I was quite tempted to add 1960s style fade to blacks and commercial breaks. But didn't.
CHAPTER 22
"Goddammit, Jim. Hold still."
The man on the floor is still fighting, muscles in spasm beneath the doctor's fingers. But he daren't risk a hypospray. Not until he can get his captain onto a biobed for full analysis of that damned poison Rawlson used too few hours ago.
"Jim, look at me." The hazel eyes are glazed, unfocused.
A shadow falls over them. "Captain..." The voice is familiar. The tone is not.
The body under his hands bucks up, more weakly this time and McCoy looks up. "Can you give me a hand here, Spock? I can't-"
The Vulcan kneels, leans inwards, extending fingertips to his captain's forehead. "Jim..." It is more whisper than word but the effect is instantaneous. The captain stills and now his focus sharpens and shifts.
"Spock. You're... you're not-"
"No, Captain," the bent head agrees. "I am not."
"Oh. Good. That's good, then." And James T Kirk, soldier and starship captain, with a reputation for stamina that spans the Alpha quadrant closes his eyes and quietly passes out.
McCoy glares up at the empty space that should contain at least one member of the security team. "Where the hell's Giotto?"
Spock does not move his gaze from the unconscious form under his hands. "The security team are presently engaged in a search for Commander Rawlson and for Crewman Barker who left in pursuit. I regret the captain's unexpected arrival resulted in-" He raises one forefinger to prevent a trickle of blood taking the path of least resistance to the deck from Kirk's temple via cheekbone. "- I was unable to prevent their departure from the shuttle deck." The Vulcan seems to have retreated far within himself. His next words are almost inaudible. "There was no logic to the Captain's actions."
Leonard McCoy has spent enough time in the company of his CO and the Enterprise's first officer to fill in most of the gaps. The frozen tableau that greeted his arrival on the shuttle deck, still spitting invective over the inability of a certain engineering chief to prioritise medical advice over command protocol, had completed the picture. That Jim Kirk would put himself in the line of fire to save a member of his crew is so predictable he sometimes wonders if they should just log the times it doesn't happen to save valuable post-mission drinking time.
"Dammit Spock. Logic? When did logic play any part in the way you two- ?" But the doctor's triage instincts take over. "Never mind. We need to get him on onto a biobed yesterday. I don't like the look of these readings..."
But Spock has already opened his communicator.
"Mister Scott, code nine. Medical team to sickbay. Please beam Dr McCoy and Captain Kirk aboard immediately."
-O-
As per specification for a Constitution class starship, the Enterprise's sickbay is soundproofed to an SRI of 90 plus. Presumably Starfleet's design engineers intended to protect seriously ill patients from the decibels of a starship working day. But there are times when Christine Chapel is inclined to think that it is the rest of the ship which should be grateful for the insulation that separates bio beds from deck five's corridors and cabins.
"It's the last time, Jim. I know I've said it before but this time I mean it. I've got better things to do than patch up your sorry ass." Without turning his head from the biobed McCoy holds out his hand. Suppressing a sigh, Chapel supplies the expected padd without a word. She knows better than to interrupt mid-rant.
The doctor scans the screen. "And dammit - on top of everything, that molar's come loose again. I don't know why I don't just whip 'em all out and put you on soup and puree for life. See how well that goes down with the ladies."
He's enjoying himself, Chapel realises. Partly because this is inevitably a one way conversation, at least while the subject of McCoy's invective remains resolutely unconscious. But mostly because at last he's got Jim Kirk where he can see him. And he intends to keep him there. It may have been her imagination but she could have sworn she saw the doctor's fingers twitch towards the restraints when the captain was transferred from stretcher to biobed.
"Why, for once in your life, can't you act like a starship captain and stay on the bridge where you belong? Instead of going around antagonisin' folks and pickin' fights." The pulsing of the overhead monitor increases slightly and McCoy frowns. "So you heard that, did you? Well, good. Let's hope it's starting to penetrate that thick skull of yours." He's getting into his stride now. "You might have started off as the youngest captain in the fleet, Jim, but it's about time you started growing up. Time you quit playing superheroes before both of us keel over."
Chapel smothers a smile as the patient starts to stir. Kirk cracks an eyelid then closes it again.
"Have you quite finished, doctor?" The voice sounds dusty. Chapel reaches behind her.
McCoy does a good job of hiding his surprise at his patient's earlier than expected return to consciousness.
"Finished? Why Captain, I'm barely getting started." And there's the hand again. Chapel presses a beaker of water into the waiting grasp. Without missing a beat, the doctor presents a straw to parched lips, the gentleness of his actions in sharp contrast to the accompanying commentary. "What the hell did you think you were playing at over there? Spock says you were flinging yourself around the shuttle deck like some sort of human shield. I don't know why you insist on thinking you've got to nursemaid that pointy eared automaton. Seems to me he's plenty capable of taking care of himself."
That's not what she's heard. Ship scuttlebutt has a tendency to exaggerate when it comes to the antics of its captain and first officer, but even taking that into account it sounds as though if it hadn't been for the Captain's dramatic reappearance on the Demeter shuttle deck the ship would be looking for a new First Officer right now. Even that robust Vulcan physiognomy was unlikely to survive the impact of three way phaser fire.
