Chapter 33: Voyage Home Part 4
December 18, 1986
Golden Gate Park
Gillian parked the Land Rover on a bluff overlooking the sea, the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below echoing in the still night air. The tide was out, revealing a rugged, rocky beach that glimmered like scattered jewels under the starlight, each wave that lapped against the shore leaving behind a shimmering trail.
Settling into the front seat with a slice of pizza, Gillian listened intently to Buffy and Kirk's incredible story, her mind both intrigued and skeptical. She could feel the weight of the universe in their words, the gravity of their mission pulling at her sense of reality.
"I can tell you still don't believe us," Buffy stated, her tone both challenging and earnest. "Jim, let me out."
Kirk opened the door with a hint of reluctance, his brow furrowed as he considered the implications of Buffy's next move.
As Buffy stepped out, she placed her hand on the hood of the truck, the metal warm under her palm. A spark of energy coursed through her, and she drew upon the electrical current, her expression focused and determined. She raised her arm toward the vast expanse of the sky, and in an instant, she fired off a brilliant blast of energy that illuminated the night, a vivid display that left Gillian's mind racing. The brilliance of the light hung in the air for a moment before fading into the darkness, leaving Gillian grappling for a rational explanation for what she had just witnessed.
"Millennials have multiple gifts," Kirk said, trying to simplify the complex reality for Gillian. "They are empathic; they can store and fire electrical energy, and they can turn their bodies into energy, traveling through electricity from one point to another. So, you see, Spock doesn't want to take your whales home with him. We want to take your whales home with us."
Gillian watched as Buffy climbed back into the truck, her energy palpable, her demeanor shifting from a powerful display to the casualness of someone simply returning from a quick errand. As she started the Land Rover and began the drive back into Golden Gate Park, Gillian couldn't shake her curiosity. "Tell me about marine biology in the twenty-third century," she prompted, eager to learn about a future she could hardly fathom.
"We can't," Kirk admitted, his voice tinged with regret. "Neither of us knows anything about it."
"Why? Because you spend all your time in space?" Gillian asked, her brow furrowed with curiosity and concern.
"No," said Buffy, shaking her head slightly. "I started out in engineering. My wife and I helped the first human to ever travel faster than light to build his ship. Then, a hundred years ago, I entered the command track. I've been first officer on multiple starships. Jim, on the other hand, has always been in the command track. Anyway, we're pressed for time. We need to know if you are going to help us or not."
"People have had killer whales in captivity for a couple of decades," Gillian replied, her voice rising slightly as she leaned forward in her seat. "Do you have killer whales in your world? Orcas?"
"No," Kirk said, his expression turning somber. "I'm sorry, no. All the larger species are extinct."
"Sadly, most of them from poachers in this time period," Buffy added, her tone tinged with regret.
Gillian nodded, her mind racing as she processed the implications. "Orcas are predators. They swim fifty miles a day, easy," she continued, her passion for the creatures evident in her voice. "They have an incredible repertoire of sounds they can make. They talk to each other. A lot. That's what it sounds like they're doing, anyway. But when you put them in a tank, they change. They haven't got anywhere to go. They're kept in a deprived environment. After a couple of years, their range of sounds shrinks. Then they become aphasic—they stop talking at all. They get apathetic. And then… they die."
As she spoke, the weight of her words hung in the air like a thick fog, a stark reminder of the consequences of captivity. Gillian turned in at the parking lot, the gravel crunching under the tires, her thoughts swirling around the future of the whales.
"Gillian, that's a shame. But I don't understand—" Kirk began, his brow creased with concern.
"Shut up, Jim," Buffy interjected, sensing the turmoil within Gillian. She reached out, her fingers gently touching the other woman's shoulder, offering a reassuring grip. "George didn't sing, did he?"
Gillian turned off the engine, and for a moment, she sat in stillness, staring out into the darkness that enveloped them, the silence pressing in like a heavy blanket. "No," she said softly, almost as if speaking to herself. "Humpback whales are meant to be wild. They migrate thousands of miles every year. They're part of an incredibly rich, incredibly complex ecosystem. They have the whole ocean, and a thousand other species to interact with."
Her voice began to build with enthusiasm, recalling vivid memories. "I was up in Alaska last summer, on a research trip observing humpbacks. We were watching a pod, and a sea lion swam right in beside one of them and dived and flipped and wiggled his flippers. The whale rolled over and waved her pectoral fin in the air, and she dove and surfaced and slapped her flukes on the water—she was playing. We had a tape deck on the boat, we were listening to some music. When we put on Emmylou Harris, one of the whales swam within twenty feet of the boat—wild humpbacks just don't come that close—and dove underneath us, came up on the other side, and put her head out of the water to listen. I swear, she liked it."
As Gillian spoke, the wonder and joy in her voice painted a picture of connection and vitality, a vivid tapestry of life beneath the waves. Buffy could feel the emotions swirling within Gillian—the remembered wonder, the uncontainable joy, but also the creeping apprehension. The palpable fear that gnawed at her heart was unmistakable: George and Gracie, those majestic beings, could meet the same fate as the orcas.
"You're afraid George and Gracie will die, like the orcas," Buffy said gently, her voice laced with empathy.
"Yes," Gillian replied, her voice steady but tinged with vulnerability. "I've seen enough to want to believe you, but I'm afraid that if I do believe and you're trying to con me…" Her words trailed off, leaving an echo of doubt hanging in the air.
Buffy nodded in understanding, the weight of Gillian's fear resonating deeply within her. "We can keep them safe. Take them back with us, where they will never be hunted." The promise hung between them, a fragile thread of hope.
"I want them safe!" Gillian said, her voice rising with urgency, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. "But I can keep them safe at the Institute. Till they die. It's freedom that they need most."
"And they will be," said Buffy, her voice steady and reassuring. "You have my word."
Gillian hesitated, the weight of uncertainty still hanging in the air like a thick fog. "I have seen enough to bring doubts to my mind, but if you two could prove beyond a shadow of a doubt what you've told me—"
"We've already told you and shown you too much as it is," Kirk interjected, a hint of frustration creeping into his tone.
"I was afraid of that," Gillian replied, her shoulders slumping slightly under the burden of conflicting thoughts.
"Think about it," Buffy urged, her eyes gleaming with determination. "But not too long. Because when they take George and Gracie…" Her voice trailed off, laden with unspoken fears. "Anyways, if you change your mind, we'll be right here."
"Here? In the park?" Gillian asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.
"Right," Kirk confirmed, nodding firmly.
As Gillian drove off, Buffy and Kirk stepped back from the truck, their expressions a mix of hope and concern. "We should have brought her aboard, Jim," said Buffy, her voice low and earnest. "Shown her around the Bounty. I know it goes against regulations, and technically you could bring me up on charges and have me court-martialed for what I did show her. Assuming we don't lose our commissions anyways when we return to answer the charges that we were going home for to begin with. But we would have her help if she could truly and completely believe us."
"Maybe," said Kirk, his gaze following the retreating taillights of Gillian's Land Rover.
H.M.S. Bounty
Spock observed intently as Buffy and Kirk re-formed on the transporter platform, their figures coalescing from shimmering particles of light. "Did you accomplish your aims in your discussion with Dr. Taylor, Admiral? Commander?" he inquired, his voice steady and measured.
"In a manner of speaking," Kirk replied, his tone a mix of frustration and resolve. "We told her the truth; Buffy even showed her one of her Millennial powers. She wants to believe, but she's afraid if this is an elaborate hoax… Wouldn't surprise me if she already rationalized Buffy's Millennial power display away."
