Chapter Nine

Spock sat at his desk in his quarters, staring at the image on his screen. What he saw was illogical and improbable...and yet it existed. What's more, it had taken him days to find it. They had been searching deep within the planet and into its atmosphere, and it had been there all along in the most unlikely place. And now he stared at it, studying the data and everything it implied.

The door chime interrupted his thoughts. He tilted his head, mildly annoyed at the intrusion. It was late into beta shift; too late for visitors. He and Nyota had shared dinner and she had left hours earlier. Daily reports had been signed and filed, shifts approved and personnel duties assigned. Anything with ship's business would have gone through the command crew on the bridge, then to him via comm. Whoever required his attention, it was a personal matter.

He stood and smoothed down the folds of his simple black shirt. "Enter."

Dr. McCoy stood in the corridor for a moment as though the open door had somehow startled him. Outlined in the soft light of beta shift, he looked uncomfortable. Unlike Spock, he wore his uniform and carried a medical kit. He hesitated a moment then stepped inside, letting the door hiss shut behind him, but he did not move to enter the room.

"How may I help you, Doctor?" Spock asked, stepping out from behind his desk. He knew McCoy had not filed a medical report on the Captain, having been involved in an emergency in Sickbay. The unpredictable physician was often late with reports, a behavior Spock attributed to the human's unconventional attitude regarding Starfleet. Spock had not been concerned with its absence, but now he wondered if he had been premature with his optimism.

McCoy looked around the quarters, curiosity peaking in the raised eyebrows. He seemed to be looking for something…or someone. "I, ah…didn't mean to disturb you."

Spock observed his guest from behind an inscrutable mask. While he was not proficient at reading human emotions, especially this human whose emotions could change in an instant, he confidently interpreted the doctor's behavior as discomfort. He raised a single eyebrow at the thought. The doctor was embarrassed to be here. "May I offer you a seat?"

McCoy shifted his feet and awkwardly adjusted the medical kit that hung from his tightly curled fingers. He looked around and opened his mouth as if to say something.

"We are quite alone," Spock offered, allowing some of his amusement to show.

McCoy scowled. If there was one thing he had learned about the doctor, it was that the man did not like being read.

"I figured," McCoy said and walked to the chair that rested in front of the desk. He set his medical kit down as he sank into the chair.

Despite McCoy's attempt at bravado, Spock knew he was still uncomfortable with whatever had brought him to seek Spock tonight. Walking back behind his desk, Spock sat and waited.

McCoy looked at the wall behind Spock, then took a deep breath. "I'm not good at small talk, so I'll just come out and say it. What happened between you and Jim?"

Of all the possible scenarios as to why the doctor was here, the relationship between himself and the Captain was not one of them.

"Specify."

McCoy shook his head. "Uh-uh. I'm not going to play any mind games with you today. You know damn well what I'm talking about. Something happened. I want to know what."

Spock calculated an appropriate response, formulating options and the least adversarial outcome, something a human could understand. "It is personal."

McCoy snorted. "Nothing's personal when it concerns the emotional wellbeing of the Captain."

The doctor was citing regulations, something he did only when it suited his purpose, which Spock still had not deduced. Human words were often not relevant, and they rarely revealed true content. It was their actions he had learned to assess. He was beginning to understand what had brought the doctor to see him. "The Captain's emotional wellbeing is at risk?"

McCoy met his gaze with an unblinking stare. "You tell me."

Years of his schooling had been dedicated to emotional control, and with that came the ability to mask his thoughts from the outside observer. It was only Vulcan touch telepathy that allowed those emotions to be experienced. McCoy managed to do breach the mask with a single stare. "I would prefer not to speak of it."

"And I would prefer to be sleeping right now. I guess we don't always get what we want." He paused. "Jim's pacing himself into the ground in his quarters. He's not eating or sleeping. Have any idea why?"

"It is…complicated."

"Friendships are complicated." McCoy's shoulders relaxed and the tension eased from his face. "Look, Spock. I don't want to get into the middle of something between you and Jim, but whatever you did or said, go talk to him about it. You're not doing him or yourself any good avoiding each other."

"He does not want to speak with me."

