Chapter 23
In the end there are two.
Two men, divided yet always together. Passion and logic, instinct and analysis. The sum always greater than mere mathematics can support.
Two men, betrayer and betrayed.
Two sides to this story. A split screen. And five words.
-oOo-
"Say goodbye to theEnterprise."
The flagship's First Officer, renowned for his efficiency in all things, can move fast when the occasion demands. The scene that now presents itself in the Demetertransporter room is one such occasion. The distorted voice, echoing through the ship's intercom, is mere background noise; a distant distraction from a sound Spock knows too well - the electronic gulp that signals a successful pairing of pattern buffers and transporter pad. He has 1.78 seconds in which to act.
On the glowing platform stands a briefcase. Its contents, Spock surmises in rather less than a third of the remaining time, have the potential to become a weapon of mass destruction. And behind the transporter controls stands a figure, face contorted in pain, fingers scrabbling over the controls as if seeking anchor. Barker. Spitting words under his breath.
"Bastard."
The insult is barely audible; the speaker appears to be using all his remaining energy to stay upright.
The decision is straightforward. The case is closer than the man at the console. But even before Spock reaches the platform in a dive less elegant than he would have preferred, the sparkle flares and dies. A control slides upwards. Another ring glows.
-oOo-
"Say goodbye to theEnterprise."
On the bridge of the fleet's flagship its captain realises he has closed his eyes. When he opens them it is to a tableau frozen in time and space. Rawlson's bulk obscures the burly figure of the Enterprise's chief of security. Who fires. At a silhouette outlined in gold. At...
Nothing.
Rawlson is gone, the outline fades, and for the briefest moment of hysteria Kirk thinks the impossible; that the universe, in a karmic nod to at least a dozen alien encounters over the past five years, has for once handed him psychokinetic powers; that he has made the man on the screen vanish by sheer force of will. The second, marginally less, impossible thought is that Giotto has fired a phaser set to kill on a starship bridge in direct contravention of at least eight safety regulations.
But no - Giotto is staring at his phaser in disbelief.
Kirk gives himself a mental shake and thumbs the comms button in the arm of his chair. "Commander - what's going on over there?"
Giotto has the look of a man who has successfully swiped the conjuror's handkerchief only to find himself grasping air. He turns to face the screen.
"He just vanished, Captain." He looks left and right as if Rawlson might be hiding under a console. "I'll start search parties immediately. He can't have gone far-"
But Uhura is speaking over him.
"Captain, it's Mister Spock. On another channel." She touches her hand to her ear. "From the Demeter's transporter room."
At last. If anyone can make sense of this...
"Put him through, Lieutenant... Spock?" The crackle of static is enough to send a ripple of unease. "Spock? Are you all right?" It's not the question he should be asking in front of the bridge crew but right now Kirk doesn't care.
The voice that answers is careful. Measured. With a flat intonation Kirk recognises from times of past horror. Gods, what's going on over there?
"Captain...search parties for Commander Rawlson will not be necessary."
"What? Do you have him there?" Of course. Spock locked onto his signal and -
"No, sir. The Commander is..." The pause is so unlike his First Officer Kirk has a sudden vision. Spock. A phaser pressed to his temple. Hostage once more.
"Spock?" He's standing now, halfway to Uhura's station with no recollection of how he got there, when the link crackles back to life.
"Apologies, Captain. I am now... I am holding Crewman Barker who is, I fear, deceased. The Commander is...also dead."
"But the briefcase - the Beryllium-"
"-remains on board, sir." Another pause. "If possible I would prefer to complete my report in person."
"Yes. Of course." Kirk turns to Scotty who nods. "Transporter room, one to -"
"No!" The voice is harsh. Uhura looks startled. Never before has she heard the ship's First Officer interrupt the Captain mid-order. Spock seems to realise the impact on the bridge because he tempers his tone. "No, sir. With respect, I would prefer not to use the transporter at the present time."
And Kirk hears the unspoken message. Hears, incredibly, his science officer allow emotion to trump the discipline that is not only part of his rank but woven into this DNA, and buries his fear of what that means in a flurry of orders.
-oOo-
"So this man - Walker?"
"Barker," Spock corrects.
"Barker," the Doctor says with a frown. "Right. Did he know what would happen? To Rawlson? To his pattern?"
