Chapter 27: Search for Spock Part 1
April 3, 2285
U.S.S. Enterprise, NCC-1701
On the bridge of the Enterprise, Buffy sat in a chair she had never occupied until this moment. The chair felt foreign beneath her, a silent reminder of a role she was never meant to play. The familiar hum of the ship surrounded her, but it was different now, quieter, almost eerie. The main viewscreen in front of her showed Spacedock, looming larger with every passing second, its massive structure a promise of safety and rest. The ship was nearly home, but home felt different too, like something was missing.
Buffy turned away from the console, her fingers brushing against the controls she had barely touched. She focused on the viewscreen again, trying to lose herself in the image of Spacedock. For a fleeting moment, she could almost forget that the Enterprise was running on automatic, its once-bustling bridge now a hollow shell with fewer than a skeleton crew. The quiet seemed louder than ever.
She could almost forget the ship's battered exterior—its hull scarred and patched from battles survived. The gleaming lines of the Enterprise were marred by the evidence of the trials it had faced, each mark a story of survival. Yet despite the damage, it still looked proud, resilient, just as it always had been.
But what she couldn't forget, no matter how hard she tried, was that the person who should be sitting in the chair beneath her was gone. The absence was as palpable as the chair itself, an emptiness that echoed in the quiet of the bridge. She could almost feel their presence, a shadow of what had been.
"Stand by, automatic approach system," Kirk's voice cut through the silence, firm and steady as ever, though she wondered if he, too, felt the weight of absence pressing down on them all. "Advise approach control."
"Approach control, this is USS Enterprise," Uhura said with her usual calm professionalism, her voice a thread of normalcy in the strange stillness. "Ready for docking maneuver."
The controller's voice came through, crisp and efficient, as if this were just another day. "Enterprise is cleared to dock."
"Lock on," Kirk commanded, and Sulu, without missing a beat, transferred control to Spacedock.
"Systems locked," Sulu confirmed, his voice smooth and unruffled.
"Spacedock," Kirk said, his tone carrying the familiar authority that always anchored those around him, "you have control."
"Affirmative, Enterprise," came the reply, friendly but distant. "Enjoy the ride, and welcome home."
"Enterprise confirms. With thanks," Kirk responded, but even his words seemed heavier than usual. They were home, but it didn't feel quite like home anymore.
The ship approached Spacedock in a graceful arc, the Enterprise carving a wide, majestic curve as it spiraled around the vast flank of the station. It was a slow, deliberate dance of machinery and precision, a delicate maneuver that spoke of the ship's storied history and the skill of its crew. As the Enterprise neared threshold number fifteen, the heart of the docking bay loomed before them. The bay was an engineering marvel—its great enclosed walls provided sanctuary from the unforgiving vacuum of space, a shield that protected those working outside the ships from the dangerous free radiation that lurked just beyond.
The Enterprise sailed ever closer to Spacedock, its silhouette a familiar beacon among the stars. The massive radiation-shield doors at the bay's entrance seemed impossibly closed, as if daring the starship to challenge them. The tension on the bridge was palpable, each crew member watching intently as the ship moved forward, straight towards those sealed doors.
At the very last moment, when it seemed as though the Enterprise might collide with the barrier, the colossal doors parted with a fluid, silent motion, granting passage to the legendary starship. The Enterprise glided inside, its movement slow, deliberate, as though it, too, recognized the reverence of the moment. Inside the cavernous docking bay, the ship drifted past an assembly of vessels in various states—some under construction, their skeletal forms slowly coming to life, others undergoing extensive repairs, their hulls marked by the battles they had endured. There were ships in storage, waiting for their time to be called upon again, and decommissioned vessels, ghosts of the fleet, standing still as they awaited dismantling, their journeys long since over.
The enormous bay stretched into a vast sea of shadows, its length seemingly endless, lost in the darkness. Only a single pool of light cut through the gloom, illuminating a small but significant corner of the bay. As the Enterprise coasted abreast of the light, it revealed the USS Excelsior, NX-2000, gleaming proudly in the spotlight. The ship floated among its attendants, engineers and technicians scurrying around it like acolytes preparing their sacred vessel for a grand voyage. The Excelsior was a vision of beauty, its sleek, polished hull untouched by the wear of space travel. It gleamed like a new star, its surface unmarred by the scars of radiation, micrometeorites, or the brutal touch of battle.
"Would you look at that?" Uhura said softly, her voice filled with awe as she took in the sight of the Excelsior.
Kirk leaned forward in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he observed the new ship with a mixture of curiosity and reflection. "My friends," he said, his voice carrying a weight of both admiration and caution, "the great experiment Excelsior, ready for trial runs."
Kirk's gaze flicked to Sulu, noting the quiet restraint in his posture. He knew what this moment meant for his officer. The Excelsior was Sulu's next assignment—his first command—and Kirk could see the unspoken pride in his eyes.
"It has transwarp drive," Sulu said, his tone matter-of-fact, though there was an unmistakable glint of anticipation in his words.
"Aye," Scott interjected with a dry smile, "and if my grandmother had wheels, she'd be a wagon."
Kirk turned toward Scott with a mild expression of reproof, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice. "Mr. Scott," he said, gently reining in the Scotsman's wit.
"I'm sorry, sir, but as far as I'm concerned, there's nothin' needed for space travel that this old girl doesn't already have," Scott said, his voice carrying the deep affection he held for the Enterprise, as though the ship were an old friend he had shared countless battles with.
Kirk, his gaze shifting briefly to Buffy, smiled slightly, the kind of smile that showed both fondness and understanding. "Come, come, Scotty," he said, a touch of humor in his tone, as if trying to ease the tension between tradition and innovation. "Young minds. Fresh ideas." His voice grew drier as he added with a knowing glance, "Be tolerant."
Buffy, sitting at Spock's station, turned her eyes toward the Excelsior on the viewscreen. The sight of the sleek new ship stirred something bittersweet in her. She and Dawn had worked tirelessly on its design, their expertise woven into the very heart of the ship. Before Dawn's recent assignment to the Reliant and Buffy's own unofficial training cruise on the Enterprise, they had been part of the engineering team for the Excelsior, just as they had been long ago for the NX Class over a century before. Their fingerprints were everywhere, from the design of the engineering core to the transwarp drive itself, a revolutionary step forward in Starfleet's technology.
The Excelsior was a marvel, a testament to progress, but it was also a symbol of change, and Buffy could feel the weight of that change pressing down on her. The old giving way to the new. She couldn't help but feel a pang of loyalty to the Enterprise, the ship that had carried them through so many trials, its aged but trusted systems still functioning with grace.
Sulu caught her eye from across the bridge, and in that silent exchange, there was an understanding. He, too, had played a crucial role in designing the Excelsior, his technical prowess reflected not only in the ship's sleek lines but also in its cutting-edge bridge systems. Though the Excelsior was his future command, he shared the same sense of nostalgia for the Enterprise.
As the Enterprise passed the Excelsior, something subtle shifted on the bridge, a shared awareness that was hard to put into words. The ship's slow, deliberate movement through Docking Bay 15 was met with an unexpected sight. Along the upper level of the bay, behind the row of small ports that led to the cafeteria, movement caught their attention. Workers, engineers, and personnel who had been sitting casually, sipping coffee and chatting, suddenly rose from their seats. From their vantage point, they had watched the Enterprise approach, its majestic frame limping but still powerful, a warhorse returning from battle.
One by one, they stood, not with fanfare or applause, but in a quiet, unspoken acknowledgment. It was a silent salute, a tribute to the ship and the crew that had brought it home once again. There was a gravity to the moment, a recognition that while newer, shinier ships like the Excelsior would come, the Enterprise had earned its place in history through years of service, sacrifice, and victories.
"Enterprise, stand by for final docking procedure," the controller's voice broke through the poignant stillness, bringing them back to the present task.
Kirk straightened in his chair. "Standing by. Mr. Sulu, activate moorings. Stand by umbilical and gravitational support systems."
"Aye, sir. Moorings activated. All systems standing by," Sulu confirmed with his usual efficiency, though there was still a quiet pride in his voice.
As the docking procedures initiated, a sudden outburst broke the momentary calm.
"Admiral!" Chekov's voice rang out from his tactical console, sharp with alarm. His eyes were wide as he stared at the display in front of him, the data streaming across his screen making little sense. "This is not possible!"
Kirk's eyes narrowed at Chekov's outburst, a flicker of concern passing through his features. "What is it, Mr. Chekov?" he asked, his tone shifting from casual to commanding, sensing the urgency in his officer's voice.
"Energy reading from C deck… from inside Mr. Spock's quarters," Chekov said, his voice laced with disbelief as he stared at his console, the readings impossible yet undeniable. His fingers hovered over the controls, his mind racing to comprehend what the data was telling him.
