Chapter Text
Within and Without
An original ST:TOS fanfic
Louise B
The day the wounded arrive is the day she remembers why she's decided to leave Starfleet.
It starts slow. Just two of them -- human, bleeding heavily, unconscious. Silver incandescence solidifying on the sickbay floor. She almost trips over them. They're holding each other. Hands clutching clothes, legs intertwined. She can't see their faces. Maybe that's just as well.
Over the shriek of the red alert Chapel shouts for Doctor McCoy, for Nurse Tokura. But as they come running, there's another transport behind her. This time it's an Andorian, blue fluid pooling on the floor as soon as his form stabilises. He's conscious and groaning -- reaching up, fingers grasping the edge of the biobed, eyes desperate.
The eyes. They're the last of her clear memories.
Because before Doctor McCoy can even finish his rant to the bridge about what the hell is going on, and why hasn't he been warned about casualties, and who are these folks anyway 'cos they sure as hell aren't Starfleet, there are three more. Shimmering bundles appearing in corners, under biobeds, curled in foetal positions, silent.
They don't even have time to assess their condition before she hears the shouting from the corridor. And when she sticks her head through the doors – well, that's when the thinking has to stop. Action is all that matters now. She can't even count the bodies. And this is worse. Because the arrival of the children has started. And so has the screaming.
-oOo-
"Spock!"
"Vessel is the colony ship SS Demeter. In transport orbit around Deneb III. Ship's manifest... logged as 140 colonists, 40 crew."
When Kirk kills the bridge klaxon he can hear the reports flooding in from every deck. "What the hell's going on over there?"
"Unclear at the present time, Captain. Life signs are clustered around every transporter station."
"Uhura?"
"It's chaos, sir. The distress call is on an automatic loop. I am unable to open a channel to the Demeter bridge."
"Keep trying, Lieutenant."
The comms unit in the arm of his chair whistles. "Bridge."
"Jim, you've got to stop this." The call from sickbay sounds panicked. He can't remember ever hearing Bones sound panicked, not in his own sickbay. "They're still coming. Dozens of them. We can't possibly.-- the voice is suddenly muffled. "Yeah, I'll be right there. Use the respirator! Jim, you've got to raise the shields. We're not designed to-- Oh goddammit! Five more. Raise the blasted shields, Jim. We'll send medical teams over to them. We need triage." And he's gone.
Kirk looks over to his science officer. "Analysis, Mr. Spock."
"Insufficient data for full analysis. However, judging by the type and extent of injuries now being reported, it would seem weapons are continuing to be deployed by an unknown force and this is a still developing scenario. I submit that it is not possible to implement Doctor McCoy's triage suggestion on the colony ship at the current time."
"Agreed." He thumbs the comms button. "Sorry, Bones. I'm not raising the shields. These people need our help. They're dying over there."
The voice is shouted, across a distance. "They're dying over here too, Jim. We need help."
"Hang in there, Doctor. Uhura. Open a channel -- ship wide comms."
"Go ahead, Captain."
"Attention all hands. This is a medical emergency. We have become a hospital ship. An unknown number of civilian casualties have transferred from the colony ship to the Enterprise. All personnel with level 2 medical training are to report to deck five. Immediately. Repeat, this is a medical emergency."
He's on his feet, heading for the turbo lift, almost before his finger has left the switch.
"Mr. Spock, you're with me. Mr. Sulu, you have the con. Keep her within transport range. And keep sensors on long range scan for any sign of approaching vessels."
"Aye, aye, Captain."
-oOo-
When ancient seafaring ships fought battles the decks would become slippery with blood. They used to scatter sand to give the sailors traction as they fought to reload the cannons. Starships don't carry sand. But right now, on deck 5, that looks like an oversight.
Why is he thinking about sand? Because otherwise he'd have to think about the little girl at his feet. She's about five, reaching up, trying to stand, trying to say something he can't hear above the cacophony echoing round the corridor. The bass notes are the groans of the wounded, with a treble of screams and a percussion of shouted orders from medics and crew.
He bends down. He still can't hear her as she whispers in his ear. Is that a word? A sigh? But then she's sliding down in a dead faint, so slowly it's not hard to catch her. She's so light he can barely feel her in his arms as he steps over the nearest prone casualty and carries her into sickbay. Where he stands transfixed at the door. This isn't sickbay, or not a sickbay he recognises.
Every surface is covered in bodies. Not just the biobeds, nor the counters swept clear of medical instruments, but the floor -- a shifting sea of muted fabrics and sprawled limbs and seeping fluid. And in the middle of it all is McCoy, crouching over a woman dressed in the sombre brown coveralls of a colonist. She's barely able to lift her head from the floor, eyes wild. And then she's pointing, finger shaking, mouth stretched in a soundless scream. Pointing at him? No, pointing at the man in red behind him.
The finger jabs again. And now she's making sounds. The words are hissed not spoken. "Starfleet scum. Redshirts." And she's screaming, screaming abuse until the hiss of the hypospray hushes her to silence.
-oOo-
"Don't keep telling me what we don't know, Spock. What DO we know?"
If the Enterprise's First Officer is offended by the frustration in his Captain's voice he does not let it show. The Captain's first instinct is to action. That they are here, in the briefing room, rather than already beaming aboard the colony ship is a tribute to the persuasive power of Vulcan logic.
"Deneb III colony was established some 27 months ago. Starfleet appointed Commander Rawlson as Commander in chief. He brought with him a specially selected team of Starfleet specialists and civilian engineers. Conditions on Deneb are known to be...challenging. Therefore--"
"Wait a minute," Kirk interrupts. "Did you say Rawlson?"
"Correct, Captain. Paul Rawlson. Are you familiar with the Commander?"
Kirk frowns. "I'm not sure. There’s something..." He looks down at his hands clasped tight and white in front of him on the briefing room table. "It'll come to me. Carry on... What about the colony ship?"
Spock glances back at the padd notes he does not need. It is unlike the captain to forget a name. But the last few weeks have been...difficult.
"Colony ship SS Demeter was diverted here by the Federation when the latest Romulan incursion made their original destination untenable. It seems to have been a somewhat hasty decision. The ship's communication log shows several attempts by Commander Rawlson to dissuade the Demeter from approaching Deneb III. It would appear they were not ready to receive visitors. After some twenty-six weeks in transit, however, the colonists were apparently unwilling to take no for an answer."
"So who's on board the ship now?"
"No-one, Captain."
"No-one?"
"We can detect no life signs. Unfortunately there are fifteen bodies on board, most in the area of the transporter stations. Those colonists and crew who are conscious report they lost control of the bridge and were attacked within minutes of attaining orbit but their reports are confused. Those who survived abandoned ship via emergency transport. I submit it is an indication of extreme panic that they would attempt such a risky manoeuvre. Seventy-two are now aboard the Enterprise. The remainder chose to beam down to the planet surface. Their condition is unknown but it would appear they were followed. Whoever, or whatever, attacked them is no longer on board. We have been unable to contact Commander Rawlson or any of his team."
"So before they went dark, what reports were we getting from Deneb III?"
Spock flicks back through the log records. "Some grumbles about supplies. No reports of significant problems. However, the last few transmissions have been incomplete and contained corrupted data. And they were overdue for inspection as you know."
Kirk nods. The Enterprise had been scheduled to visit the fledgling colony some four months earlier. They had been delayed.