"Unclear. The crewman was in the terminal stages of cellular degradation and uncommunicative. Once the loop was activated and transport in progress he was in no fit state to answer questions."
"But he managed to programme the transporter to beam Rawlson from the bridge, to the planet surface and...?"
"And back again," finishes Kirk, keen to move the conversation on. He has rarely seen his friend look so bleak. McCoy seems oblivious.
"Good god. So the duplication process... How did the pattern buffers...?"
There are few disadvantages to an eidetic memory. However, the ready supply of a series of vivid images from past visual stimuli is, inevitably, one of them. Spock is aware that his weakened shields are currently unable to reduce his emotional response to recent events. Instead he must direct his energy to the only alternative - suppression of any outward sign of the turmoil within.
"The pattern buffers overloaded. Eventually."
And there it is. The room falls silent as three men contemplate the process of accelerated molecular disintegration through space and time and the inadequacy and horror of that final word.
McCoy's response is less than helpful. "Ye gods. What a mess."
-oOo-
Captain's log, Stardate 5314.7
The evacuation of Deneb III is finally complete. Commendations to Commanders Scott and Giotto and to Lieutenants Caron, Daruwaller and Singh for their exemplary work on the planet surface. And special commendation to Doctors McCoy and M'Benga and to Nurse Chapel. Without their expertise many more colonists from the Demeter would be on the casualty list.
For the record I agree with my crew's assessment that the colony should be abandoned and quarantined, both for practical reasons and as a mark of respect to the many who have died.
Kirk pauses. Despite his chief engineer's best efforts with the Enterprise's reconfigured transporters, in what his CMO likened to a macabre game of pairs, their attempts to reunify those that had fallen victim to the duplication process had proved largely unsuccessful. Very few from the original team on Deneb had survived. Even fewer would be in a fit state to resume active service. The delay between duplication and reunification had proved to be the crucial limiting factor. Kirk does not intend to go into detail in his condolence letters to their families.
He flicks the switch once more.
We are now on our way to Starbase 4 to drop off Captain Glover, her crew and the remaining colonists. Many are now reconsidering their plans and I have promised that Starfleet will provide all possible assistance and transport as required.
Meanwhile, while theEnterprise awaits further orders, I have received an unexpected request from my First Officer.
He closes the log and swipes sideways to reveal the bland form beneath. No. The words haven't changed. But Kirk's world has. And suddenly he's not sure where he is.
-oOo-
The door chime is unwelcome. It is not, however, unexpected.
Spock uncurls himself from the meditation mat which, for all the help it has offered over the past 73 minutes, would be more properly described by noun alone, and exhales. It is definitely an exhalation. It is not a sigh. If it were a sigh then the entire period that has elapsed since he entered his quarters and replaced his uniform with his robes has been, in retrospect, a pointless experiment in measured respiration.
He exhales again, this time with enough direction and focus to extinguish the flame.
His third exhalation - he has been counting breaths, to no apparent effect, for so long it is proving difficult to abandon the rhythm - is used to speak a single word.
"Enter."
The door slides open but the figure who stands silhouetted at the entrance does not immediately act on the invitation. Kirk stands uncertainly on the threshold, a man who is rarely uncertain in anything he does, and the sight of his Captain thus stranded is enough to risk unbalancing Spock's already fragile equilibrium. A fourth breath and then a fifth do little to slow the spike in his heart rate.
"Is this a good time, Spock? I don't want to disturb you." Kirk takes in the scent of incense and glances at the uniform discarded, unfolded, on the bed. "I can come back."
For the briefest of moments Spock considers replying in the affirmative. "In fact, Captain, this is not a good time. Might we postpone our discussion to a later date?" Preferably a date beyond the one which he recently entered in the log as theEnterprise'sestimated arrival time at Starbase 4.
Yet this conversation has been inevitable since the moment he pressed 'send' on the request. Since before that moment. Since he took a decision in a room now buried at the end of a Starfleet sealed tunnel on a planet some 675 light years distant.
"Please, Captain. Come in."
Kirk moves slowly towards the indicated chair but he does not sit. Neither does he look his First Officer in the eye.
"I'm sorry to call so late. I made a promise to Jake. To give him the full tour before he leaves. In the end I wasn't sure who was guiding whom. Did you know deck eight had four Jefferies tubes added during our last refit? He's managed to map the lot. No wonder he's always popping up where we least expect him."
