Work Text:
The Reaper of the Wheat
The orders for the Enterprise’s new mission came in as Jim was putting away the remnants of his game with Spock; his PADD had beeped at the young Captain, alerting the man that there was a new message awaiting his attention.
Jim had hacked the coding on the device while still at the Academy: bored one night in his first year and still unchallenged by the subject matter in his classes, he had searched for something to keep his prolonged attention for at least several minutes. The decision to pick apart the PADD had been a spur-of-the moment coding job, Jim still partially distracted even as he picked apart the software, but the blue-eyed man had ensured that messages containing specific key words or sent by certain individuals always came accompanied by sound so that the now-Captain could read them immediately.
Glancing over this particular message, however…
The PADD was carefully placed back on his work table, movement so incredibly meticulous—knowing that, if given the opportunity, all it would take would be a partial loss of control and the device would be in pieces, shattered against his room’s wall. Jim took a shuddering breath and closed his too-blue eyes, head bowing under the weight of what was to come.
He breathed, in and out and in and out and in again, and finally straightened, shoulders back and head lifting to face the cabin window that looked out into the far-reaching expanse of space. Stars pricked, fading and brightening once more, and Jim’s voice was a low murmur when he eventually ordered: “Computer, send a message to Commander Spock. Ask that he meet me in the ready room in ten minutes—there’s been a change in plans for our next assignment.”
**
Dust and ash swirled up the landing party’s legs as they materialized on the planet’s surface; grey-tinged dirt clung desperately—grasping like reaching fingers, clutching at something now newly alive and desperate to keep that for itself—at the black of their trousers. Bones grumbled quietly to himself as he leaned down, patting at his pants in an attempt to clear away the dirt; it was a lost cause, however, and the doctor soon enough gave it up as such to straighten and direct his attention around the small group.
“Doesn’t look like much,” the Southern man offered up, brow furrowed as he took a step away from his companions to turn a full circle. “Did Starfleet seriously pick up a distress signal on the planet? Everything looks—dead.”
Spock glanced up from his examination of the tricorder in his hand, brow quirking upwards just the slightest amount at Bones’ commentary. “Starfleet did, in fact, pick up a distress signal five point three-seven days ago, Doctor: strong enough to be of some concern, especially considering that the planet should not be inhabited at this current time.”
“That’s what happens when a blight strikes and ends up being resistant to genetic modification—a colony dies,” Jim added on to Spock’s reply, jawline tense as the Captain shouldered on the survival pack he had ordered each of them to carry for this particular mission; the weight settled awkwardly against the small of the blond man’s back, but Jim ignored the uncomfortable weight—with no offhand complaint, to Bones’ surprise—and began making his way towards the sight of rooftops peeking just above the tops of the forest the landing party had arrived in.
Jim uncharacteristically did not glance back to make sure that Spock and Bones were following after him, as he had done on so many missions previously. The shift in the Captain’s behavior sent a fissure of unease up the doctor’s spine, and Bones frowned darkly to himself—worry masked beneath his typical irritation—as he picked up his own pack to follow after his best friend. “Well, come on,” the hazel-eyed man snapped as he passed Spock by. “Apparently, Jim has no intention of waiting around for us.”
“That much is readily evident, Doctor,” Spock answered in turn as he grabbed his own pack and made to follow after his Captain. While, as a Vulcan, he could not admit to feeling concern—seeing as how that was an emotional response—it did strike Spock as scientifically fascinating that Jim had known, immediately, just what had happened to the planet’s vegetation. Initial tests were in line with the Captain’s offhanded statement, but Spock was aware that Jim had not run any tests of his own upon their arrival: how, then, did the younger man know just what it was that had ensured the destruction of this colony?
Spock’s brow furrowed just the slightest bit before his expression cleared to a true neutrality, making a note to himself to keep an eye on his Captain while they remained on-site on the planet. Lengthening his strides, it took only a moment or two before he was finally pulling even with Jim, facing ahead towards the decimated town even as he caught sight of his bondmate glancing Spock’s way through the peripheral of his luminous gaze.
Surprisingly, Jim didn’t offer a comment, even with Spock being deliberately obvious in keeping side-by-side with him, and instead returned to his own steady pace as the three officers made their way through the dying forest; Bones’ grumbling was a constant familiarity just over the Captain and his First Officer’s shoulders—the only sound, as well, besides their footsteps that broke the eerie silence that surrounded them all.
Jim presence was a constant, thrumming presence on the other side of the bond that he shared with Spock: it was that specific, narrowed sort of awareness that confirmed that something was… wrong. The tension that came from Jim, ugly, bruised colors that tinged the link in sickly hues ensured that the Vulcan kept a large portion of his attention directed his Captain and t’hy’la’s way.
