A/N: Again, my apologies for posting so late. Thanks so much to everyone who's been reading and reviewing -- I love you all in a purely platonic way!

Uhura finally gets some screen-time in this chapter -- she doesn't have an opportunity to be awesomely kickass at this point in the story, though, so I'm not sure whether I managed to get her characterization down very well. Please let me know what you thought.

Disclaimer: Star Trek does not belong to me. Woe.

V. Duty

In Which Spock Determines that Admiral Komack is an Ignoramus


If there was one facet of his hybrid duality that disturbed Spock above any other, it was his inability to purge himself of what his human companions called a 'temper.'

Generally he was capable of suppressing his impulses, meditating or quietly reciting Surak's tropes until he had achieved equanimity; but on the rare occasion, no amount of stern reflection could keep his anger bottled. When the barriers were removed, the result was usually disastrous. Not only did Spock suffer the indignity of having his mental weakness exposed, but loss of control disturbed him greatly.

It was not comfortable, and while the Captain had, in the early stages of their acquaintance, gained much amusement from provoking 'human' reactions, Spock never learned to enjoy the momentary slips himself. No one did him a service in trying to make him more human; it only hindered his ability to keep his two divided halves working in harmony. At some point within the last few years, Jim had apparently started to understand -- no one could say that the Captain was unintelligent, no matter how diligently the man tried to prove the opposite -- and he no longer pressed Spock for emotional responses. The freedom in Jim's private company, where he need not present himself as either Terran or Vulcan but simply as Spock, had resulted in perhaps the truest friend he had ever known.

And so Spock's fondness for Jim (and fondness it was; it was illogical to deny it) mixed with his regrettable habit of showing anger in moments of distress, made for a very volatile situation -- and the distress only increased, as the number of days since Jim's disappearance now numbered 19.4 exactly.

It did not help, of course, that a certain prominent Starfleet admiral was, as the ever-eloquent Dr. McCoy once declared, "A supercilious, ham-handed buffoon who couldn't find his ass if it was stitched onto his face."

It was not precisely how Spock would have phrased it, but it was accurate nonetheless.

"Message for Commander Spock from Starfleet Command." Nyota's exasperated voice fluted through the ship-wide intercom, and Spock paused at the closest comm-unit, having already formed a fairly likely hypothesis of what awaited him.

"Commander Spock here, Lieutenant Uhura."

"Admiral Komack is hailing us again -- he's marked it 'urgent'. He seems to be pushing it through on his end, so I can't hold it much longer. Shall I put him in your quarters?"

Spock silently began reviewing the first of Surak's treatises on the methodology of logic. "I will receive it on the bridge momentarily, Lieutenant. Spock out."

As he boarded the turbolift, however, it occurred to him that it might have been wiser to take the message privately -- if Lieutenant Uhura could not stop the incoming message before he arrived on the bridge, the officer to receive the call would be Ensign Chekov.

Jim had made it a habit to have the junior officers on the bridge take over the conn at the times when no immediate threat was near; he had explained that the 'kiddies' needed to get some practice in the chair too, since the senior bridge crew could be incapacitated during a crisis.

The practice had a certain amount of logic in it, but it was entirely against Starfleet regulations. Even so, Spock was unable to correct the rosters to suit command rules when the opportunity arose. It seemed rather final to interfere with the manner in which Jim ran his ship, even in his absence.

Hastening his steps, Spock entered the bridge, and Chekov scrambled back to his usual post, looking relieved.

Spock took his seat just as the message from Starfleet Command popped up on the holoscreen; Nyota shot him a look of apology, but Spock's attention was immediately arrested by the image on the screen.

Admiral Komack's stern eyes immediately zeroed in on the Vulcan seated in the captain's chair. "Commander Spock -- what a pleasure it is to finally make contact! The Enterprise seems to be a remarkably difficult ship to get a hold of." The rebuke lacked any kind of subtlety, and Spock saw Nyota flush at the implied insult to her department.