No-one at Starfleet Command had expected the skirmishes with the Bandi rebels to develop into a full blown diplomatic crisis. Or that once the crisis was underway and hostilities declared rebel tactics would include the distinctly unoriginal approach of taking hostages. Included among those taken captive, for several weeks, was the Enterprise's Captain.
Starfleet Command has an excuse. They are half a galaxy away and their officers pilot desks not starships. That no-one on board the Enterprise had predicted that outcome, given the known tensions in the Bandi system, continues to trigger an inner disturbance in the usually ordered thinking of the ship's First Officer; a circular pattern of repetitive reflection which a non-Vulcan might have termed guilt, but which he prefers to think of as a continuing re-evaluation of faulty logic.
It could have been worse. As far as Spock can ascertain, a prolonged period in solitary confinement on rough rations has done little to dent the Captain's habitual self-assurance. Only yesterday he brushed off McCoy's attempt to run his psyche evaluation with a joke about recommending a spell of R and R at Bandi expense to Starfleet as a sure-fire remedy for any harried starship captain with a few pounds to lose.
Yet the Vulcan remains uneasy. It is his experience that the Captain does not fare well when faced with prolonged periods for introspection.
Spock looks up at the expectant faces around the table and realises he has paused too long.
"As I was saying, conditions on Deneb III are sub-optimal for a colony. The average temperature of the northern continent is 229 degrees kelvin making it uninhabitable under current Federation criteria. While the southern archipelago is reportedly rich in minerals, poor quality soils will need substantial intervention before they can sustain agriculture. In addition the climate is subject to erratic weather patterns. The team selected to accompany Commander Rawlson are experts in their field. Olson - medical. Chang -- terraformer. Pettigrew -- hostile permaculture...."
As he lists Starfleet personnel, the assembled officers in the briefing room react with approval. These are names they recognise; the authors of papers that are required reading at the Academy.
Yet Spock is aware he does not have his Captain's full attention. Kirk sits quietly, head slightly bowed towards the screen in front of him. There is a smear of blood on his left sleeve. Spock sees Kirk notice it, sees him rotate the offending gold cuff so it rests out of sight against the table. And Spock notices something else. The tip of Kirk's right index finger is tapping his thumb under the table. The movement is tiny. Almost a tic and almost imperceptible to anyone except a Vulcan First Officer who prides himself on taking note of everything that might indicate his Captain's current state of mind.
Suddenly Spock is quite sure he does not want the command team to notice their Captain's distraction. He has reached the end of his list of known facts. At this point it is customary for Kirk to ask for thoughts from his senior officers. This is the Captain’s modus operandi; to take soundings from the group, to gather as many disparate opinions as exist, and then to make his decision. As a command approach it is popular with his officers. But Kirk is staring at his screen. Spock clears his throat and says
"Your thoughts, gentlemen."
McCoy, blood-stained and weary, is the first to react to this break in Enterprise custom and practice. He seems about to object but then looks across the table at his CO. For all his reputation for swear first, think later, Spock has found the ship's doctor to be surprisingly astute at picking up signals, particularly when those signals' point source is Jim Kirk. With a swift glance across the table at the bowed head in command gold the doctor makes a decision and swivels his chair to address the Vulcan.
"I'll give you my thoughts, Spock, for what they're worth -- there was a psychopath on the loose over there. Possibly a whole damn army of psychopaths. The injuries we're treating aren't collateral damage. We're not talking about a few civilians caught in the cross fire here. Those people were targeted. Some of 'em have been tortured."
Security chief Giotto sits up at that. "Tortured? Who by?" Kirk too, lifts his head.
McCoy purses his lips. "Well, that's what I can't figure." He stops, reluctant to say what must be said. There is almost apology in the look he gives his CO. "You heard that woman. And she's not the only one screaming blue murder any time anyone from security or engineering shows up. The evidence is right there in front of us. Whoever's done this they're wearing Starfleet uniforms."
-oOo-
Before McCoy's words have time to fully register with the room there's a whistle from the comms unit.
"Captain. We're picking up a signal from the planet surface. It's weak but I think I can filter out most of the interference."
"Put it straight through here, Uhura."
The image that flickers on the briefing room screen is clouded and grey and at first Spock thinks the communication officer's filters are failing. Then he realises. There is rain on the lens of the device transmitting from the surface; moisture beading and blurring the lines of half-finished buildings silhouetted against a muddy green sky. The unit speakers fill the briefing room with the rasping breath of the holder of the vidcom unit and then a voice, speaking Standard:
"Goddammit. Miller to unit 3. Come in unit 3." The screen tips and darkens. A face appears, looking down as if to adjust the controls. "Blast it to hell. All units...if you can hear me, respond."
Kirk snaps forward to thumb open the channel. "Miller. This is James Kirk of the USS Enterprise. Can you read me?"
There's a hiss of static, but Spock's acute hearing picks up a sound behind the hiss, an indrawn breath.
"Kirk? What the--? Captain Kirk? From the Enterprise?"
"Affirmative. What is your position?"
Spock's fingers are already flying over his padd, calling up the colony datafile. He leans over to show Kirk the highlighted result.
Miller, Marcus J.
Rank: Lieutenant.
Currently assigned: Security, Deneb III.
Kirk nods.
"Lieutenant Miller, I repeat, what is your position? Are you in danger? Are there others with you?"
The voice is breathless. It's hard to tell whether its owner has been running or is simply suffering a bad case of hero worship. "The Captain Kirk. That picture..."
Spock raises an eyebrow as he keys in the code to proxy in to his science station. Uhura is already ahead of him, triangulating the signal between the vidcom, the bounce point and the Enterprise and feeding the data to his screen. The longer they can keep the two way communication going the more chance they have of pinpointing the source.
Kirk knows this. Spock does not even have to look up from his screen to sense they are working in tandem. Kirk leans closer to the unit's microphone.
"Miller. Can you clarify what's going on down there? Report, Lieutenant."
The screen darkens as a red sleeve wipes the dripping lens. The man at the other end can be seen in profile, looking right and left.
"Hold on a moment, Enterprise. It's not safe. Let me just--"
The image tips crazily and the view changes to one of muddy boots and blurred fabric. When it steadies, it is apparent Miller has taken shelter. He is inside but the building's power seems to be off; the Lieutenant's face is indistinct and unfocused in the gloom. He is squatting beside a console. Or what used to be a console before a phaser blast reduced it to a crumpled mass of fused polymer.
"Are you still there, Enterprise?" The voice is low and strained. And young. He sounds very young.
Kirk softens his tone. "We're still here, Miller. What can you tell us? Are you alone?"
The head swivels. "I think so, sir. When the colonists started arriving it was chaos. Three of us took a chance. We got away. But they..." The voice sinks to a whisper. "They're not responding on the secure channel. I don't think they made it. And the others... they're looking for me. I can hear them."
There's terror there now, real terror, and the shakiness of the image has nothing to do with the quality of the signal. Kirk reaches forward with both hands, as if holding the edges of the screen will steady a trembling hand and hold this young man together.
"Who's looking for you, Miller? Has there been an invasion?"
"No... no, sir. No invasion." The head turns again, craning around the corner of the console and listening, before he continues. "I didn't understand. None of us did. Not at first. They looked so... well, it's hard to tell, sir. But then people started disappearing. And we realised... It's like part of you is missing."
Spock can sense Kirk's frustration. These disjointed sentences make no sense. What Kirk needs is a succinct, informative briefing from a witness to whatever catastrophe has befallen the colony below. What he's getting is a response that's close to hysteria. Kirk keeps his tone even, offering measured reassurance even as his grip on the screen tightens.