It did not escape Spock’s notice, either, that Jim knew exactly where to go; at times, he broke away from the main pathway that still led through the trees—and yet, despite the fact that his detours looked purposeless on the surface… each and every time they returned to the trail, the three men were closer than previously thought—and sooner than expected, as well—to the town still just out of sight.
The knowledge of their surroundings that Jim demonstrated was… concerning.
“Captain,” Spock eventually began, voice pitched low enough to keep the conversation private between the both of them.
Before the science officer could get any further, however, Jim shook his head and brought up a hand to stop Spock from proceeding with the conversation. “No, Mr. Spock. Not—just not right now, okay? Later. I promise. I promise.”
The trust that Spock had in his Captain far outweighed any current suspicions, and the Vulcan slightly inclined his head in agreement, allowing the concerned discussion to be shelved until they returned to the Enterprise; Jim had promised to explain, after all—and very rarely did Jim break any of his promises to Spock. That particular knowledge had become a foundational cornerstone of Spock’s knowledge of his Captain, a true North to set a compass by. It had become a cornerstone for the Vulcan, as well.
Several minutes later, however, the three men finally stepped out from the woods’ underbrush and onto a main street that circled the dead town; the distraction that Jim’s current behavior posed to both First Officer and CMO was soon enough shelved by the dawning horror that then rose as details from the town’s buildings began to come into focus:
Homes had begun to crumble into ruin, windows shattered and the house’s innards gutted and spread across yards and streets. Other buildings had been utterly destroyed by what looked like fires and explosions—some wrecked down to the building’s foundation. Phaser fire scored rock and metal and brick, scorch burns left behind tellingly, laying testament that the colony’s death hadn’t been a quiet, silent one—violence had taken place in this town.
“Jesus,” Bones breathed, eyes wide as he continued to look around at the destruction that surrounded them. “What the hell happened here…?”
Jim glanced away from them both, bright gaze focusing to the ground at their feet; a muscle along the edge of his jawline ticked noticeably, and it was then that Spock finally reached out to curl his long fingers around the solid strength of his Captain’s forearm. Concern and suspicion flared brighter still, shifting into theories and ideas—a hypothesis as to how and why James Tiberius Kirk was so blatantly knowledgeable about this long-dead colony.
“Captain. Jim,” Spock tried again, reaching out through the bond that had slowly, over time, unfurled like a flower reaching towards the sun’s warmth and irrevocably linked Vulcan and human together. Through the bond, Spock could feel Jim’s hesitate, could see the flicker of doubt that lingered momentarily within that bright sky-clear gaze—could feel, as well, the moment that Jim gave in to his bondmate’s pressing concern, the razor-sharp focus that Spock directed his way.
The dark-eyed man fingers reached out to wrap snugly against the shorter man’s wrist, fingerpads pressing against the too-frantic pulse beneath thin, vulnerable skin. Jim’s heartbeat raced, and the wave of rage and fear and an all-consuming pit of loss threatened to overwhelm even a Vulcan’s thick mental shielding.
Peace, t’hy’la, Spock murmured, low and intimate, within the other man’s mind. I am here.
“Starfleet doesn’t talk about what happened on Tarsus IV,” the gold-clad Captain began even as he moved forward to head deeper into the town, arm shifting just enough beneath Spock’s hold to briefly tangle their fingers together and sending a wave of carefully layered gratitude the other man’s way.
“It’s not taught at the Academy and the records are buried pretty deep; what happened on Tarsus IV, what happened here… it was a tragedy and a humiliation and a mistake—tangled up and pressed together and no way to unravel any of it, and better to gloss over the fact that it had ever actually existed than to explore what, exactly, went wrong. So people in charge just… ‘forgot’ because it was easier than facing consequences of certain actions.”
The blue-eyed man stepped over portions of a house’s wall that had collapsed outward, carefully making his way through the rubble and the scattered debris of a family’s once-upon-a-time, happy life. Farther into the colony’s city, Spock could hear detritus tumble down from somewhere high up, and a low moan slip through the remaining buildings as a quick-paced wind sped along the streets.
He froze, however, when the wind’s echo shifted, lowered further in pitch, and a word formed.
…Executioner…
Jim stilled, as well, suddenly blank gaze shifting to glance towards where the governor’s estate once resided. His expression blanked even further, mind quieting to the point that Spock was only getting the faintest echoes of thoughts and emotions from his bondmate. More rubble tumbled down in the distance, and Bones tensed as he reached out to grab onto his best friend’s shoulder, steadying Jim and taking comfort in the touch.