"Subspace communication is not always reliable," Spock said, holding the admiral's gaze steadily. "Is there any particular matter you wish to discuss?"

"Indeed there is, but I will address it with your Captain. Get him on screen, Commander."

The sudden stillness of the bridge crew did not go unnoticed -- Admiral Komack's eyes narrowed, half-slits filled with suspicion. "Is something wrong? Where is Kirk?"

"He is not available at the moment, sir. I will attend to whatever matters require his attention in his stead."

"You have no right to delegate, Mr. Spock. I will speak to Captain Kirk."

"The Captain is unavailable," Spock repeated. "He has contracted a severe case of Malingerian influenza and has been recuperating in an isolation chamber. The affliction is, as you say, 'catching', and Chief Medical Officer McCoy has made it clear that he is not to be disturbed."

Komack bristled. "Kirk is ill? Why did no one report this to Command?"

"His indisposition was unexpected and occurred very quickly. There was not time, and it seemed illogical to alert Command when the event was already under control."

For a moment neither Human nor Vulcan spoke, eyeing each other through the holoscreen. Spock's hands fisted against the armrests, but he carefully schooled his expression to reveal nothing.

Komack grunted. "Very well, Mr. Spock -- if you are in charge, I have new orders for the Enterprise. You are to proceed directly to the diplomatic conference on Cipithae. A packet with all the necessary details will be sent to your console within the hour."

A curious numbness seemed to saturate Spock's body; he felt the weight of a dozen discreet glances and knew with unpleasant certainty that everything was, as Jim might say, about to devolve into a 'shitstorm'.

"Admiral, if I may request that the Enterprise remain in the area until Captain Kirk is recovered . . . "

"Denied."

"May I know your reason?"

Komack frowned; Spock noted, somewhat incongruously, that the gesture punched rather unattractive furrows in his cheeks and brow. "No, you may not."

"Is the presence of the Enterprise so urgent that we must leave immediately? I believe the cruiser Paha Sapa is presently . . . "

"The orders are for the Enterprise. If another ship was wanted there, then I would have given the orders to another ship. Good God, you're as bad as Kirk when it comes to following direct instructions without questioning every goddamn detail!"

That inconvenient, human temper chose this moment to make itself known, and Spock could no more have stopped it than he could have stopped himself from striking Shalev all those years ago. "Perhaps the questioning would not be necessary if these 'direct instructions' were based at least in some part on rational consideration. The Enterprise is not anywhere in the vicinity of Cipithae, when at least two other constitution-class starships are, and it is a clear waste of resources and energy to divert our present course in order to make a political statement. Sir."

For a moment no one spoke or even reacted, although the corners of Lieutenant Sulu's mouth appeared to be twitching rather suspiciously.

Admiral Komack straightened his shoulders, apparently at a loss for words.

"If I may suggest an alternative, Admiral ---"

"No, you may not!" he barked. "Another protest from you and I'll have you removed from command. You will take the course to Cipithae; I expect the Enterprise to head out within 48 hours or I'll have you out of that chair before you can say 'dishonorable discharge!' Have I made myself clear?"

"Perhaps too clear, sir," Spock said coldly. "Lieutenant Uhura, cut the transmission."

The Admiral's face was a picture of flustered outrage before the screen darkened, replaced by the usual starscape. A collective groan spread through the bridge, and as Spock rose from his chair, he observed Nyota watching him intently. The subtleties of human expression were usually wasted on him, but his long familiarity with the lieutenant allowed him a greater understanding of her particular emotional range. She appeared alarmed and disbelieving, and perhaps slightly impressed.

She caught his eye and mouthed, 'Talk?' He shook his head emphatically before returning the conn to Ensign Chekov and vacating the bridge as swiftly as possible.