Spock is a little lightheaded with relief at the chosen subject for conversation. Breathe out. Twelve. His heartbeat slows. "Indeed. I have already agreed to provide the young man with a reference when he applies to Starfleet. Which I suspect may be somewhat earlier than the academy expects."
Kirk smiles but it lacks the usual warmth. An awkward pause and, in the region of a Vulcan abdomen, a sinking sensation. Kirk is examining the asenoion the desk with more attention than the object deserves. He is tapping his thumb with his finger. A tiny movement, almost a tic.
"So... No new orders yet. I suspect Command don't quite know what to do with us."
Spock inclines his head. He concurs with Kirk's suspicion. There is little useful time remaining between the prescribed end of the Enterprise'sfive year mission and their likely departure from Starbase 4 following the necessary restocking, restaffing and debriefing. The order to return to Earth is all but inevitable. Which means it would be illogical to delay -
"So were you planning any sort of conversation with me before I forward this... 'request' to Starfleet?"
Kirk is apparently finished with the small talk. Spock is belatedly aware that the impression of tension around the shoulders of his commanding officer may speak less of a concern for intrusion into Vulcan personal space and more of an attempt to control conflicting emotions. Anger? Worry? He dare not risk lowering his already perilously weakened shields to find out. Breathe in. Then out. Eighteen, nineteen.
"I considered a conversation would be premature. If Starfleet were unable to grant my request then-"
Kirk turns then, eyes narrowed. "Oh please, Spock. You know they'll grant your request. On your record alone."
Yes, there's anger there although Kirk speaks quietly. And something else. Disappointment. Spock winces inwardly. "And when has Starfleet ever missed an opportunity to score points with Vulcan High Command? You know they'll rubberstamp your secondment. As soon as I send the form through you're as good as gone."
Kirk looks down at his fingers now grasping the back of a chair he seems unlikely to use. His voice lowers further. "Spock. What happened back there on the Demeter, what you saw..." He lifts his head, eyes dark. "You haven't talked about it but perhaps you should. If not to me, then to Bones. Or to M'Benga - he trained on Vulcan, he'll have experience of -"
"No." Spock swallows. "No, Captain. You are mistaken. The...events I witnessed on board the Demeter, they are not the motivation for my request."
"Then what...?" Kirk's gaze is searching. "Spock. You know I won't stand in your way if it's what you really want." Spock says nothing; momentarily he finds the vocabulary he needs is absent. All he can come up with are numbers. Twenty two. Twenty three. After a moment Kirk pushes the chair away and crosses to the viewing port, speaking into the void.
"It's just...I thought...Look, I know the mission is at an end. It's probably just as well. This crew needs to move on. God knows, the bridge crew are all overdue promotion. Most of them should have jumped ship months ago. And we're tired. We're all tired." For a terrible moment the shoulders sag. But with a tiny shake Kirk pulls himself upright and crosses back to the desk. "But you...you know as well as I do we're supposed to be the best command pairing in the fleet. I've no idea what Command has got planned for me but I had hoped...I do have some sway with Nogura." He thumps his fist lightly on desk, frustrated that his usual eloquence has deserted him. "Damn it, I mean-"
"I know what you mean, Captain." Spock takes a step forward. Then regrets it. There is already too much emotional weight loading the air which separates them. He turns away, standing shoulder to shoulder with his Captain, and addresses the empty air.
"Until recently I also had hopes that we might continue to serve together. That we might find a way. However-"
"Until recently? So what's changed? I know this past mission has been difficult for you. For all of us. But we've been through tough missions before. Worse even..." Kirk trails away and both of them stare into the shadows of memories they prefer not to revisit.
This conversation is becoming unbearable. Kirk seems to sense it too. "Perhaps it's time I did something about that unblemished record." Said with an attempt at lightness that falls entirely flat. "See whether that throws a spanner in the works."
"Sir?"
"I could bring you up on charges. For disobeying a direct order."
Spock thinks back rapidly over recent days. He has a suspicion that, with the unerring instinctive reasoning in which his Captain specialises, they have arrived at the heart of the matter they need to discuss. He resists the temptation to look wistfully up at the light over the door that becomes active in the event of a red alert.