There was movement from the corner of Bones’ gaze, and the doctor flinched and shifted enough to stand in front of the Captain, phaser unholstering to face—nothing. There was nothing there. Only destruction and its resulting rubble and, perhaps, the ivory gleam of buried bone.
“Let’s go. The Administration building is further in, towards the center of town,” Jim suddenly said as he broke away from Bones and Spock yet again, ignoring the doctor’s muttered ‘What the hell is going on, Jim??’ to make his way deeper into the mausoleum of a city.
Spock glanced Bones’ way and lifted an eyebrow when it was obvious that their Captain had no intention of stopping or waiting for them to catch up—or of acknowledging the sudden heaviness in the air, weighing down upon their shoulders and settling upon their skin like thousands of watching, patient eyes. “Once more unto the breach, Doctor,” the Vulcan instead commented with, and Bones made an annoyed face at Spock’s usage of a Shakespearean quote.
“You both seem to forget the fact that I’m from the South and from a town with one eye open and waiting for things that go bump in the night—and I’m tellin’ you right now that this is already a horrible idea,” Bones snapped back even as he tensed further at the flicker of movement that yet again appeared at the peripheral of his gaze.
There was nothing there when he turned to look, however.
Both Spock and Bones ignored it when the wind picked up again, new words forming in the low-toned wail.
…Executioner…
…Governor…
…Kodossssss…
Shadows shifted and scurried amongst the wreckage, pacing the three men as they made their way deeper and deeper towards the one-time heart of the colony town: hidden just beyond the crew’s sight, though awareness of those moving shadows came as goosebumps pricked along their arms, hairs rising at the back of their necks.
The place felt—abandoned.
Haunted.
**
In contrast to most of the town, the Administration complex was almost completely intact. Phaser burns still marked vulnerable areas on the building, but the streets directly surrounding it were surprisingly clear of rubble and wreckage.
Jim stared up at the building, mouth a flat, tight line that slashed unhappily across his face while the rest of his expression remained worryingly blank.
“You know,” the blue-eyed man began suddenly, tone almost conversational despite the fury that laced his voice. “This is where Governor Kodos made his initial announcement: The revolution is successful. But survival depends on drastic measures. Your continued existence represents a threat to the well-being of society. Your lives mean slow death to the more valued members of the colony. Therefore, I have no alternative but to sentence you to death. Your execution is so ordered. He said that to the four thousand colonists he deemed genetically inferior to the rest of the colony, standing up there and looking like the worst type of superior, smug bastard.”
The whispers once more murmured through the streets, accusations and screams of the damned and dying, a name that was hissed over and over and over again, filled with a sort of hellfire-limed determined thirst for vengeance and justice. Spock glanced over at a house that, long ago, had sat opposite the Administration complex—and met the sightless, empty gaze of a little girl who looked no older than five. Spock blinked, just once, and her face shifted into something eldritch and horrifying to behold.
“I stood right here as a man who was supposed to protect the colony told me that I needed to die for the good of it. Fuck, I hated him more than I had ever hated anyone else in my life. Still do.”
Jawline tensing once more, Jim settled his foot upon the first step that led to the door of the Administration building; a sort of haze blurred the edges of the Captain’s form, fogging him partially from view, and Spock could see the faint outlines of hands brushing against his t’hy’la’s shoulders, his arms, his back, and his fingers—grasping, reaching out, lingering, reassuring, supporting, loving.
The sight should have inspired fear or shock or perhaps even a possessive sort of rage within Spock. Instead, he discovered that he only felt an all-encompassing sort of… sadness and pity for the katra of the humans who had already passed. (And understanding, as well, because his bondmate was so very easy to love: what, then, had Jim done for these long dead people—that they welcomed him back with careful, spiderweb fine touches?)
He followed after, disregarding the distrustful and hateful hisses that accompanied each step forward as the Vulcan pushed through the gathering of spirits to yet again stand at Jim’s shoulder; it was a tragedy, the katra of the people who had died here—alone and forsaken by friends and family and government, unremembered by no one expect for the man who had managed to survive the massacre that had condemned so many others to death.
The two men continued to make their way into the Administration building, Bones following soon after and accompanied by a litany of shaky, fear-heavy curses as the ghosts of Tarsus IV’s dead directed their suspicious attentions towards the Enterprise’s CMO. (Jim could hear a faint ‘Dammit, Jim; I’m a doctor, not an exorcist.’ right before he stepped into the heavy, lingering silence of the Administration building’s interior.)