Kirk raises a weary hand. "Okay, Bones. But can we save the lecture for another time? Where's Spock now?"
"Still on board the Demeter, last I heard. No, you don't."
Kirk ignores the hand on his shoulder and lifts himself onto both elbows. "What's he still doing over there? Where's Rawlson? And who's on my bridge?"
"Scotty's in the chair. And Spock's with Giotto. That son of a bitch Rawlson's gone to ground and they're tracking him down. He won't get far. Jim, lie down. Those ribs are hanging together with nothing but my wishful thinking and a few regenerated cells. They need time. And that stuff Rawlson poisoned you with is still flushing through."
Chapel watches the familiar pattern with a sense of deja vu. Lying conscious on a biobed is Kirk's least favourite position. The doctor knows this. But he never abandons hope that this is the one time his CO will listen to sound medical advice. Privately she thinks the possibility of Kirk remaining horizontal given the information he's just been given is unlikely to be that time.
"Bones - I don't know what you did but I feel like a new man. As soon as this is over I'll be all yours."
Kirk swings his legs over the side of the bed with a barely suppressed wince.
"Jim, so help me, you're a stubborn bastard. If I have to sedate you I will, poison or no poison." This time the outstretched hand stays empty. Chapel folds her arms.
McCoy glowers and turns to the tray on the counter beside him. "I'll invoke regulations. You're in no fit state to...Goddammit... Aha!" But when he turns back, brandishing a triumphant hypospray, the empty air makes no reply.
-O-
It should not be possible for two men to disappear within the relatively limited confines of a ship designed to hold no more than 250 people. Granted the Demeter's dual role as transporter of cargo and colonists means an unusually high proportion of the ship's bulkheads are constructed of double shielded hydrogenated Kevlar and thus impervious to tricorder scan. Yet a team of six Starfleet security and one highly motivated science officer should have been able to locate two disorientated fugitives within a period of substantially less than twenty-seven minutes.
There is, after all, nowhere for them to go.
Unless. He flips open his communicator.
"Spock to Enterprise."
"Scott here,"
"Mister Scott. I require some information from Captain Glover." A brief pause.
"Glover speaking. How can I help you, Commander?"
"Captain. May I enquire whether the blueprints with which we are provided are an accurate reflection of the Demeter's layout? I refer specifically to the links between your bridge and your transporters."
The hesitation speaks of puzzlement. "Accurate? Well, yes, Mister Spock. Of course, we've been in space a long time and occasionally it's been necessary to introduce modifications... But I'm not aware of - What is it, Jake? I'm talking to -"
Another pause. A muffled interchange. Then, in a different tone, "I think you should have a word with my son, Mister Spock."
—O—
It's dark here. And quiet. But Rawlson knows better than to trust the silence. Starfleet security officers are well trained. They're still here. Still searching. And now with Miller dead and Barker…gone? Captured?…he's alone.
He doesn't need them. He doesn't need any of them. Alone is best. They're better alone - always have been. How could he have forgotten? All those years of pretence. All those wearisome explanations of the obvious to the foolish. Done. He's done.
The access hatch is stiff but thanks to the drug they're stronger than ever and the mechanism turns easily. Now the way ahead pulsates with light, as if he's following an electric circuit. Details at the edge of his vision blur as he passes, the corridor bends and shimmers, but the schematic of their plan glows in his head, clean and cold. The perfect temperature.
-O-
Ten lateral paces and two vertical steps - that's all it takes to cross from turbo lift to centre seat. Since James Kirk first made the journey some five years ago, then braving a cross fire of appraising stares, some curious, some welcoming, and one, from the direction of the science station, frankly hostile in a manner only a supposedly emotionless Vulcan could pull off and avoid charges of insubordination, he must have crossed that space ten thousand times. His science officer could no doubt calculate the exact figure, including the distance travelled, to several decimal places, and, if pushed, reveal the point on that numerical scale when the hostility from over his right shoulder had been replaced first by frank curiosity and then warmth.
It's not a journey he's ever had cause to consider particularly significant but today is a first. There have been multiple occasions over the last twenty-four hours when he seriously doubted he'd ever again sit in the Captain's chair. And judging by the reaction from his bridge crew he's not the only one. A bridge crew which seems to have... expanded since his last visit.
Kirk lowers himself into a seat still warm from the departing behind of his chief engineer. "Hello, Jake. Is there someone you'd like to introduce me to?"
The pirate has lost both his bandage and any visible wound but still manages a rakish grin. "Mom, this is-" but the tall woman beside him is already stepping forward and offering a firm handshake.
"Captain Kirk. Captain Glover at your service. It's an honour to meet you, sir."
"The pleasure's all mine, ma'am. I only wish it could be under better circumstances." Kirk swivels a quarter turn to his left. "Mister Scott. Report. What's going on over there?"
It's an indication of his engineer's frustration that his Scottish brogue is more than usually impenetrable.