"Lieutenant Miller. Marcus. You need to hold on, son."
Spock has seen his Captain steady an entire starship with this voice. The young man on the other end of the comm link draws a shuddering breath and, nods, wiping his sleeve across his nose. It's an oddly childlike gesture.
Kirk continues, "We're sending help. If you can just give us the co-ordinates--"
"No!" The whisper has turned to an almost shout. "No -- you mustn't. Enterprise. Listen to me. Don't use the transporter. For god's sake...don't--"Then Miller's eyes widen and his face goes rigid. And now the briefing room can hear what he's hearing. Phaser fire. Drawing closer. "Oh gods. They're coming."
The crash is loud enough to distort the sound from the speakers. The transmitting vidcom unit is on the floor, spinning. As it slows and steadies for a moment the watching officers get a glimpse of movement. Boots approaching. One lifts. Miller's voice rises to a scream.
"Please. No. No --"
A brilliant flash outlines his silhouette in phaser fire. The link cuts to black.
No-one speaks into the silence that follows.
Then Kirk lifts his hands from the screen and scans the room, ending on his First Officer who nods a yes to the unvoiced question. They have the co-ordinates. Kirk stands, two fingers of each hand resting on the table. His voice is quiet with an undercurrent of steel.
"Right, gentlemen. I want a landing party. McCoy -- I need you to put together a team of medics with the best field kit you can muster. Take anyone M'Benga can spare." He lifts a hand to quell the immediate protest. "I know you're swamped, Bones, but there are casualties down there, maybe even more than there are up here. Spock, you're with me too. Giotto, we'll need a security team. Tell them to wear their blacks. I don't want any more hysteria over red shirts. Scotty, you'll take the con. I want detailed scans around Miller's co-ordinates..."
The orders continue. Equipment, contingency plans, a message to Starfleet. A skeleton crew to beam aboard the Demeter.
It is the Chief Engineer who voices the question they are all silently asking.
"Are you intending to beam down, Captain?"
"Subject to the results of the latest scans, yes, Mr. Scott. Time is a factor here. With the weather patterns reported on Deneb III a shuttle will take too long and there's no guarantee it won't get stranded. Last time I checked the transporters were in working order, were they not, engineer?"
Scott bristles. "My transporters are in tip top shape, Captain. I just thought... since yon laddie warned us--"
"It's my judgment that Lieutenant Miller was in no fit state to make an accurate report." Kirk stops, frowning. "It's odd. I know the lad was terrified. But he was security. He made Lieutenant. I would have expected..." He tails off.
But Spock agrees with the thought that follows. Selection procedures for Starfleet security are rigorous; discipline in that branch of the service is rigid and promotion to Lieutenant takes drive and determination. None of those attributes were evident in the young man in the red shirt whose image still lingers on an empty screen.
Chapter 2
After so many years of galloping around the cosmos he should be used to it by now. But he's only more aware of what can go wrong. Kirk likes to tease McCoy about his eternal distrust of pattern buffers but, if the truth be told, he's never felt as blasé as he pretends.
Even as, once again, his molecules reassemble in apparently the right order there's always that disconnect; a disconcerting lag as if his consciousness arrives a moment before he has a body to inhabit. And then... Well, everyone's different. But for him the first sense to return on reconnection is always smell. Lush alien vegetation, ancient dust in heated air, sharp metallic winds -- every planetfall has its own scent.
Deneb III smells of decay. Unclean. He can taste the rot's sweetness at the back of his throat.
He's not the only one. As the team around him take in their surroundings he can see them react although they're too professional to pass comment. At least the smell doesn't seem to have an immediate source. As the sensors promised, they're alone. The buildings around them are standard prefab warehouses and they appear deserted. But Kirk wants to be sure.
"Giotto. Take your men and make a swing around the perimeter. Phasers on heavy stun. And remember anyone wearing a Starfleet uniform may be hostile."
A gesture from the Chief and his team melt into the shadows, almost invisible in their blacks. Not for the first time Kirk wonders why Starfleet generally chooses to outfit those on the front line in a colour more suitable for target practice than camouflage; yet another baffling anomaly he plans to challenge as part of his end of mission debrief.
End of mission. Three banal little words that signpost the end of Kirk's world. That debrief is looming ever closer. Along with decisions to be made about his future. About Spock's future. In his more optimistic moments Kirk hopes he might have some say in those decisions. In his darker moods, such as the ones that shadowed a certain cell in a Bandi outpost, he's convinced certain stuffed shirt admirals back at Starfleet command have already determined where he's going and it's not anywhere good.
Which gives him something of an odd perspective on this expedition to a planet that stinks of death. Despite the horror of what's happened on the SS Demeter, despite the horrors which no doubt lie ahead, at least here he can make a difference. At least he's where he belongs. Although, he thinks wryly, giving himself a mental kick in the hindquarters, if this penchant for navel gazing continues then some members of his command team might start to challenge those assumptions.
McCoy and his team of medics are gathering their equipment, stacking containers and slinging medkits over their shoulders. Meanwhile his science officer is already frowning over his tricorder readings and Kirk moves to his shoulder.
"Anything, Mr. Spock?"
"No life signs in the immediate vicinity, Captain. But these readings are unexpected." The Vulcan taps the screen. "See, here... and here. The fluctuations are at the top end of the magnetic scale. The survey team who visited several years ago provided a comprehensive geological analysis. These wavelengths do not match the spectra for any mineral I would expect to find on Deneb."
Kirk cannot summon up the same fascination for Deneb's geology. Right now, his focus is on finding the colonists who fled the Demeter, and tracking down the elite Starfleet team who are responsible for colonising this planet yet appear to have vanished.
But before he can spell out his disinterest to his First Officer the planet has another unpleasant surprise in store. The rumble from the sky has him reaching for his phaser before he realises the attack is meteorological. The rain begins with no preamble and escalates from downpour to drenching torrent in seconds. And seconds is all it takes for his eyes to start stinging and for the bare skin on his face and hands to redden and tingle.
McCoy heads over, holding a med kit over his head. He has to shout over the roar of falling water. "Looks like we packed everything we needed except the damned umbrellas. I don't like this, Jim. It doesn't feel right. We need to get inside."
Kirk eyes the nearest dark doorway. He doesn't relish the idea of being trapped within four walls. But his science officer is studying his tricorder readings.
"Captain, I also recommend we take shelter. This precipitation is registering a high concentration of active hydrogen ions, ph. 3.5."
Acid rain, thinks Kirk grimly. God knows what possessed Starfleet to consider this planet a suitable target for colonisation. The security section carry protective clothing but stores didn't have enough readily available kit to equip the whole team.
"I concur, Mr. Spock." He turns to the rest of the team and shouts, gesturing toward the nearest warehouse. "Go, go -- inside, now!"
As he watches the medics head towards the doorway he flips open his dripping communicator. "Kirk to Giotto. Report."
"Giotto here. We're all clear, Captain."
"Commander, we're heading inside. Post look outs as needed and then follow us in."
"Acknowledged. Giotto out."
There is no power inside the warehouse. Sea-green light filters through the skylights giving their wet skin an unhealthy pallor. Starfleet supplies have arrived and been unpacked here; the evidence is all around them and it feels a little like swimming underwater as the team step in slow motion past broken crates and empty containers. For a moment Kirk thinks he sees movement above him on the gantry but when he focuses his gaze and his phaser there's nothing there but the dangling seaweed ribbons of packing tape.