Kirk's response was immediate, the anger in his voice barely contained. "Mr. Chekov, I ordered Spock's quarters sealed!" he snapped, his words sharp as they cut through the tense atmosphere on the bridge. The weight of his frustration hung in the air, heavy with unresolved grief and the strain of responsibility. Spock's death was still fresh, the wound raw, and this sudden anomaly felt like an insult to the memory of his fallen friend.
Chekov's eyes remained fixed on the readings, his expression one of both confusion and concern. "Yes, sir, Captain Summers and I sealed the room ourselves." His voice held steady, though beneath it was the subtle undertone of shared sorrow and disbelief. He had been there—he had helped Dawn seal the room. "Nevertheless, I am reading a life form there," he added, his voice trailing off as the implications settled over him.
The entire bridge seemed to pause, the low hum of the ship's systems suddenly louder in the tense silence. Kirk's face darkened, the anger in his voice shifting into something more controlled, though no less dangerous. "This entire crew seems on the edge of obsessive behavior concerning Mr. Spock," he muttered, his tone quiet yet filled with an emotion that threatened to break through the surface.
"I'll have a look," Kirk said, his decision made in an instant. He turned sharply, his expression hard as he prepared to confront whatever was happening in Spock's quarters, even if it was just a malfunctioning sensor. "Mr. Sulu, continue docking procedure. Buffy, you have the conn," he added, his tone clipped but laced with a thread of trust. He knew she would handle things in his absence, even in this unusual situation.
Buffy nodded from her station, her gaze following Kirk for a brief moment before she turned her attention back to the bridge. The tension in the room was palpable, everyone feeling the weight of Spock's absence in their own way. There was an unspoken understanding among the crew, a shared grief that still lingered despite the weeks that had passed. Spock's quarters had been sealed, a symbolic gesture of respect, yet now something—or someone—seemed to be defying that finality.
"I'll have Dawn meet you," Buffy said, her voice calm but steady as she spoke into the tense silence.
0 – 0 – 0 – 0 - 0
Kirk strode purposefully through the dimly lit corridors toward Spock's quarters, his temper barely restrained, each step heavy with the weight of mounting frustration. His jaw clenched tighter with every thought of what he might find. If one of the cadets had foolishly disregarded his orders and entered Spock's room—if this was some tasteless, heartless prank—Kirk knew he would soon be teaching someone a harsh lesson about the wrong kind of humor. The loss of Spock was still too fresh, too painful for such callousness.
An alarm sounded softly in the background, its shrill cry barely a whisper in the stillness of the ship. The sound heightened his urgency, and without thinking, Kirk broke into a run, his boots echoing against the deck. As he rounded a corner, he saw Dawn approaching from the opposite direction, her face set in a mixture of determination and uncertainty. They slowed their pace as they neared Spock's quarters, moving with caution, an unspoken agreement to come upon the intruder unnoticed. Kirk's heart pounded, a mix of anger and dread swirling in his chest.
At Spock's door, they came to a sudden stop. Kirk's hand hovered near his phaser, but it was Dawn's voice that broke the silence.
"I feel someone is in there," she said, her tone low, her eyes narrowing as she focused on the emotions she could sense radiating from within the room. The sensations she was picking up seemed chaotic, disjointed. "The emotions I'm feeling though are confusing."
They exchanged a glance, uncertainty creeping into Kirk's mind. He trusted Dawn's instincts, and her ability to sense the presence of others was rarely wrong. Slowly, they turned their attention to the door itself—and what they saw made Kirk's stomach tighten.
The seal on Spock's quarters had been violently torn away. The once-secured door was wrenched open, as if someone—or something—had unleashed a force of terrifying strength to breach it. The edges of the door frame were twisted and warped, evidence of the desperation or rage behind the act. Whoever had entered hadn't cared for subtlety. It was as though they had been consumed by a need so overpowering that brute force was their only option.
Dawn's voice was quiet but tense as she stared at the wreckage of the door. "I fused this door with a blast of my own energy. The only person who should have the strength to wrench this door open like this…" Her words trailed off, but Kirk knew where her thoughts were leading.
"Is Buffy," Kirk finished for her, his eyes hardening as he reached out to silence the alarm with a quick touch. The sudden quiet felt heavy, as if the air itself had thickened with the weight of the unknown. "I left her in command, so it's not her. Which means someone else has somehow acquired the strength to do this."
Kirk's eyes scanned the corridor, but there was no one else in sight. The possibilities churned in his mind, none of them comforting. "Do you see anything?"
"Too dark," Dawn replied, her voice a whisper as her gaze remained fixed on the darkness beyond the broken door. The room beyond was shrouded in shadow, the faint glow of the ship's emergency lighting barely penetrating the gloom. The air inside felt still, almost unnaturally so, as if it were holding its breath, waiting.
They stepped cautiously forward; the soft thud of their footsteps swallowed by the oppressive quiet. Each movement was deliberate, their senses alert as they waited for their eyes to adjust to the dimness.
Then, from the darkness, a voice emerged, faint but unmistakable. "Jim… T'Lekus… help me…" It was a voice neither of them expected to hear—one they both thought they would never hear again.
Kirk froze, his breath catching in his throat. He exchanged a look with Dawn, her wide eyes reflecting the shock he felt. The voice sounded impossibly like Spock's, though logic insisted it couldn't be. Kirk's heart hammered in his chest, his mind racing. "Take me up… up the steps… of Mount Seleya… through the hall of ancient thought…" the voice continued, soft yet urgent, the words tinged with a kind of desperation.
Kirk and Dawn peered more deeply into the dense shadows of Spock's quarters, the stillness thick with tension. There, just beyond the reach of the corridor's faint light, a form stirred, moving with an unsettling, ghostly quality. It was hard to make out—indistinct, as if cloaked in the very darkness that surrounded it—but there was no mistaking the fact that something was there, something alive.
Before they could react, the shadowy figure lunged toward them, a blur of movement from the gloom. The force of the impact knocked Kirk and Dawn aside, their bodies reeling from the sudden, unexpected attack. Instinct kicked in for Dawn, and she reached out, her grip locking onto the intruder's arm. The strength behind the figure was almost overwhelming, the force of it unnatural, but Dawn was no stranger to overpowering opponents. Drawing on skills she had honed centuries ago under Buffy's tutelage, she twisted her body, using leverage and momentum to her advantage.
With practiced precision, she executed a judo hold, flipping her assailant off balance and dragging him down to the ground. They crashed together onto the cold, hard floor, the impact echoing in the narrow space. As they struggled, the faint light from the corridor spilled over them, finally illuminating the face of the attacker.
Dawn's breath caught in her throat. It was McCoy.
"Bones!" Kirk exclaimed, disbelief and alarm flashing across his features as he stepped toward them. "What the hell are you doing? Have you lost your mind?"
McCoy, his face pale and drawn, looked back at them with vacant, unfocused eyes. He didn't seem to register his surroundings, his expression blank and haunted as though he were seeing something—or someone—far beyond the walls of the Enterprise. "Help me, Jim… T'Lekus," McCoy rasped, his voice raw and weak, drained of its usual vitality. His body trembled under Dawn's hold, all the fight gone from him. "Take me home."
Kirk knelt beside him, concern replacing his initial shock. He softened his tone, trying to ground his friend in the reality of the moment. "That's where we are, Bones," he said gently. "We are home."
But McCoy didn't seem to hear him. His eyes remained wide, his expression distant, as though caught in some fevered vision. "Then… perhaps there is still time… Climb the steps, T'Lekus… Jim…" His voice wavered, slipping between despair and urgency. "Climb the steps of Mount Seleya…"
Dawn's brow furrowed, her mind racing to make sense of McCoy's words. "Mount Seleya," she echoed, turning to Kirk, her voice laced with confusion. "Is on Vulcan."
"We're home! We're on Earth!" Kirk insisted, his voice carrying a note of desperation. He was struggling to pull his friend back from whatever dream—or nightmare—had overtaken him. But McCoy's eyes remained locked in that same hollow stare, unseeing, as if the man they knew was trapped somewhere far beyond reach.
Dawn loosened her grip on McCoy, her empathic senses now telling her the fight had left him entirely. She could feel the deep confusion and terror radiating from him, emotions so tangled they felt like echoes from another mind entirely. McCoy's chest heaved with labored breaths, his gaze suddenly shifting, sharpening for just a moment. He stared directly at Kirk, but the voice that came out next wasn't entirely his own.
"Remember!" McCoy cried out, but it was Spock's voice, unmistakable and commanding, reverberating through the doctor's throat. The word seemed to hang in the air, charged with significance.
"Remember?" Dawn repeated, a knot of recognition tightening in her chest. She searched her memory, trying to place the weight of the word. There was something familiar, something important about it, but in the haze of the moment, the connection eluded her.