"If you are referring to the events which took place in the underground control room of Deneb III," he says carefully. "Then I do not recall an order being given...Or disobeyed."
Kirk frowns. "Semantics, Spock. You lied to Rawlson. You were well aware of my view of your actions. Yet you walked to onto that transporter pad in full knowledge that you were putting your life on the line. Where was your logic, science officer? We knew I could survive the division. I'd done it before after all." A beat. Only Spock knows the enormity of the experience buried beneath this bald statement of fact. Kirk hurries on. "But you...with your physiognomy... It could have killed you, Spock." For an alarming moment Spock thinks his Captain is about to touch him. But Kirk lifts his hand to his temple, covering his eyes with splayed fingers. "For a while there, I thought it had."
It is time. To avoid the conversation that must be conducted when provided with such an opening would be an act of cowardice.
"Captain..." Lost in his own thoughts, Kirk does not appear to hear him. It is imperative that he listens. "Jim..." Startled, the hand drops. Spock steels himself to meet the hazel gaze. "The decision I made on Deneb III is connected to my request, and I must apologise for causing you concern. Although I cannot in all conscience claim that had you been able to verbalise the order to desist I would have acted differently."
Unbidden, the image of Kirk, paralysed and furious, feet scrabbling across the floor arises and Spock brushes it aside. "It is true I was unwilling to allow you to undergo the duplication process a second time. Neither of us can be sure your cells would have survived such trauma again."
"That was not your decision to make, First Officer." Kirk's eyes flash, all attempt at lightness abandoned. "As captain of this ship I decide when to put lives on the line. God knows I've had to make enough of those decisions over the past five years and sometimes there is no alternative. But it's my choice. You are second in command. If you want to set your own orders, you can get your own damn ship."
The room falls silent while both examine the words that lie before them. At last Kirk sits down heavily. When he speaks again, his voice is low.
"Is that what you want, Spock? Is that why you want to leave? To command a Vulcan ship?"
"As you are well aware, I have no wish to command."
Kirk's frustration bleeds though. "So why...?" He spreads his hands on the desk in front of him as if trying to measure his thoughts by handspan. "Why return to Vulcan? I know the VSA would kill to have you but you'll be stuck in a lab. Out there -" he waves his hand at the viewing port, at the streaking stars, "That's where the real science is. Look at what you've already achieved. At least a dozen of your papers are required reading at the Academy. At both academies. You've got nothing to prove on Vulcan."
"If my request is granted, I do not intend to join the Vulcan science academy." Spock takes a deep breath. How many is that? He has lost count. "I have made an application to the Masters of Gol to spend a period of time-"
"Gol!" Kirk exclaims, and he's on his feet once more. Spock ploughs on doggedly
"- to spend a period of time under instruction at that facility to enable me to examine some matters of personal importance. I would ask you, Captain, to respect my decision. I do not take it lightly."
Kirk's fists are clenched. Unfortunately he knows too much about the acolytes of Gol. The concept of stripping all emotion, of arriving at a state of pure logic, of Kolinahr, has been the subject of much discussion in the abstract. Now, watching his Captain pace, Spock curses those late night conversations.
"But Gol. Of all places..." He hesitates, then frowns. "Hold on, how does this relate to what we're discussing? To the transporter room on Deneb III?"
Spock closes his eyes. Then opens them again.
"I have had cause to re-consider the events to which you refer in recent days. In fact, what transpired has occupied much of my thinking. My motive for acting as I did was not entirely clear to me at the time."
For a moment he has a sense of standing on the edge of a precipice. He is dizzy. But there is no way back. Only the jump. "And, on reflection, I must conclude that my decision to risk division on the transporter platform was not...entirely...altruistic."
"Not entirely..." Kirk stops, the full implication of what he's just heard sinking in. "You wantedthat. To divide, to become-?"
"Not consciously no." Spock swallows hard. The room appears to have become smaller in the last few seconds. "As I say I was not fully cognisant of my subconscious imperative at the time. However, I have since realised that under circumstances where both our lives were forfeit, the concept that I might, in dying, bear witness to a separation of the two halves - of my two halves - had a certain...appeal."
Kirk stares at him in horror. Remembering a conversation in sickbay in orbit above Alpha 177,
Being split in two halves is no theory with me, Doctor. I have a human half, you see, as well as an alien half, submerged, constantly at war with each other.