McCoy's eyes rose slightly. "Jim's quick to throw a punch, but he doesn't hold a grudge. He'll listen."

He had come to know that about Jim Kirk. It was another element that set the young captain apart from other humans – his ability to forgive. Kirk had demonstrated that superbly in the first mission they joined in against Nero. He had come to trust and respect that undisciplined and impetuous cadet whom he had called before the academy board, and Kirk in turn had trusted him with his ship and crew as he raced to defeat the USS Vengeance. But this wasn't about Kirk's command or the safety of the ship. This was personal.

"He would not accept what I have to say."

"How do you know?" McCoy sighed heavily. "Jim's not at his best right now, Spock. He can barely see. He's in pain and immobile, and he's been attacked by someone he can't remember for a reason he doesn't understand. That would frustrate any man, but a man like Jim it…it infuriates." He leaned forward. "Sometimes friends tell each other what they don't want to hear, but when it's for their own good. It's what friends do."

The advice was surprisingly logical. "I shall consider your advice, Doctor."

"Do more than consider it. This ship doesn't function well with the two of you at odds…and neither does Jim."

He glanced at the screen and the data that remained for his viewing. It was something else he must discuss with the Captain, something more urgent than his temporary indiscretion, something that affected not only Jim, but the planet, as well. He looked back at McCoy. "Is the Captain well enough to transport to the planet?"

McCoy opened his mouth, but no words came forth. The hazel eyes darkened as emotion rose and he shifted in the chair. "Are you out of your Vulcan mind? I've just been telling you that he isn't eating or sleeping— He's not recovered and he's certainly in no condition to go onto a hostile planet when he can't see and can barely walk."

"You have released him to his quarters. I assume your medical judgment is that he is no longer critical."

Restlessness drove McCoy out of the chair. "Critical and recovered are two different prognoses. Christ, Spock, he collapsed in his quarters not more than hour ago. He's not strong enough to leave the ship."

"A fact I would be aware of if you had delivered your report on time."

"I'm delivering it now." McCoy began to pace, his face slightly flush. "Has it escaped your attention that Jim is still on medical leave?"

"I am aware of the Captain's status, Doctor. I am—"

"Then why in hell would you want him to go down to the planet?"

He took a moment, feeling the flood of the doctor's emotions press against him. In the confines of his quarters, it was impossible to escape the onslaught of McCoy's passion: fear, worry, protectiveness…anger. Spock chose his words carefully. "Time is a critical factor."

"Time? What's your hurry? The damn planet isn't going anywhere."

"No, but the means to solve this paradox is."

McCoy stopped and stared at him, a deep scowl on his face. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Did you find something?"

He met the human's hostile gaze. Suddenly, he found himself in a situation requiring that he reveal more than he wanted. He glanced again at the screen on his desk. The data was inarguable. He had found it: The gateway.

It was some time later when an exasperated McCoy held up his hands to stop Spock's soliloquy.

"Are you telling me that there's a gateway into another dimension? And that only Jim can open it?"

Spock breathed a relieved breath. "Yes Doctor, that is exactly what I have been endeavoring to tell you this past hour. We must get the Captain onto the planet."

"It's been there for ten days, Spock. Another few more days isn't going to make a difference."

"Unfortunately, it will. The anomaly is reducing."

"So?"

He looked at the doctor with the same tolerance a Vulcan teacher would show his infant students, and he explained in terms McCoy could understand. "The gateway is closing."

"Let it close!" McCoy threw his arms in the air. "My god, whatever is on the other side of that gateway shot Jim and damn near killed him. They're obviously hostile. Let that damn gateway shut."

"That is not for us to decide. The mission of this ship is to explore and seek out new life forms. If we allow this gateway to disappear, we would have failed in our mission." When that did not elicit a response, he added, "And Jim would have suffered for no reason."

"He was hurt for no reason anyway." McCoy continued his pacing.

"Obviously not. We are still here."

McCoy stopped and looked at him. The strange colored eyes darkened, and Spock knew that at last the doctor understood.

As promised, he didn't dream.

