Day 3 (Tuesday)
At 0600, the alarm sounded over the intercom and Sigma Squad was roused from their bunks. Spock felt terrible. Traditional Vulcan meditational healing methods were only so effective on a few hours of sleep. His muscles ached, his head hurt, and skin itched terribly.
He stood and set to work making his bunk, noticing a faint green rash on his arms and legs. It didn't appear serious, but it was extremely uncomfortable. His feet were in poor condition: his blisters had dried in the night but were very tender to the touch and another day of further aggravation from new footwear would render them in a worse state than they already were.
Once his bed was made, he sat down and put on his athletic clothing for the morning's exercises. Even pulling on his softer training shoes was painful. Schmidt still snored soundly from the top bunk, facedown, naked, and unashamed.
"It is time to wake," Spock announced.
Schmidt didn't stir. Spock didn't want to touch the man's bare flesh, so he moved closer and spoke louder, but Schmidt refused to budge.
"Hey, nasty, get up," proclaimed another male called Laszlo Ruzsa from the next bunk over with a rather unusual accent. "And put on clothes."
Schmidt began a long and aggressive string of swear words and rolled over and faced the wall. Spock concluded Schmidt was unlikely to be provoked into wakefulness by gentle means and didn't see the sense in using more hostile tactics, because doing so would only irritate his bunkmate. Yet he was apparent that if Schmidt were not at formation, the rest of the squad would be held accountable for his absence. Most of the squad had left, but Schassler and Scrivner stopped by his cubicle and stared at Schmidt.
"It's like he wants us to hate him," Scrivner sneered, looking at Schmidt's bare backside.
"We can't leave him here," Schassler moaned, stepping forward.
"This is a problem with no universally acceptable resolution," Spock stated. "We shall either be reprimanded for being late to formation and likely engaging in a physical altercation with him, or we shall be punished when he fails to appear with the rest of the squad."
"So what do we do?" Scrivner sighed, adding they only had three minutes to get downstairs.
"Everyone else already left him," Schassler said, crossing his arms. "Does it make a difference if we do too?"
"Yeah, because no one else realized he was going to be a turd and be too lazy to get up. They went downstairs with no reason to assume he'd do this, but now that we know he's not going to make it, we're liable for him," Scrivner argued.
"I question his ability to adequately dress in the allotted time without significant complaint," Spock interjected. "Therefore logic suggests we should leave him. If we are to be admonished either way, we might as well do it without instigating a fight with Trainee Schmidt."
The three of them jogged down the hallway and reached the stairs when Schassler asked, "What's the deal with that rash?"
"I do not know," Spock answered, looking down at his arms.
"I'm not well versed in Vulcan biology, but it looks like an allergic response," Schassler replied.
"Vulcans rarely experience prolonged immune disruptions," Spock countered.
"But I thought I heard someone say you were only half Vulcan," Schassler argued.
"Are you trained in medicine?" Spock asked.
"I'm not a physician, but I am a nurse. I've only had my license for two years, but I've seen plenty of allergic reactions. You should go to medical."
"I shall take your suggestion under advisement," Spock said as they exited the building and sprinted toward the formation.
Quinones arrived just as they fell into the back row, scowled at them, checked a time device around his wrist and made a clucking sound.
"Sigma Squad looks a little short this morning," Quinones drawled. "You'll all be pleased to know that Trainee Rollins is expected to make a full recovery, but he has chosen to quit. Last night we also lost Trainees Rutowski and Ryder, who also decided Starfleet was not for them, but if my count is correct, it appears we're still missing someone. Where is Trainee Schmidt?"
"He would not wake up this morning, sir," Spock explained.
Quinones strutted over to Spock and stopped centimeters from his face. "You are his bunkmate, aren't you?"
"I am."
"So you just thought you'd let him sleep in and get everyone else in trouble?" Quinones said, lowering his voice so only Spock could hear.
"Given the likely outcomes of each possible course of action at my disposal, I determined-"
"Everyone get down and start pushing," Quinones roared, even though he was still in close proximity to Spock's face.