"Very likely," said Buffy, a note of resignation in her voice. "One thing I learned after I was called as the Slayer: people often can't accept the reality of our world. They will try and rationalize it away. Vampire attacks, for example, were usually rationalized as a barbeque fork accident." She noticed the confused expressions Spock and Kirk exchanged, and she clarified, "A twentieth and twenty-first century cooking utensil."
Kirk sighed, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. "Anyways, when we beam the whales on board, all Gillian will ever be sure of is that they've disappeared. She won't know if they lost their transmitters, or if they died, or if the whalers killed them." He expelled a frustrated breath, the tension in his shoulders palpable. "What's our status?"
"The tank will be finished by morning," Spock stated, his expression unreadable as he processed the urgency of the situation.
"That's cutting it closer than you know. What about team two?" Kirk asked, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Buffy, sensing her concern for Dawn.
"We have received no word since their beam-in," Spock replied, his tone unwavering. "We can only wait for their call."
"Dawn," Buffy murmured, a sigh escaping her lips, heavy with worry. "What's taking you so long?"
"We've been so lucky!" Kirk said, his voice rising in urgency. "We have the two perfect whales in our hands, but if we don't move quickly, we'll lose them."
"Admiral," Spock interjected, his brow furrowed with concern. "Dr. Taylor's whales understand our plans. I made certain promises to them after Commander Summers aborted contact, and they agreed to help us. But if we cannot locate them, my calculations reveal that neither the tank nor the Bounty can withstand the power of a frightened wild whale. In that event, the probability is that our mission will fail."
Kirk's frustration boiled over. "Our mission!" he shouted, his voice echoing in the confined space. He swung toward Spock, his shoulders hunched and fists clenched in a mixture of anger and despair. Then he caught sight of Buffy, her eyes closed as she struggled to retain control over the tempest of emotions swirling within her, emotions that were not entirely her own. Recognizing the strain his outburst placed on her, he turned away, putting distance between them in an attempt to shield her from the weight of his anger.
Enterprise, CVN-65
Dawn switched back and forth between the tricorder readings and the slowly rising readout on the photon collector's charge, her brow furrowing in concentration. The process was dragging out much longer than Scott had estimated, each passing second tightening the knot of anxiety in her chest. She had been at the reactor for nearly an hour, the faint hum of machinery and the distant sounds of the ship's crew moving around above serving as a constant reminder of just how precarious their situation was. If their luck held for just another ten minutes…
In the radar room of the aircraft carrier Enterprise, the radar operator glanced at his screen, initially running what was supposed to be a routine equipment test. His casual demeanor shifted as the image on the screen broke up into fragmented static. Frowning, he fiddled with the controls, his fingers moving with increasing agitation. He managed to get a clear image for a brief moment before it flickered and vanished again.
"What the hell—? Say, commander?" The unease in his voice was palpable.
The duty officer, who had been quietly overseeing other tasks, joined him. His brow furrowed as he peered at the malfunctioning screen. "I thought you were just running a test program," he said, his voice calm but curious.
"Aye, sir. But we're getting a power drain through the module. It's coming from somewhere in the ship." The radar operator's fingers flew over the controls as he desperately tried to trace the source of the problem. His frustration was evident, but the duty officer stayed close, looming over him, his gaze fixed on the flickering radar.
Just then, the shrill ring of the phone cut through the room. The duty officer reached for it, answering briskly. "CIC, Rogerson." There was a pause. "Yes, chief, we're tracking it here, too. What do you make of it?" His voice shifted, tightening with tension as he listened. "You sure? Check the videoscan. I need a confirm." He put his hand over the mouthpiece, his eyes narrowing. "He thinks there's an intruder in one of the MMRs."
Meanwhile, in the reactor access room, the low hum of the collector's machinery began to rise in pitch, the sound vibrating faintly through the walls. Dawn held her breath, glancing down at the device just as the hum reached a sharp peak—and then abruptly ceased. She exhaled slowly, a smile tugging at her lips. It had finally finished.
She moved quickly, detaching the photon collector from the wall and giving it a once-over to ensure everything was in order. Satisfied, she walked back over to Uhura and Chekov, who had been waiting with watchful eyes. The tension between them was palpable, though Uhura's calm exterior masked it well.
Dawn pulled out her communicator and flipped it open. "Scotty, we're ready to beam out," she whispered, her voice carrying a note of urgency as she glanced around the reactor room.
Instead of the expected confirmation, static crackled through the communicator. Dawn's brow furrowed as she repeated herself, this time a little louder. "Scotty? Dawn here, come in please." The silence stretched, filled only by the faint hiss of interference. "Come in, please. Scotty, do you read?"
After a tense moment, Scott's familiar voice broke through, muffled and blurred by static. "Aye, Dawn. I hear ye." The distortion was enough to make her wince slightly, but at least the message was clear. "My transporter power's down to minimum. I must bring ye in one at a time. I'll take you first. Stand by."
Dawn's heart skipped a beat. Being transported one by one would take more precious time than they had hoped for, but they had no other option. She handed the communicator to Uhura with a steadying nod, silently signaling that everything would be fine.
Taking a step away from her companions, she braced herself as the familiar tingle of the transporter beam engulfed her, the world around her dissolving into a cool shimmer of light. A heartbeat later, she was gone.
H.M.S. Bounty
Dawn rematerialized on the Bounty's transporter pad, the familiar cool shimmer of the beam dissipating as her form solidified. She blinked a few times, adjusting to the dim lighting of the ship, and stepped off the pad, her heart still racing from the tension of the mission. Barely a breath later, Uhura began to materialize next to her, her expression a mask of calm professionalism. But there was an undercurrent of concern in her posture, one that mirrored the unease gnawing at Dawn.
They waited, eyes flicking between each other and the empty pad, but nothing happened.
Scott broke the silence, his face twisted in frustration. "His communicator's gone dead," he said, his thick accent tinged with tension. His hands hovered over the console, fingers moving with rapid efficiency. "I canna locate him."
Uhura's calm facade cracked, a slight furrow forming in her brow. "You've got to find him," she urged, her voice low but urgent, the tension beneath the surface beginning to show.
"I know that, lass," Scott snapped, though his tone was more about the stress he was under than aimed at her. His brow glistened with sweat as he worked frantically, pushing the transporter controls to their limits.
Seconds turned into agonizing minutes. Each one dragged on, the silence thick with anxiety as they stared at the transporter pad, hoping for a flicker of energy, some sign that Chekov would rematerialize. But the pad stayed stubbornly empty, and the room felt like it was closing in around them.
"I'm going up to the bridge," Uhura finally said, her voice clipped as she turned toward the door, the sharp edges of worry threatening to break through her composure. "I'll try to—" Her words were cut short as the doors swished open and Kirk and Buffy strode in, their presence immediately shifting the energy in the room. Kirk's face was set in that same hard, impatient expression he wore only in moments of intense pressure, and Buffy's eyes darted to the empty transporter pad, her concern unmistakable.
"What's holding things up?" Kirk asked, his voice clipped, frustration edging his words.
Scott barely looked up from his console, his voice tight. "I ha'... lost Commander Chekov."
"You've lost him?" Buffy echoed, her voice sharp, disbelief coloring her words. Her eyes flashed with a mix of concern and determination, her body tensing as though she was already prepared to act.
"I'll go back," Dawn offered quickly, stepping forward without hesitation. "I'll find him, and—"
"No." Kirk's voice cut through the room with finality, halting Dawn mid-sentence. He turned to her, his face softening slightly, but his tone was resolute. "I'm sorry, Dawn. It's out of the question. If he's been taken prisoner, you'd be walking straight into the same trap. And if he's all right, he'll contact us or make his way back on his own." He met her gaze, his unspoken authority evident. Dawn bit her lip, her frustration palpable, but she knew Kirk was right. Charging back in could only make things worse.