The smell is stronger inside and it doesn't take them long to discover why. The bodies are stacked under tarpaulins along one wall. Fourteen of them. The Starfleet issue boots are the giveaway. McCoy's face is grim as he scans.
"Eight males, six females. Varying ages. Varying stages of decomposition too." He swallows, and Kirk thinks it's not often he sees his ship's surgeon struggle for words. "Some of 'em have been here a while, Jim. Five weeks. Maybe more depending on diurnal temperature and the microbes on this godforsaken planet."
One of the junior medics is retching quietly in the corner. Kirk sympathises, the bile bitter in his own throat.
"Cause of death?" His voice sounds hoarse.
"Indeterminate. No signs of injury, minor contusions on some of 'em but nothing that should have proved fatal." McCoy frowns over his tricorder. "I'm seeing some sort of ante-mortem cellular breakdown here. But I can't be sure without access to the ship's lab."
"Right." Kirk pauses. These are Starfleet officers. They have died in the line of duty. But there's no time. "Bones, we need answers. Get Scotty to assign one of the science team and beam one of them up to the lab for a post-mortem."
A flash of anger. "And which one do you suggest we turn into a lab specimen, Captain?" Kirk opens his mouth to answer but the anger's gone as quickly as it came. "No, don't answer that. Sorry, Jim. The one who died most recently of course. Leave it with me."
"I want identification made a priority too, Doctor. Cross reference their tags with the latest colony records." He'll have to write the letters. To the families of officers he never met and will never now have the chance to know.
Kirk turns away from the tarpaulins, away from the raw emotion he can't afford right now. He can't escape the feeling that they're being watched. It's instinct that makes him look over to seek out the calm gaze of his First Officer but Spock is several metres away on the other side of the open doorway. It's a relief to leave the worst of the stench, to weave between the mess of broken crates and discarded packaging to join him.
The Vulcan is crouching beside a smear of yellow on the warehouse floor, tricorder whining.
"What have you found, Spock?"
"Fascinating. I need more data, a bigger sample. But, Captain, the combination of minerals here is unique. It cannot be a coincidence."
Before Spock can continue Giotto appears in the doorway, phaser raised. He makes an unmistakable downward gesture with both hands, calling for silence. McCoy, who has been hailing the bridge, closes his communicator slowly and takes a step back into the shadows.
And now Kirk can hear it too, boots marching, voices raised. He flattens himself against the wall and signs for the rest of the team to follow his lead. Giotto, closest to the doorway, keeps his phaser up. Spock flanks his other side, a reassuringly solid presence at his shoulder.
The voice that drifts through the open doorway is harsh. And oddly familiar.
"No, not in there. I told you W-4 has been cleared already. The latest stock went to W-5. Unless Rawlson's been hiding it again."
The voice's owner is silhouetted against the light in the doorway. Kirk stares at the muddy boots, puddling water, at the threshold and tightens his grip on his phaser. From behind another voice is unintelligible. The silhouette laughs but there is no mirth in the sound.
"Well, you'd better get used to the stench. I've heard the next lot are already falling like flies." The boots turn away. "I don't know why we don't leave them where they lie. Can't see the point in dragging bodies around. It not as if... Gods, does it ever stop raining on this hellhole…?"
The men move on and the next sentence is too far away to be heard. Once the coast is clear McCoy is up and beside him in a flash.
"Jim, did you see that? It can't be. But I could have sworn....that voice."
And Kirk turns to his ship's doctor and says slowly, "No, Bones, you're right. I saw his face." He seeks and finds confirmation in the eyes of his security chief. "Either the colony records are wrong and Lieutenant Marcus Miller has a twin brother. Or we've just seen proof of life after death."
Chapter 3
A suspicion is forming. But he cannot voice it. Not now, not here.
When Spock was four years old a distant clan uncle gave him a v'lay'nath as a present. Part jigsaw, part abacus, the cube was intended to inculcate the seamless beauty of logic in the youngest Vulcan children and Spock spent long hours sliding the smooth wooden pieces into place with a satisfying click. He would not be parted from it. Yet one day Sarek discovered his young son on the floor surrounded by a myriad of wooden shapes and biting back shameful tears.
"I wished to examine the mechanism within the cube," he explained. "I wished to discover if the colours could be arranged in an alternative configuration."
Sarek regarded his son gravely. "But my son, the creators of the v'lay'nath would have explored all configurations before arriving at the optimal arrangement. Your logic should have led you to this conclusion."
And, for the first time, Spock found he had to fight a seed of a rebellion, to bite back an argument he knew he could not win. It was the beginning of a pattern that was to shape the relationship between father and son.
But today, a Vulcan who no longer craves his father's approval, who indeed has heard himself described as the best First Officer in the fleet (despite, or perhaps because of, that apparently inbuilt desire to push the boundaries of assumed knowledge) is thinking of the lessons of the v'lay'nath.
A tricorder reading, the impossibility of the duplicate man in red, a memory of clutching fingers and a transporter shimmer. He can feel the wooden shapes move beneath his fingertips; can see them slide to form the inevitable cube.
His Captain stands apart. Issuing orders. He is dividing the security team and medics into search parties. The rain has eased to spitting drizzle and it is imperative that they find the missing colonists who may even now be "falling like flies." As the teams prepare to leave Spock knows that it is even more urgent that he imparts his suspicions. There is no logic in delay. Yet still he hesitates and watches James Kirk doing what he does best, a man more comfortable in command gold than anyone has any right to be. He remembers a time when that was not so. And he remembers the fear.
Then Spock looks again at his tricorder readings. And sees what he's been missing
-oOo-
A suspicion is forming. But he cannot voice it. Not now, not here.
His thoughts slide away, repelled by what his instincts are telling him. Rawlson -- the name suddenly in sharp focus on a message screen. A dead man standing at a doorway. "It's like part of you is missing," Miller had said. Jim Kirk knows what that feels like. He remembers.
He can't voice his suspicions to McCoy; if he's right the last thing they need now is an emotional response. There's only one person he can talk to about this. But when he turns Spock is nowhere to be seen.
Then he spots him. Tricorder in hand, Spock is on the far side of the warehouse, a flash of blue moving slowly towards the foot of the gantry and the shadows beneath. Stalking, Kirk thinks. And before he has time to extend the thought the stalker pounces; Spock disappears into darkness. Kirk finds he's running, although he's not conscious of ordering his feet to move, but before he reaches the far wall there's a yell of pain and his science officer reappears holding the arm of a very dirty, very angry young man in brown coveralls.
"Let me go!"
Kirk estimates he's about 12. Brown hair sticking up in all directions, wary blue eyes and a rag tied bandana style around his forehead. It gives him a rakish air, as if he's dressed up as a pirate for Halloween, but Kirk can see blood on the side of his face.
"Starfleet scum, bastard! Let me go..." The string of swear words is impressive in one so young. But a 12 year old, even a furious one, is no match for Vulcan strength. Spock, holding the struggling boy in one hand as easily as he holds the inanimate tricorder in the other, remarks calmly,
"I can assure you that in fact my mother was married to my father some 2.6 years before my birth and it is not wise or indeed possible to do as you suggest with those particular parts of my anatomy."
Kirk bends to hold the boy's shoulders and examine him. He thinks the blood, caked and flaking from forehead to cheek, is old but the dirt makes it hard to be sure. He shouts back across his shoulder, "Bones, get over here." Then, in the pause the boy takes for breath, he tries to hold his gaze. "Hey, son. We're not going to hurt you. What's your name?"
