Chapter Text
Dawn in Epsilon Six is a dense emerald fog rolling towards them like a glittering ghostly wave. According to Spock, mornings here last 15.33 Earth years. According to Scotty, that fog is a maelstrom of ionic turbulence that will play havoc with transporter signal. And according to Bones, they need to continue running for their lives right into the direction of the oncoming fog if they don't want to be eaten by the horrendous flaming apparition Harcourt Fenton Mudd has woken up.
Jim flips his comm open. "Scotty, forget about Mudd, beam us up!"
The two security guys bringing up the rear were firing their phasers wildly behind them. Leonard pushes one of their arms down.
"Stop wasting your time shootin' at a big flamin' monster and focus on flamin' running, Ensigns!" he barks.
"I must concur with the Doctor's suggestion," says Spock from his position in the vanguard, "we should cease shooting unless necessary as phaser fire may only cause the fog to be more unstable."
Scotty's voice is littered with static; the further they venture into the outskirts of the fog, the weaker his voice becomes. "Captain, your signals are erratic, you cannae go any further—"
"Turning around is not an option, Mr Scott," says Jim.
"Captain," says Spock, "we can regulate our pace into a constant speed to eliminate random variables, hence giving Mr Scott a simpler calculation to work with in order to find our displacement in time for the purpose of transporting us back to the Enterprise."
"He means run steadily; no faster, no slower!" says Leonard.
"Heard that, Scotty?" says Jim into his communicator.
"Aye, Captain," replies Scotty's scrambled voice, "we've got ye. The signals are still weak, we can beam ye up two at a time."
"Start with the Lieutenants at the back," says Jim, "go go!"
The scene is now ghostly; Jim feels as if they're now at the bottom of the sea. The lighter gravity of the planet only adds to that sensation: he watches Spock's bangs bounce into the air with every step he takes, separate strands of black falling slowly back down in their own parabolic trajectory.
"This is a good way to close the five year mission, Bones," grumbles Leonard slightly behind Jim, "exploring a new world, bringing a criminal to justice, and oh yeah, lots of running for our lives! Just brilliant!"
Jim gives him a thumbs-up and a grin over his shoulder. Meanwhile, the two security officers disappear in a low hum and a bright flash.
"We've got Hendorff and Thung," announces Scotty.
"Beam Spock and Doctor McCoy next," says Jim.
"Now, just hold on a damn—"
"Energise!" barks Jim.
Leonard's next few choice words are drowned out by the hum of the transporter before he and Spock dissolve out of the green spectacle. Once the bright flash of the transporter fades away, Jim realises it is rapidly becoming darker—he is being engulfed by black-emerald ink. One hand finds the reassuring weight of his phaser; the other tightens its grip around his comm.
"Scotty?"
Scotty’s voice is so distant Jim has to press the comm to his ear to hear him. "Materialisation... longer... Doc... Spock... here..."
"Scotty, you're breaking up. Are McCoy and Spock safe?"
Scotty is not the one to reply. "Jim... fucking ass... HERE!"
Jim chuckles his relief. It is short-lived: A low hiss now permeates the thick air. Something burning just enters Jim's field of vision. He recalls what Bones said about the abundance of oxygen in this planet compared to Earth. Good for fire-based beings. Bad for us in a prolonged exposure.
"Scotty, hurry up," says Jim into his comm.
"Stand... Captain... Keep yer... constant."
"Scotty, it's gonna be hard to keep a constant speed, our incredibly hot friend is here," says Jim.
Only static greets him when he flips his comm on again. The hiss is getting louder; fat sweat beads slither their way down Jim's neck into his clammy uniform. He keeps a count of his pace in his head. One Missisipi. Two Missisipi. Three—
The air vibrates, he shines golden, and the green disappears.
His next step lands him onto the Enterprise's transport pad, coughing in the wisps of green smoke still lingering around him. He takes a deep breath of the Enterprise's filtered sterile air, choking on his first try, and doubles over, his hands on his knees.
"Okay, let's never do that again," he huffs.
A blur of red rushes towards him; whatever breath he just caught is knocked out of him as the ground slam against him hard. The spots bursting in his vision make it hard to make out Hendorff's face.
