Look it's TOS right? It's 2270 as seen from the perspective of 1969. It's not The West Wing. These are the inner conversations I had to have before wrestling this chapter into submission.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Growing up on notoriously insular planet with a human mother and a Vulcan father did not provide many childhood advantages. Rather, given the inevitable intolerance of the culture that was a product of that insularity, the reverse. But one positive consequence of his parentage was that, exposed to a bilingual environment from birth, Spock cannot remember a time when he did not both speak and understand Standard. Which makes his frequent declarations of bafflement at the idiosyncrasies of human idiom closer to an affectation than he is ever likely to admit to either his captain or the Enterprise's CMO.

That innate familiarity with both languages means that it is relatively late in his association with humans, possibly some months after the realisation that his new captain has once again avoided disaster by making apparently random and ill-defined leaps in logic to identify a covert threat, that Spock realises with a jolt there is no exact Vulcan equivalent for the term 'intuition'.

The Vulcan half of him quickly approves of this discovery. Of course there is no need for a word to define a term so steeped in emotion; the "gut instinct" of which humans speak with pride, the "playing a hunch" for which James Kirk is famed, these are in fact simply lazy explanations for what further investigation would reveal to be hastily drawn conclusions based on partially observed empirical evidence. The need to produce a word for this process is merely further proof that human thought lacks discipline.

However, an inner voice, in a tone that his captain would recognise and his father would not, finds it odd that the Vulcan language, which, after all, does contain terms for both inspiration and instinct, does not admit to the observed reality that a relaxation of the relentless scrutiny of logic can, on occasion, produce... insight.

Is it intuition that now tells him his captain is in danger? Is it gut instinct that tells him they cannot trust the man who grips his briefcase with white knuckles even as, with his other hand, he reaches for the communication console in apparent eagerness to abandon the colony he has founded?

"Kirk, we must move now. Call your engineer. Arrange a rendezvous."

Something nags. It is an unfamiliar feeling for the owner of an eidetic memory. Relax.

The communication console.

Communicators.

Some 32 minutes previously, in an office of titanium pipework and before a hologram of a smiling Kirk, Rawlson had said of their communicators, "They're not here. We need to get to control."

A query may produce a useful reaction.

"Commander Rawlson." The holder of the briefcase shifts his focus. "A rendezvous would be more easily arranged if we were able retrieve our communicators."

A sideways glance. Just a flicker but it is enough.

"That won't be necessary, Mr Spock. The signal from this comms equipment can punch through hundreds of feet of rock. We can use a code that won't be recognised by the security team on the surface." He clears his throat, "And anyway I have no idea where my counterpart has taken your equipment."

He is lying.

The full implications of this must be considered. The timing of the challenge may have ramifications beyond...

"What's in the briefcase, Commander?" The captain has come up behind the man in blue and stands at his shoulder, his tone deceptively light. He might be asking what his companion is planning to eat for supper that night.

Rawlson draws the case tighter towards him. "This? Just a few of my personal belongings - my papers and research notes."

"Would your personal belongings include geological samples?

"Samples? What makes you think...?"

"The weight, commander. You appear to be having a little difficulty lifting your luggage. "

Bluster now. "Well, as a matter of fact I do have a few mineral samples in here. Nothing of any importance. Some souvenirs if you will." He forces a laugh. "Not that I am likely to forget events on Deneb III."

Kirk raises a hand to pinch the bridge of his noise, frowning. That laugh. He looks over the top of his fingers at his first officer. Spock gives a minute nod and moves away towards the staircase.

Kirk keep his tone even. "So, your duplicate, where is he now? You seem very sure he is nearby."

Rawlson looks away. "I suspect he is directing operations on the surface. Your team were successful in freeing the colonists from the Demeter, Captain. But they remain in danger. And he is likely to return at any moment."

"In which case we should lay in wait for him. You need your other half, Commander. If you've read the logs you'll remember, there is a way..."

"No!" The denial emerges with more force than Rawlson had apparently intended. He seems to realise Kirk is looking at him oddly and attempts a smile. "No, no. That's not necessary. I have made my decision, Kirk. I can live without the imposter."

He moves towards the controls. "Now, no more delay gentlemen. I can assure you, you do not want to meet the third generation of our security team. I am not convinced they fully understand language, let alone orders."

The captain nods. But he is not looking at the man who now holds the briefcase clasped to his chest.

Spock bends to open the storage locker. The contents are... predictable.

Two Starfleet issue communicators, partially dismantled, and one stained lab coat.

He produces the latter for his captain's inspection. There is a glimmer of something that is not surprise. More like weariness, Spock thinks, and wonders once more how he and his captain have arrived at the same destination at the same time. Kirk squares his shoulders, and says conversationally,

"So Rawlson, don't you think it's time to drop this pretence?"

The holder of the briefcase follows Kirk's line of sight and spins round to face the Vulcan, who stands to face him, holding the evidence of his deception. Spock chooses his words carefully.

"You have no duplicate. You are as you have always been, Commander. A liar and quite probably a murderer."

The gaze darts from one to the other, then hardens. With a world weary sigh Rawlson places the case down flat and reaches for a button on the control panel.

"Gentlemen, gentleman. This could have been so much easier."

Kirk is a split second too late. By the time he grabs Rawlson, pulling his arms behind him, the light on the console is already blinking in time to an audible warning.

Time seems to freeze. Then several events happen almost simultaneously.

On the opposite side of the room doors hidden in shadows open to reveal the two red shirts Spock recognises from their earlier incarceration. Silhouetted against the light from the corridor, they have phasers drawn.

Kirk pulls Rawlson back and away from the control panel. The man in blue offers no resistance.

Spock ducks behind the staircase into darkness. He is a little more than 1.8 metres from the captain who is somewhat protected by the man he holds captive in front of him. He is a little less than 5.2 metres from the open doorway. The closest red shirt is unable to hold his phaser steady and his focus is forwards. Spock estimates he can close the gap in approximately 0.85 of second. In that time period the second weapon will have...

But the calculations become irrelevant.

A third figure steps into the gap between the two phasers. He too is holding a weapon. And there is someone else.

Rawlson greets the new arrival with a cheery shout across the banks of equipment.

"Lieutenant Miller. So glad you could join us. Captain Kirk, might I suggest you release me?"

And Kirk loosens his grip, steps slowly back and away.

Because Miller is not pointing his weapon forwards. He is pointing it at a small tousled head which sports a Starfleet issue bandage. The lifted chin and bitten lip demonstrate a determination not to cry.

Kirk's voice is gentle. "Hello, Jake."

-oOo-

So what do you think? I will try to keep the updates coming more regularly but confess I am susceptible to nagging in the form of confirmation that people are still reading this.