Before Kirk could respond, Buffy's voice came through the intercom, pulling them both back to the present. "Jim," she said, her voice steady and calm despite the chaos unfolding. "Docking is completed. Starfleet Commander Morrow is on his way for inspection."
McCoy's body jerked suddenly, his muscles convulsing with a violent shudder. He attempted to rise but collapsed, unconscious, before he could manage it. Dawn's reflexes kicked in, and she caught him just before he hit the floor, her arms cradling him as she checked his pulse. It was erratic, his heartbeat fluttering beneath her fingers like the wing of a trapped bird—frantic, weak, and disoriented.
"Buffy, I need medics. Now!" Dawn called through the intercom, her voice tense but controlled as she held McCoy close, her mind racing to piece together what had just happened. She could feel the doctor's life force slipping, his body struggling against some unseen force. Whatever was happening to him, it was more than just physical.
Kirk crouched beside them, his hand resting lightly on McCoy's shoulder, his eyes filled with a mix of concern and helplessness. "Bones, it's all right," he said softly, though his own uncertainty mirrored back at him through Dawn's eyes. He was reaching out, not just to McCoy but to his own need for reassurance, for some kind of control in a situation rapidly spiraling beyond his grasp. "It will be all right," Kirk added, but there was a quiet question in his tone, a silent plea for Dawn to confirm what even he didn't fully believe.
Dawn met his gaze and gave a small, uncertain shrug. She didn't have the answers Kirk was searching for, but she could feel something larger at play, something far beyond the bridge of the Enterprise. All she knew for certain was that this was only the beginning.
0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0
The skeleton crew of the Enterprise, a mere shadow of its former numbers, gathered solemnly in the docking chamber, their faces reflecting a mix of pride and weariness. The battle-worn ship had limped home, scarred but still magnificent, and now the crew stood ready for the Starfleet Commander's review. Dawn and McCoy were notably absent, both still in sickbay, leaving the others to line up for the formal reception. The air hummed with quiet tension, the weight of their recent trials still pressing down on them despite the moment of return.
"Tetch-hut!" The boatswain's pipe wailed its high, eerie note, slicing through the silence like an echo from the past. It was a sound that signaled formality, but it carried a strange melancholy now, as if even the ship itself knew how much had been lost. The sleek doors of the docking chamber slid open with a smooth hiss, and Fleet Commander Morrow stepped aboard with his aide in tow, their crisp uniforms a stark contrast to the battle-worn surroundings.
"Welcome aboard, Admiral," Kirk said, stepping forward to greet Morrow, his posture formal but his eyes betraying the weight of command he had carried alone for too long.
Morrow, a man with the air of someone who had seen more than his fair share of troubled spacefaring years, clasped Kirk's shoulders in a gesture of camaraderie that spoke more than any words could. "Welcome home, Jim," he said, his voice low and steady. For a brief moment, the formality cracked, and a genuine warmth shone through. His grip tightened on Kirk's shoulders, a silent acknowledgment of everything they'd endured. "Well done."
Kirk, usually unshakable in moments like these, nodded, feeling the relief in Morrow's words. "Thank you, sir," he replied, his voice controlled but softer, the exhaustion slipping through the cracks. As Morrow stepped back, Kirk, always one for breaking tension with a touch of wry humor, added with a faint smile, "I take it this is not a formal inspection?"
A ripple of laughter, stifled but real, spread through the small assembly. It wasn't much, but it was enough to cut through the solemnity, if only for a moment. The crew, still on edge from their ordeal, appreciated the levity. It was the kind of humor that came only after surviving the kind of hell they had.
Morrow let the laughter linger a moment before waving them at ease. "No. At ease, everyone," he said, his eyes sweeping the room, assessing not just the condition of the ship, but the faces of those who had brought her home. His gaze softened when he realized Dawn was missing from the lineup. "Where's Captain Summers and Dr. McCoy?" he asked, the question almost an afterthought, though his curiosity was piqued.
Buffy, standing tall despite the fatigue etched into her features, noticed the brief flicker of hesitation in Kirk's response and stepped in smoothly. "Sickbay," she said, her voice steady. "My wife is tending to Dr. McCoy after a small mishap. Nothing serious."
Morrow nodded, his expression relaxing. "Ah," he said, a trace of amusement creeping into his voice as he realized the concern was unnecessary. "Well, then."
The atmosphere lightened as Morrow addressed the gathered crew, his tone shifting to one of admiration and respect. "You have all done remarkable service under the most… difficult of conditions." His words hung in the air, weighted with the recognition of the countless battles they had fought, both external and internal. "You'll be receiving Starfleet's highest commendations," he continued, a proud gleam in his eye. "And more importantly, extended shore leave."
At the mention of shore leave, the younger officers, particularly those who had never experienced a return from such dire circumstances, perked up with a mixture of surprise and relief. Their faces brightened, the tension in their shoulders easing as the prospect of rest, relaxation, and perhaps a long-awaited reunion with family and friends became real. For a brief second, the burdens of duty and survival seemed to lift, replaced by the simple human need for peace.
Morrow, ever the commander, wasn't finished. His eyes found Scotty, standing at attention but with the faintest twinkle in his eye. "That is shore leave for everyone but you, Mr. Scott," Morrow said, his tone both teasing and serious. "We need your wisdom on the new Excelsior. Report there tomorrow as Captain of Engineering."
"Tomorrow isna possible, Admiral," Scott said, his voice tinged with stubborn resolve, though tempered by respect. He stood a little straighter, squaring his shoulders as if bracing himself for what he knew he had to say. "And, with all appreciation, sir, I'd prefer to oversee the refitting of the Enterprise. If it's all the same to ye, I'll come back here."
The words carried a weight that hung in the air between them, as though Scott's connection to the ship was deeper than simple duty. It was as if his heart was woven into the very fiber of the vessel, each bolt and beam holding a piece of his soul. There was a desperation in his tone, masked beneath his usual calm. He needed to stay. This ship, for all its scars, was his life's work.
Morrow's brow furrowed as he met Scotty's gaze. "I don't think that's wise, Mr. Scott," the commander said, his voice gentle but firm, as though trying to let Scott down easy.
"But, sir," Scott pressed on, his voice rising just slightly, the earnestness of his words thickening his Scottish brogue, "no one knows this ship like I do." His hand, calloused from years of intimate work with the ship's intricate systems, waved toward the walls as if they could somehow back him up, could somehow prove his point. "The refit will take a practiced hand. There's so much to do." He turned to Kirk and Buffy, his eyes searching theirs, looking for a spark of understanding, for shared memories of all they had fought for aboard this ship. "It could be months."
Kirk held his gaze, silently acknowledging the truth in his words, but it was Morrow who spoke next. "That's one of the problems, Mr. Scott," Morrow said, his tone now edged with the hint of something darker, something final. His words seemed to weigh more heavily now, as though the air between them had thickened.
Scott's lips twitched, caught between defiance and the loyalty he held for his superiors. "Well, I might be able to do…" His words trailed off, hope still threading through his voice like a lifeline, but Morrow interrupted before he could finish.
"You simply don't know what you're asking," Morrow said, his voice soft but unyielding. His gaze shifted, no longer focused on Scott but as if he were looking through him, into the future that Scott hadn't yet seen. There was a quiet sorrow in his words, a weight of knowledge that he wished he didn't have to share.
Scott's eyes narrowed, his pride and passion for the Enterprise bubbling dangerously close to the surface. "Then perhaps the admiral would be so kind as to enlighten me," Scott said, his voice tight, challenging but respectful. There was an undercurrent of anger, the kind of frustration that comes from knowing something is slipping away, and not being able to stop it.
Morrow sighed, as if what he was about to say hurt him almost as much as it would hurt Scott. "I can cut you new orders to stay and oversee the Enterprise," he said, the words slow, deliberate, as though he wanted to give Scott one last moment of hope before it was crushed.
Scott's eyes flickered with a brief spark of triumph, already thanking the admiral in his mind. "I'd thank ye for that," Scott said, but even as the words left his mouth, Morrow's next statement fell like a hammer.
"But the orders would have to be for you to oversee the ship's dismantling," Morrow said quietly, his voice carrying the full weight of the inevitability he had been trying to prepare Scott for.
Kirk and Buffy exchanged a glance, a quiet understanding passing between them. They knew the Enterprise was old, the scars from countless battles etched deep into her hull, but they'd always assumed the ship had more time—at least another decade before being decommissioned. The thought of her retirement was a distant notion, not something they'd ever prepared for in the immediacy of their lives. The weight of that realization settled heavily over both of them.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Scott," Morrow said, his voice measured but not without sympathy. "There isn't going to be a refit."
Scott's reaction was immediate, visceral. His voice cracked with disbelief as he exclaimed, "But ye canna do that!" His eyes widened, his expression one of raw incredulity, as though Morrow had just told him something utterly inconceivable. The idea that the Enterprise, the ship that had been his life's work, could be discarded so easily was more than he could fathom.