The volume created a painful ringing in his ears and he prepared to get into the pushup positions, but Quinones stopped him. "Not you," Quinones said, snapping his fingers and pointing at Spock. "You are going to go back up into those barracks and ensure Schmidt gets down here. They will all do pushups until you get back, so you might want to hurry."
"Aye, sir," Spock said.
He ran back up the stairs of the barracks two at a time and when he arrived at their bunk, Schmidt was still exactly where they had left him. "Wake up," Spock demanded.
"SHHHHHHHH!" Schmidt hissed, wrapping his flimsy pillow around his head.
Spock reluctantly pushed Schmidt's bare shoulder with the palm of his hand. Vulcans preferred to avoid touching other people under typical circumstances and though this was an exception, Spock still had to repress a small twinge of disgust. Schmidt didn't move. Spock stepped back calmly and could just make out the cadence of his squad mates downstairs doing pushups. 41, 42, 43…
He retreated to the bathroom, emptied the mop bucket in the small janitorial closet of its mop, and filled it a quarter of the way with water from the sink. When he upturned it over Schmidt's head, the man unleashed a string of obscenities that rivaled the worst of anything Spock had ever heard. The water trickled down Schmidt's bed onto his own, but it was a necessary price to pay.
Schmidt rolled awkwardly onto the floor and Spock went to return the mop bucket to the lavatory. When he returned with the mop to collect the water on the floor, Schmidt had donned a set of his athletic shorts and Spock narrowly dodged his fist as he came around the corner of their cubicle.
"I do not intend to engage in physical combat with you," Spock said, holding the handle of the mop out, ready to defend himself.
Schmidt grabbed it and pulled hard, throwing Spock slightly off balance. They quickly fell onto the floor and Schmidt had the initial superiority of position to hit Spock squarely in the left eye with a well placed punch. His head snapped back onto the hard concrete floor but he reacted instantly, throwing his elbow into Schmidt's tricep muscle to prevent him from pinning him to the ground and causing Spock further injury. Schmidt screamed and flopped onto his back, cradling his arm and Spock sat up on his haunches.
"What the hell is this?" Morrison yelled, stomping into the room and grabbing Spock by the back of his shirt and hauling him to his feet.
"Trainee Schmidt refused to wake up, and when-"
"That Vulcan psycho broke my arm!" Schmidt wailed.
Morrison let go of Spock's shirt and knelt down to inspect Schmidt's arm. He hadn't been exaggerating: the upper part of his arm was bent at a strange angle and already swelling.
"It's too early to deal with this," Morrison muttered, flipping open a communicator attached to his belt and calling for a medical transport.
A minute later Schmidt dematerialized and Morrison turned to face Spock. His mouth was puckered into an expression of annoyance and the communicator was still in his hand.
"Get dressed into a duty uniform," Morrison sighed. "You're going to see the commandant."
"Sir, I-"
"This is out of my hands," Morrison interrupted. "We're given a wide latitude to let you all figure this kind of stuff out on your own, but one of the few things I can't let go is a fistfight in my barracks, especially when it results in serious injury. Get dressed and meet me downstairs."
Morrison flipped his communicator back open and called for Commander Pike as he left the room. Spock quickly changed into his gray uniform and took great care in pulling the heavy boots onto his blistered feet. He met Morrison downstairs as he had been instructed and they marched the long distance to the senior administration building.
"Why is your face all blotchy?" Morrison asked, jeering at Spock's complexion.
"I appear to be having an abnormal immune response to an unknown stimulus," Spock replied.
"Uh huh," Morrison said, pulling the door open and cutting Spock off to walk through it first.
They both stood outside the commandant's office and Morrison explained the proper way to report to Commander Pike. He was halfway through explaining procedures for reporting indoors when the door opened and Pike said, "Lieutenant Morrison, a word."
Morrison straightened his back, adjusted his uniform, and entered the office. The door slammed behind him, and Spock waited alone in the hallway. It was only 0630 hours and many of the building's personnel would likely not arrive for some time.
He could not determine what the most likely outcome of meeting with Commander Pike would be. It was entirely possible he would be removed from the course and would be unable to continue on to Starfleet Academy, but rather than consider the broader implications of failing before he had even begun, he meditated quietly to himself for approximately forty-five minutes. Morrison finally emerged.
