"There was a key piece of information we overlooked." He swivels the screen to face me.

Dr. Leighton is dead. "Dead as of the day we left Planet Q."

"And picked up Anton Karidian's troupe of actors."

"What are you thinking?" I frown.

"I am uncertain. We must tread carefully."