Kirk stepped forward, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Admiral, I don't understand," he said, his voice calm but laced with a growing sense of frustration.
Buffy, standing beside him, echoed his sentiment, her tone carrying the same disbelief. "I don't either," she said, glancing between Morrow and Scott. "We know the Enterprise is forty years old, but normal lifetime is at least fifty. There's more she can give."
Morrow sighed, his sorrow evident in the way he shifted his weight and met their gaze with the steady certainty of someone who didn't want to deliver bad news but had no choice. "I know," he said, his voice heavy with the burden of his position. "But sadly, the Enterprise's day is over." His words, though spoken gently, carried the finality of a tomb being sealed. There was no room for argument, and yet the depth of his regret was clear. "The ship is obsolete. We kept it on as a training vessel, mainly because you insisted, Jim. But after this last trip…" He paused, his eyes momentarily flicking to the ship's worn exterior visible through the windows, its battle scars like open wounds. "It's clear just by looking at the ship that it's seen its last encounter."
Scott's frustration bubbled over, his voice rising as he fought to keep control. "Ye've no e'en done an inspection!" he cried, hands gesturing wildly as if he could pull the ship back from the brink through sheer force of will. "Ye canna just look at a ship and condemn it to the scrap heap! All ye need do is gi' me the materiel I requisitioned." His face flushed with a mix of anger and desperation, his pride as the Enterprise's chief engineer pushing him to defend her with every ounce of his being.
Morrow shook his head, the weight of bureaucracy behind him. "Your requisitions have been through a thorough analysis," he said, his tone professional but unwavering. "We gave the ship every point we could—I made sure of that. But it simply isn't cost-effective to bring it back to optimum." His words, clinical in their detachment, were a death knell to Scott's hopes.
"Cost-effective!" Scott muttered, the bitterness dripping from his voice. "Optimum!" He spat the words as though they were insults, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. The fire in his eyes showed that he wasn't just angry—he was heartbroken. The Enterprise was more than just a vessel to him; she was a legacy, a living, breathing entity. To hear her reduced to a line item on a budget report felt like sacrilege.
Sensing the storm of emotions roiling within him, Buffy stepped forward, her voice soft but steady. "Scotty," she said gently, her empathy reaching out to him, trying to soothe the tempest of his frustration. She could feel the anger, the sadness, the fierce protectiveness he had for the ship, and it mirrored her own feelings for the crew.
Scott looked at Buffy, his eyes blazing with a mix of defiance and pain, but the edge of his anger dulled slightly under her calming influence. Still, his heart wasn't ready to let go. With a resentful sigh, he subsided, though the tension in his body remained coiled, ready to spring at the slightest provocation.
Morrow, recognizing the need to move forward, spoke again. "Scotty, go on over to Excelsior for the time being," he suggested, trying to offer a way out, a new challenge, perhaps even a distraction from the inevitable.
But Scott's response was immediate, fierce, and full of the same emotion that had carried him through years of service on the Enterprise. "Nay!" he exclaimed; his voice hoarse with conviction. "Do ye no' understand? It isna possible!"
"Indeed?" The word from Morrow was as frigid as a blast of Arctic wind, the single syllable carrying an icy edge that seemed to lower the temperature of the room by ten degrees. It was clear he was unaccustomed to having his authority questioned, and even more so to having it directly defied. His posture stiffened, and his gaze hardened, as though the very air around him had become more severe.
Scott, feeling the weight of Morrow's disdain, stood firm. "My nephew Peter is still on board the Enterprise," he said, his voice thick with a mix of sorrow and defiance. His eyes, usually so bright and keen, now held the shadow of a personal tragedy. "His body is. I must take him home, to my sister. To his grave." The words were not just a plea but a declaration of the bonds that transcended the professional and reached into the deeply personal. Scott's face was lined with the agony of grief and duty, the unspoken weight of loss visible in every rigid line of his frame.
Morrow's steely resolve softened, though only slightly. "I see. Of course, you must go to Earth," he said, his voice begrudgingly accommodating Scott's request. "But Mr. Scott, the preliminary test of the engines is urgent. You're the best man for the job. In a day or so his…" He hesitated, struggling with the balance between duty and compassion. The urgency of the situation weighed heavily on him, but so did the understanding of personal loss.
"I canna promise. Some things there be that are more important than starships, and one of them is family, one of them is ties of blood," Scott said, his voice steady despite the emotional turmoil. With that, he turned and hurried from the docking bay, each step echoing his departure and the sense of finality that followed.
Kirk, watching Scott's retreat, turned to Morrow with a determined look. "Admiral, I requested—I'd hoped to take the Enterprise back to Genesis."
Morrow's reaction was immediate and intense. "Genesis!" he exclaimed, his voice rising with disbelief and irritation. "Whatever for?"
"Why, a natural desire to help finish the work we began," Kirk said, his tone filled with earnest resolve. "Dr. Marcus is certainly going to want to return…" His voice trailed off, but the implication was clear: they had unfinished business on Genesis.
Morrow's expression grew stern, the line of his jaw tightening as he shot down Kirk's hopes. "It's out of the question," he said firmly. "No one else is going to Genesis."
Buffy, who had been silently observing, spoke up with a note of curiosity tinged with concern. "May I ask why?" Her voice was calm, but her eyes held a flicker of the confusion and curiosity that gripped her.
Morrow sighed heavily; the weight of his responsibilities evident in the deep lines of his face. "Jim, Buffy…" he began, his voice carrying the gravitas of a man burdened by difficult decisions. "In your absence, Genesis has become a galactic controversy. Until the Federation Council makes policy, you are all under orders not to discuss Genesis. Consider it a quarantined planet… and a forbidden subject." The finality in Morrow's voice was unmistakable, a clear indication that the matter was not open to debate or discussion. His expression was a rigid barrier against any further arguments, a silent command to cease all inquiries.
"Dismissed," Kirk said, his tone carrying a note of resignation.
April 4, 2285
Kirk's Apartment, San Francisco
Kirk stood by the large window of his apartment; his gaze lost in the night's embrace. The view was a mosaic of city lights refracted through a veil of fog, the bridges stretching out like luminous threads weaving into the vast, ethereal expanse. The distant city seemed to shimmer through the mist, an intricate tapestry of glowing reflections and elusive shadows. The serenity of the night contrasted sharply with the turmoil of recent events.
He turned away from the window to face Buffy, Dawn, Uhura, Chekov, and Sulu. Each of them stood in silent contemplation, their expressions mirroring the weight of the moment. Kirk raised his glass, the crystal catching the soft light from the room, and his voice carried a solemn reverence. "To absent friends," he said, the words a tribute to those who were no longer with them, and to the memories that bound them together.
Buffy, Dawn, Uhura, Chekov, and Sulu followed suit, raising their glasses in a quiet, respectful toast. The clink of glass against glass was a brief, poignant sound that underscored the gravity of their shared loss. They each took a sip, the taste of the drink a small comfort in the midst of their collective sorrow.
Sulu, his brow furrowed with concern, broke the silence. "Admiral, is it certain?" he asked, his voice tinged with anxiety. "What's going to happen to the Enterprise?"
Kirk's response was a heavy, resigned nod. "Yes," he said simply, the finality of his words like a stone dropped into still water, rippling outward with a sense of irrevocable change. "It's to be decommissioned." The weight of the announcement hung heavily in the air, a stark reminder of the end of an era.
Chekov, his youthful face marked by an expression of uncertainty, asked the next question. "Will we get another ship?" His voice carried a note of hopeful inquiry, the desire for continuity and purpose evident in his tone.
Kirk shook his head, the gesture one of frustration and helplessness. "I can't get an answer," he said, his voice tinged with exasperation. "Starfleet is up to its brass in galactic conference. No one has time for those who only stand… and wait." The bureaucratic labyrinth of Starfleet seemed an impenetrable barrier to immediate answers, leaving them all in limbo.
Uhura, her gaze shifting to Dawn, voiced her concern with a note of gentle empathy. "How is Dr. McCoy, Dawn?" she asked, knowing that Dawn had taken on the responsibility of caring for the ailing doctor after their departure from the Enterprise.
Dawn's response was marked by a mixture of relief and worry. "Home in bed, I had to give him sedatives," she said, her tone soft but serious. "So, he could sleep. Though he promised me he'd stay there. As far I can tell it's exhaustion." She let out a weary sigh, the sound a release of the tension she carried. "We'll see."
The doorbell chimed with its crisp, melodic tone, slicing through the subdued murmur of conversation.
"Ah," Kirk said, a note of anticipation in his voice. "It must be Mr. Scott, fresh from the world of transwarp drive. Come!" His voice was tinged with a touch of humor and expectation, ready to welcome the familiar figure.
The door responded to his command, its mechanisms whirring softly as it slid open.
