Arc #1: Absolute Zero

Chapter Two

Inside the morgue, everything was absolutely silent. The darkness surrounding Jim grew as the guard flicked off the lights and closed the door, leaving Jim alone in the suffocating, choking void. The silence was so loud and complete in the bag that it hurt Jim's ears. Without even his own heartbeat for reference, Jim had no idea how many seconds had passed since his last real breath. His chest ached. His mouth was bone-dry. He was beginning to see stars.

He didn't know how long he waited—it could only have been a minute or less, but it felt like an eon—before the sound of approaching footsteps broke the deathly cloak of stillness that had fallen over him.

"Open this bag," a voice ordered, so close that, had he not been completely immobile, Jim would have startled. Jim didn't recognize the speaker; it must be a new guard, or a mortician.

Did aliens even have morticians?

Jim didn't recognize the first voice, but the voice that answered it was deeply familiar. "What does it contain?"

Spock! Jim would have known that veiled disdain anywhere. Especially since it was usually aimed at him. Spock! Jim called out again in his mind. He was beginning to get desperate. Red lights flashed through the black obscuring his vision: blood spots on ebony silk. If he didn't get fresh air soon—as in the next couple seconds, soon—he was going to pass out.

He wasn't exactly sure what would happen if he did. Bones hadn't exactly had the chance to tell him what drug had been in that damned hypo.

The Impersonator scoffed. "Why don't you find out?"

The relief that Jim felt when he heard the sound of a zipper sliding down was overwhelming. And when Spock's face came into his blurry line of sight, the young captain felt a burst of giddy elation as bright and warm as the light of a supernova bursting across a cloudless night sky.

Until Spock froze, zipper pinched between thumb and forefinger, and stared down in what could only be described as abject horror at the man beneath him. "Captain," the half-Vulcan breathed. As air rushed into the bag and Jim's vision began to return, he saw, painfully clear, the raw grief shining in his First Officer's dark eyes.

I'm fine! Jim wanted to tell him. I'm drugged, not dead. Don't get all Vulcan-emotional on me here!

But it was no use. Spock couldn't hear him. All the mental shouting in the world wouldn't do jack shit to change the fact that Spock thought his captain was dead.

Again.

Jim groaned inwardly as a second face came into view. The alien—one of the Impersonators, definitely, but not one Jim had seen before—pushed past Spock, who stood aside with an expression of cold detachment on his face. The alien male leaned over Jim, frowning.

"Looks like blunt trauma," the Impersonator said. He—or was it an it? either way—finished unzipping the bag, and peered down at Jim with steely gray eyes. "There's no blood anywhere but on his lips," the alien said. It stepped back, jerking its head at Spock and gesturing to Jim. "You're a scientist, aren't you? That's why you were sent here rather than to the holding room?"

Spock gave the slightest, most imperceptible nod.

"Good," the alien replied. "I want you to take apart this body. Carefully. Put the most important pieces in cold storage right away. Put the rest in preservation jars, and leave them where I can find them. If you do not comply, another member of your crew dies. Do you understand?"

Spock didn't grace the command with a reply; instead, he only gave another, miniscule dip of his head.

The alien turned on its heel, and marched to the door. Jim, still frozen on the metal table, heard the door creak shut behind it. A solid CLUNK-click alerted him to the fact that they were now locked in.

It took Spock a good solid minute of silent, motionless staring before he approached Jim again. And even then he refused to touch his captain, hands clenched into fists at his sides. It was the only indicator of emotion that Jim could find in his First Officer's otherwise rigid, unreadable demeanor.

C'mon, Spock! Jim fought desperately to do something, anything, to get Spock's attention. If he could just move one finger, or blink… it should be so damn easy, but fuck it all, right now he'd have a better chance of getting a date with the Klingon Chancellor than voluntarily moving any part of his body.

"Captain?" Spock said again, this time turning the word into a question. "Jim?"

Fuck! Fuck me, fuck this fucking bullshit! Jim sent up a flurry of curses inside his head. Spock, c'mon, I'm fine; this is fucking crazy, c'mon…!