"I was gone three minutes," groans Jim, "lay off the welcome party—hey—"
The rest of his words are lost as Hendorff rolls him over. He cries aloud as his arms are yanked back and all 200-odd pounds of Hendorff press him further into the cold floor of the transporter pad.
"Secured, sir," grunts Hendorf.
Jim can only sputter his incredulity.
"Your Romulan agent, Captain," says a sickeningly familiar voice.
"Let's take a good look at him," says another voice, this one distantly familiar. "Stand him up, Mr Hendorff."
Jim curses as he's shoved into the air and then onto his feet. "Mutiny isn't fucking funny," spits Jim, struggling in Hendorff's grip, "knock it off, Hendorff!"
Hendorff only replies by seizing a handful of his hair and yanking his head up. The bright lights of the transporter pad sting his eyes. Jim snarls and growls and snaps his jaw in futile at the hand.
"Fierce little thing," says the distantly familiar voice.
"Oh, he's very rabid, Captain," says the sickeningly familiar voice, "I recommend a muzzle, a collar, and a leash to bring him to heel."
"Mudd!" barks Jim, "whatever this is I swear—"
The man beside Mudd, the man with the distantly familiar voice, takes a step closer to the transporter pad and his features come into relief. Jim knows him. The blonde hair is littered with grey, and the face is more lined. But the eyes are a dead giveaway.
"You're aboard the USS Enterprise," says the Captain, "I'm Captain George Kirk. Dont worry. You're going to be treated humanely while we get to the bottom of things."
His mom and Chris always did say he has his father's eyes.
"I thought I know every Captain in Starfleet," continues George Kirk, his eyes dropping towards the gold bands around his sleeve. Then he seizes Jim's jaw, turning his face left and right. "Aren't you too young to be a Captain? Who are you, son?"
Name and rank, prompts the good Starfleet officer in his head, name and rank. But Jim's answer ends up choking his throat; he gasps for breath and turns back to Mudd, his cheeks red and burning from where George has touched him.
"What did you do?" he hisses.
Mudd grins. "Just my duty as a citizen of the Federation," he says, "but that's not a concept you'd understand, traitor."
"Put him in the brig, Mr Hendorff," says George. "Mr Mudd, let's hear your story first." He turns those piercing blues back to Jim. "We'll hear you as well afterwards. We're big on natural justice in the Federation."
"I believe patriotism is certainly rewarding in and of itself, Captain, but I understand the Federation also appreciates the concept of positive encouragement," begins Mudd in what he must think is a meek tone that only makes Jim even more nauseous.
George Kirk smiles. "Like I said, we'll hear your story." He leans towards the comm unit and flicks the channel open. "Kirk to bridge. I'm on my way; prepare to leave orbit. Oh, and inform Number One to meet me in my ready room in fifteen minutes."
The door slides open, and George gestures for Mudd to go first.
"You still remember your way to the bridge, Mr Mudd?" says George.
Mudd just laughs and walks ahead of him, chest up and out as if he's an honoured guest being given a tour.
Jim's arms have gone numb, but not just because Hendorff's grip is cutting off his circulation. His legs are lead as he is dragged down the halls of his ship—no, is this still his ship, is this still his Enterprise? He would recognise her anywhere; he knows every curve, every nook and cranny of hers intimately. This is the hum of her impulse engine. This door leads to the turbo lift. This corridor is a shortcut to the Medbay. And this path Hendorff is walking him on is the roundabout way to the brig.
More familiar faces than unknown ones stare at him in his confused humiliation. He calls after them, but most avert their gaze; some crinkle their nose; one spits at his feet. The whispered words "Romulan" and "traitor" hang heavy in the artificial gravity.
The Enterprise shoots into warp not long after Hendorff throws him into his cell. It takes him a while to scramble up against the wall of the cell into a seated position; he'd have thought he's having an allergic reaction from the way everything feels so heavy and swollen. He leans back against the cold wall behind him, closes his eyes, and listens to the jagged breathing from his own mouth that is only starting to slow down.
Two possibilities. This is a dream. This is a new form of psychological torture. And Mudd's always had his weird drugs—he made lonely miners see beautiful women willing to be their wives, it isn't a stretch from that to make him see a dead father. But why would his dead father not recognise him?
Another possibility, a worse one: This could be real.