"There's no sign of them, sir. But dinnae ye fret. Mister Spock and the security team will run them to ground. I'll wager they're hiding in a shielded store locker like the yellow bellied scum that they are-"
He gets no further when there's a sharp intake of breath from the direction of the communication station.
"Captain... I'm picking up a signal. From the Demeter bridge."
For a moment Kirk wonders if it's his First officer but dismisses the thought before it has time to complete. Uhura wouldn't sound this grim if it were Spock on the other end of the link.
"On screen, Lieutenant."
The viewer fills with static then clears to reveal a familiar figure. Rawlson crouches, all dark tension in the centre seat, head bent to the controls. When he looks up Kirk sees the flash of something he recognises but can't quite name. An intensity of focus that is not - quite - sane. And there's something wrong. Something missing.
"Rawlson," Kirk says flatly. He's not going to attempt to appeal to the man's rank or history. That time has passed
"Kirk," comes back the snarl. "Back with your starship. Scurrying away behind your phasers and photon torpedoes rather than finish what you started. How typical"
Kirk doesn't dignify this with a response. "Time's up, Rawlson. A security team's on the way." He doesn't need to turn to see Scotty nod. "If you give yourself up without a fight now I can promise immediate medical attention. For you and your crewman."
The man in the Demeter's command chair is not listening. All his focus is on the controls in front of him. He seems almost abstracted.
"Give myself up? Well now. Let me think about that for a moment." Rawlson turns to the view screen, one finger on his chin in a parody of concentration. "Hmmm. Nope. Don't think I'll be doing that." He raises his eyebrows and looks quizzically at the ceiling. "Now here's an idea, Kirk. How about you give yourselves up instead?"
Kirk frowns at the screen, aware that the eyes of his bridge crew are monitoring his reaction to this absurd exchange. He forces himself to relax. To lean back in his chair and sling one leg over the other. To inject a note of amusement in his voice which is aimed less at the man at the other end of the comm link than at the crew who know their captain may be less than fighting fit.
"Well, Rawlson. It's an interesting idea. But here's the thing. You're outnumbered, outgunned and right now you're a few seconds away from arrest on at least fifty charges including murder."
Rawlson smiles. Never has Kirk seen an expression with less joy. "And right now, Captain. You're a few seconds away from obliteration."
"Sir. I'm detecting a strange signature from the Demeter."
Kirk whips round to face Chekov who's at the science station
"What sort of signature?"
Chekov doesn't move his eyes from the scanner. "It's from one of the Demeter secondary transporter pads, sir. It's powering up. But there's no organic matter. Just…" Chekov adjusts the controls. "I don't understand..."
Now the ship's chief engineer is by Chekov's side. "Captain, I recognise that pattern. The wave. Beryllium -"
- crystals", Kirk finishes for him. That's what was missing. That damn briefcase. And now Scott has taken a step back. He straightens his shoulders and for a split second his gaze wavers to take in the stares of a frozen bridge crew and a small boy who stands defiantly in front of the command chair. Oh, this is bad, thinks Kirk.
"Captain. He's locked the transporter onto our engine room. Onto the dilithium chamber. If he beams those crystals in there..."
He doesn't need to continue. Kirk knows the difference between Scotty voice of timely warning (animated, loud, prone to hyperbole) and Scotty voice of doom (resigned, flat, stoic).
"Shields, Mister Scott."
The shake of the head is mournful.
"They're offline, Captain. I had to divert power when I reset the pattern buffers to counteract -"
"- the ore. Yes. Of course."
Death by minerals, thinks Kirk with the gallows humour part of his brain that always seems to kick in at times like this. They didn't warn us about this in astrogeology class.
His voice seems strangely remote. As if he's overhearing an automatically generated command. "Take us out of range, Mister Sulu. Now."
"Aye aye, Captain." Sulu's fingers fly over the controls. But he's too slow. Kirk knows that even as he grips the armrest of his chair and watches the lights on his navigator's panel climb.
No. Not Sulu. I was too slow, he thinks and wonders which why for once he doesn't seem have the energy to translate the familiar guilt into anger. He's a spectator on his own bridge.
A spectator watching several events happen at one and the same time.
On the viewscreen the doors behind Rawlson open to reveal Giotto, phaser drawn.
Behind him, a gasp from Chekov. "There's someone in the Demeter transporter room."
Spock, thinks Kirk. Of course, it has to be Spock. Turning up to save the day as always. But the lights of a hastily reconfigured control panel on the Demeter bridge are already glowing green.
Rawlson stands. And laughs. A splintered thing.
"You're too late, gentlemen. Or rather, you're just in time. Say goodbye to the Enterprise."
As the metallic whirr of the transporter fills both bridges, Kirk meets the eyes of the boy in front of him and knows there won't be time to say he's sorry.
End notes:
Sorry. I know. It's been bloody ages.
This was partly written many months ago. And partly written in a flurry this morning. You see Spock just would not do what he was told. Just stood there, arms behind his back and flat-out refused to go where he was told. Which meant a restructuring. But in my head there's just one more chapter. Possibly two. Thank you for your patience and do let me know what you think.