Of course, this was the moment that Spock chose to reach out and touch him. The half-Vulcan recoiled at the veritable torrent of chaotic thought and feeling racing through Jim's body, shock widening his eyes and tensing his muscles. "Captain…?" Spock began, tentatively, but with an undercurrent of hope seeping through his tone. His hands came up, hovering hesitantly over Jim's body like birds circling a murky pond.

Jim wanted to laugh with relief. He also wanted to scream, and cuss, and maybe even hit something, but hey, what else was new? But, although he could feel his heartbeat beginning to return to normal, and breathing was fast becoming easier, he still couldn't move a goddamn muscle on his own.

Until suddenly, he could.

His whole body jerked awkwardly as he tried (for what felt like the ten thousandth time in a minute) to sit up, and finally succeeded. Kind of. Instead of obeying his brain's command, his muscles spasmed once, then went limp once more. His head fell back against the metal table with a loud thunk.

"Captain!" Spock exclaimed, and yeah, that was definitely relief. No way Spock could take it back now, Jim thought, elated. He was never going to let him live it down. Emotionless, my ass.

Jim tried to reply, but his mouth still wouldn't work. His lips parted, but his tongue was thick and heavy in his mouth, and words wouldn't come. Although he could move again, little things like clenching his hands and taking deep breaths, he still wasn't mobile enough to form intelligible sounds.

Spock's hands were on Jim's body now, fingers pressing down hard against the captain's chest. "Captain," Spock said, the barest hint of shock in his otherwise steady voice, "you seem to be experiencing severe heart palpitations. Your pulse does not currently fall within the acceptable range for a human male of your age and build."

Jim managed a slight nod. "Bones," he slurred out. His lips were still numb, his tongue refusing to respond. "Drugged me."

Spock lifted one eyebrow. "I fail to see why Doctor McCoy would do such a thing," he said. "Especially given the damage you have sustained to your chest and abdomen."

"Scrapes and bruises," Jim said, and thank god, he was getting his voice back now. "Nothing bad."

"I was under the impression that all injuries were undesireable, regardless of their severity."

Jim sat up, and immediately collapsed. He huffed out a breath of annoyance. "Bones drugged me," he explained, "because I was supposed to play dead and get away. Cause a diversion; buy him time to get the rest of the prisoners out. Something like that. I dunno, we had to wing it."

Spock's eyebrow was almost to his hairline. "I see."

"Ah, c'mon, Spock, don't give me that look," Jim complained. "How was I supposed to know they'd want to study me?"

"You are a fascinating specimen, Captain," Spock said, and seriously, did those words really just come out of his First Officer's mouth?

Jim opened his mouth to reply, mulling over just how the hell he was supposed to respond to such a statement, when the lock on the door fell away with a dull clanging of metal on metal. Slowly, the door began to slide open. Jim went limp on the table, looking up at Spock with wide blue eyes, and hissed, "Quick, study me!"

Spock nodded very slightly, and reached for the nearest tray of medical implements.

The door opened with a loud, long groan. An Impersonator—a new one, maybe another guard, judging by the uniform he wore—entered, steely eyes immediately sweeping the scene. "The body," he said, jerking his head at Jim. "Is that the captain of your ship?"

Spock inclined his head: agreement.

"Come with me," the guard said shortly. "You admitted to being second in command earlier, which means you're captain now. The Empress wished to meet with your captain, but as he is dead, you will take his place."

Shit, thought Jim, and couldn't help but tense on the table. If Spock left, then Jim was stuck here in the morgue, half-drugged and unable to defend himself. This has got to be up there in the top-ten-worst-thought-out plans of all time, he thought. And that's saying a lot.

Spock nodded again. Jim barely caught the sideways glance that his First Officer gave him as the guard reopened the door, and led the way out into the hall. Jim felt a surge of longing to follow, but was entirely sure that his legs wouldn't hold him for more than a second if he tried.

As it turned out, he didn't need to. Within seconds of leaving the morgue, Spock returned, hands clasped behind his back and an expression of serenity on his face. "The guard has been dealt with, Captain," he informed Jim. "The indigenous species of this planet seem to have a pressure point at the base of their neck similar to the one found in humans."