Jim climbs up to his feet and staggers towards the front of the cell.
"Hey!" he yells into the force field, banging his fist against the solid wall beside him. The red shirt on guard looks up from his computer for a second before returning to it. Another familiar face. "Johnson!" calls Jim, "Tony Johnson!"
Johnson stands up. He approaches the cell slowly.
"Tony," smiles Jim as if he's just bumped into a long lost friend.
"How'd you know my name?" demands Johnson.
"Tell me, Tony: What stardate is it?" says Jim.
"Romulan scums don't get to ask questions here," says Johnson.
Jim is far from being a fan of Romulans, but even he is taken aback by the hatred behind the word as spoken by everyone he's met aboard this Enterprise.
"Look at my ears, Tony," says Jim, "they look pointed to you?"
"That makes it worse, traitor," hisses Johnson. "Shut the fuck up and wait for Captain to deal with you."
Jim Kirk is a man who knows how to pick his battles. He smiles and sits back down in the corner. Nothing he can do until his dear dead Daddy comes back for him.
"Three questions," says George Kirk. "Let's start with the simplest: what's your name?"
"I've got three too," says Jim. "What a coincidence. How about I'll answer one of yours for every one of mine? Sounds eminently reasonable—logical, in fact."
He smiles at Spock. He hasn't stopped smiling at Spock since he walks into the brig by George's side, even if Spock regards him only with a slight cock of the eyebrow and the absolute absence of recognition behind those dark eyes. Number One, his dead father calls him, standing by his side as if he's always belonged there. This sight alone confirms one of Jim's suspicions, one about his own place in this dream, vision, reality—whatever it is.
George smiles and steps closer towards the cell. "Captain," he says, "this is an interrogation, not a negotiation."
"I'll be in a better position to answer your questions if you answer mine," says Jim. "Help me help you, Captain Kirk."
Saying that name sends shivers down his spine.
"Name," says George.
"Jim," says Jim. "What's the stardate?"
"Just Jim?" says George.
"That's me," says Jim. "Stardate".
"Not short for James?"
"Stardate, please."
"First name Just, last name Jim?"
Jim smiles. "My friends call me Jim. Captain, I just want to know what day it is."
"Mudd told me about you," says George. "He's accused you of being a Romulan agent, Captain. But I've crossed path with him enough times to know not to buy him at face value, so help me help you. What's your name?"
And Jim has crossed path with Mudd enough times to know how he plays his cards.
"A question for a question."
"Two two six five point fifty four," says Spock's voice. George looks at him over his shoulder. He raises his eyebrow and his Captain Kirk gives a small sigh and a smile. "It is the most logical thing to do, Captain, if we are to proceed with the questioning."
"Not entirely," chimes Johnson from his station, one hand massaging his knuckle.
The same day. The same ship. Everything is the same but for his dead father standing in his stead as Captain.
"Where did you get the uniform?" says George. "You're not a Starfleet officer, Captain. I've had Spock run a search on your face in every database we have access to—you don't exist as far as the Federation is concerned."
Thank you, Dad, thinks Jim too cheerfully for a man who just learns that he's not supposed to exist. George has just answered one of his own questions, making it a lot easier for him to choose between the remaining to ask.
"It's mine," says Jim. He tugs at the torn collar that yawns to reveal a slice of his bare chest. "Clearly standard issue."
"Captain," says Spock, "a Starfleet uniform is weaved with a proprietary thread in an intricate pattern that is impossible to replicate outside the three factories commissioned for its production."
"And it has the identity of the officer it's issued to embossed on it," nods George.
"How else will housekeeping sort out our clothes?" grins Jim. He's forgotten about this inconvenient fact; he needs to keep his cards and uniform clutched to his chest before the time is right. "My question, Captain—"
"Uniform first," says George. "A question for a question, right, Captain?"
Jim pulls the command gold off him and holds it out in a crumpled ball like an offering. "What happened thirty-two years ago," he says, "between the Romulan vessel known as the Narada and the USS Kelvin?"
George's square jaw sets. His eyes become slits through which the blue drill something fierce into Jim.
"You damn Romulan scum," cries Johnson, "you think you can come here and insult our Captain like that?"
"The Narada," insists Jim, throwing the bundle of uniform from one hand to another, "what happened?"