However, instead of the familiar figure of Scott, Kirk was met with a tall and imposing presence. The silhouette was draped in a deep, dark Vulcan robe, the folds of which seemed to absorb the light around it. The figure stood half-hidden in the shadows of the foyer, an aura of authority and mystery cloaking them.
The figure reached up with a fluid motion, pulling back the hood of the robe with a deliberate grace.
"Sarek," Buffy and Dawn intoned in unison, their hands instinctively rising in the Vulcan greeting.
Ambassador Sarek stepped fully into the light, the hood falling away to reveal his austere, dignified features. His eyes, as ancient and inscrutable as ever, met theirs with a solemn nod. "T'Lekus, T'Lin," he greeted them, the words rich with the gravity of Vulcan tradition.
"Ambassador," Kirk said, his composure momentarily faltering as he took in the unexpected visitor. "I had no idea you were on Earth…" His words trailed off; the surprise evident in the break of his sentence. His eyes searched Sarek's face, trying to reconcile the unanticipated appearance with the formality of the moment.
Sarek remained silent, his expression a mask of Vulcan restraint. The lack of immediate explanation was in keeping with the Ambassador's often enigmatic demeanor, adding to the gravity of his presence.
"You know my officers, I believe," Kirk said, attempting to bridge the awkward silence with a nod toward Buffy, Dawn, Sulu, Uhura and Chekov.
Sarek moved with a deliberate grace towards the window, his figure outlined against the dimming light of the evening. His back was turned to the room, a gesture that conveyed both distance and authority. The calm, measured tone of his voice cut through the ambient sounds of the room. "I will speak with you, Kirk along with T'Lekus and T'Lin," he said, "alone." His words were a clear dismissal of the others, underscoring the gravity of the conversation to come.
Kirk, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, turned toward his friends. "Uhura, Pavel, Hikaru, perhaps we'd better get together again another evening." His voice carried an apologetic note as he acknowledged the need for privacy. With a subtle gesture, he forestalled Chekov's inevitable protest, the sharpness of which was evident even before it could be voiced. He shook Sulu's hand with a genuine show of appreciation for his calm demeanor, and embraced Uhura, their parting a moment of unspoken understanding. He guided his three compatriots toward the door, his manner both respectful and regretful.
"We're here," Uhura said, her voice steady with quiet resolve, "when you need us."
"I know," Kirk replied, his tone warm with gratitude. "And I'm grateful." He watched as the trio exited, the soft hiss of the door closing behind them a final punctuation to their departure. Turning back to Sarek, Kirk felt the weight of the conversation settle heavily upon him.
Buffy broke the silence with a question steeped in concern. "How is Amanda, Sarek?" Her voice was gentle, reflecting the depth of her empathy.
Sarek's response was measured, tinged with a subtle, almost imperceptible sadness. "She is a human being, T'Lin. Consequently, she is in mourning for our son. She is on Vulcan," he said. The words were laden with the complexity of Vulcan and human emotions entwined, a reflection of the profound personal and cultural loss.
"Sarek, we apologize," said Dawn, her voice carrying a note of sincere regret. "We are bound here to testify, or we would have come to Vulcan, to express our deepest sympathies. To her, and to you." Her tone was one of earnest remorse, her hands clasped as if seeking to convey her heartfelt sorrow.
Sarek cut off Dawn's explanation with a terse wave of his hand. "Spare me, T'Lekus. I have been to your government. I have seen the Genesis information, and Kirk's own report." His tone was one of quiet frustration, an acknowledgment of the broader context that had already been explored.
"Then you know how bravely your son met his death," said Kirk, his voice firm but compassionate, attempting to bridge the gap between their shared grief and the harsh reality of the situation.
"Met his death?" Sarek turned to face Buffy, Dawn, and Kirk, his eyes cold and unyielding. The intensity of his gaze was more potent than any visible rage, an implacable force that conveyed a depth of unresolved anguish. "How could you, who claim to be his friends, assume that? I ask you, T'Lekus, and you, T'Lin, who know our customs so well, why did you not bring him back to Vulcan?"
"Because he asked me not to!" Kirk's voice rose defensively, his posture rigid as he stood up for his friends and himself. His words echoed with a mixture of frustration and protective fervor.
"He asked you not to? I find that unlikely in the extreme," Sarek replied, his voice tinged with contempt. The disapproval in his tone was palpable, and he stopped just short of accusing Kirk of fabricating the truth. His eyes, cold and probing, seemed to challenge the veracity of Kirk's claim.
"His will states quite clearly that he did not wish to be returned to Vulcan should he die in the service of Starfleet. You can view it; I'll even give you his sepal number," Kirk insisted, the bitterness in his voice unmistakable. He was offering tangible proof, the sepal number being a formal identifier that could be used to verify Spock's last wishes.
"I am aware of his sepal number," Sarek said dismissively, his voice dripping with disdain. "I am also aware that Starfleet regulations specifically require that any Vulcan's body be returned to the home world. Surely this would override the dictates of a will." The weight of his words suggested an inflexible adherence to tradition over personal wishes, as if the rules were sacrosanct and inviolable.
"The trivial personal wishes of an individual?" Kirk's voice grew sharper, his frustration evident. "I'll tell you why I followed Spock's request rather than the rules of Starfleet," he continued bitterly. "It's because, in all the years I knew Spock, never once did you or any Vulcan treat him with the respect and the regard that he deserved. You never even treated him with the simple courtesy one sentient being owes another." His eyes blazed with the intensity of his emotion. "He spent his life living up to Vulcan ideals and came a whole hell of a lot closer to succeeding than a lot of Vulcans I've met. But when he chose Starfleet over the Vulcan Academy, you cut him off!" His voice faltered as he paused to catch his breath, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air.
"My son and I resolved our disagreement on that subject many years ago, Kirk," Sarek responded with a mild tone, his demeanor seemingly unperturbed by Kirk's passionate outburst.
Kirk, however, remained undeterred. He knew why Buffy and Dawn were silent; their empathic abilities allowed them to sense his anger, and he suspected they were struggling to keep his anger from overwhelming them. "For nearly twenty years, I watched him endure the slights and subtle bigotry of Vulcans!" Kirk's voice was raw with emotion. "When he died, I was damned if I would take him back to Vulcan and give him over to you so you could put him in the ground and wash your hands of him! He deserved a hero's burial, and that's what I gave him—the fires of space!"
Sarek, however, maintained his composure as if Kirk's outburst had not occurred. His expression was one of detached contemplation, as if by refusing to acknowledge Kirk's emotional response, he could make it disappear. "Why did you leave him behind? Spock trusted you. You denied him his future."
The statement was not directed solely at Kirk but included Buffy and Dawn as well. The broadness of the accusation seemed to encompass all who had been involved.
That was when Dawn's eyes widened in sudden realization. She recalled where she had heard the word 'Remember' before. "His Katra," she said, her voice filled with sudden clarity. "If he performed the mind meld before he died, he would have transferred his Katra to someone else. I think I know who, and it wasn't one of us. We were separated by a glass wall when he died." She looked towards Kirk; her expression urgent. "Jim, can you pull up the Enterprise's flight recorder? I need to confirm my suspicion." Her words carried the weight of a new, unsettling discovery, hinting at deeper mysteries that needed to be unraveled.
Starfleet Record Storage Center
The flight recorder from the Enterprise lay under heavy security, sealed and guarded as though it contained the secrets of the cosmos itself. The high-stakes nature of the retrieval required Dawn to pull in multiple favors from the Admiralty, a network of influence that spoke to her longstanding respect and authority. Convincing them to grant access was no small feat, and even then, the recording could not be removed from the confines of the records storage center. Instead, Dawn, Buffy, Kirk, and Sarek had to go to the facility, an atmosphere of tension and anticipation hanging thickly in the air.
The flight recorder, typically a passive observer, had been designed to track the ship's routine mechanical functions with a near-invisible presence. Its role was usually one of quiet vigilance, capturing data that was essential but seldom urgent. However, in moments of crisis or alert, its capabilities were dramatically heightened. It would then create a detailed and permanent record of critical areas, preserving the ship's most crucial moments for later scrutiny.
As they gathered around the massive console that housed the flight recorder, the atmosphere grew taut with expectation. The computer's voice broke the silence, intoning with a mechanical calmness, "Engine room, flight recorder, visual. Star date 8128 point seven eight." The time stamp froze, the decimals repeating in a rhythmic pattern that underscored the gravity of the moment. "Point seven eight... point seven eight..."
On the screen, the image was hauntingly vivid. Spock lay dying, his form illuminated against the stark, cold glass of the radiation enclosure. The scene was frozen in time, a poignant tableau of sacrifice and heroism that spoke volumes without uttering a single word.
"Back!" Kirk's voice cut through the room with sharp urgency. "Point seven seven."