Jim cocked an eyebrow. "That's because they're in human form," he said, but couldn't help the grin forming on his lips. Leave it to Spock to effortless, cleanly take out their captors while Jim lay incapacitated by his own ill-conceived plan. Fucking typical.

Spock gave Jim a look that definitely was not disdainful. "I am aware," he said calmly. "However, I was uncertain if their human appearances meant that they are susceptible to the same methods of immobilization usually effective on humans."

"Right," Jim said. He thought for a long moment. "You think kicking them between the legs would work?"

"You are most welcome to try that method, Captain," Spock said. "Perhaps if we encounter another guard, and assuming that you have recovered enough strength to stand. "

Rude, thought Jim, and swung his legs over the edge of the metal table. "I can stand," he challenged. "Watch. I'll stand up right now."

The actual act of 'standing up' lasted about two seconds, but hey, in his defense, the floor was slippery and the room was spinning like a motherfucker. (Okay, so maybe that last one didn't count as an opposing exterior force. But still. It was a lot harder than it looked.)

Spock caught him as he fell; Jim reached up and seized two fists-fulls of science blues. He clung to his First Officer, swaying, spots of black and red splashing across his vision like raindrops on glass as he blinked dazedly. "Sorry," Jim mumbled against Spock's shirt. He stumbled backward, reaching out to brace himself on the medical table as his legs wobbled and threatened to give out again. He frowned, shaking his head to clear the relentless buzzing in his ears.

"It seems," began Spock, smoothing the wrinkles from the front of his shirt, "that you are incapable of leaving this room without aid."

"I could roll this damn table all the way to the throne room," Jim shot back, slightly ruffled by the unintentional insult. (Or was it unintentional? He could never tell with Spock.) Sighing, he sagged against the table in question, breathing far too heavily as his body struggled to return to its normal level of function. "Look out, fuckers," he said, with a healthy dose of false-bravado. "Here comes the great James T. Kirk: professional ass-kicker, and table-surfer extraordinaire."

Spock had the good grace to ignore him. "I am of the opinion that we should leave this room without delay," the half-Vulcan said. "The Empress of this race has summoned me, and will grow suspicious if I do not arrive in her presence soon. As for you, Captain, perhaps I should carry you to a safer location."

"Carry…? Wait, hold on," Jim said, throwing up his hands. He stumbled and almost fell again without the table to support him. "Spock. That's crazy!"

Spock raised an eyebrow, and lifted his chin ever so slightly. "Captain, I assure you that my mental state is quite sound. And my solution to our current predicament is logical: Vulcans are three times stronger than humans, and it would not be difficult for me..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Jim cut him off. "But aren't Vulcans sensitive about personal space?"

Spock dipped his head slightly in agreement. "Yes. Given the situation, however, I find that any discomfort I may feel at being in such close proximity to you for an extended period of time is offset by the benefits of removing you from the path of potential harm."

Jim tried very hard not to be offended by the first half of that sentence, and even harder not to give away how touched he was by the second half. "Well, if it's the most logical solution." He grinned devilishly at Spock. "Pick me up, Mr. Spock."

Jim found that being carried by a Vulcan was oddly comfortable. With one of Spock's arms under his legs and the other against his back, he lay with his side pressed flush against his First Officer's chest, one arm draped haphazardly over Spock's shoulder. Spock was warm, he realized—he knew objectively that Vulcan body temperatures were generally higher than humans', but there was something satisfying about experiencing the proof of that fact firsthand. Especially since it was really, really, incredibly, obscenely cozy. Not that Jim would ever admit that out loud (if only because Spock would probably set him down if he did.)

"Captain," Spock said, as they were approaching the throne room. So far they had been lucky and not encountered any guards, but as their path took them ever closer to the center of the alien complex, their close calls grew more numerous by the minute. "I believe it would be safer, and far more practical, for me to leave you somewhere out of sight until I have finished my meeting with the Empress."

"You want to dump me in a closet and go meet the queen?" Jim said, trying and failing to sound like he wasn't whining.