Kirk shifted his attention, inspecting the photon collector now sitting on the console. "This is it?" he asked, his voice steady as he tried to focus on the task at hand, though the tension of Chekov's absence still weighed heavily in the room.
"Aye, sir," Scott responded, his hands still fidgeting with the transporter controls, his frustration clear as he tried to track down any sign of Chekov.
"Then get it in place!" Kirk barked, the weight of their mission pressing down on every syllable. His voice carried the urgency of a man who knew time was slipping through their fingers. "Buffy, Dawn, Uhura, Scotty, I understand you all are concerned for Chekov. But we've got to have full power in the ship, and we've got to have it soon!" His eyes darted from one to the next, a silent plea beneath the command. Every second they spent worrying about Chekov was a second closer to failure.
Buffy stepped forward, her movements calm yet determined, and placed a steadying hand on Scott's shoulder. "Scotty, I'll stay here and keep trying to reach Pavel. Go on now." Her voice was soft but resolute, offering him a sliver of comfort amidst the storm of worry they all felt.
Scott's shoulders slumped, the weight of the situation heavy on him. His normally vibrant spirit seemed dimmed, but he nodded. "Aye, Buffy." He hefted the photon collector, his usually confident steps feeling slower, more burdened as he left the transporter room.
The silence that followed was thick, the kind that settled in after too many bad breaks. Kirk broke it, his tone now slightly softer but still carrying the edge of command. "Uhura, Dawn," he said, locking eyes with them. "Two sets of ears are better than one. Listen in on official communications. If he was captured, you two may be able to find him that way. But I'll bet he turns up knocking on the hatch within the hour."
"I hope so, sir," Uhura said, her voice quieter but determined, trying to mask the worry beneath her professional demeanor. She didn't wait for further instructions, heading for the control chamber with purposeful strides. Dawn followed closely, a furrow in her brow, the tension palpable in the quickness of her steps.
As the doors slid shut behind them, Buffy let out a long, tired sigh. She ran a hand through her hair, the weight of everything beginning to take its toll. "Between Gillian and her whales and now this. Things aren't going well, are they?" Her voice held a weariness that she rarely let show, the strain of the past few days catching up with her.
Kirk turned to face her, his expression softening as he met her eyes. He didn't need to put on his usual bravado in front of her; they had been through enough together that the mask could slip. "No, they are not," he admitted, his voice low. His gaze lingered on her, guilt flashing briefly in his eyes. "Buffy, I'm sorry about earlier, my emotions. I could see you were trying not to let them control you."
Buffy gave a small, tired smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Thanks," she said, another sigh escaping her lips. "It's not easy, especially not when things are this tense."
December 19, 1986
H.M.S. Bounty
It was nearing morning, the first pale streaks of dawn just beginning to creep into the horizon as Dawn and Uhura sat hunched over their consoles, fatigue etched into their faces. The quiet hum of the ship filled the background, occasionally punctuated by the crackle of static as they scanned the frequencies by ear, each pause at a channel carrying the heavy weight of hope and disappointment. The air in the room felt thick with tension, the kind that only grows stronger as time ticks on without answers.
Dawn's eyes were bleary, dark circles forming under them, but she pressed on, flicking through the channels with a determined focus. Uhura mirrored her, her sharp, practiced ear attuned to the faintest of signals, but even her confident demeanor had started to wane under the stress of the long, fruitless hours.
As Kirk approached, his footsteps were heavier than usual, weighed down by his own concerns, though he masked them well. "Any luck?" he asked, his voice low but carrying the authority that still cut through the tension.
Dawn looked up at him, the fatigue in her eyes more than just physical. She sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly as she set the headset aside. "No, nothing." Her voice was thick with frustration, and something deeper—regret. "I shouldn't have left him, Jim."
Kirk's jaw tightened at the raw emotion in her words. He stepped closer, his eyes softening as he addressed her, knowing the burden she was carrying. "Captain," he said, his tone firm yet not unkind. He deliberately used her rank, drawing her full attention. "Being in command requires you to make the hard decisions." His voice softened, but it didn't lose its firmness. "You accepted that burden when you accepted promotion."
Dawn blinked, trying to focus, but the guilt still clung to her.
Kirk crouched down slightly, meeting her at eye level. "You did what was necessary," he said gently but resolutely. "You got the collector back. It wouldn't do any of us any good if you were both lost."
He tried to offer her a reassuring smile, though it didn't fully reach his eyes. He knew how she felt—he'd been there more times than he could count, but those were scars you had to live with when you wore the weight of command.
"Keep trying," he urged, his voice a little softer now, meant for her alone. "You'll find him."
Dawn looked up at him, her lips pressed into a thin line, nodding faintly. The flicker of determination that had nearly burned out flared back to life in her eyes, even if just for a moment. Kirk gave her a final, reassuring pat on the shoulder before stepping back, the tension still heavy between them, but now shared, just a little lighter.
Cetacean Institute
Gillian parked the Rover with a jerk. The museum loomed in front of her, a shadowy, silent structure that felt eerily still at this hour. She entered, her footsteps echoing through the empty halls as she hurried toward the spiral staircase. The dim light barely illuminated her way as she clattered up the metal steps, her heart racing in time with her pace. The museum felt hollow, a stark contrast to the bustling energy it held during the day. Now, it was just her, the whales, and the quiet hum of machines that kept the tank alive.
She reached the deck around the tank, the large body of water below her calm and still. Gillian squinted into the darkness, searching for the familiar shapes of George and Gracie. They should be resting, she thought, surfacing every few minutes to breathe in the cool night air. But something was wrong. The water seemed too still, too quiet. No soft huff of breath, no gentle spray of water as they surfaced.
A knot of dread twisted in her stomach. Maybe they had caught on to her anxiety. Maybe they sensed the tension in the air, the pressure of the impending decisions weighing on everyone around them. Maybe, like her, they couldn't sleep either.
"Hey, you guys!" Gillian called out, her voice breaking the silence. She waited, straining to hear the familiar sound of their breathing. Nothing. The silence was unnerving, like the calm before a storm.
Panic surged through her. She bolted down the spiral stairs, her shoes clanging against the metal steps, the sound too loud in the stillness. She ran to the viewing window, pressing her hands against the cold glass, her breath fogging up the surface as she peered into the tank. Her heart hammered against her chest, her worst fear clawing at her mind—what if one of them was dead? What if she looked down and saw George or Gracie lying lifeless at the bottom, the other circling in confusion, grieving the loss?
She pressed harder against the glass, eyes wide with dread. Nothing. She could see nothing. The tank was empty.
Footsteps echoed behind her. Gillian whirled around, her pulse racing. Bob Briggs stood at the entrance, his face unreadable, a shadow in the dim light. "They left last night," he said softly, his voice almost apologetic.
Gillian stared at him, uncomprehending. His words didn't make sense. Left? How could they have left?
"We didn't want a mob scene with the press," Bob continued, his voice distant, almost rehearsed. "It wouldn't have been good for them. Besides, I thought it would be easier on you this way."
"Easier?" The word felt foreign on her tongue, her voice rising in disbelief. "Easier on me?"
Something snapped inside her. The grief, the loss, the sheer unfairness of it all surged up like a tidal wave. Without thinking, she took one step toward him and slapped him, the sound sharp and violent in the quiet room. Bob staggered back, his hand flying to his face, eyes wide in shock.