Jim opened his eyes to fuzzy, dark shadows, then closed them and took mental inventory of his body. Heaviness lingered throughout muscle and bone, the effects of the sedative he had long ago come to hate. He remained motionless, letting the soft mattress cushion his body, feeling the vibration and pulse of his ship beneath him, the pleasant numbness of his leg. It was his favorite thing to do, next to being on the bridge-to simply lay and feel his ship and be part of it without all the decisions and responsibilities. He could forget there were hundreds of lives who shared the space with him. He could forget his rank and duty, if only for a fleeting moment.

He took a deep breath, feeling a slight pull in his lungs, the faint throb of a headache just beginning. With that the moment broke and he remembered the circumstances that had brought him to his quarters. At least he wasn't waking up in Sickbay. The thought was of little comfort. He opened his eyes and struggled into a sitting position, his body feeling tight and unused. His arms trembled under the strain of supporting his weight. With a shaking hand, he carefully peeled back the cooling pad that covered his knee and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The room tipped and spun at every angle as nausea rose. He gripped the side of the bed until the vertigo and nausea passed.

"Lights, sixty percent."

The lights increased at his command, but it made little difference to his eyes that viewed his surroundings in shades of darkness. He had lost the color in the room. Every wall and obstacle was cast in dark shadows of soot and sable, worse than before. He rubbed his eyes, causing them to ache more, but the shadows remained, opaque and obscure.

"Damn it."

His eyes had gotten worse. He quelled the panic that rose suddenly within. He couldn't command blind. They would take away his ship, his command— He could feel his heart hammering despite his attempt to calm his emotions.

"Captain Kirk went on to be a great man." Nero's voice mocked him in the silence of the room. He hadn't thought of it in months, and at the time Nero had spoken, the words had barely registered. It was only later that they surfaced to haunt him, needling him like a competitive sibling. It always stirred a challenge within, but now it served to fuel his fear. Suddenly he was faced with the very real idea that Captain Kirk would fade from history in a career shortened by a single mishap. This would be his last mission, his last command—

He slid off the bed and moved, as if he could outrun his competing thoughts and the condemning blindness. He wanted to remain calm. He wanted to still his thoughts, but the darkness of the room seemed to close in on him, enfolding.…

Be at peace.

The voice was clear and gentle. He stood in place, holding his breath, waiting to confirm what he had heard, waiting for the voice to speak again. But he didn't need to wait. He knew: Something had touched his mind.

He shivered and drew a shuddering breath, reaching a hand to steady himself by the wall. The feel of his ship vibrated through the palm of his hand and anchored him as she always did. He knew that voice, which was not so much a voice as a feeling, an imprint of an idea that was subtle yet distinct.

His heart had slowed and his thoughts with it, bringing everything into focus in his mind. It was not Vulcan. He knew that with certainty, and the notion made him both relieved and cautious. His memory stirred…. I am the gatekeeper.

Just outside the edge of his memory, an image stood, watching…waiting.

Damn it! It was there. Right there just out of reach…the answer buried deep within like a tiny, invasive seedling germinating. In that moment he forgot everything except the voice in his head and the overpowering urge to return to the planet beneath them where someone waited.

We have been waiting for you.

And then he understood – every tiny detail that had confounded him, every vague sensation that had drifted through his fuzzy thoughts. It all suddenly made sense…the image that stood guard over him…it had been there all along.

Someone was calling him; he was going to answer.

An ache in his eyes drew him back to the present, to the solitude of his quarters, his failing vision and the medical monitor on his wrist. His mind was like quicksilver as pieces fell quickly into place. Like the brilliant strategist he was, he devised a plan.

Bones would be coming to check on him and, as much as he appreciated his friend's concern and care, he couldn't have Bones seeing him now. The doctor's eyes were too keen, his senses too sharp. He would know immediately that something was wrong, that Jim's eyes had worsened. No, Bones wasn't the friend he needed now, and if he was going to get onto that planet, then he needed to convince the good doctor he was okay. To do that Bones couldn't get within physical sight of him.

He needed a pre-emptive move.

"Computer, time."

"Current starship time is 1104."

Halfway through alpha shift. Bones would be busy in Medical Bay. He had some time to prepare.