Constantly at war.
That was the first time he'd heard Spock refer to his inner human - in fact almost the first time his proudly Vulcan science officer had made any mention of his hybrid heritage.
He'd had more clues on the way to the conference on Babel, that conversation with Amanda. But over the years Kirk has watched an evolution. The aloof officer whose conversation rarely strayed from reports and regulations, who used data to both distance and distract, whose reaction to McCoy's jibes was either blank incomprehension or hostility - that being is a distant memory. Now the science station is manned by someone whose empathy informs a razor sharp intellect, who has proved he can extrapolate emotion alongside graphs and sine waves, who gives as good as he gets on the teasing front. He'd lulled himself into a false sense of security that Spock too had grown to embrace both sides of himself - the very best of two worlds. He'd kidded himself, even patted himself on the back, that he'd been part of that process. When all the time...Suddenly he's flooded with compassion.
Oh Spock.
He can't help himself. For a fatal moment he reaches out a hand to grasp his friend's shoulder, to try to convey some of what he's feeling, to offer support. It is a mistake. Spock moves away as if the outstretched fingers are not flesh but flame.
"As a result of my experience I have concluded that I cannot continue in my present condition. For too long I have been attempting to become something I am not. To turn my back on my heritage. I have been following a false path, an easier path perhaps, but one which leads away from the self-knowledge I seek. If my subconscious mind could conclude that physical division would be a positive step then it is clear I have barely begun that journey."
"Spock, I had no idea... But please...your answers cannot possibly lie with those closed minded fanatics on Gol. They won't even understand the question. They'll steam-roller their logic all over the last five years and dismiss everything you've achieved. Everything you are."
But Spock has visibly retreated in the face of Kirk's reaction. His voice hardens and he draws himself up, face closed.
"You cannot possibly understand the methods of the Masters on Mount Seleya. It is not possible for a human to comprehend the higher planes of logic, the calibre of the minds dedicated to the eradication of emotional weakness -" He stops, seemingly aware that this description is doing nothing to mitigate Kirk's hostility. His tone softens. "Once again, Captain, I must ask you as my commanding officer to respect that this is my decision to make." He turns to face Kirk, and for a moment his eyes lose their shuttered look. Is that a plea? An apology? "And I must ask you, as my friend, to support my request."
And it is at that moment Kirk knows he has lost. And that nothing will ever be quite the same again.
-oOo-
In the subsequent days the following events occur:
Certain conversations are overheard while a bottle of single malt is being consumed in the rec room of Starbase 4. As a result a report reaches Starfleet command that the Enterprise'stransporters have been reconfigured in a fashion which not only breaks every safety protocol but should be impossible. In the light of the looming five year deadline the flagship is designated inactive and ordered home for refit.
A conversation between James Kirk and Heihachiro Nogura in which various options are proposed and discussed including a planet side promotion the Admiral is perfectly sure will be rejected. To his surprise, and delight, he is wrong.
The departure of a shuttlecraft from Starbase Four to dock with a freighter bound for Vulcan. It returns minus one passenger.
A small explosion in sickbay when these facts reach the ears of the ship's chief medical officer.
-oOo-
Medical rank has its privileges. Leonard McCoy can access the Captain's quarters at any time. In five years he's used his over-ride exactly twice. On the first occasion the cabin's occupant was found to be unconscious. On the second, he'd been kidnapped. McCoy has evidence that neither of these circumstances are of concern right now. That's partly because the Enterprise is currently safely docked several dozen light years from space borne viruses or hostile aliens. But mostly it's because of the shouting.
"Go away, Bones."
The only reason he's hesitating to use his over-ride a third time is the paperwork likely to be involved if Kirk chooses to be ornery. He's sounding very ornery right now. Particularly when his door chime is leaned on emphatically for the fourth time.
"It's late! I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yeah? That's what you said yesterday."
Fifth time's a charm.
The door slides open and now the voice from inside is weary.
"Give it a rest, Doctor." McCoy has a brief pang of guilt. It's obvious the man leaning there in stockinged feet, hair askew, is the one who should be resting. But, judging by the pile of stacked data discs behind him on the desk, that's not part of the plan.
"You gonna ask me in or do I have to drink this in the corridor?" He waves the green bottle he's been saving for emergencies. He reckons this qualifies.