He did not dare to stop, moving through the corridors without pause until he stood before the Sickbay doors. It was not ever wise to visit this particular portion of the ship when his equanimity was compromised, but there was little choice in the matter today. Time was extremely limited, and meditation was a luxury he could ill afford.

Fortunately, Doctor McCoy was not attending a patient at the moment; he was bent over his desk, muttering under his breath as he scribbled on a PADD. Standing silently in the doorway of the office, Spock took a moment to disapprove of the doctor's tousled hair and unshaven jaw -- if the bags beneath his eyes were an indication, Dr. McCoy had not gotten the requisite amount of sleep as outlined by the Starfleet Health Services manual. Or perhaps he had. It was impossible to know, as the doctor generally looked as though he had gone directly from his bed to the medical bay.

Dr. McCoy glanced up and scowled. "If you're not gonna bleed all over the floor in the next five minutes, park your ass in a chair and wait for me to finish this damn paperwork."

It was little wonder, Spock mused somewhat sourly, that Dr. McCoy and Jim were such close companions -- only Jim would think it appropriate to give the coveted chief-of-medicine position to an ill-kempt, ill-mannered alcoholic.

"I prefer to stand." Nevertheless, Spock stepped to the side, clearing the doorway, and stood against the farthest wall.

The doctor glared. After a few seconds of shuffling the cluttered pile of PADDs on his desk, he tossed down his stylus and sighed loudly. "Can't concentrate with you skulking around in my office like a pointy-eared vulture. What d'you want?"

"I require only a moment of your valuable time, Doctor. I need you to enter records into the database detailing an illness that has kept Captain Kirk in an isolation chamber for the past week."

Dr. McCoy blinked rapidly before reaching up to rub his temples. "Listen, Spock, it's been a hell of a shift, and my tiny human brain is overloaded. I thought you just said that you wanted me to falsify Sickbay registers."

"I don't see what the size of your neural tissue should have to do with your listening comprehension." Spock hesitated. As commanding officer, it should not be necessary for him to explain himself, but the doctor didn't seem to share that belief. "I informed Admiral Komack a few moments ago that the captain has contracted Malingerian influenza and therefore was not available to talk to him."

"Jesus Christ, Spock!" McCoy snorted. "I don't know whether to hit you or shake your hand. And I thought Vulcans didn't lie?"

"These were extenuating circumstances."

"Mmhm. Well, I suppose I can cook something up, but you know the admiralty will keep after this. I hope you have some sort of plan?"

Looking at the doctor's exhausted face, Spock felt the heavy weight of his responsibilities beginning to press at him again -- a pressure in his chest, a dark mass at the edge of his psychic energy. McCoy had been Jim's friend for many years, and despite all his faults, Jim had repeatedly spoken of his value as a confidante . . . "Admiral Komack has given orders for us to attend a diplomatic conference at the colony on Cipthae."

The doctor froze. "When?"

"Two days."

"You aren't gonna go, are you?"

"I seem to have little choice in the matter."

Dr. McCoy's eyes widened, and he flew up from his seat with a quickness that would have made a normal man flinch. "If you think Jim's dead, you're forgetting his record ---"

"I do not believe he is dead," Spock corrected.

McCoy paused, momentarily distracted. "You don't? Then . . . "

"I also know believe that it is presently unproductive and ultimately futile to continue to search for him. The variables are too changeable, and it is no longer viable to expend energy and valuable time for a rescue that will not be successful."

"Changeable variables, my ass, you goddamned walking calculator!" the doctor cried. "We're talking about Jim here -- the odds never apply to Jim! You just said yourself that you think he's still alive out there."

"Alive, perhaps, but not in any position to be detected or rescued."

"And so -- what? We leave him out there to rot?"

"The appropriate, logical action to take ----"

"Damn your logic, and damn you too if you think that I'm going to let you do this to him."

Spock felt that familiar, alarming tension begin to climb. "Your opinions have been thoroughly noted, Doctor, but the responsibilities of command are mine."