The random-access search function engaged, rapidly skipping back through the recorded moments to the last critical exchanges between Buffy, Dawn, Kirk, and Spock. The tension in the room was palpable, each person's eyes fixed intently on the screen as they sought to unearth the truth hidden within the digital remnants of their past.
Sarek observed Buffy and Dawn, noting with a touch of respect that even in this distressing situation, they honored the Vulcan traditions that T'Pol had imparted to them. Their adherence to the Vulcan way of reverence and respect was evident in their demeanor and focus.
"Back! Point six seven," Kirk commanded, his voice steady despite the emotional weight of the task.
"Flight recorder, visual. Star date 8128 point six seven, point six seven," the computer's voice replied, its monotone a stark contrast to the tension that gripped the room.
The tape had now reached the critical juncture just before Buffy and Kirk departed the bridge and Dawn left sickbay, capturing a moment when the Enterprise was teetering on the brink of disaster. The imminent threat of Khan's Genesis device hung like a dark cloud over the ship, casting long shadows over the crew's final actions. In the footage, the Enterprise's dire situation was palpable, the ship's systems and personnel operating under immense pressure. Spock, caught in a moment of poised determination, stood motionless at the radiation chamber control console, a sentinel on the brink of sacrifice.
As the tape continued, Spock's image flickered into motion, his figure taking on a sense of urgency and resolve. The next scene revealed McCoy entering the frame, his face etched with concern as he intercepted Spock before he could enter the chamber. Their interaction unfolded in eerie, soundless tension, their body language speaking volumes in the absence of audible dialogue. The argument between them was intense and poignant, a silent struggle of wills and emotions.
In a swift, decisive move, Spock used a nerve pinch to incapacitate McCoy. The action was executed with clinical precision, the gravity of the moment underscored by the sterile silence of the recording. Then, with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the violence of his previous action, Spock knelt beside McCoy. He placed his hand tenderly on McCoy's temple, his lips forming the word "Remember" in a silent plea.
"Hold," Kirk's voice cut through the tension, commanding the tape to freeze on this pivotal moment. "Augment and repeat."
The scene rewound smoothly, the central image expanding as they sought to dissect every detail. The meticulous nature of the review reflected the seriousness with which they approached the investigation, each second scrutinized for deeper understanding.
"Audio," Kirk instructed, his voice steady but laced with urgency.
As the audio feed activated, the room was filled with the stark, penetrating command of Spock's voice. The once-silent plea now echoed clearly: "Remember!" The intensity of Spock's plea was undeniable, his voice carrying a weight of desperation and profound significance.
"Freeze!" Kirk's voice commanded once more, his gaze shifting to Dawn with a dawning realization. "Bones?"
Dawn, her face reflecting a mix of revelation and regret, nodded in response. "That's why he was saying 'remember,'" she explained. "I found it peculiar at the time but dismissed it due to the urgency of his medical condition."
"One alive, one not," Sarek said, his voice carrying the weight of resignation and sorrow. "Yet both in pain."
The dichotomy was stark: the living were burdened with anguish, while the deceased suffered a different kind of torment, their final wishes unfulfilled.
"One going mad from pain!" Kirk's voice cracked with frustration, his eyes blazing with a mix of anger and desperation. "Why, why did Spock leave the wrong instructions?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken fears and unresolved questions. Sarek's gaze turned analytical, his sharp Vulcan features sharpening with the intensity of his scrutiny. "Do you recall the precise words, Kirk?" Sarek's eyebrow arched in a questioning manner, a characteristic of Vulcan inquisitiveness.
Buffy, with a thoughtful frown, broke the silence. "You know, I found it odd that Spock was so adamant that he did not wish to be resumed to Vulcan," she said. "Even Dawn and my wills, which won't activate for several hundred more years, have a line about us being resumed to Vulcan for burial."
"Since you are considered Vulcan because of your adoption by T'Pol," Kirk interjected, his mind working through the implications. He reflected on the will, his brow furrowing in contemplation. "Uhm let's see. Failing a subsequent revision of this document, my remains are not to be returned to Vulcan?"
"Correct," Sarek confirmed, his tone grave. "Spock did not… did not believe that his unusual heritage would permit the transfer of his katra. He did leave the possibility open. But he never made a revision. The good Dr. McCoy. Who, if the process had worked properly, would have known what to do? Perhaps Spock was correct. Perhaps he was unable to transfer…"
"He transferred something! And it's driving McCoy insane!" Kirk's voice was a mix of disbelief and concern, his hands clenched at his sides as if to physically grasp the enormity of the situation. His frustration was palpable, the burden of Spock's choices weighing heavily upon him.
"Had Dr. McCoy ever experienced the mind-meld before?" Sarek's inquiry was direct, probing the core of the issue with precision.
"A couple of times, in emergencies," Buffy replied, her expression reflecting the strain of recalling past events. The memories of those urgent moments were tinged with the sharp edges of distress.
"How did he react?" Sarek's question was methodical, seeking to piece together the puzzle with detached professionalism.
"He didn't like it. To put it mildly," Kirk answered, his tone laced with an underlying frustration. The recollection of McCoy's discomfort and resistance added another layer to their understanding of the complex situation.
Sarek raised his eyebrow again but chose not to comment on the underlying tension of Kirk's remark. His gaze remained impassive, his focus shifting to the matter at hand. "Did he become physically ill afterward?"
Dawn's face was etched with the weight of memory and responsibility. "I was ship's counselor during Jim's original five-year mission, as I'm sure you remember, Sarek," she said, her voice steady yet tinged with the recollection of long hours spent tending to the crew's well-being. "But I also held a medical degree. In fact, I've taken over briefly as Chief Medical Officer a couple of times. So, I would have been the one treating him, and I don't recall any symptoms resulting from the mind meld. And you know, Sarek, I know to look for symptoms given my own body's reaction to T'Pol's mind meld."
"Yes," Sarek said, acknowledging Dawn's expertise with a nod. He was well aware that Dawn possessed an unusual level of emotional control due to her empathic gift. He also knew that she now experienced Pon Farr, a consequence of her own mind meld with T'Pol, which further validated her credibility in assessing such matters.
"Dawn, could it be that Doc is rejecting Spock's katra now?" Buffy interjected, her tone reflective and concerned. "After all, people can reject replacement limbs or blood if the donor isn't a perfect match for the patient."
"It's possible," Dawn conceded, her brows knitting together in thought. "It wouldn't be unprecedented. His mind could be rejecting what Spock gave to him."
"Since the result is that McCoy was unable to assimilate the new information even so far as to rescind the provision of Spock's will, that may now destroy both of them." Sarek's voice carried a heavy gravity, his eyes reflecting the depth of his concern. He shook his head, the motion a subtle indication of the magnitude of the situation. "It would have been better if Spock had been near you two, T'Lekus, T'Lin, or another Vulcan when he died. He did not prepare well. He left too many factors open to chance."
"This is hardly the time to criticize Spock!" Kirk said, his voice rising in anger, frustration evident in the tightness of his expression. "Or to deplore Murphy's Law, for that matter."
"What is 'Murphy's Law?'" Sarek asked, his curiosity piqued by the unfamiliar term.
"Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong," Dawn explained, her tone edged with the irony of the situation.
"How apropos," agreed Sarek, his voice carrying a note of resignation.
Kirk's gaze was intense, his mind racing with the weight of Sarek's words. "What do we do to make things right?" he asked, his voice carrying a blend of urgency and desperation.
Sarek's demeanor remained resolute and calm, a stark contrast to the turmoil in the room. "You must recover Spock's body from the Genesis world," he said, his voice steady and authoritative. "You must bring it, and Dr. McCoy, to Mount Seleya, on Vulcan. Only there is the passage possible. Only there can both find peace."
The room seemed to grow colder, the gravity of Sarek's request hanging heavy in the air. Kirk's expression grew pensive, the enormity of the task settling in. "What you ask," he said, his voice tinged with the weariness of facing another seemingly insurmountable challenge, "is difficult."
Sarek's eyes, sharp and unyielding, locked onto Kirk's with an intensity that spoke of the stakes involved. "You, T'Lekus and T'Lin will find a way, Kirk," he said firmly. "If you honor them both, you must."
Officers' Lounge, Spacedock
In the Starfleet officers' lounge, the atmosphere was thick with an almost palpable tension. Dawn and Kirk, both seasoned and composed, maintained a facade of calm as they awaited Morrow's response. The lounge's expansive window offered a panoramic view of the night sky, its vast darkness broken only by distant stars and the occasional streak of a passing spacecraft. Morrow's reflection was a dark silhouette against this backdrop, his figure framed by the endless void outside.
The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, as Morrow stared into the night, his features inscrutable. The stark contrast between his blackened reflection and the dimly lit room seemed to accentuate his resolve.
After what felt like an eternity, Morrow's voice finally broke the silence. "No," he said, his tone firm and unyielding. "Absolutely not. It's out of the question."