Kirk glowers. Then turns and walks back to the desk. Taking this as an invitation McCoy follows him in and looks round for glasses.
"Want one?"
Kirk picks up a disc. "What I want doesn't seem to hold much weight round here."
"Well, I do. Just had some bad news and need to wash away the taste. Ah..." This last is aimed at the tumblers which have been moved from their usual cubby hole to a box on the floor. Underneath, piled up in a way that suggests Kirk is currently lacking a yeoman, are stacks of books and the metal case McCoy knows holds the Captain's medals. "You packing up already?"
Kirk doesn't reply. He's holding the disc up to the light as if he can decipher its contents without recourse to hardware. It's discarded in favour of another colour.
McCoy pours two fingers of violent green viscosity into two tumblers and slides one across between the piles on the desk.
"I said I had some bad news."
Kirk is scrolling down the screen. "I heard you." The reflected light does nothing to illuminate his eyes.
"She's done it. Put in the official request last night."
A flicker. Then a frown at the screen. "I haven't seen anything in my comms queue."
"That's 'cos I haven't approved it yet." McCoy takes a long swallow. "She won't talk to me. Like a lot of folks round here."
Kirk ignores the jibe, still scrolling. "You know Chapel can't stay a nurse forever. If she's asking for a transfer it's because-"
"It's not a transfer request. It's a resignation."
"Ah." The scrolling stops.
"Wait a minute. You knew about this," said accusingly. Kirk purses his lips. "You knew about this. And you said nothing."
"I may have had a conversation." Kirk picks up the glass in front of him. He eyes its contents with suspicion. "Didn't think she'd go through with it."
"Did you even try to-?"
"-yes, I tried." He slams the glass down. "Dammit, Bones. Of course, I tried. But she's had enough. This last mission...it really got to her. And it's over anyway. We're heading home in a few days. She knows that. I'd hoped she'd stay in the service. But she's talking about going back to medical school."
"Can't see the point of that," McCoy grumbles. "She's had more field experience than any of them damn planetside medics. I taught her everything she knows, everything she needs to know -"
"And as long as she stays in your sickbay, she'll always be your nurse. Maybe she wants more. Maybe she wants her own title, her own sickbay. People make their own decisions, Bones. And there's not much you or I can do about it."
McCoy stares pointedly into the pause that follows. Kirk refuses to meet his gaze. But he does pick up the glass again. "Don't go there, Bones. I know why you're here. Why you're really here. And I'm not in the mood."
"So he's really gone then? Taken his toys home to Vulcan. Did you two have a fight or something?"
"Something," agrees Kirk, and lifts the glass to his lips.
McCoy watches with interest as he takes a sip and the flush spreads. When Kirk can speak, his voice is husky.
"Where did you...?" He coughs." No. Forget that. I don't want to know."
"Just as well, cos I ain't telling. But if we're heading back I need to get rid. It needs careful handling. Can't risk some officious fleet type crawling over my luggage and finding it. Could be dangerous."
"For you or for the ship?"
"Both, Jimbo. Both." A twinkle and this seems like a good moment but he barely gets as far as, "So-o-" before Kirk holds up a hand.
"Look, Bones, I'm serious. I know how much you love to drag my psyche out into the light and give it a good pummelling, but I'm fine. He's gone. The mission's over. And to be honest I'm ready to head home." He takes another swallow and holds his glass up to the light. "You know just for once I'd like to be able to knock back your illegal hooch and not have to worry about the universal law that dictates red alerts and hangovers always coincide."
McCoy looks at him thoughtfully, and takes gulp of his own drink. "To be honest eh? And when were you going to tell me about this conversation with Nogura? Little bird tells me you're talking about a job at headquarters. Giving up field command."
Kirk's jaw sets into a grim line.
"Doctor, I'm warning you-"
And now it's McCoy's turn to slam down his glass. "Goddamn it, Jim. You're not thinking straight. Running away to sit behind a desk isn't the answer. Go after him. Change his mind. He's a stubborn son of a bitch but he'll come round-"
"This has nothing to do with-"
"Yeah, yeah. And my aunt Annie's a prize poodle. Save it for your Fleet chums back at base. I know you, Jim. I know him. And I know you two belong together on the bridge of starship. Going off in a huff - that ain't like you, that ain't-"
Kirk stands with a crash. "That's enough, Doctor." Both hands on the desk, he draws himself up and suddenly it doesn't matter about the stockinged feet or the mussed up hair, he's every inch a starship captain. "That's enough. I've made my decision. Spock's made his. Neither of us has to run it by you first."