"You sent them away without letting me say goodbye?" Her voice cracked, rage and pain coiling into something raw and uncontrollable. "You son of a bitch!" She didn't care if she hurt him. She didn't care about anything except the betrayal gnawing at her insides. "You stupid, condescending son of a bitch!" she screamed, her voice breaking with the weight of her emotions.
Without another glance at him, she turned and fled, the sound of her footsteps fading as she ran.
Out in the parking lot, she collapsed into the driver's seat of her car, her hands trembling as she gripped the steering wheel. Tears blurred her vision as sobs wracked her body, her forehead pressed against the cool leather. Her palm throbbed where it had struck Bob, but she wished, desperately, that she had punched him instead. She wished she could hit him again, harder, for every moment of loss she felt tightening around her chest.
George and Gracie were free—that was what she had wanted. That was what all of this was for. But now, the hollowness inside her felt unbearable. Freedom was one thing. Safety was another. And she had no way of knowing if they were safe.
Wiping her tears with the back of her hand, she lifted her head, her face set with a new resolve. The decision had been forming in her mind all night, circling closer and closer, and now it stood in front of her, undeniable. She couldn't wait any longer. She had to act.
With a determined flick of her wrist, she started the Land Rover, the engine roaring to life. She threw it into gear, her foot slamming down on the accelerator, tires screeching as she tore out of the parking lot and into the darkness, her heart racing as fast as the car beneath her.
Plexicorp
Sulu gripped the controls with white-knuckled intensity as the helicopter lifted into the sky. The Huey strained under the weight of its burden, wobbling as if questioning its own ability to remain airborne. It reminded him of an old joke about bumblebees, how they supposedly defy physics with every beat of their wings, yet somehow manage to fly. This helicopter seemed to hold the same stubborn belief. He gritted his teeth as the aircraft strained to pull the massive acrylic sheeting behind it, the harness taut and heavy beneath them.
Suddenly, the cable snapped tight, jolting the Huey violently forward. The entire frame shuddered, pitching the nose down as if the copter itself was fighting against the load, threatening to send them spiraling back toward the ground. Adrenaline surged through Sulu's veins, his heart pounding in his chest. He yanked the controls, forcing the Huey to level out, battling against gravity and the sheer weight that dragged at them like a deadweight anchor.
For a breathless moment, the helicopter hovered in an uneasy balance, shuddering as if it might give up at any second. Then, slowly—agonizingly—the copter began to steady, the rattling of its frame easing as Sulu coaxed it into submission. He could feel the sweat beading on his brow, his muscles tense from the exertion of keeping the aircraft stable.
Gritting his teeth, Sulu nudged the power higher, the Huey groaning under the strain as it climbed. The massive acrylic sheeting followed, sluggish and uncooperative. As they rose, a high-altitude breeze—imperceptible from the ground—caught the flat expanse of the sheeting, turning it into a sail. The load swung, setting off an unsettling oscillation that reverberated through the Huey's frame, each swing sending ripples through the aircraft like the vibrations of a barely restrained beast.
Sulu swore under his breath, his hands gripping the controls tighter as the helicopter swayed under the weight. Loaded as it was, the Huey was a different animal altogether—sluggish, unpredictable, difficult to maneuver. Every gust of wind seemed like a potential disaster waiting to happen, each swing of the acrylic threatening to pull the helicopter off course.
"How the hell did they ever keep these things in the air?" he muttered, frustration leaking through his usually calm exterior.
Thinking fast, he leaned into the controls, giving the copter a bit of forward momentum. The motion helped counteract the swing, damping the wild oscillations. The massive sheeting turned edge-on, cutting through the air with less resistance now that they were moving in a steady direction. Slowly, the sway lessened, the load becoming more manageable.
With the worst of the oscillation behind him, Sulu eased the helicopter forward, its blades chopping noisily through the air as he pointed them toward Golden Gate Park.
Golden Gate Park
The Land Rover screeched to a halt in the gravel parking lot, its tires spitting up dust as it slid to a stop. Gillian barely waited for the engine to die before throwing open the door and leaping out. Her feet hit the ground running, dodging a clattering row of garbage cans as she sprinted across the meadow, her breath ragged with urgency. The damp morning mist swirled around her in pale, silvery tendrils, catching the first glimmer of dawn and making the world seem surreal, as if she had stepped into a dream she couldn't wake from.
She came to a skidding stop at the spot where she had last seen Buffy and Kirk, her chest heaving. Her voice, raw and choked with emotion, barely rose above a whisper as she called out into the emptiness, "Buffy!" But the only reply was the persistent, rhythmic thrum of a helicopter in the distance, its racket growing louder as it approached.
Frustration and fury welled up in her, twisting her gut. "Buffy!" she screamed again, her voice breaking through the mist. "Damn you! If you're a fake—if you lied to me!" She spun in a frantic circle, eyes wild, scanning the meadow for any sign of them. But there was nothing. No Buffy. No Kirk. No strange friend. No invisible spaceship hidden among the swirling fog.
Tears of anger stung her eyes, hot and unwelcome, blurring her vision. The betrayal felt worse than being made a fool of. It was the loss of hope—the fragile, desperate belief that she could save George and Gracie. They had promised safety for the humpbacks. She had clung to that promise, forced herself to believe in it, only to feel it slipping through her fingers like smoke. They had lied to her, and now she felt the crushing weight of that realization sinking in.
A sudden blast of wind tore through the meadow, turning her tear-streaked cheeks cold and whipping her hair into a wild frenzy around her face. The helicopter, now much closer, hovered above a landscaped terrace, its rotors chopping through the air like some relentless mechanical beast. Gillian squinted against the downwash and caught sight of its cargo—a massive pane of glass, swaying precariously in the helicopter's harness as it lowered toward a cluster of rhododendrons in full bloom.
Beneath the churning aircraft, a man gestured instructions to the pilot, guiding the heavy glass into position. But as she watched, Gillian's breath caught in her throat. Her heart leapt into her chest.
The man—half of him hung in mid-air, unsupported. From the waist down, he simply didn't exist. It was as if he stood inside an invisible structure, something hidden from view, a trick of the light or the impossible. Her mind raced, connecting the dots.
An invisible structure…
"Buffy!" Gillian cried out, the hope rekindling in her voice as she bolted forward, her heart pounding in her chest. "Buffy, listen to me!" She ran, her legs pumping as she scrambled up the embankment toward the terrace. Her feet crashed through the thick, waxy leaves of the rhododendrons, sending sprays of dew flying into the air. The vibrant pinks and scarlets blurred around her as she plowed through, the flowers brushing her skin, cool and damp. She didn't care. All that mattered now was finding Buffy, making her hear. She had to believe that it wasn't too late—not yet.
Excited and overwhelmed by the sheer impossibility of it all, Gillian scrambled over the terrace's edge without any thought for caution, her feet slipping on the dew-slicked ground. She was too caught up in the frantic momentum of her discovery to notice what was ahead. Then, suddenly, she collided headlong with something solid and unyielding—something that shouldn't be there. The impact knocked her backward, sending her sprawling to the ground. A loud, metallic clang echoed through the air, reverberating against the trees and the terrace like a ghostly bell ringing out from nowhere.
Dazed and breathless, Gillian lay there for a moment, the world around her spinning. Her head throbbed, but more than that, a strange sense of wonder seeped into her. She blinked through the disorientation, her hands reaching out instinctively, feeling for what she had hit. Her fingers grazed something—cold, hard, smooth… a strut. But when she looked, there was nothing there. The strut, solid and real to her touch, was invisible.