The rejection ignited a spark of frustration in Kirk. The tension that had been coiled inside him now erupted, fueling his words with a desperate intensity. "Harry, Harry, I'm off the record now. I'm not speaking as a member of your staff. I'm talking about thirty years of service. I have to do this, Harry. It has to do with my honor, my life. Everything I put any value on."
Kirk's plea was abruptly interrupted as a steward glided silently to his side. With practiced efficiency, the steward removed the empty glasses from the table and replaced them with fresh ones, the clinking of glass a stark counterpoint to the charged conversation. Kirk's silence was heavy, each second stretching into what felt like an eternity as the steward completed his task and withdrew.
"Harry, his…" Dawn began, her voice tinged with concern and frustration.
Morrow's response was measured and careful, an attempt to balance personal affection with professional duty. "Dawn, Jim," he said, his tone softening slightly, "you are my best officers, and if I had a best friend, you two would be that, too. But I am Commander of Starfleet, so I don't break rules."
Kirk's frustration flared again. "Don't quote rules, Harry!" he said, his voice edged with emotion. "We're talking about loyalty! And sacrifice! One man who died for us, another at risk of permanent emotional damage."
Morrow's face hardened, and he raised a hand, cutting Kirk off. "Now, wait a minute!" he said, his voice rising. "This business about Spock and McCoy and mind-melds and honestly, I have never understood Vulcan mysticism. Nor do I understand what you hope to accomplish. I'm sorry! I don't want you to make a fool of yourselves. Understand?"
Dawn took a steadying breath before responding, her voice filled with quiet determination. "Buffy and I know that the Katra exists, Harry," she said. "But that's because we lived on Vulcan. And as that is the case, it's my medical responsibility as Dr. McCoy's personal physician to bring him and Spock to Vulcan."
Kirk nodded in agreement; his gaze unwavering. "It's also mine," he said, his voice resolute.
"Yours!" Morrow's exclamation was a sharp burst of disbelief, the word hanging heavily in the air.
"As surely as if it were my own," Kirk replied, his voice steady but laden with an urgency that seemed to vibrate through the room. He leaned forward, eyes locked onto Morrow's, every line of his posture pleading for understanding. "Harry, give me back the Enterprise! With Scotty's help…"
"No, Jim!" Morrow interrupted, his voice cutting through the tension. "The Enterprise would never stand the pounding."
The weight of Morrow's words hit Kirk and Dawn with the force of an unspoken realization: Morrow had not understood a single word of their impassioned plea all evening. His words revealed a deep-seated disbelief, a lack of trust in Kirk's capability or his cause.
Kirk's frustration flared, his eyes flashing with anger and contempt. "You've changed, Harry," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "You used to be willing to take some risks."
Morrow's shoulders slumped, the sadness in his eyes reflecting the weight of his current responsibilities. "I used to have different responsibilities than I have now," he said quietly, a note of resignation in his voice. "Dawn, Jim, I'm not completely unsympathetic to your request, believe me. I'll contact Esteban. If anything comes of… what Grissom has found on Genesis, I will, of course, order them to bring it back."
Dawn's eyes narrowed in frustration. "How long?" she demanded, her tone edged with urgency.
"At least six weeks," Morrow replied.
Dawn's face tightened with concern. "I'm sorry, but that's unfeasible," she said, her voice trembling with the gravity of her medical knowledge. "From a medical perspective, I don't believe Dr. McCoy has that long. He will likely be driven mad long before that! He wasn't properly prepared for what happened to him; he wasn't trained. In six weeks, the damage could be fatal!"
Morrow's expression hardened, and he raised his voice in a final, uncompromising tone. "You're not dictating any terms here!" he snapped. "Grissom's mission is vital. We have to have the data on Genesis before we can make a decision about it! And you want me to order them to turn around and come straight back so you can save a dead man's soul? Can't you see how that would sound? No. I'm sorry."
"I repeat, give me back my ship," Kirk said, his voice resolute and tinged with desperation.
"I'm sorry, Jim. I can't let you have the Enterprise," Morrow said firmly, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.
"Then we'll find a ship, we'll hire a ship!" Kirk exclaimed, the determination in his voice a last-ditch effort to break through the barriers of bureaucracy.
"Out of the question!" Morrow snapped; his frustration evident. "You can hire one, but you won't get it anywhere near Genesis. The whole Mutara sector is under quarantine. No one goes there until the science team gets back, and probably not even then. Council's orders."
"Then let me speak to the Council!" Dawn interjected, her voice carrying a note of urgency.
"No, you don't understand," Morrow said, his expression darkening with the weight of his words. "You simply have no conception of the political realities of this situation. Tensions are strung so tight you could play them like a piano! The Council has its hands full trying to deal with delegations from both the Romulan and the Klingon Empires. My gods, can any of you imagine the repercussions if you go in there and announce your personal views on friendship and metaphysics?" He shook his head slowly, his frustration evident as he traced condensation in stripes down the side of his glass with his forefinger. His clenched fist betrayed the anger simmering beneath his calm facade. "Your lives and your careers stand for rationality, not intellectual chaos. Keep up this emotional behavior, and you'll lose everything. You'll destroy yourselves! Do you hear me?"
Kirk and Dawn exchanged a glance, the weight of Morrow's words sinking in as they both sagged back in their chairs. The fire in Kirk's eyes dimmed, replaced by resignation. "Yes, we hear you," he said, his voice a mixture of defeat and acceptance. He sighed deeply. "We… just had to try."
"Of course. I understand," Morrow said, his tone softening with a hint of sympathy. "Now take my suggestion, Dawn, Jim. Enjoy your leave and let all this tension blow away."
"You're right," Dawn replied reluctantly, her voice carrying a sense of finality. She stood up, leaving her drink untouched. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead as she walked toward the door. She could sense Kirk's presence close behind her, their shared sense of defeat hanging heavy in the air between them.
They left the lounge, stepping out into the bustling terminal of the spaceport. The large, open space was a hive of activity, with travelers moving purposefully in every direction. The bright, artificial lighting cast a sterile glow over the polished floors and glass walls, reflecting the distant stars that peeked through the panoramic windows.
Dawn and Kirk scanned the terminal, their eyes searching for familiar faces amidst the crowd. They spotted Buffy, Sulu, and Chekov seated a hundred meters away on a circular bench that served as both a resting spot and a vantage point. The trio was engaged in a casual but attentive game of people-watching, their posture relaxed yet alert.
Buffy was the first to notice Dawn and Kirk. She nudged Sulu with a subtle, knowing glance. Sulu, in turn, tapped Chekov on the shoulder. With a practiced ease, the three of them shifted their focus toward the approaching pair, their casual demeanor masking a deeper sense of anticipation.
"The word, sir?" Sulu inquired, his voice calm but edged with curiosity as he rose slightly from his seat.
"His word is no," Kirk replied, his voice carrying a note of resignation as he gestured back toward the officers' lounge with a quick jerk of his head. The frustration of their recent conversation lingered in his eyes. "But my word… is given."
Sulu's expression hardened into one of determination. "Count on our help, sir," he said firmly, the commitment in his voice clear.
Kirk nodded, a glimmer of appreciation in his eyes. "Dawn, Buffy and I'll need it, Hikaru."
"I will go alert Doc," Dawn said decisively, her tone resolute.
April 5, 2285
Starfleet Detention Facility
Leonard McCoy lay on the narrow bunk, the single mattress barely wide enough to accommodate his shoulders. The bed's thin, threadbare blanket was a stark contrast to the hard, grey linoleum floor beneath him, which had been worn down over time, its once-spongy surface now hardened and cracked. The dim, unflattering lights of the cell cast a pallid glow across the small, confined space, making the shadows seem unnervingly close. Though he tried to block out the harsh illumination by flinging his arm across his eyes, the light seeped through, refusing to be ignored. Despite the discomfort, McCoy found a grim solace in the fact that it wasn't as cold or as unforgiving as some other places he had been in, but it was still unmistakably a jail cell.
The sound of the guard's voice cut through the fog of his troubled sleep, dragging him from the dark recesses of his dreams and thrusting him back into the stark reality of his situation. As his mind groggily pieced together the fragmented memories of how he had ended up in this predicament, he recalled the turmoil and confusion that had led to his current confinement.
"Make it quick, Captain," the guard's voice was brusque and unsympathetic. "They're moving him to the Federation funny farm."
McCoy's eyes squinted against the harsh glare as he turned his head slowly, the aching in his body a reminder of the previous night's chaos. He could see the guard standing imposingly near the cell's entrance, his silhouette framed by the shimmering barrier of the force field. Beside him stood Dawn, her presence a beacon of familiarity in this disorienting environment.
Dawn's expression was one of quiet frustration as she shook her head with a mournful gesture. "I did not authorize that," she said firmly, addressing the guard's indifference. "He's under my care as I am his personal physician."