"I did not specify the type of room I wished to utilize," Spock corrected him. "And I am to meet with an empress, not a queen."

Jim had the sneaking suspicion that Spock was just avoiding the question, and was only nitpicking to distract him. "Yeah, okay, it does make more sense to split up," he agreed. "Can't have a dead guy walking into the throne room, after all." He paused, shifting around so that he could get a better grip on the back of Spock's shirt. For a second, his bare wrist brushed against the back of Spock's neck; he felt the half-Vulcan tense and stiffen beside him. "Sorry," he said, quickly breaking the contact. "Touch-telepathy. Almost forgot."

"If we do 'split up', as you suggest," Spock said, and there was the faintest strain in his voice now, "what do you intend to do while I am meeting with the Empress?"

Jim shrugged. "Find the phasers," he said, "and the tricorders. Once we get out of this complex, I have the feeling we're gonna want to be able to check for life signatures."

Spock's mouth turned downward almost imperceptibly. "Do you expect to encounter hostile lifeforms on the planet's surface apart from Morrowi, Captain?"

"The Morrowi?"

"The species that captured us," Spock explained. "'Morrowi' is the closest English approximation to the term that, in their native language, they would use to refer to their own kind."

"Right," Jim said. "Yeah, I expect to run into all kinds of nasty shit up there. I mean, why would a whole species chose to live underground if it's safe on the surface? Easy: they wouldn't."

"A commendable observation," Spock said. "If you believe that you are truly capable of moving independently, then I must agree that your plan to recover our weapons is most logical."

Jim snorted. "Set me down and I'll show you independence," he said, grinning.

The grin turned to a grimace as Spock set him, none to gently, against the wall of the corridor leading to the Queen's Hall. His legs shook under him, but he managed to stay upright.

"Okay, here's the plan," Jim said, gritting his teeth as he pushed off the wall and stood on his own. His head was still spinning, and the churning nausea had returned full-force, but at least his balance was working again. "I'll come find you as soon as I have the weapons. We'll take down as many as we can, give Bones the distraction he needs to get the others out. Were any other members of the crew…?"

"Dead," Spock replied. He folded his hands behind his back, standing with perfectly upright posture. "The aliens do not yet know that I am aware of this fact, but I saw their bodies leave the morgue directly prior to yours being brought in. They wished to keep the information from me in order to use threats to my crewmates' well-being against me."

"Sick bastards," Jim said. "So it's just us and Bones, then." He sighed, suddenly exhausted. The sharp sting of grief at hearing that this mission had cost three of his crewmates their lives was only infinitesimally lightened by the realization that he now only needed to factor in two people to his escape plans, rather than five.

Spock dipped his head slightly. "Yes. Unless I was unaware of the addition of an eight member of the landing party, Doctor McCoy is the only surviving member of the Enterprise crew on this planet apart from you and I. Assuming that Lieutenant Uhura and Mr. Scott managed to beam back aboard the ship before the asteroid shower began."

Jim reached up and rubbed one hand across his face. "Let's damn well hope that's the case," he said. "Alright, then. Have a good meeting, Commander. Break a leg. I'll come find you whenever I can."

Spock's eyebrows contracted slightly at the strange idiom, but he did not comment on it. "Very well, Captain," he said.

The Vulcan turned and continued down the hall toward the throne room. Jim watched his First Officer's retreating form for a long moment, a slight frown on his face. Oh yeah. And one other thing, Spock: don't you dare die, he thought, suddenly overcome by a moment of fear that was not entirely unselfish. The unspoken words hung over him, sharp and precarious as a sword hung by a single thread.

As he made his way down the hall in the direction that some of the more heavily armed guards had come from, Jim switched his brainpower over to intense contemplation of the problem at hand: getting back to the planet's surface. Preferably without anyone dying. It's pretty straightforward, right? he thought, and even in his own head the words were tackily optimistic. Just grab our phasers and kick ass. Simple. No problem. We've faced way worse odds and come out on top. This'll be a piece of cake. Right?

No, not right.

As it always did, fate had other plans.