More swear words. But Kirk can see fear beneath the bluster. The boy is terrified. He keeps his voice gently conversational. "I'm Jim. This is my First Officer, Mr. Spock. You're from the Demeter, aren't you?"
There's a gasp at that and a sudden silence. The boy is frowning as McCoy arrives beside them, tricorder and bedside manner at the ready.
"Well, now, who do we have here?" Without waiting for an answer, he lifts the rag gently and the captive winces then tries to pretend he didn't. "Ouch, now that looks a nasty cut. Why don't you let me have a look at that?" He slings the medkit off his shoulder and starts rummaging. "Now on the board the Enterprise I've had crewmen holler blue murder over smaller scratches than that. But I can see you're a brave lad—“
"The Enterprise? You're from the flagship?" There's no mistaking the awe in the boy's voice. He's stopped struggling.
"I'm the ship's doctor. And this is her captain, Captain Kirk. You're lucky we came along..." McCoy unties the bloody rag and hands it to the medic beside him who eyes it with distaste.
"Kirk. Captain...?" There's a dawning recognition. "So who's this? With the ears." The patient jerks an accusing thumb back at the Vulcan still holding him fast. Kirk nods at Spock who loosens his grip.
"I told you. This is Mr. Spock. He's from Vulcan." He drops his voice to a stage whisper. "And he's very sensitive about his ears. We've stopped teasing him about them now." Which earns him a startled smile from the boy and a raised eyebrow and twitch of the lips from the owner of the appendages under discussion. "Surely you know about Vulcans. Don't they have schools where you come from?"
The boy scowls. "Yeah, we did. We do. And I knew... it's just...We didn't have any Vulcans on the Demeter." He pulls his head away from McCoy's cleansing ministrations which are revealing a good deal of pale skin beneath the dirt and a cut which is deep enough to scar but smaller than the amount of blood suggested. "That stings."
McCoy stops spraying. "I'm not surprised. It's gone deep. Who did this to you, son?"
"I banged it. Caught in on the edge of the console... When I was..." he stops, eyeing the men around him with suspicion. McCoy pretends not to notice and bends to pull a tube from his kit.
"I'm going to put a field dressing on this. We'll have a go with the regenerator later. Unless, of course, you want a scar." The bandana-less pirate looks thoughtful.
Kirk tries again. "So are there any more of you from the Demeter....?" He lets the pause ask the question
"Jake," the boy supplies. "My name's Jake."
"Jake." Kirk confirms. "So, Jake, were you with anyone?"
The newly bandaged patient takes a deep breath.
"Yeah. My mom... she was with me when we beamed down. We had to leave. There were men. Redshirts. On the ship. They hurt people." His eyes cloud. "We didn't understand. We thought Starfleet were the good guys." There's accusation there.
Kirk reaches out and grasps a shoulder. "We are the good guys, Jake. Those men weren't Starfleet. Whatever they looked like. So what happened after you beamed down?"
Jake looks away, biting his lip. "When we got here mom made me hide. But the men beamed down too. They took her. And the others. They took all of them."
McCoy crouches down. "Where did they take them, Jake?"
"They didn't see me." Blue eyes plead to the men around him. "I did like mom said. I hid."
Kirk smiles. "You're pretty good at that, kid. We didn't see you, did we?" He looks up at Spock.
"Indeed," confirms his First Officer. "I was only able to detect your presence with the aid of a tricorder." Spock holds up the instrument in question. Kirk realises that for some reason he is still scanning the boy, tilting the tricorder up and down. “Your camouflage skills are impressive.”
Mollified, Jake gives a small smile.
"So they didn't see you," continues Kirk. "But you followed them, didn't you Jake?"
A mute nod.
"And where did they go?"
And an arm lifts, a dirty finger points. At the floor.
"Down there. They went down there."
"Down...?" Kirk's gaze follows the pointing finger. When he looks back quizzically at the finger's owner he gets a dazzling grin.
"If you like, I'll show you."
Chapter 4
On a planet made hostile by the elements, lashed by acid rain and scoured by hurricane force winds, it makes sense that the colonists have carved a refuge underground. What makes no sense is why the colony logs sent to Starfleet failed to outline this as the strategy pursued by Rawlson and his team.
They're standing at the entrance of a tunnel; unlined, black with dust and lit only intermittently, although there's evidence of both electrical conduits and rails for transport. No wonder Jake got so filthy so quickly, thinks Kirk, looking down with some affection at their young guide. Who is determined to lead the way down the tunnel. McCoy is just as determined he should be beamed to safety.
"Jim, he needs medical attention. And those are his people up there. They know him."
The would-be guide plants his feet and narrows his eyes. "My mom is down there," he says simply. And Kirk, perhaps remembering himself at a similar age on a planet in crisis, finds he has some sympathy with that point of view
"Captain, if I may, a word..." Spock walks to stand apart from the team, hands clasped behind his back. Kirk recognises that stance. He leaves McCoy grumbling and joins him.
"Yes, Mr. Spock. What's on your mind?"
"Those readings, Jim. The mineral residue..." The use of the first name, the hint of compassion in brown eyes. This is Spock delivering bad news. Then, "I have seen them only once before." And Kirk knows. The suspicion solidifies.
"Let me guess. Alpha 177, right?"
The pause and the raised eyebrow tells him that, even after all this time, he still has the capacity to exceed his First Officer's expectations. But Spock recovers quickly. "I should have surmised you would draw the same conclusion. Do you mind if I ask-?"
"--how I knew?" Kirk thinks for a moment, lifting his hand to rub the back of his neck. "Well, there was Miller. What he said, how he behaved. And then the duplicate. Same man, different personality. That was something of a clue." Kirk looks his First Officer full in the face. "We've seen that before, haven't we, Spock?"
The Vulcan nods slowly. Kirk continues, "But really it was that name -- Paul Rawlson. I said it would come to me and it did. Standing there in the warehouse, I remembered." He wonders now if the mental block was a deliberate construct; a protective impulse from his subconscious. He takes a deep breath.
"Commander Rawlson messaged me. The first time not long after... after we left Alpha 177. Then again about a year ago. He was asking questions. Asking for my logs -- the personal logs, not the official record. If you remember we kept that rather... bland."
Spock nods again. It wasn't as if they'd lied. The facts were all there in black and white. But neither officer had felt it appropriate to tell the full story. For which Kirk is immeasurably grateful.
And now he knows why that name in the briefing room had had such an impact. It wasn't just the distant stirring of unwelcome memories. It was the accompanying cold lurch in his gut -- of something left undone, something crucial missed.
He'd sent a polite refusal to Rawlson's requests couched in the language of Starfleet security protocols. But he hadn't asked why. Why a Commander, then based at science lab half a quadrant away if memory served, would be asking those particular questions about that particular planetfall. He'd been all too keen to move onto the next request in his comms queue; he'd allowed his emotions, still raw and smarting on the subject of buried alter egos, to cloud his judgment.
He continues grimly, "So, somehow, for whatever reason, Rawlson has managed to import some of that ore from Alpha 177. That's what your tricorder is picking up, right?"
"Correct, Captain. The readings are strongest in the warehouse. But the trace residue is everywhere. We are standing in it now." Spock looks meaningfully at their boots, now caked in mud. "Jake is covered in it." He pauses as if wondering whether to go further, to spell out the implications.