"Fascinating," says Spock. "It is illogical for someone in his position to throw away an opportunity to probe for information in order to insult the Captain."
"He's human, Spock," says George, “we like our insults, much better than logic most of the time.”
"My uniform for a history lesson," says Jim. "A damn good deal if there's one."
"What do you think happened thirty-two years ago?" says Spock, taking another step closer.
"Does that count as a question?" says Jim.
"Logically, your arrangement is such that only the Captain's count, and I do not speak for the Captain," says Spock simply. "But you will want to answer the question for your own sake."
Jim is used to holding Spock's stare without flinching. No Spock in any dream, vision, or reality can intimidate him. He suddenly remembers the ice caves of Delta Vega. The wizened face, the wise voice. I have been and always shall be your friend.
The simple basic truth, a universal constant: He trusts Spock, in any dream, vision, or reality.
"Thirty-two years ago," says Jim, "A Romulan mining vessel appeared out of nowhere, during what was described as 'lightning storm in space'. It encountered the USS Kelvin. Kelvin did not stand a chance—her crew abandoned ship, her Captain staying behind to give the evacuees a chance."
"And this Captain's identity?" asks Spock.
Jim takes a deep breath. "Lieutenant George Kirk was Captain for twelve minutes, and he saved eight hundred lives."
"Twelve minutes?" echoes George in a hollow voice.
Spock's fingers dance on the side panel and a hole appears in the force field. Without breaking his gaze, Jim shoves the uniform out into Spock's awaiting hand.
"I cannot confirm the authenticity of this uniform before running tests on it," says Spock, lifting up the wrong side of the bottom hem of the shirt, "but the name is here, Captain."
"My first question," says George. "You said your name is Jim."
"Read it out, Mr Spock," says Jim.
"James Tiberius Kirk," says Spock slowly, eyebrows leaping into and disappearing under his bangs, "Captain of the USS Enterprise."
George stumbles a step back. Jim keeps his ground and lifts a hand in greeting. He says the words he's never been entitled to say.
"Hi, Dad."
There's a screech as Johnson slams his chair back and leaps onto his feet. Spock raises his free hand and stops him in his tracks.
"Number One," says George, "take the uniform to the lab. Run whatever tests you need to ascertain its authenticity. Also, run a search on... on the name. Call me when you have news. Mr Johnson, have someone bring Mudd to my ready room." He turns those piercing blues back to Jim. "You have one more question. You'd wanna think it through carefully."
"How's your daughter, Tony?" says Jim, "last we spoke you said she was starting high school—same school McCoy's kid is going to, the one at Atlanta, right?"
"Shut the fuck up, don't you talk about my daughter. The nerve you've got," growls Johnson across the force field. "How shameless you can be, traitor?"
They've been having this pleasant conversation for half an hour now. He hasn't been able to get anything more useful from Johnson apart from his sheer hatred of Romulans and their allies, but a semblance of normalcy, no matter how one-sided, is good for his nerves.
"Speaking of," continues Jim, "is Dr McCoy alright?"
Johnson only glowers at him.
"You know," presses Jim, "your CMO. Grumpy Southern gentleman, follows your Spock around to curse his butt off?"
"Our CMO?" says Johnson, "Dr M'Benga?"
This slightly throws off the nerves Jim has been building up. "Sorry, of course, Dr M'Benga is your CMO," he says quickly, ignoring the sinking feeling of his stomach. This may be a dream or vision or alternate reality, whatever, but the thought of Bones being hurt or dead here strikes him like an icicle through his lungs. "I was talking about McCoy. Leonard McCoy."
"What? Shut the fuck up, scum," comes the familiar refrain. "You're not going to spread your confusion here. You know damn well who Captain Kirk is and what he is capable of."
No, says Jim inwardly, I really don't. If his father is anything like the saint hero people have always described him to be, then there is a chance Jim can appeal to him and ask him for help. If he is not, then Jim can only rely on himself to wake the fuck up from this dream, vision, hallucination, whatever.
And if this isn't Kansas anymore, well, he'll just find his way back, won't he? It's home stretch for the Enterprise and he will be there to bring his crew home, no matter what.
A loud wailing interrupts Jim's thoughts; the dim lighting of the brig has been replaced by a flashing amber. He looks up and grins at Johnson, who is now pulling out his whistling comm.