"He'll call for you when he's ready. I have to go get Schmidt from medical."
Spock waited another thirty minutes before the door slid open and Commander Pike called, "Trainee Spock?"
Spock entered the room as Morrison had told him to do, walking crisply and purposefully before stopping a meter from Commander Pike's desk onto a plush blue carpet made in the image of the Federation flag. He stood there for a full two minutes while the commandant drafted a message on his PADD, seemingly oblivious to Spock's presence.
"You sat in my briefing, did you not?" Pike asked, still engrossed in his PADD.
"I did, sir," Spock replied.
"And what was the first thing I told everyone?"
"To take our seats and quiet down," Spock answered.
Pike's finger paused over his PADD and he slowly looked up at Spock. His eyes narrowed.
"What was the first thing I told you to avoid doing?"
"You instructed us to avoid getting to know you, sir," Spock replied.
"And where did I say you didn't want to stand?"
"On your carpet."
"And where are you standing?"
"On your carpet, though to clarify, I presumed you were speaking euphemistically, and this was where Instructor Morrison indicated I should stand."
Pike scoffed and leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. "To 'stand on the carpet' is an expression for standing before a senior-ranking official for undesirable reasons."
"Thank you for the clarification, sir," Spock said.
"It's a little early to be brawling, wouldn't you say?" Pike asked, his tone growing dry and bitter.
Spock was unsure of how to reply and Pike swiveled in his chair and began working at a computer terminal and added, "That's a nice shiner you've got there, by the way."
"Shiner, sir?"
"Your eye. Looks like Schmidt got in at least one good hit before you snapped his arm."
"He instigated the incident, sir," Spock explained. He was not attempting to assign blame, rather, he wished to enumerate the facts.
"I don't care who instigated it or even how it started: why did you think it was appropriate to break his arm?" Pike asked, glancing at Spock and frowning.
"It was not appropriate," Spock responded. "I did not anticipate his lower bone density and regrettably used more force than was necessary."
"Been in a lot of fights, have you?" Pike mused.
"Yes," Spock replied.
Pike didn't answer immediately but clearly was taken aback by Spock's answer. It was the truth – occasional scraps with other Vulcan boys had plagued much of his youth. As he'd matured and learned to master his emotions more completely, he had become quite skilled at ignoring verbal taunts. Conversely, as his peers had aged, they'd discovered insults were not in keeping with Surak's teachings, and so it had been years since he'd been compelled to resort to physical violence. But Schmidt had attacked him first.
"Did you know you have the second highest entrance exam score on record?" Pike murmured.
"Sir?" Spock replied, seeking an explanation for his sudden conversational shift.
"You do. I personally evaluated your application to Starfleet. The review board unanimously voted to accept you, but I'll admit I had my reservations."
Spock said nothing.
"No one will ever question your right to be here, Trainee Spock, but there are a few who might wonder at your motivations. I understand you were also admitted to the Vulcan Science Academy. That's like the Oxford of Vulcan. Why choose Starfleet?"
"My reasons are personal," Spock replied, more quickly than he'd intended.
"I see," Pike replied. "Personal." He typed a few lines of a message on his computer terminal and then turned back to face the young Vulcan trainee.
"I had reservations about you because I know how hard it is to adapt to Starfleet. This initial entry training program has about an average thirty percent attrition rate, but it's gone as high as half in some classes. It hasn't even been two full days of training and this class has already lost twenty percent of the people it started with. And that's almost entirely humans being unable to hack it with other humans."
"Vulcans are widely known to be an adaptable species," Spock argued.
"True, and smart. But very few Vulcans choose Federation service. Starfleet's mission is logical, no doubt, but the execution of it very rarely is. Sometimes it gets bitter, emotional, messy, and painful."
"You imply you do not believe I will be successful."
"I think-" Pike's eyes flicked up toward the ceiling. "I think that's up to you. Nineteen Vulcans have served in Starfleet before you and they all had honorable and distinguished careers. But I don't think you have to be a statistician to realize that nineteen Vulcans in eighty-nine years suggests that it takes a very unique Vulcan to adapt to service in Starfleet."