But he doesn't need to. Kirk understands and for a moment he is back on the Enterprise of some four years ago. Two memories. Disorientation on a transporter platform and a craving for brandy. With a shudder he brings himself forcibly back to the present.
"So what you're saying, Spock, is that Jake can't beam anywhere. And, until we get decontaminated, and work out exactly what's going on, neither can we."
-oOo-
In the end it is Giotto who leads the way. His team have phasers drawn and move the group quickly away from the pools of light, hugging the shadowed walls and stopping every few minutes to listen intently. Spock is next, scanning constantly for signs of life ahead and never far from his Captain's side. Jake, despite his protests, is invisibly handcuffed to one of the medics and safely at the rear.
Kirk wonders if the sloping tunnel was originally an attempt to mine the minerals that first brought Deneb III to Starfleet's attention. Certainly the carved rock reminds him of the mine on Janus VI, although he suspects the creatures they're about to find will be a lot more hostile than mother Horta.
Unlike Alpha 177, Janus VI is a good memory. Discovery and preservation, symbiosis and teamwork. That was the mission where his suspicion that Spock's logic was tempered by a certain...partiality began to crystallise. A partiality exposed by the note of panic in "Kill it, Captain, quickly" and confirmed a few seconds later by "Jim, your life is in danger."
But no. The evidence had been there before that. The virus on Psi 2000, "Jim when I feel friendship for you...", a phrase he'd hardly heard as his ship spiralled to destruction, but a scene that replayed in his head more often than was probably healthy in the days following the crisis. Then, after that disastrous transport from Alpha 177. The imposter. He's still convinced that would have been the end of his career if it weren't for the unwavering support he'd had from his First.
The truth is James Kirk can no longer remember the moment when he realised the jolting sparks of unease that characterised his initial dealings with his Vulcan science officer had evolved into the low hum of uncomplicated friendship. And by the time they got to Janus he had long come to terms with the fact that unfamiliar inner glow that now lit him from within, originated not, as he had up to that point assumed, from the command of starship -- not from a lifetime's goal achieved -- but rather from forming half of a command partnership which has somehow evolved to become the most important relationship of his life. And whose lifespan, thanks both to the relentless march of Newtonian time and to Starfleet mission parameters, can now be measured in months. Kirk looks sideways at his friend staring intently at his tricorder and wonders if he too is developing a fixation with passing stardates. It is not a subject either of them has so far felt able to discuss.
Giotto and Spock have stopped at the same moment. With a few coded hand gestures the security chief deploys his team along both sides of the tunnel to maintain line of sight. Spock lifts his tricorder so Kirk too can see the display. Up ahead the tunnel splits, each branch leading to a separate chamber. In a smaller square area three life signs cluster in a single location. Another larger chamber four hundred metres in the opposite direction houses at least two dozen points of energy, so close together it is hard to distinguish the exact number.
Kirk beckons McCoy and Giotto to his side and points to the readings.
He keeps his voice low. "I think we may have found our missing colonists."
McCoy lifts his own medical tricorder and narrows the scan field. He's frowning.
"Some of those readings are awful faint, Jim. I'd say we've found casualties. We may not have much time."
Kirk nods and thinks for a minute.
"Giotto, I want you to take three of your men, go with McCoy and the rest of the medical team and investigate the larger chamber.
Spock. Kingley. Yamamoto. You're here with me. Giotto, we'll await your signal. If we're right and those are the colonists we'll create a diversion. That should give you the chance to get them out of there. Don't wait for us. Get them up to the surface and contact Scotty. But no-one is to beam up -- you understand me? We're going to have to do this the hard way -- by shuttle." Giotto, already briefed in bare outline about the contamination theory, nods.
McCoy too has been briefed but looks far from happy.
"Jim, don't you think we should stick together?"
Kirk can see Jake scowling, a coiled bundle of energy bouncing behind one of the medics.
"No, Bones, I don't. Our first priority is the safety of those civilians. Our second is to find out what's been going on down here and to track down the colony team. The first may depend on the second. We have to get to the officer at the centre of this. I've got to find Rawlson."
Later he thinks it was that thought which left them vulnerable. His obsession with finding one man threw the bigger picture into shadow. Because he should have known. Of course, he should.
He should have known no Starfleet team, however dysfunctional, forgets to guard their perimeter. He should have foreseen that a science team, even one deployed to a neutral planet, would have enough knowledge between them to erect a forcefield designed to reflect any weapon deployed against it.
When the signal comes, a green light from Giotto that shows his instincts about the location of the colonists were right, they are almost at the door of the smaller chamber.
They're almost at the door when Kirk gives Kingley the nod.
They are almost at the door... which means they have no protection when the kick back from the stun grenade hits.
He has a split second to see Spock react, to see his friend launch himself towards him and then he's flying backwards. He braces himself for the impact against the tunnel wall but he's unconscious before he hits and the world goes black.
Chapter 5
The first image Spock sees upon regaining consciousness is his Captain. Smiling. The Captain appears to have diminished in size. And to be missing his lower limbs.
Vision problems are a symptom of concussion. It is probable that the nonsensical image is the result of his exposure to the pressure wave. Spock closes his eyes and gives a stern instruction to his disordered thought patterns. When he reopens his eyelids it is apparent that he is in fact looking at a holographic image of his commanding officer. The picture is affixed to a wall alongside a computer. He is in an office then. He is lying on a floor which is unclean. His phaser and communicator are gone. And he is not alone.
A pair of Starfleet boots obstructs his field of vision to the right. The boots belong to the Captain although Spock would resist any attempt by McCoy or anyone else to determine exactly how or why he knows this. The Captain is in possession of both his lower limbs.
Vulcans do not breathe sighs of relief. However, they can allow themselves some logical satisfaction that the commanding officer of the fleet's flagship remains apparently intact although apparently unconscious. From his current viewpoint it is impossible to discern whether Kirk has sustained any more serious injuries.
It is only when he attempts to regain a vertical position that he realises he is restrained. The crude but effective fastening encircles his wrists and is attached to vertical pipework that extends from floor to ceiling. The pipe appears to be welded titanium. Spock can produce a formula for the force that would be required to break a titanium weld in less than point eight of a second. The necessary force far exceeds the muscular strength of a single Vulcan male. Which is why he is not proud of himself for testing the laws of physics for rather more than two minutes.
The noise his fastenings make against the pipework does have the effect of bringing Kirk round with a groan. He squints up at the ceiling.
"Mr. Spock. Might I suggest that your attempts to break that pipe are likely to prove counter-productive--"
"Captain. Are you injured?"
Ignoring his First Officer's question, Kirk swings his feet round to give himself enough purchase to lever himself up against the wall. He too is restrained and in a similar fashion although he appears to be attached to a horizontal duct at floor level. He continues
"...because, if I'm not mistaken, that particular pipe is likely to contain either coolant or waste water, neither of which would be a welcome addition to our current environment."
"I can assure you, Captain. There is no danger of the pipe--"
"--breaking. Yes, I know. It looks like titanium to me. Which begs the question--"
"--you have not answered my question, Captain. Have you suffered any injury as a result of recent events?"
"I have a headache the size of Andromeda, if you must know. And my foot's gone to sleep." He stamps his boots, and winces. "Ouch. Make that both feet. What about you, Mr. Spock? Any side-effects? Other than delusions of super-Vulcan strength?"
"I am quite well, thank you, sir. And while the pipe would appear to be constructed of titanium, I think it likely my restraints are not. Therefore I...."