Her heart leapt in awe and disbelief. With a gasp, she gripped the strut tighter, wrapping her fingers around it as if it were a lifeline, pulling herself up, her body trembling with the thrill of discovery. She stood, staring in wild wonder at the space where the invisible framework held her. It was real. Tangible. Right in front of her, but unseen to the naked eye.
Above her, the half-visible man continued to guide the enormous acrylic sheet, lowering it slowly into the unseen structure. She watched in wide-eyed amazement as the sheet disappeared inch by inch, vanishing into the invisible ship like some kind of magic trick. The man waved to the helicopter, dismissing it with a final, authoritative gesture. The chopper rose with a roar, spinning away from the scene as it clattered off into the distance. The deafening noise of the propwash faded, leaving the park eerily quiet in its wake, as though the entire world had held its breath.
Gillian's mind raced, a hundred thoughts colliding in her head at once. She looked up at the now-empty sky, then back to the half-invisible man. "Where's Buffy?" she shouted, her voice raw with urgency. Panic clawed at her chest. "Buffy!" she yelled again, louder this time, desperation breaking through. "God, Buffy, I need you!"
The man turned, blinking down at her from his ghostly perch. For a split second, their eyes met—or so she thought. Then, just as quickly, he bent down and vanished completely, disappearing from view as though he had never been there at all.
Gillian clutched the strut even tighter, her knuckles white with the effort. Fear and determination warred within her. 'Buffy won't disappear on me now,' she thought fiercely. 'I won't let her.' Her resolve hardened. Buffy had to be somewhere near. She just had to be. There was no way she would leave—not when everything was at stake.
She stood there, waiting for the man to reappear, her eyes scanning the space where he had been. The seconds stretched out, agonizingly long, but there was no sign of him. No movement. No hint of Buffy. Only silence and emptiness surrounded her.
Gillian's gaze flicked back to the invisible strut she still clung to. A wild thought sparked in her mind—if she couldn't find them, maybe she could climb to them. Her hands slid up, feeling for any handholds or edges that might help her ascend the unseen structure. She imagined scaling the invisible frame, pulling herself hand over hand until she reached the heart of the ship. It was a reckless, desperate idea, but she didn't care. She had to do something.
But just as she steeled herself to try, the strut beneath her fingers began to dissolve. The cold solidity melted away like mist evaporating in the morning sun, slipping out of her grasp. Her fingers clutched at nothingness, and her vision blurred as a strange, tingly sensation washed over her, spreading through her body. It wasn't fear or panic—it was something lighter, more electric, almost euphoric.
The world around her began to fade. The trees, the grass, the dew-kissed flowers of the park, all of it slowly dimmed, like the ending of a dream. The familiar shapes of reality blurred into a hazy, shifting landscape, and before she could make sense of it, the park vanished from her sight entirely.
H.M.S. Bounty
The next thing Gillian knew, she found herself standing in a bright chamber, the light soft yet unearthly, emanating from fixtures of unfamiliar, angular construction. Her eyes blinked, adjusting to the strange glow that filled the room. The walls had a curvature that made the space feel at once vast and enclosed, the proportions subtly off, as though designed by a mind not quite human. Even the colors seemed slightly wrong—brighter, more saturated, yet muted in a way that made her head spin.
'Not strange,' Gillian thought, her breath catching in her throat as the truth settled like a weight on her chest. 'Alien. Alien.' The word echoed through her mind, carrying with it a blend of awe and fear.
She was standing on a small, raised platform, and the residual glow of the energy beam that had transported her was just beginning to fade. Its soft hum dissipated into silence, leaving her in an eerie stillness. In front of her, Buffy Summers stood at a console, her small hands reaching up to controls clearly designed for someone—or something—much larger. The console itself was an odd amalgamation of strange symbols, all glowing softly under Buffy's touch. Some of the buttons had been hastily labeled with bits of plastic, the crude hand-lettering in English a stark contrast to the alien script.
Buffy turned her head slightly, her lips curling into a smirk as she greeted her. "Hello, Alice," she said, her voice carrying a playful warmth despite the surrealness of the moment. "Welcome to Wonderland."
Gillian's breath hitched as she stared at Buffy, still trying to process the impossible. Her mind raced, fragments of disbelief and confirmation colliding in a whirlwind of emotions. She reached up, brushing her tangled hair out of her face, her hand trembling slightly. "It is true," she whispered, her voice barely audible as the reality of the situation sunk in. "It's all true. Everything you and your friend said…"
"Yes," Buffy replied gently, her eyes softening as she watched Gillian. Her empathic ability instantly attuned itself to the swirl of emotions emanating from the woman in front of her—shock, anger, grief, all mingling with a fragile, desperate hope. "Something's wrong, isn't it?" Buffy added, her tone calm but tinged with concern.
Gillian's eyes widened as the realization hit her. "Even that is true, isn't it?" she said, a faint tremor in her voice. "You really can feel my emotions." The notion seemed to both unnerve and fascinate her. The idea that someone else could peer into her inner world, feel her grief and frustration, made her feel exposed, yet oddly understood in a way she hadn't expected.
"Yes," Buffy confirmed with a soft smile, her eyes never leaving Gillian's. There was no need to explain further; the truth was evident between them.
With a shaky breath, Gillian stepped down from the platform. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as though she were trying to ground herself in this bizarre new reality. She cast her gaze around the chamber, drinking in every detail. The alien technology that surrounded her was overwhelming in its unfamiliarity. Symbols she had never seen before glowed faintly on the console, their shapes and curves unlike any human language. But here and there, scraps of plastic with hand-lettered English instructions were stuck haphazardly beside some of the buttons—practical, human improvisation in the midst of an otherworldly environment.
"They're gone, Buffy," Gillian said suddenly, her voice cracking with emotion.
Buffy straightened, the shift in Gillian's tone pulling her back to the present. "Gone?" Buffy repeated, her brow furrowing in concern as she felt the rising wave of sorrow from the woman standing before her.
"Briggs—my boss—sent them away last night. Without telling me." Gillian's voice quivered with anger; her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. "To 'protect' me, damn him! They're in Alaska by now." She spat the words out, her chest tightening as the weight of her loss pressed down on her, as heavy as the vast, alien ship she now stood within. The betrayal stung, cutting deeper than she had expected.
Buffy moved quickly to the intercom, her expression sharpening with urgency. Her fingers flicked the switch, and her voice came out steady, though charged with the tension of the situation. "Jim, I have Gillian here. She's saying George and Gracie are gone. We need to find Pavel now so we can go after them."
The voice from the other end crackled briefly before silence fell, and Gillian, still trying to piece together what was happening, blinked in confusion. "Who or what is Pavel?" she asked, her brow furrowing as she tried to make sense of the new name thrown into the chaos.
"A friend," Buffy answered as she turned back to face her, her voice softening just a little. But the strain in her eyes betrayed the weight she was carrying. "We had multiple things going on. We had to build a tank to hold George and Gracie, make sure they were safe for the journey. But we also had to fix an engineering problem—an urgent one. In the process of handling that, Pavel, our friend, was the only one who didn't make it back. We believe he's likely been captured."
Gillian was still processing Buffy's words, the enormity of the situation, when the doors to the transport chamber slid open with a quiet hiss. Dawn, Kirk, and Spock entered the room, the trio's presence immediately commanding attention. Dawn's face, though calm, mirrored the urgency of the moment, her eyes locking onto Buffy with a silent question.
"Gillian," Buffy began, her tone softening as she gestured toward the new arrivals, "I would like you to meet someone." She motioned toward Dawn with a gentle smile that broke through the tension. "This is my wife, Dawn."