Once again Spock was unsure how to reply.
"I see a lot of potential in you, Trainee Spock. A lot. I think if you can find a way to fit in here, you will excel even beyond my expectations of you. But I still think that's a big if. Normally I would remove a candidate from training for pulling what you pulled this morning, but I'm willing to write it off as a misunderstanding."
"What will happen with Trainee Schmidt, sir?" Spock inquired.
"Worry about yourself and let me worry about him," Pike snapped. "Now get out of my office and go back to training."
"Aye, sir," he replied, taking a step back and then marching toward the door.
"And Trainee Spock?"
"Sir?"
"I don't know what's wrong with your skin, but go to medical," Pike sneered. "That's not even a request. It's an order. Go now."
As he left the administrative building, he passed Morrison and Schmidt. The former gave him a curious look and the latter gave him a more hateful expression.
The medical bay was teeming with dozens of people from other squads complaining of sore muscles and blisters, along with Ruzsa from Sigma Squad. He had apparently slipped from a set of pull up bars during the morning exercises and broken his nose. When he saw Spock enter, he moved chairs to sit next to him.
"So it is true then?" he asked in his thick accent, made worse by nasally speech from a broken nose.
"Explain."
"You and Schmidt. You fought," he said, gazing at Spock's black eye. "He came in crying like little girl. Said you broke his arm."
"That is an abridged version of the facts," Spock replied.
"That Schmidt. He has bad blood. Lazy. Cares for no one but himself."
"That is your assessment," Spock answered, though internally he agreed with the Hungarian man's appraisal of Schmidt's qualities.
Due to the large influx of patients, it took more than two hours for him to be seen by a clinician. Schassler's suspicions about an allergic reaction were confirmed and the irritant was quickly identified as the standard issue soap. He was given a hypospray of an antihistamine, which worked very quickly in reducing his welts, and the nurse left to get him an alternative soap agent. He sat for forty-five minutes waiting for her to return, dozing lightly and attempting to recenter himself with breathing techniques.
"Sorry it took so long," said a bright voice, snapping him back to full consciousness. "We're a little swamped today. Everyone's here for a few tiny blisters."
"I have severe blisters as well," he said, looking down at his feet.
"Doesn't everyone?" she sighed. "Take 'em off and let's have a look."
The moment he pulled the boots from his feet, she gasped. "Hey, Martina, you have to come see this," she called to the next curtained area.
A woman with dark skin and a stern face slinked around the corner and recoiled at the sight of his feet. His socks were already mostly soaked through with his blood and as he removed them, both women made strange cackling sounds.
"Now those are blisters," the woman called Martina exclaimed. "Might be like the third worst case I've ever seen. You've damn near rubbed off half the skin on your feet."
Spock disliked being put on display for their amusement, but was ultimately grateful when the nurse extracted a dermal regenerator from the pocket of her white medical coat and tended the peeled flesh. She explained the blisters might reform, but the skin would be thicker and they would be far less severe. He thanked her for her assistance, and at 0945 hours he made his way back to his barracks and found Morrison was waiting there with Schmidt and Ruzsa.
"Gang's all here," Morrison drawled. "Let's go."
Spock was mildly surprised to see Schmidt at all, but even more surprised by his placid demeanor. He didn't make eye contact with Spock and was silent as Morrison loaded them into a transport shuttle and delivered them to a firearms range several kilometers away.
They spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon getting familiarized with all of the handheld weapons in Starfleet's inventory. He handled laser pistols, hand phasers, and rifles, and learned their fundamental operating principles and how to perform basic maintenance on them.
They ate rations in the field for lunch and he sat at the edge of a group that included Saxena, Schassler, and Scrivner. The food was highly concentrated and consisted of a strange texture, but he was quite hungry and ate it readily.
"I can't feel my arms," Saxena whined.
"You'll live," Schassler sighed.
"We did like 200 pushups waiting for you to come back," Saxena said, looking woefully at Spock.
"Well, most of us did around thirty or forty and then flailed around on the ground kind of like beached whales when our muscles quit," Scrivner laughed.
"I just thought this course was supposed to get us used to being in Starfleet. I feel like I'm being tortured in some calculated way," Saxena said, devouring some kind of concentrate from a tube.