"--yet those handcuffs are attached to Vulcan skin over Vulcan bone. I remember Newton's third law quite well, thank you science officer, and I would prefer your wrists remain undamaged. We may need them. Now will you kindly stop rattling your chains like a ghoul and let me listen for a minute?"
Spock obliges. Subduing the treacherous wave of warmth that rises at this indication of the Captain's concern for his physical wellbeing, he directs his own senses to the surrounding environment. And hears only a distant clanking and the low hum of a generator working too hard. Kirk, aware of the superiority of Vulcan hearing, tilts his head.
"So what do you think? It's awfully quiet. Did Giotto and McCoy get the colonists out?"
Spock considers. "I am unsure how much time has elapsed during our period of unconsciousness. It is possible that they did indeed succeed and we are alone because the personnel who are responsible for our current situation are now engaged in pursuit."
"So where are Kingley and Yamamoto? Where's Rawlson? And what…" Kirk stops and stares, incredulity creeping into his tone. "... What the hell is my picture doing on that wall?"
Spock knows the Captain is frustrated, and that Kirk does not expect him to produce accurate answers to these questions. Since he is unable to provide a useful reply he falls back on a tactic he has found effective in the past.
"It would appear, Captain, you have a fan. Although I cannot understand why anyone would choose to clutter their place of work with such distracting ephemera."
Spock is rewarded with a twitch of the lips that tells him he has been successful, at least partially, in relieving the current tension.
"So you're saying that you'd find being exposed to my picture distracting, Mr. Spock. I must admit I'm flattered."
"I made no such assertion, Captain. I was merely making an observation. And I would further submit that the usual occupant of this office is displaying an illogical compulsion to decorate his or her workspace with trivia and is therefore more than likely to be human."
"More than likely? That's unusually imprecise for you, Spock. Are you sure that stun grenade hasn't had more of an impact than you're admitting?"
"I had refrained from giving you the exact odds, sir, however since you request them--"
"--No, please don't. Headache. Andromeda. Remember?"
Kirk sighs and shifts position, sliding sideways along a small portion of the ducting before a supporting bracket halts his progress. They are now sitting almost alongside each other which allows Spock to see, beneath the dust, the mottled bruising on Kirk's cheek.
Yet it is the unseen hurt which concerns the Vulcan. Alpha 177 was four years ago; the logs were completed and closed. By mutual unspoken consent neither of them has discussed those events in the intervening period. Yet, looking at his Captain now, his eyes dark in contemplation, Spock suspects that the confrontation with his negative alter ego is never far from his friend's thoughts.
Jim Kirk is fearless. At least that's his reputation and it's been earned. But Spock knows the Captain fears two things: losing his command and losing his crew. The duplication, threw both those into sharp relief. And now, here on Deneb III, they are hearing the echoes of a nightmare. Instinct tells him it is time to break the silence. He draws a breath.
"Jim. There is something I have wanted to ask you--"
But he gets no further. He feels it as a vibration before acute Vulcan hearing translates the movement into sound. He turns his head towards the door.
"Spock?" But then Kirk hears them too. Three sets of footsteps drawing nearer. He draws his spine straighter against the wall.
If the Enterprise's First Officer had an imagination, which of course, being Vulcan, he does not, he could imagine that at times like this his Captain develops his own forcefield; a glow and a glower that are not detectable by tricorder but are nevertheless undoubtedly present when dealing with a threat to his ship, his crew or his command.
The man who appears in the doorway does not at first sight appear to represent any of those things. Dishevelled and distracted, he is short and slightly overweight, wearing a grubby lab coat over Starfleet science blue and carrying a padd. He is flanked by two men in Starfleet uniform. Red shirts, Spock notes. Unlike the man they accompany these officers exude a palpable air of menace.
"Ah, awake. Yes, yes. At last. Excuse me, gentlemen just one minute."
Fussing with something on his padd the new arrival crosses the office to the computer where he taps the screen and frowns at something. Kirk's eyes follow him then flick back to the door. The two henchmen -- Spock is not sure why his brain has supplied that label but he is quite certain it fits -- are standing guard. With folded arms and sneers that match each other but not the uniform they wear. Tutting at what he sees on the screen, the lab coat connects the padd to a dock, then turns and clasps his hands to his chest.
"Well, now. So here we are. Captain Kirk. At long last. And Commander Spock, isn't it? So pleased to finally make your acquaintance."
Kirk may be attached to a length of ducting, recovering from a sustained period of unconsciousness, missing several crew members, and suffering from a galaxy sized headache but his reply perfectly matches the boardroom meeting tone set by their new acquaintance.
"I'm sorry, you have us at a disadvantage, as you see." He might be apologising for an administrative oversight. "I don't believe we've met."
The small eyes narrow, squinting down at the pair on the floor as if they have forgotten both their agenda and their briefing papers.
"Why, no. I suppose we haven't. Although I would have thought you might... Well, no matter, no matter. The name's Rawlson, Paul Rawlson. Forgive me for not shaking hands. But I see there you really are at a disadvantage." He gives a high pitched laugh that makes Spock grateful for his inbuilt resistance to irritation. He can detect from the muscles working in his Kirk's jaw that his Captain is less immune to the laugh's effects. Kirk clenches his teeth for a moment but manages to continue in the same vein.
"Commander Rawlson," The stress on the rank is deliberate. "I confess I am surprised to see you. Conditions here had led us to suspect something untoward had happened to you. Starfleet sent us to inspect--"
"--yes, and isn't that ironic?" There is a glitter Rawlson's eyes that Spock decides he does not like. "They send Captain Kirk to inspect us."
He pivots round, arm flung wide in a grand gesture that takes in the office of broken equipment and scattered papers. "So what do you think, Kirk? Do we pass muster? Will we be getting a gold star from the fleet's flagship?" This time the laugh is a broken thing that crawls scratching down Spock's spine. And he knows. There are only two possible explanations for this behaviour from the man selected by Starfleet to lead a colony on a hostile world. Neither of them is palatable.
Kirk has reached the same conclusion. Spock can read the thought as clearly as if the Captain were shouting it across the room. But Kirk does not shout. He smiles. A smile to humour a madman. And for a brief moment of irrelevancy Spock wonders how long it is since he saw his Captain's face lit by a genuine smile. For once his eidetic memory fails him.
"Listen, Rawlson. We've obviously caught you at a bad time. I'm sure this is all a misunderstanding. We're here to help. If we can just contact Starfleet--"
"-- contact Starfleet?” There is outrage in the rising tone and in the flush that rises to plump cheeks. "Well, good luck with that, Kirk. Do you know how many times I've contacted Command in recent months and been fobbed off with some pathetic excuse?" His voice changes in mimicry of some faceless bureaucrat. ‘I’m sorry, Commander your supplies shipment has been diverted. Apologies, Commander. If you can just hold on a few more weeks.' Starfleet has abandoned us, Kirk. I learned that lesson months ago."
"Abandoned...?" Kirk frowns. "That makes no sense, Commander. Our very presence here now proves--"
"--proves nothing," sneers Rawlson. "You said it. You're here to inspect us -- to tick some bureaucratic boxes. Not to provide supplies. Not to help. But then I should have realised." Suddenly he's down in a crouch, face to face with Kirk who returns his gaze calmly despite the spittle in the corners of the man's mouth. "I used to worship you, you know, Kirk. Golden boy of the service. The man who defeats the odds. I even put up your picture. Did you see it? I've kept it. A souvenir of my naivety. Of a time before I realised the truth. About you. About Starfleet."