For a moment, Gillian's mind stumbled over the word, her confusion evident as she tried to process the revelation amidst everything else. "Wife?" she repeated, the disbelief in her voice clear. It wasn't just the shock of hearing it—it was the collision of worlds, of different times, that left her struggling to understand.
Buffy, recognizing the hesitation in Gillian's voice, took a step closer, her expression patient and understanding. "In this time," Buffy explained gently, "you know that gay relationships are extremely frowned upon. Same-sex marriage is still a distant dream. But around twenty years from now, things will start to change. Same-sex marriage will be legalized in California. And by the time we're from, no one cares at all. It's perfectly accepted for two women—or two men—to be married."
Gillian's gaze flicked between Buffy and Dawn, trying to absorb this glimpse of a future so vastly different from the world she knew. She saw the love in the way Buffy and Dawn looked at each other, a quiet but unmistakable connection that spoke louder than any words. And then Kirk's voice interrupted her thoughts.
"I had the honor of presiding over their wedding ceremony myself," Kirk said with a smile that briefly cut through the tension in the room. His pride was evident, a reflection of how far the world would come.
Before the moment could sink in fully, Dawn's attention snapped back to Buffy, the urgency returning as she shared the news that had weighed on her. "Uhura and I found Chekov," Dawn said, her voice steady but tinged with the dread that comes with delivering bad news. "He's at Mercy Hospital. And he's about to go into surgery."
Gillian's face paled as recognition hit her. "That's in the Mission District," she said, her tone hushed.
"They said his condition's critical," Dawn continued, her expression tight with worry. "He isn't expected to survive."
Gillian reached out to Buffy, feeling a surge of sympathy wash over her. In the span of a single day, she had come to love this blonde woman—not in a romantic sense, but as a friend, as a sister. The bond felt instant and unbreakable, forged in the fires of shared peril and hope.
"We have to go after him," said Buffy, her voice resolute, the determination shining in her eyes.
"I have to agree with Buffy," said Dawn, her expression mirroring the urgency that filled the air.
"What do you think, Spock?" Kirk asked, turning his gaze toward the Vulcan, who stood nearby, his demeanor calm and composed.
Spock raised one eyebrow, a gesture that spoke volumes. In that moment, Gillian felt a flicker of amusement; she understood now why she had never encountered anyone quite like him. The sensation was strange yet exhilarating, almost irrational—here she was, standing face to face with a being from another planet, an alien in every sense of the word.
"Spock?" Kirk prompted again; his voice edged with impatience.
"As you requested, Admiral," Spock replied, his tone steady. "I am thinking." He continued to ponder, his face revealing no hint of emotion, a mask of logical thought. "Commander Chekov is a perfectly normal human being of Earth stock. Only the most detailed autopsy imaginable might hint that he is not from this time. His death here would have only the slightest possible chance of affecting the present or the future."
Kirk's brow furrowed at the implications. "You think we should find the whales, return home… and leave Pavel to die?" he asked, incredulity creeping into his voice.
"No, Admiral," Spock said, the words crisp and clear. "I suggest that Commander and Captain Summers are correct. We must help Commander Chekov."
"Is that the logical thing to do, Spock?" Buffy wondered, her curiosity piqued by the Vulcan's reasoning.
"No, Commander," Spock replied without hesitation. "But I believe you would call it the human thing to do."
In that instant, Gillian felt a warmth bloom within her, as if a gentler expression might soften his usually severe and ascetic features. This was practically the first thing she had heard Mr. Spock say that did not catch her off guard. Yet, she noted with surprise that Kirk, Buffy, and Dawn looked momentarily taken aback by their friend's unexpected sentiment.
"Right," Kirk said abruptly, refocusing the group's energy. He turned to Gillian, his intensity palpable. "Will you help us?"
"Sure," she responded, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside her. "But how?"
Dawn stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with determination. "For one thing," she said, "we'll need to look like physicians."
Mercy Hospital
This time, Gillian paid careful attention to the transporter beam, savoring the sensation of being lifted, stirred around, and placed somewhere else entirely. It filled her with a profound sense of astonishment and joy, as if she were part of some grand adventure. When she finally solidified, a cloak of darkness enveloped her, and she instinctively reached out to navigate her surroundings. Her fingers brushed against the cool, solid wall before finding the door and the familiar contour of the light switch. With a decisive flick, she illuminated the space.
'Bingo!' Gillian thought, her heart racing with excitement. She had asked Mr. Scott to try to place them within a small, deserted cubicle, and he had truly delivered: not only had they materialized in a closet, but it was a storage room filled with linens, lab coats, and scrub suits, an unexpected treasure trove for their mission.
Her curiosity piqued, she flipped through a stack of scrubs, examining the vibrant colors and various patterns. Did these things come in sizes, or was it a one-size-fits-all situation? She recalled that stolen hospital scrubs had enjoyed a brief moment of fashion popularity during her graduate school days, but she had never participated in that trend. Nor had she ever had a medical student boyfriend to "borrow" one for her. All she knew was that they could be worn inside out or right side out, a detail that struck her as amusing now.
Suddenly, the doorknob rattled, sending a jolt of adrenaline through her. Instinctively, Gillian grabbed Kirk, pulling him toward her, her hand finding its way to the back of his neck. In a spontaneous act of boldness, she kissed him full on the lips, her heart racing in the thrill of the moment.
Buffy, sharing the spontaneity, smiled as she leaned in to kiss Dawn, a look of mischief dancing in her eyes.
The door swung open, and they maintained their pretense, fully engrossed in their embraces.
"Perverts," a cheerful voice chimed, followed by a playful tsk and a chuckle. The door swung closed again, leaving them in the shared warmth of the moment.
Gillian let go of Kirk, a mix of exhilaration and embarrassment bubbling inside her as Buffy and Dawn broke their own kiss. "Um," she stammered, her cheeks flushing. "Sorry."
"No apologies necessary," Kirk replied, flustered yet clearly enjoying the unexpected turn of events.
After a brief moment of gathering themselves, all attired in their makeshift surgeons' garb, they cautiously opened the door and peered into the corridor beyond. The space was bustling with activity, but for now, it seemed clear.
"All clear," Kirk announced, scanning the area for any signs of danger.
"Teams of two," said Buffy decisively. "It'll be faster."
"Good idea, Buffy," Kirk replied, nodding in agreement as they stepped out of the storage closet, the adrenaline of their mission surging through them. "Dr. Taylor and I'll check this way. You and Dawn try down there."
Buffy and Dawn strode confidently down the sterile hallway, their footsteps echoing softly against the tiled floor. They exchanged nods with the staff they passed, their familiarity palpable. To the onlookers, it seemed as if they belonged here, woven seamlessly into the fabric of this bustling medical environment. The warmth of their smiles was returned in kind, reinforcing a sense of connection that only deepened their resolve.
As they moved further along, they came across a frail and elderly patient lying on a gurney just outside a room filled with esoteric equipment that hummed with life. The room beyond glowed with monitors and machines, each one a testament to advanced technology. They paused by the gurney, taking a moment to get their bearings in this unfamiliar setting.
"Doctor…" the frail patient murmured, her voice barely rising above a whisper. Her complexion was pale, almost ashen, and her hands trembled slightly. A large black bruise had spread ominously around a vein cut-down on the back of her left hand, an unsettling reminder of her fragile state.
"We can't help her," Buffy thought toward Dawn, her heart heavy with the weight of the situation. "We don't know how helping her could change the timeline."