McCoy stands too. "Ok, ok. I came here tonight as your friend. But you're not the only one who can pull rank. Neither of you is in a fit state to make life-changing choices right now. And, if I have to, I'll make sure the powers that be know that."
Kirk looks dangerous. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying you both nearly died back there on Deneb III. You put your lives on the line for this ship, for those colonists and for each other." Kirk draws breath but McCoy stops him with a finger. "And don't try telling me that's par for the course. This was personal. Rawlson and that photo. That blasted ore from Alpha 177. I know what that cost you, Jim. I was there, remember?"
The two men glower at each other. Kirk gives way first. He sinks into his chair, his face as grey as McCoy's ever seen it. "I'm just tired, Bones. That's all. I'm not the youngest captain in the fleet any more. It's time to give someone else a chance in the centre chair." He looks round at the cabin, at the empty shelves. "Five years is a long time away from home."
"I'm not saying you don't need rest, Jim. Last time I checked Starfleet owed you about six months shore leave. So take it. But don't give up your command." He reaches for bottle; pours two more generous measures. "I don't work for headquarters. I'm a doctor not a... Oh yes, that's right. I'm a doctor." He sits, leans forward on both elbows. "And I'm telling you as your doctor - walk away from the job you're born to do and you'll regret it. Walk away from Spock and you might as well leap into one of Rawlson's contaminated transporters right now. That pointy eared hobgoblin is part of who you are." He stops, pulse thumping in his throat... Damned fool, McCoy. This time you've gone too far.
But Kirk seems thoughtful. He traces a finger round the rim of the glass. "So that's what you think? That we don't work apart?"
"Well, that's not what I meant, and not what I said...exactly," McCoy blusters. "Of course you do. It's just that together-"
"Together we're some sort of magic formula. I don't blame you for saying that. I've caught myself thinking..." He looks up from his drink, eyes dark. "But don't you see, Bones? That's why I've got to let him go. That's why I've got to try something new; to forge a different future for myself. To prove I can, before it's too late." He pushes his chair back from the desk. "Spock didn't put me on the bridge of a starship. In fact, as I recall he wasn't too happy about the idea. What was it he said? 'Evidence of immaturity. Lacks command experience.' "McCoy looks up, startled. "Oh yes, I saw those messages to Starfleet. Gary hacked in and showed me before I came aboard. He thought it was hilarious."
"That was long time ago, Jim. Before he even met you. What matters is what happened next. The two of you-"
Kirk's voice is firm. "What matters is I made my own path then. And I can do it again. I can't rely on Spock or anyone else." McCoy drops his head; stares down at his fingers cradling reflected green light. "Oh, don't look so mournful, Bones. You're my friend. You'll always be my friend. But don't pretend you haven't been putting out feelers beyond Starfleet. What about that little practice in the country you're always talking about? Chapel tells me you may have found somewhere."
McCoy flushes. "It's just an idea. Nothing's sorted."
"Well, I say go for it. Forget Chapel, forget me, forget Spock. Put yourself first for a change, Bones. No-one else will." He stands, glass in hand. "The universe is an unforgiving place. I didn't need Deneb III to teach me that. We live alone, we die alone." He raises his drink and smiles. "But hey, there's no law says we can't make a difference along the way." He drains the glass. "Now, if you'll forgive me, Doctor, for once I'm going to take your advice and head for bed."
It's only when he stands in the corridor, bottle half empty, hand and shoulder still warm from a firm grip, that McCoy realises he's been thoroughly Kirked. He's been given an eminently sensible line of reasoning and now has no evidence to populate his threatened psyche report. Far from seeming on the brink of breakdown, the last few minutes suggest his Captain has done what he always does; bounced back from a trauma that would have shredded a lesser man.
Yet as he turns to walk away from those closed doors, still blinking from the memory of the full-on dazzle that, for those seconds, had him convinced he was sharing a drink with the Kirk of old, he can't, quite, shake the feeling that he's been had.
FIN