"The truth, Commander?" Kirk's tone hardens. "The truth is you had a responsibility here. Men and women who depended on you. Now fourteen of them are dead."
Rawlson recoils. Kirk pulls himself a little straighter against the wall. "Yes, we've seen them -- stacked like so much firewood in an empty warehouse. What the hell were you thinking, Rawlson? What sort of sick experiment have you been conducting here?"
For a moment Spock thinks the man in the lab coat is about to strike the Captain. But before he can move there's a whistle from his communicator. Breathing heavily Rawlson backs away pulling the device from his belt and flipping it open.
"Rawlson here."
The voice is splintered by static. "It's Miller. Commander, you'd better get up here."
"On my way." Rawlson crosses back to the computer and disconnects the padd. He seems about to say something but instead crosses to the two guards at the door and nods towards the men on the floor.
"Watch them." Then, staring at the padd screen, he heads out of the door.
Spock keeps his voice low. "Captain, I am not sure that was a wise tactic. The commander would appear to be subject to unpredictable behaviour patterns."
Kirk is thoughtful. "I needed to push him, Spock. To see how far he'd go. So what do you think? Has the man simply gone mad? Or is this Rawlson's duplicate? An imposter?"
"Without a psych profile of the Commander before his current assignment we lack data for a full analysis. However, I fear the latter." Spock glances towards the men standing guard and tilts his head towards his shoulder, away from their gaze. "And I think we can safely surmise that our current companions are similarly compromised."
Kirk looks over his shoulder. "I think your logic is sound, Mr. Spock. The question is, can we turn that to our advantage?"
Chapter 6
Leonard McCoy has lost count of the times he's come under fire since he began service with the Enterprise. It's certainly been a frequent enough occurrence for him to re-write Starfleet's mandatory training regime for the CMO of a starship to include modules in weaponry and hand to hand combat.
He suspects no amount of training will ever make him feel comfortable with a phaser in his hand. And, while he would never admit this to either of them, his discomfort is increased by the absence of Jim Kirk or a certain Vulcan officer fighting by his side. While it is usually their fault he finds himself on the front line, it is also usual for him to be able to rely on them to rescue the situation. His own long-established role is to point out the obvious flaws in the plan and treat the inevitable casualties. As another bolt of phaser fire explodes to his right leaving his ears ringing, he grits his teeth and squints round the corner of an empty packing crate to return fire. Goddammit. This is not how it's supposed to pan out. He's a doctor not a commando.
There's a groan from the anti-grav gurney beside him. The woman is in a bad way, one of three colonists from the Demeter they had to stabilise before they could move them from the holding cell. His tricorder readings confirm the bad news. Time isn't on their side. He calibrates the hypo-spray to administer as much sedative as he dares. Where the hell are the shuttles? And where's Giotto?
As if in answer to a prayer the security chief materialises silently by his side, phaser in hand.
"How are you doing, sir?" He's not looking at McCoy. His eyes are scanning the shadows at the back of the warehouse.
"Well, Commander, I'm just fine and dandy. But this woman is dying and I've got two more over there who'll follow her if we don't get out of here pronto. Where are those shuttles Scotty promised?"
Giotto steps carefully round the patient on the gurney at their feet. "On their way. There's a storm on the northern continent spreading south and they've had to divert around it. We just need to hold tight. Excuse me--"
In one fluid motion the security chief pushes him to the ground as a flash of light explodes over their heads then crouches over him to return fire. A figure topples from the warehouse gantry and lies motionless.
On the Captain's orders they're still using a heavy stun setting; orders given in the context of Kirkish optimism that the effects of the ore from Alpha 177 can be reversed. Privately McCoy thinks the chances of remerging the former Starfleet officers are becoming increasingly remote. For a start they have no idea what's happened to those officers' positive alter egos. Judging by the first Miller's report, they are presumably confined somewhere on the base.
Giotto flips open his communicator, "Giotto to Captain Kirk. Come in Captain." It's obvious he's not expecting a reply and those expectations are met. There has been no word from either Kirk or his First Officer since the moment the explosion down the tunnel did what it was intended to do and sent the guards running, leaving only a forcefield between the Enterprise team and the terrified colonists from the Demeter.
That something has happened to the best command team in the fleet is obvious. That Giotto would follow his Captain's orders and lead a flawless rescue operation to the surface without waiting for his commanding officer was also obvious and McCoy knows from long exposure to the steely professionalism of the Enterprise's chief of security it is pointless to protest. Besides he's a doctor leading a team of junior medics who have only the most basic training in self-defence and his priority has to be their safety and the evacuation of the casualties. But that doesn't stop him worrying and disguising that worry under a cloak of acerbity.
"There comes a point when perseverance becomes just plain old stubbornness, Commander. If there was a way of contacting us, don't you think Jim Kirk would have found it by now?"
Unless he can't, he adds silently. Unless he's unconscious. Or worse. His mind rebels. No. He's got Spock with him. At least they're together. And god help the man who tries to harm a hair of Jim's head as long as that Vulcan is by his side.
Giotto's face is grim as he changes the frequency on his communicator. "Ramirez, report."
"Perimeter's secure, sir. The...uh...enemy's retreating."
Enemy? thinks McCoy. It jars. But what the hell else are you supposed to call figures in Starfleet uniform when they appear determined to use you for target practice?
Ramirez continues. “And the shuttles, sir. I can hear them. They're on their way."
"Acknowledged. Giotto out." And now McCoy too can hear the roar of the shuttle engines, can see the puddles outside the warehouse doors ripple in vibration.
The chief turns to the CMO, all calm efficiency, his voice raised against the noise outside. "Right, Doctor. Triage. Let's get the most severely wounded out there first. We'll need one medic to each shuttle load. It's at least a 15 minute trip to orbital rendezvous, could be longer if that storm hits."
McCoy nods but before he has time to relay his orders to the team one of the juniors is up by his side, an injured colonist in blood-stained coveralls draped over one shoulder.
"Doctor McCoy. I can't find him."
"Can find who, ensign?" McCoy is distracted. He's weighing the damage it's likely to cause to remove his critical patients from their gurneys and place them in sitting positions versus the space factor. Enterprise shuttles aren't medivacs. Every horizontal patient transported will displace another who can ill afford to wait for the next transport. If only they could use the cargo space. Will Scotty have thought of that?
The medic tugs his sleeve.
"Doctor. I'm sorry. He's gone, sir. I was treating this guy. Leg wounds. And when I turned round he'd... well, he just vanished, sir."
"Wait a minute. Who are you talking about?" But then he knows. Puts two and two together. A tousled head and a field dressing he hasn't seen since -- "Jake? Jake's gone?"
"Yes, sir. I think he's looking for his mother."
"Goddammit, Rufus. You were supposed to --"
But he knows that's unfair. He should have guessed Jake wouldn't hang around once he realised his mom wasn't among the colonists in the holding cells. It's no excuse that his thoughts were with a missing figure in command gold and an unworkable ratio of patient to doctor relationships.
He sighs. "Never mind. We haven't got time to go looking for him." He runs his tricorder over the figure draped over the ensign's shoulder. "Get your patient out to the shuttles. We'll need to keep an eye on his fluids. He's going into shock."
He watches the retreating figures limp towards the door and frowns. We haven't got time to go looking for you either, Jim. You and Spock, you're on your own.