"Buffy, really? You telling me you don't want to help this woman?" Dawn shot back, her voice tinged with disbelief and urgency.
Buffy sighed; the internal struggle evident in her expression. After a moment, she reluctantly nodded, her gaze softening as she turned toward the woman. "What's wrong?" she asked, her voice gentle and inviting.
"Kidney," the patient replied, her eyes clouded with resignation as she stared into the room beyond, filled with machines that seemed to mock her plight. "Dialysis…"
"It's easily treatable, it will be a medical miracle as far as they are concerned though," Dawn thought toward Buffy, the empathy in her mental voice sparking a flicker of hope.
Buffy nodded reluctantly, the conflict in her heart battling against her innate desire to help. They both understood the risks, but the sight of the woman's suffering was hard to ignore.
Dawn reached into her bag, retrieving a lozenge and slipping it into the patient's mouth with careful precision. "Here. Swallow one of these," she instructed gently. It was a small act, a flicker of compassion in a world filled with uncertainty.
As she and Buffy strolled away, the weight of their decision lingered in the air.
It was then that they spotted Kirk gesturing to them from down the hall, his urgency cutting through the chaos around them. Without a moment's hesitation, they hurried to join him and Gillian, their hearts racing with anticipation and fear.
"They're holding Chekov in a security corridor one flight up," Kirk said, his voice steady but laced with concern. "His condition's still critical. Skull fracture—they're about to operate."
Gillian caught the look that passed between Buffy and Dawn, an unspoken communication thick with emotion. Memories rushed back to her—Buffy had mentioned that her mother had died from an aneurysm. The implication hit hard: this woman's fate was intricately tied to the fragility of life itself. It meant that the surgery they were about to undertake could be as perilous as it was necessary, filled with the risk of complications that could mirror Buffy's own painful history.
"Buffy, Dawn?" Kirk's voice cut through her thoughts as he looked intently at the two women, seeking their insight.
"That's what led to Mom dying, Jim," Dawn said, her voice tight with the weight of memories. "They drilled into her head to remove the tumor. We need to move fast or Pavel may not live, regardless of whether he survives the surgery." The urgency in her words was palpable, her gaze fierce and resolute.
Nearby, an empty gurney stood waiting, a stark reminder of the lives it had carried. Buffy wasted no time; she grabbed it with determination. "Come on." With a swift motion, she pushed the gurney into a vacant room, throwing back the sheet with a flourish. The starkness of the sterile environment was both comforting and chilling, a backdrop for the life-and-death stakes at play.
"Give us a couple of those masks," she instructed Gillian, her tone brisk and commanding. "And jump up here."
Gillian handed the masks to Buffy, Dawn, and Kirk, her brows knitting together in confusion. "Wait a minute," she said, her voice tinged with incredulity. "How come I have to be the patient and you guys get to be the doctors?"
"It doesn't matter, either way," Dawn said firmly, her focus unwavering. "Someone get on."
"I'll do it," Buffy declared, determination radiating from her as she jumped onto the gurney, covering herself with the sheet.
A moment later, Dawn and Kirk rolled the gurney onto the elevator, the metallic doors sliding shut behind them with a soft but final thud. Gillian followed closely, her heart pounding with adrenaline, each second feeling more urgent than the last. Buffy lay still beneath the sheet, her composure hiding the intensity of the situation. Inside the elevator, two other individuals remained engrossed in their own world, their conversation swirling around the complexities of a patient's chemotherapy regimen and the myriad side effects that could ensue. Their voices faded into the background, a reminder of normalcy amid the chaos that surrounded Dawn and her team.
As the elevator doors opened with a faint ding, Kirk and Gillian stepped out into the brightly lit corridor, its sterile atmosphere thick with the scent of antiseptic. Dawn followed, pushing the gurney with focused determination, her eyes darting ahead to the double doors leading to the operating wing.
Two police officers stood guard, their expressions stoic as they blocked the entrance, seemingly oblivious to the urgency that radiated from Dawn. "Out of the way," she commanded, her tone firm and unyielding.
Neither officer moved, their posture a solid wall against her intent.
"Buffy, get their attention," Dawn thought urgently, desperation seeping into her mental plea. "Make it sound like you are in serious distress."
Buffy responded with a moan, a sound that was both haunting and convincing. It cut through the air like a knife, drawing the officers' attention momentarily.
"Sorry, doctor—" one of the police officers said, his voice tinged with irritation. But as Buffy moaned again, his irritation was quickly replaced by concern. "—we have strict orders—" He had to raise his voice to be heard over Buffy's anguished groaning, his eyes darting down to her with a hint of distress.
"This patient has immediate postprandial upper abdominal distension!" Dawn exclaimed, her voice cutting through the tension like a lifeline. The urgency in her tone was palpable, practically vibrating in the air around them. "Do you want an acute case on your hands?"
The two officers exchanged glances, uncertainty flickering in their eyes as Buffy let out a loud wail that echoed down the corridor. It was a cry that demanded attention, a primal sound that cut through the sterile atmosphere like a siren.
Seizing the moment, Dawn pushed the gurney boldly between the two officers, the wheels rolling smoothly over the polished floor. The officers, caught off guard, instinctively parted to allow the gurney through, their authority momentarily overridden by the urgency of the situation.
As the doors to the operating room swung open, a wave of relief washed over Kirk. He blew out his breath, a mix of anxiety and tension dissipating as he stepped into the bright, fluorescent-lit room.
"What did you say Buffy was getting?" Jim asked Dawn, glancing back toward the gurney where Buffy had been lying.
"Cramps," Dawn replied, her voice steady despite the chaos surrounding them.
"It's not even my time of the month, Dawn," Buffy retorted, sitting up and throwing off the sheet with an exaggerated flourish. The light caught her hair, and for a fleeting moment, she looked almost comical in her defiance.
"I know that," said Dawn, rolling her eyes at Buffy's antics.
Jim, ever the practical one, tossed Buffy a surgical mask, which she caught with ease. They quickly pulled their masks over their faces, the fabric providing a semblance of anonymity as they stepped into the heart of the operating room.
Chekov lay unconscious on the operating table, his pale face contrasting starkly against the gleaming metal of the surgical instruments surrounding him. Monitors beeped rhythmically, their sounds underscoring the gravity of the situation, each beep a reminder of the life hanging in the balance.
A young doctor, focused and intent, looked up from his examination of Chekov. He frowned, his brow furrowing with confusion. "Who are you? Dr. Adams is supposed to assist me."
"We're just—observing," Dawn said, her voice carrying an air of authority despite the chaotic circumstances.
"Nobody said anything to me about observers," the doctor said, his irritation palpable as he crossed his arms, blocking their path with a protective stance. His voice dripped with skepticism, but Dawn, undeterred, moved purposefully to Chekov's side. She retrieved her tricorder from her bag, its sleek design a stark contrast to the sterile environment of the operating room.
Ignoring the doctor's protest, she passed the tricorder over Chekov's still, pale form. The soft hum of the device filled the space, a sound that felt both foreign and familiar, a bridge between worlds.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" the young doctor demanded, his tone sharper now, underscored by a sense of authority.
"Reading the patient's vital signs," Dawn replied, her focus unwavering. She could feel the weight of the situation pressing down on her, the urgency fueling her determination.
"It's an experimental device, doctor," Kirk interjected quickly, hoping to diffuse the mounting tension with a hint of authority in his voice.
"Experimental!" the doctor echoed, incredulity flaring in his eyes. "You're not doing any experiments on my patients—even one who's in custody!"
Dawn, her patience thinning, glanced at the monitor readings. "Tearing of the middle meningeal artery," she stated, her voice steady despite the heat of the confrontation.