The guard's gaze flicked between Dawn and the stark force field that separated them. His response was curt and impersonal. "You would have to take that up with my superiors. Two minutes."
With a resigned sigh, Dawn watched as the force field dimmed and flickered out, its subtle hum fading into silence. As she stepped across the threshold into the cell, the force field reactivated with a crackle of energy behind her. She moved with purpose and empathy, kneeling beside the cot where McCoy lay, her presence a stark contrast to the sterile and oppressive environment.
"Dawn," McCoy's voice was a hoarse whisper, the strain of his recent ordeal evident in his tone.
"Shh." Dawn raised her hand, positioning it strategically to obscure the lens of the surveillance camera. Her fingers splayed out in the traditional Vulcan salute. "How many fingers?" she asked, her tone light despite the grim circumstances.
McCoy's eyes narrowed in irritation; his discomfort palpable. "That's not very damned funny," he said, his voice tinged with exasperation.
"Good," Dawn said with a small smile, her relief evident. "Your sense of humor has returned." As she spoke, she reached into her pocket, her movements practiced and deliberate.
McCoy's attention snapped to her actions. "The hell it has!" he protested, sitting up with a wince. His gaze followed Dawn as she produced a hypospray from her pocket, its sleek, sterile design glinting under the harsh cell lights. His frown deepened as he scrutinized the unfamiliar device. "What's that?"
"Lexorin," Dawn replied, her voice steady despite the tension in the air.
"Lexorin! What for?" McCoy's curiosity mingled with apprehension. His brow furrowed as he processed the information, his mind racing to understand the implications.
"You're suffering from a Vulcan mind meld, Doc," Dawn explained, her tone carrying a weight of concern and urgency.
"Spock?" McCoy asked, the name escaping his lips with a mix of recognition and disbelief.
"That's right," Dawn confirmed, her eyes meeting his with a look of shared understanding.
"That green-blooded, pointy-eared son of a bitch. It's his revenge for all those arguments he lost," McCoy said, a bitter edge to his words. His frustration was palpable, but it was laced with an ironic humor that spoke to their long history of contentious debates.
"Give me your arm," Dawn instructed, her voice firm yet soothing. She gently pushed up his sleeve, exposing his arm to the dim light of the cell. Without hesitation, she pressed the hypo against his skin and administered the compound within. The device hissed softly as it released its contents, a faint, cool sensation accompanying the injection.
McCoy winced slightly at the intrusion, but he trusted Dawn's expertise. As the Lexorin began to take effect, he felt a gradual easing of the mental strain that had plagued him.
0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0
Outside the detention facility, Buffy took a deep breath and let out a shuddering sigh, trying to calm her racing pulse. She ran her fingers through her hair, deliberately mussing it up to give herself a disheveled appearance. Her civilian shirt, already rumpled from the day's stress, was tucked haphazardly on one side while the other side hung loose, enhancing the effect of her hurried, frantic look. She paused briefly to catch her breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Satisfied that she now looked sufficiently flustered and out of sorts, she swung open the door with a dramatic flourish and strode into the reception area.
The room was stark and utilitarian, its harsh lighting casting sharp shadows across the faces of the two guards who had been engrossed in their card game. Their surprise at her sudden entrance was evident, their hands frozen mid-motion as they looked up from their cards.
"Where's Captain Summers?" Buffy demanded, her voice edged with urgency that cut through the sleepy atmosphere of the facility.
One of the guards, a burly man with a grizzled beard and a skeptical gaze, appraised Buffy from head to toe with a slow, deliberate scrutiny. "She's with a prisoner. What's it to you?" he asked, his tone thick with skepticism.
"First I'm her wife," Buffy replied, her voice firm despite the mounting tension. "Second, Starfleet Commander Morrow wants her right now!"
The guard's irritation was palpable as he snorted derisively, his eyes flicking briefly toward his partner before he shrugged and laid his cards aside with a resigned grunt. He fumbled for his electronic key with clumsy haste, shoving the cards into a disorganized pile as he prepared to leave for the cell block. As he disappeared down the corridor, his partner, a lanky man with a permanently bored expression, glanced at the face-down cards on the table. With a sneer of disdain directed at Buffy, he flipped the cards over to reveal a winning hand, then casually turned them back face down. He stretched languidly and emitted a dramatic yawn, clearly uninterested in the interruption.
"Keeping you busy?" Buffy asked, her tone laced with forced cheerfulness as she tried to keep her frustration in check.
"Don't get smart, Tiny," the guard retorted, his voice a gruff rumble.
Buffy's expression tightened at the nickname. Although she wasn't truly short, standing at an average height for a woman, the term grated on her. She fought to maintain her composure, reminding herself that she needed to appear as a harried messenger rather than a provoked individual.
A muffled voice from beyond the cell block door caught her attention, and Buffy's heart skipped a beat. "Leonard is sick! Look at him!"
The guard's head snapped toward the cell block door as he heard Dawn's urgent voice through the door. Rising from his seat, he instinctively moved to intercept. Buffy, sensing an imminent need to act, took a step forward, ready to draw his attention away. However, she didn't need to do anything; the console beside him took care of the distraction.
The console emitted an insistent, buzzing signal, cutting through the dimly lit room. The guard's frown deepened as he glanced toward the cell block door, his frustration evident. He snatched up the receiver with an impatient jerk. Buffy took a deep breath, her gaze fixed on the guard, her tension palpable. Every second counted; any misstep now could jeopardize their entire plan.
"Sixth floor holding," the guard barked into the receiver, his voice sharp. He listened intently to the response coming through his earphone. "Yeah, come on up and get him, his visitor's just leaving… What? Some captain, name of Summers."
Buffy could faintly hear the squawk of protest from the receiver, mingling with the muffled sounds of chaos from within the cell block. A crash and a thud reverberated through the walls, but the guard was too preoccupied to register these disturbances.
"How the hell am I supposed to know that?" the guard snapped into the receiver, his frustration rising. "She's a damned captain and reportedly the personal physician of the prisoner! All right!" With a sharp exhale of annoyance, he slammed down the earpiece and stormed toward the door, only half-aware of the escalating commotion beyond.
The door to the cell block swung open, and Dawn stepped through, visibly supporting McCoy. Her face was a mask of determination as she helped the ailing doctor, her movements steady despite the urgency.
"What the hell is going on?" the guard demanded, his voice rising in bewildered anger as he took in the sight of Dawn and the obviously incapacitated McCoy.
With the guard's attention diverted, Buffy saw her opportunity. She raised her hand discreetly, channeling a surge of electrical energy from her palm. The energy crackled silently but powerfully, striking the guard with a controlled precision. He crumpled to the floor, unconscious, his body collapsing in a heap with a muted thud.
"You know, in some ways I hate Fate for giving me this burden," Buffy remarked with a wry smile as she looked at the subdued guard. "But in others, it's quite useful." She quickly glanced at Dawn and McCoy, then gestured toward a side corridor. "The side elevator. Agents are on their way up."
Dawn nodded with determination as she and McCoy hurried through the side door, the urgency of their escape evident in their swift movements. Buffy lingered a moment longer by the master console, her resolve hardening. She fired another blast of energy, the beam slicing through the dim light of the room with crackling intensity. The console sputtered and sparked, emitting a sharp, acrid odor of burned semiconductors that filled the air with an almost palpable sense of electric destruction.
With a final glance at the ruined console, Buffy turned and sprinted after Dawn and McCoy. She reached the door and paused for a heartbeat, her eyes falling on the unconscious guard sprawled on the floor. "Don't call me 'tiny,'" she muttered under her breath, a mix of annoyance and resolve in her tone as she stepped over the prostrate figure.
Catching up with Dawn and McCoy, Buffy moved to help support the ailing doctor. She could feel the weight of his body and the strain of his condition, but her focus remained sharp. McCoy, though visibly weakened, grunted softly, "I'm all right." His voice was low and strained, but he made no attempt to disengage from their support, accepting their help with a resigned acceptance.
Dawn, her expression a blend of anxiety and determination, pulled out her communicator and flipped it open with practiced ease. "Unit two, this is one. The Kobayashi Maru has set sail for the promised land. Acknowledge."
The response came back clear and immediate through the communicator. "Message acknowledged," Kirk replied. "All units will be informed."
Dawn snapped the communicator shut, her face reflecting a mix of relief and fatigue. The weight of their task seemed to momentarily lift as she focused on the task at hand.
McCoy, now more animated by the exchange and the renewed sense of freedom, raised an eyebrow at Dawn and Buffy. There was a glimmer of his old self in his expression, a trace of wry humor as he quipped, "You're taking me to the promised land?"
Buffy's lips curled into a reassuring smile, a sense of camaraderie and unspoken understanding passing between them. "What are friends for?" she replied, her voice carrying the weight of shared history and unspoken bonds.