"Unless I take you out of the chair," McCoy snapped, rather triumphantly. "I can declare you unfit for duty."

"You have no basis for such an action. My proficiency ratings are not in a range to cause alarm, and your own psychological state is questionable at the moment."

The doctor flushed. "Some of us actually give a shit when people we love are hurt. Jim's the closest goddamned thing you have to a friend, and this is how you repay him?"

It was both fascinating and ironic that words, perhaps the most fleeting of all forms of communication, had the incredible ability to inflict more damage than physical confrontation. "Doctor McCoy, you have said quite enough." His voice shook. "My . . . personal regard for Captain Kirk is irrelevant, and you will cease distracting me with inflammatory accusations. Attend to those records promptly."

Without waiting for an answer, Spock left the medbay, nearly colliding with Nyota at the turbolift.

"There you are!" she said. "Come and eat some lunch with me. You must be starving."

Too drained to argue, he allowed her to lead the way down to the officer's mess hall. It was thankfully empty except for a few scattered Beta shift crewmen, and Nyota urged him over to the food replicators. They said nothing as they collected their food and made their way to a table in the corner.

"Spock, what was all that?" Nyota inquired gently, sliding her plastic tray forward until it bumped up against his.

Nyota was refreshingly direct, an admirable quality that most humans lacked, but today Spock was more inclined to think it an inconvenience. "I do not know."

"The Admiral will keep even closer tabs on us from now on." Her slim brown fingers danced over her plate, rearranging the components in a precise, orderly manner he had always found vaguely endearing. "You offended him, and from what I understand, he's not just going to take it."

"I am well-aware of that," Spock said, flinching inwardly at the note of defensiveness in his tone. His controls were not fully restored yet.

"Oh, Spock, I'm not blaming you -- Komack is an excellent administrative admiral, but he has the social skills of a wounded Klingon. Questioning direct orders isn't like you. Kirk does it all the time, I know, but that's . . . it's not your style. I'm not surprised he reacted the way he did."

Unfailingly honest, as usual. His behavior had been appalling and unbefitting of an officer, but the seething indignation would not quite let him acknowledge that yet. An insult to Jim when the man was in grave danger was unforgivable, even if Komack had no idea of the true circumstances.

Nyota toyed with a few leaves of Terran lettuce before taking a bite. "What will you do?" she inquired, after it became clear that he was not going to provide her with a satisfactory answer.

"I confess I am at somewhat of a loss," he admitted finally, spooning chel'pei soup into his mouth without tasting it -- an anomaly, since the thin, spiced broth was his favorite dish and therefore usually savored. It occurred to him, as he swallowed, that he had not eaten in four days.

Nyota's fingernails tapped a nervous pattern against her fork. "Spock," she began haltingly, "if Kirk's . . . if he's really dead . . ."

"He is not dead."

She stiffened, and Spock turned away from her, struggling to contain the emotions that battered at him relentlessly. Nyota fussed unnecessarily with her dining utensils, giving him time to compose himself.

"I will not ignore orders from Command," he said, fighting the bleakness that wrestled with his control. "Remaining in this sector of space is no longer viable. The captain's disappearance will have officially registered, and the Enterprise must continue on to Cipithae."

"How long?" she asked, with an aching tenderness that rendered him incapable of looking at her directly.

"Two days, perhaps three, but no longer."

"Then we'll ramp up the search," she said confidently. "We can put everyone on the project, do some deep-space scans, try everything we can think of. We'll find him."

"We have been searching for the captain for approximately 19 Standard days. The likelihood of our discovering him in the next two is ---"

"Don't," Nyota interrupted. "Please, no percentages." She lightly pressed the flat of her palm against his arm. "Are you okay?"

He lowered his eyes. "I do not know what to say."

"Kirk's an infuriating, classless bastard with a hero-complex who nearly gets us all killed on a daily basis." She smiled then, a little sadly, and whispered, "I miss him too."