"To strengthen the mind, the body must be fashioned, bruised, forged, stretched, roasted, and refined. It is meant to suffer," Schassler said.
"That's deep," Scrivner said, rolling his eyes.
"That's Nietzsche," Schassler replied with a laugh. "It's more dark than deep."
"It is a rather stark philosophy," Spock agreed.
"On the surface, I don't know that it's so different than some of Surak's teachings, though on a fundamental level they are pretty dissimilar," Schassler answered.
"You've read the Teachings of Surak?" Spock inquired.
"Twice," he answered. "There are a lot of parallels with the Greek stoics that I find interesting."
"Are you some kind of philosopher then?" Scrivner asked.
"I wanted to study philosophy in college but my dad wanted me to have a more practical job. I opted for nursing instead," Schassler replied. "What about you guys?"
"I do rocks," Scrivner replied with a crooked smile, before adding, "I'm a geologist. I'm from Deneva colony. Mining is the only game in town."
"I was accepted into Starfleet's logistics program right out of high school," Saxena added.
"What about you, Mr. Logic?" Scrivner asked, trading Schassler a bag of hard crackers for a tube of milk concentrate.
"I possess a degree in astrophysics," he admitted, choking down several dry cookies.
"I don't know why, but that doesn't surprise me," Saxena mused. "You seem really smart."
"So, are you going to tell us how you got that black eye, or are you going to make us guess?" Scrivner murmured.
Spock glanced over at Schmidt and saw him conversing with a small girl with shiny black hair whom he thought was called Sagawa. "It is not important."
None of the others pressed the issue further and it was quiet for a few minutes until Quinones began a rampage about finishing their food so they could begin marksmanship qualifications.
"Hey Mr. Philosopher, what's your analysis of Instructor Quinones? Napoleon complex or just plain unpleasant?" Scrivner asked.
"I'm a hobby philosopher, not a psychologist," Schassler deflected.
"Why does he walk around with his thumbs in his belt loops?" Spock asked. "Does that give him better balance?"
Schassler turned his head to see Quinones and said, "No, that's purely just to make him look like an asshole."
"As in an anus?" Spock inquired.
Schassler laughed so hard he spit food out of his mouth onto Scrivner. His three human companions roared with laughter.
"You have the best jokes, Spock, and you don't even try," Scrivner said, clutching his belly.
"If you have time to giggle that means you're done eating!" Quinones barked, looking in their direction.
They spent the later afternoon and early evening firing the weapons they had learned about earlier in the day. Spock found marksmanship easy, as it was nothing more than a simple application of geometry and physics manipulated though steady breathing and the exercise of superior hand-eye coordination. He qualified readily on each weapons system with perfect marks.
They arrived back at the training campus just before dark and ate a quick dinner. Spock continued to watch Schmidt, but he gave no indication that anything had transpired that morning. Schmidt was too involved in a conversation with Sagawa to notice much of anything else.
After dinner they were set to cleaning their barracks room and suffered more mass punishment for various minor oversights, such as a few particles of dirt in one of the air vents or the theoretical streak on the mirror glass in the female lavatory. At 2100 hours, most of Sigma Squad collapsed into their bunks with fatigued delight.
Spock and Schmidt went downstairs to begin their extra cleaning duties without speaking a single word to one another. Spock collected a mop bucket and set to work cleaning the ground level floor again while Schmidt dusted the walls in the stairwells. He worked slowly and methodically, noting that the floor was still remarkably clean from the previous evening.
He finished and returned to the janitorial closet to replace the cleaning supplies and noted muffled sounds coming from inside. It resembled crying and when he reluctantly opened the door, he discovered Susan Spencer in the corner with her knees to her chest, clutching an old-style photograph.
"Forgive me," Spock said, wishing to give her privacy in such an emotional time.
"No, it's ok," she sniffed, motioning for him to come in.
Spock remained frozen in the doorway, uncertain of how to proceed. Any Vulcan in such a state would almost certainly prefer to be alone. Fresh tears sprung up at the corners of her eyes and she rested her chin on her knees, turning her gaze back to the picture in her hand. Spock entered the closet with the mop bucket and gently closed the door. He stared straight at the wall as he emptied the dirty water into the drain in the corner of the floor.