Still, the whispers followed after him:
…Kodos…
**
It did not take long to find the control center for the Administration building; the hallways the three men traveled down were surprisingly clear of debris and of any sign of fighting that had otherwise damaged the exterior of most other buildings within the town: remembering the layout from too-long ago, wishing that this was another part of his past that could be so easily forgotten, Jim led the way with confident, knowing steps.
(And the dead lingered within the edges of his vision.)
“Here,” the Captain eventually commented, pushing open the heavy, reinforced door that led to the control center. “The signal originated from here.”
Enough years had passed that the generators should have been dead, worn out and collapsed in on themselves. Despite that knowledge, that expectation… the computers within the control room were lit up, bright with activity—and it was a sight that should not have been possible.
Much more cautious now, Jim stepped farther into the room, glancing every which way and ignoring Spock’s ironic murmur of ‘Fascinating.’ as the Science Officer stopped before one of the computer terminals. Instead, the Captain headed directly for the station that would have sent out the distress signal that had caught Starfleet’s attention and brought the blue-eyed survivor back to this godforsaken planet.
Standing before the specific computer terminal, he lightly tapped upon the screen to bring it fully to life. A quote awaited him on the stand-by screen:
When the past no longer illuminates the future, the spirit walks in darkness.
Jim’s eyebrows raised high at that, softly answering with: “Alexis de Tocqueville.”
The cursor on the computer’s screen blinked off and on for a moment or two before backtracking to erase the quote that had been originally placed there. Instead, new words formed and the heaviness of the air within the control room increased that much more, pressing down on all of the men’s chests and settling in the marrow of their bones like an ache that came with the shifting of the weather and the first chilly kiss of winter.
We will not be forgotten. Not any longer.
The galaxy will remember us.
Lights blazed across the room and, unexpectedly, the trill of a deep-space transmission filled the empty expanse of the control room; data scrolled across multiple computer terminals—correspondence, botany results from when the fungus had first struck, recordings of Kodos addressing the colony at large, records upon records of deaths—and Jim realized that all of that data was being jettisoned into space, directed at as many worlds as possible so that the story of Tarsus IV would finally be acknowledged and told and never again repeated.
“Do not let them forget us, Jim Kirk. Or you will one day be back here again,” a voice whispered against the shell of the blue-eyed man’s ear—a remembered voice, one Jim had welcomed with affection and familiarity—and Hoshi Sato pressed a papery, thin-lipped kiss to the blond man’s cheek.
Jim closed his eyes, ignored the trembling of his limbs, and breathed.
“Mr. Scott,” Spock spoke into his transmitter, “three to beam up.”
**
It felt like hours later before reports were complete enough that Jim, Spock, and Bones could retreat back to their quarters for a well-deserved night of sleep. Yet, even as Spock slipped easily into a meditative trance—Jim leaving his bondmate to his time of peace and instead heading towards the small office space in his rooms—sleep was not so attainable for the starship Captain.
He collapsed into the chair behind his desk, scrubbing a calloused hand roughly over the stubble-covered skin of his cheeks. Jim was… tired, so incredibly tired, but rest would not come. Especially not when he wondered something, a curiosity that had lingered in the back of his mind at the first whisper that had eased through the town of the colony below. The fair-haired man remained silent for a minute or two, debating whether or not he genuinely wanted an answer to that particular suspicion—but eventually pushed forward to face his fear head-on and without flinching.
“Computer, what is today’s date in the old Terran calendar?”
“The 31st of October, Captain,” the Enterprise’s computer answered promptly, voice flat and without inflection as it provided Jim with his answer. A moment longer, as if it was searching further into its database, and the computer added, “Also known as All Hallow’s Eve to certain Terran cultures, sir.”
Jim laughed shakily at hearing that particular response, leaning back in his Captain’s chair and letting his neck arch to rest over the padded headrest along the top of the seat. The perfect date for ghosts who were tired of remaining unacknowledged to step out into the light once more.
Cool fingers brushed against the blue-eyed man’s psy points, and Jim opened his eyes to meet Spock’s own dark gaze; the Captain quirked a small smile up at his bondmate even as Spock’s fingers settled and his mind brushed the human’s closer than ever before. “Come back to bed, t’hy’la,” the Vulcan murmured in the quiet that lingered between the both of them. “It has been a long day and rest is necessary.”
The blond man let his breath out in a sigh then, reaching up to cup a hand over the nape of Spock’s neck. He brought the dark-haired man down lower, turning his head to the side to press a kiss to one pointed ear. “Then take me back to bed, Mr. Spock. Help me forget enough to sleep.”
“As you wish, Jim.”
::fin::