The darkness of the room was daunting. He tried to put it to the back of his mind and focus on the task at hand. There would be time later to worry if he was going blind. His office space had never seemed small to him before, but in the gray shadows it was cramped and suffocating. His fingers trailed along the surface of his desk. He could barely see the outline of the computer screen. Everything else was like a poorly painted watercolor, blending images into one another.

"Computer, page Mr. Spock to my quarters."

"Order confirmed."

He didn't want to have the conversation at his desk as if it were a formal inquiry and the bedroom was too intimate. The sofa was small and personal enough without being too familiar. Fresh from the shower and dressed in a clean uniform, he felt more in command. While he had showered, his yeoman had set out a meal, of which he had eaten very little, and had cleaned the room, restoring it to a more normal state. He could almost believe it was business as usual.

He moved cautiously, feeling his way to the sofa, then settled himself on the stiff cushions and waited. He was, at least, reassured that he and Spock would not be interrupted.

"Well, you look better," Bones said, "and your vitals are improved."

He stared at the screen, not able to see Bones' face but hoping his ruse was believed. Bones was not an easy man to fool. "I'm a little tired, thanks to your sedative."

Bones grunted. He could feel the doctor's eyes intensively studying him. He softened his expression and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"How's your knee?"

"Sore."

The silence stretched out. He held himself at ease, letting Bones conduct his assessment, hoping his failing eyes had not betrayed him.

"Eat something," Bones said finally. "I'll stop by after shift."

It had almost been too easy, and that made him nervous. But he didn't have time to ponder the doctor's methods or motives. The door chime sounded. Spock was, if anything, punctual.

He rubbed his palms against his thighs, feeling his nervousness rise. "Come."

The door hissed open and shut. Someone had entered and he knew from the utter silence that it had to be Spock. The Vulcan was too far away for him to see even an outline of the tall figure, but he stared in the general direction anyway and smiled encouragingly.

"I am… pleased to see you recovering so agreeably, Captain."

"Thank you. Come, sit."

There was a hesitation that he couldn't quite interpret. Did the Vulcan suspect something? Or was his hesitation merely left over from their previous emotional conversation? As Spock approached, he could sense the dark eyes scrutinizing him and did his best not to squirm. Spock was close enough for him to see a fuzzy image, but straining made his eyes hurt and he looked away as the Vulcan settled onto the sofa.

It was awkward and they both felt it. Maybe he should have sat at his desk, put some space between them. The close proximity of the First Officer set his nerves on edge; he could feel the heat from the Vulcan's body radiating from him. "We have to talk." He didn't know what else to say. It was a bad way to begin, too formal and demanding. He swallowed and licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry.

"I want to apologize." They both said it in unison.

He pulled back slightly and stared at his friend, seeing only the pale color of Spock's face and nothing more. "You don't have to apologize."

"I violated a supreme Vulcan code." Pause. "And your trust."

He shook his head. "No, you didn't." He shifted uncomfortably, finally realizing how difficult this was going to be. For a moment it was as if they were strangers – the disobedient cadet and the taciturn instructor, standing before hundreds in a packed auditorium. His head pounded and he looked away to close his eyes and rest them. The darkness made speaking easier and he said quietly. "I trust you, Spock."

"I'm scared, Spock. Help me not be."

The memory, as always, was vivid. He could recall it all, down to the final breath he took. It was among his most cherished memories and the only memory he had where he truly had not felt alone. Neither had ever spoken of it. It had been his and his alone. He had not even shared it with Bones, and now he was about to jeopardize it, and the friendship that had sprung from that moment.

"There is something I must tell you," Spock said quietly.

"I need your help-" He blurted it out, turning to face Spock, all at once anxious and desperate, as if another word might destroy his courage.

For a time, Spock said nothing. When he spoke again, his tone was gentle, deeper, the way it was when he spoke to Uhura during those times when he thought no one was listening. "I am at your disposal, Captain."

That produced a faint laugh that died on his lips before it was born. "Jim, Spock. What I'm going to ask you is beyond the scope of duty."

Spock remained still and silent. That he had not stood to retreat was encouraging. Maybe Vulcans didn't get insulted.

Kirk relaxed slightly into the cushions.

"I want you to meld with me."