"Do you have family?" Spencer croaked.
"I would not have been produced without an appropriate pair of progenitors."
She scoffed and replied, "I mean, do you have family that you miss?"
Spock carefully considered her question. The human concept of "missing" loved ones was an emotional practice he did not engage in. Still, he thought of his mother more often now than he ever had on Vulcan.
"Ugh, I don't know why I'm trying to unload all of this on you," she sighed.
"I do not know either," he replied, wringing out the mop.
"I have a little girl," she said, handing the paper picture to Spock.
He set the mop down and studied the photograph. It was an image of a human child who bore a remarkable resemblance to Spencer: the same pale face, white-blonde hair, and clear blue eyes. She was sitting in a field with a basket and what appeared to be colorfully dyed eggs.
"She is your child?" Spock asked. Susan Spencer seemed quite young to have progeny, but Spock knew little of human growth and development. The girl appeared well into middle childhood and he recalled Spencer telling Morrison that she was only twenty-five years of age.
"Yeah, it was her birthday today. She turned eight."
Spock was familiar with the human desire to commemorate making a full rotation around their local star with a celebration. His own mother had tried a similar custom when he was very young, but his father had always tried to discourage her. He handed the picture back to Spencer without comment.
"Will you sit with me?" she sniffed.
He reluctantly leaned up against the wall next to her and slid down to the floor. His body still ached, but a day of activity had helped loosen his muscles. She breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly. "The last few days have been hell. When I think about the fact that I spent her special day slogging around in the woods with weapons and blisters and bugs, I really wonder why I joined in the first place."
"You retain the option to return home," Spock replied, staring ahead at the wall.
"Not really," she said. "It took me five years to get through law school while raising a kid by myself and then when I graduated, there wasn't exactly a whole lot of work for someone with mediocre grades and no experience that paid enough to get by. Well, not anywhere that wasn't on some desolate ice giant colony."
"Service in Starfleet will likely take you far from Earth on occasion," Spock countered.
"Yeah, but I only need to stick it out for eight years and get some legal experience under my belt. My mom is watching Sarah while I'm here and once I'm done with this awful training, I'll be able to call and visit regularly. When I'm done with the Academy, depending on where I'm posted, she'll probably be able to live with me."
She hiccupped and folded the picture and put in the pocket of her shorts. Spock was about to stand up and go upstairs when she said, "Thanks for listening."
"You are welcome."
"And for putting Schmidt in his place," she laughed.
"It is regrettable what transpired between myself and Trainee Schmidt," he argued. "I do not condone violence as a means of resolving personal differences."
"Still, he was well on his way to becoming the worst person I've ever met, but today he was almost tolerable to be around. You're nicer than I thought you were, in your own way," she said with a smile.
Spock nodded deferentially and stood. "My shift is over."
"I'm just going to stay here for a little while," she replied. "I'd like to be alone and I don't want to bother anyone in the barracks. Rutherford gets so mean even if you breathe too loudly."
He left without further comment, signed the log at the duty desk, and proceeded upstairs. He showered quickly with the new soap he had received at medial and laid down in his bunk, tucking his feet in slightly so they wouldn't hang over the edge.
Schmidt was snoring softly on his stomach, as usual, but tonight he was fully clothed. It seemed possible the morning's events really had made a difference in Schmidt's attitude, though it it had come about through unfortunate means.
He was nearly asleep when the bunk shook slightly. He opened his eyes to see the outline of a small figure crawling into Schmidt's bunk by using his footlocker as a stepping stool.
"Shhhh…" Schmidt cooed.
He heard a low, distinctive female giggle. "We have to be quiet. Rutherford hears better than a bat."
He could not be certain, but it sounded like Sagawa.
"Screw her," Schmidt replied
"What about the guy who sleeps under you?" she whispered.
"Screw him too."
For a few minutes he heard fumbling and attempts to suppress giggling above him, and soon the bed began to rock in a rhythmic motion. Spock stared up at the bottom of the Schmidt's mattress, completely at a loss for words. They were mating.