The young doctor shot back, "What's your degree in? Dentistry?"
"No," Dawn replied, holding her ground. "I do hold several degrees, one of which is in medicine, another in psychology, another in engineering…"
"Later," said Buffy, sensing the need to redirect the focus before things escalated further.
Dawn nodded, her gaze still locked on the young doctor, her brow furrowing in concentration. "How do you explain slowing pulse, low respiratory rate, and coma?"
"Funduscopic examination—" the doctor began, his tone dripping with the confidence of someone who believed he had the upper hand.
"Funduscopic examination is unrevealing in these cases!" Dawn interjected, her voice sharp and filled with urgency. The tension in the room crackled, a palpable reminder of the stakes they faced. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, driven by both the gravity of Chekov's condition and the condescension emanating from the young doctor, who responded with a patronizing smile.
"A simple evacuation of the expanding epidural hematoma will relieve the pressure," he declared, as if he were explaining a basic principle to a child, the arrogance grating against Dawn's resolve.
"Jim," said Dawn, her eyes narrowing as she shot a glance at Kirk. "Get rid of them, before I stun them into silence." Her words hung in the air, a warning that her patience was wearing thin.
Kirk took a breath, his expression serious as he waved his phaser. "If you don't mind," he said, motioning toward the door with authority. The hospital staff, oblivious to the underlying tension, shuffled inside, and once the door was closed, Kirk expertly slagged the lock with his phaser, a quiet but decisive action that fortified their temporary sanctuary.
"Dawn?" said Buffy, her voice laced with concern.
Dawn wasted no time. She activated the tissue regeneration program, passing her tricorder over Chekov again, her hands steady despite the chaos around them. "Come on, Pavel," she urged, her heart racing as she watched Chekov's eyelids flicker, his hands twitching slightly in response to the burgeoning energy within him. "He's coming around," she said, hope threading through her words. "Pavel, can you hear me? Pavel! Give me your name and rank!"
"Chekov, Pavel A.," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Rank…" He smiled faintly, lost in the hazy remnants of unconsciousness. "Admiral…"
Buffy, Dawn, and Kirk exchanged grins, a fleeting moment of joy amidst the tension.
"Don't you guys have any enlisted types?" Gillian asked, a note of curiosity breaking through the gravity of the moment.
"There are some," Buffy replied with a teasing glint in her eye. "Pavel, though, happens to be a Commander."
Chekov opened his eyes, the confusion of awakening gradually giving way to recognition as he sat up with Kirk's steadying help. He glanced around the room, his brow furrowing as he tried to gather his bearings. "Dawn…?"
"Hi, Pavel," Dawn replied, her voice warm and reassuring, a lifeline in the storm of uncertainty surrounding them.
Kirk, his mind already racing with the urgency of their situation, drew out his communicator. He was poised to call Scott and arrange for their extraction when Buffy elbowed him sharply, her eyes wide with warning as she gestured toward the slagged door. The frantic voice of the young doctor echoed from the window, the panic evident in his tone.
"Let me out of here!" the doctor yelled, his frustration a stark contrast to the urgency of their escape.
"Let's go," Kirk said decisively, shifting his focus back to Chekov. He helped the Commander onto the gurney, quickly throwing a surgical drape over him to disguise their escape. With determination, he pushed the gurney through the double doors and past the two policemen stationed outside, their backs turned, oblivious to the chaos behind them.
"How's the patient?" one of the officers asked, glancing up just as they rushed past.
"He's going to make it!" Jim exclaimed, urgency lacing his voice as he hurried on without breaking stride, his eyes fixed ahead.
Dawn, Buffy, and Gillian trailed closely behind, their hearts pounding with the thrill of the chase and the hope of freedom. As they rounded the corner, a wave of relief washed over them; it seemed they might actually get away clean.
"He?" one of the officers remarked, a frown creasing his forehead as he processed the unfolding scene. "They went in with a she!"
"One little mistake!" Kirk snapped, disgust threading through his tone. Without hesitation, he broke into a sprint, pushing the gurney before him with all his strength, the sound of their hurried footsteps echoing down the corridor as the urgency of their escape intensified.
A moment later, the loudspeakers erupted with piercing alarms that shattered the tense silence. Kirk cursed under his breath, the sound a mixture of frustration and urgency. At an intersection, he turned sharply, catching a glimpse of dark uniforms through the windows of a set of doors. Panic surged through him; he slid to a halt, spun the gurney around, and headed in the opposite direction. Buffy, Dawn, and Gillian dodged and followed closely as he pelted down the newly chosen corridor, adrenaline fueling their flight.
"Can't you do something about them?" Gillian gasped, glancing at Buffy and gesturing toward the chaos behind them.
"Showing you can be dismissed easily as no one would believe you," Buffy replied, her voice steady despite the turmoil. "Showing a hospital full of people who can corroborate what they saw—that's not going to be dismissed as easily." The weight of her words hung in the air, a reminder of the stakes they were navigating.
As they reached the next set of doors, Kirk slowed, dragging the gurney to a more manageable pace before pushing it through. Buffy, Dawn, and Gillian followed sedately, their hearts still racing from the close call.
Before them, an elderly woman sat smiling in a wheelchair, her face radiating warmth and kindness. Two doctors conferred intently just behind her, their voices low and serious. As Kirk and the others passed by, one doctor turned to the other, a hint of incredulity in his tone. "So? How do you explain it?"
"According to the CAT scan," the other replied, "she's growing a new kidney!" The words hung in the air, a testament to the miracles that could happen even in the direst of situations.
Kirk glanced back at Dawn, realization dawning. He understood now what she had done, the quiet act of compassion that had set this remarkable change in motion.
The elderly woman noticed Dawn, her eyes sparkling with gratitude. She reached out, grasping Dawn's hand and holding it tightly. "Doctor, thank you."
"You're welcome," Dawn answered, her voice soft yet sincere, a smile spreading across her face as she felt the warmth of the woman's appreciation.
he doors burst open behind them, a cacophony of shouts and footsteps echoing through the hallway as hospital security and police officers surged into the corridor. The sheer force of their arrival sent a jolt of adrenaline coursing through Jim, who plunged into a run, his heart racing.
"Freeze! Stop, or I'll—" The commanding voice cut itself off, realization dawning that the situation had escalated beyond simple enforcement.
They trusted that nobody would be foolish enough to shoot in a hallway crowded with innocent bystanders, yet an instinctive fear nagged at the back of their minds. As they rounded a corner and passed into a deserted corridor, that fear morphed into urgency—the sound of footsteps grew louder, and their pursuers began to close in.
Still dazed and a bit groggy, Chekov raised his head, his eyes unfocused and confused. Kirk, sensing the vulnerability, reached out and gently pushed him back down, whispering reassurance. They were only twenty meters from the elevator; its doors suddenly opened, a beacon of hope amidst the chaos.
But then, out of nowhere, a guard stepped out of a cross-corridor, blocking their way with a stern expression. Kirk didn't even think twice. Using the gurney like a battering ram, he flung himself at the guard, who backed up fast and stumbled in surprise. Jim seized the moment and plunged into the elevator, urgency propelling him forward.
Buffy, Dawn, and Gillian piled in after him, their breaths quick and frantic. Dawn instinctively pushed a button for a floor, but as soon as the elevator began to move, she swiftly hit the emergency stop. "That should buy us a little time," she said, her voice laced with tension. "They will eventually get the doors open. Get us out of here, Jim."
Kirk pulled out his communicator, urgency etched on his face. "Scotty, get us out of here!"