"Security alert," he says, "might wanna answer that."
The smooth voice belting out of the comm causes Jim's stomach to lurch.
"All available security personnel to search ship for Harcourt Fenton Mudd," says Uhura's voice. "Be advised that Mudd is to be presumed as armed and dangerous. Set phasers on stun."
"Oof," says Jim, cackling despite himself. The more of his friends he discovers on board this Enterprise, the better he feels about his chances—even if they don't necessarily know who he is yet. "Don't feel too bad, that Mudd's one slippery eel."
Johnson's comm beeps again before he could tell Jim to shut the fuck up again.
"Johnson here."
"Mr Johnson, Captain instructs to secure the prisoner."
"Prisoner as secured as he can be, Lieutenant," says Johnson, "even if he's a ghost there's no way he'll be walking out of that cell—"
The Enterprise gives an almighty jolt; Jim is slammed hard face first against the force field. The engine coughs and chokes, and then everything creaks into stillness. Jim knows too well what this is: she's just very violently dropped out of warp.
The force field flickers off before the artificial gravity brings Jim crashing back down. He finds his feet quickly, but judging from Johnson's still body at the end of the room there is no rush.
Whatever this is, and however terribly Johnson has behaved, Anthony Johnson is, as far as Jim is concerned, still his crew. He finds a pulse. Alive, thank God.
The red alert only starts blaring then. His body moves on instinct as it always does whenever his Enterprise is on red alert. He runs out of the brig and joins the crowd of blue, yellow, and red dashing up and down the corridors. There's nothing but the blackness of space stretched outside the windows, so what happened? Engine malfunction?
A wall of red is now approaching his direction; Jim turns on his heels and tails a gaggle of beleaguered cadets. He almost forgets the small matter that he is still first and foremost a prisoner of this ship and her Captain. Right, he just needs to explain this to his dear father—
"The Romulan spy's escaped!"
Johnson skids to a stop in front of him, his appearance matching his hoarse voice. The cadets become even more alarmed; Jim takes this opportunity to duck and turn the other way, only to see the oncoming tide of security officers. He curses, causing the nearest cadet to gasp and turn to him.
"That's him!" cries Johnson, "get him!"
How does that old saying go again? The innocent does not run, for he has nothing to hide? Jim agrees, but at the same time one of his life principles has always been that if someone chases him, he runs. Being a man of principles, he dodges Johnson's wild clutches and powers down the corridor that he knows so well. This will not lead him to the bridge at all—this is the way to the transport room, and beyond that, to engineering.
"Gentlemen," he yells over his shoulder as he dodges around and over unsuspecting crew members, "this is all a misunderstanding!"
More and more red is joining the swarm behind him.
"Someone stop him, that's the Romulan agent!"
"Not! A! Romulan! Agent!" The crowd is starting to thin—dangerous, for Jim, especially since it might encourage security officers to fire up their phasers. "If you'll just let me talk to your Captain," he continues, "we can sort this out!"
"Okay, let's."
George Kirk steps out of the transport room just as Jim runs past it. He almost trips over his own feet; he catches himself, and half shuffles sideways, half jogs backwards to look at his father. The mass of security officers come to a stop behind George.
"James Tiberius Kirk," says George slowly as if he's relishing every syllable. He's ambling towards Jim casually, hands behind his back.
"Dad—can I call you Dad?" says Jim. "It's rude of me to call you by your name."
"Mudd's gone," says George. "He took the transporter."
Jim gives him his charming laughter. "How could he beam out at warp?"
"I was hoping you could tell me," says George. "I don't know how he did it, but he managed to stall our engines cold and took us out of warp before transporting out. Sorry, are you in a rush to join him? Am I holding you back, son?"
Jim shakes his head. "I'm offended at the suggestion that I would ever work together with Harcourt Fenton Mudd."
George shrugs. "Then how did you get out?"
It's hard to walk and talk at the same time when you're walking backwards to maintain manners with your father, but also when you have to keep looking over your shoulder to ensure your father is not pushing you towards the awaiting arms of security or a cold dead end. "The force field switched off for a second when we dropped out of warp. I wanted to look for you and see how I can help."
"Because you're captain of the Enterprise," snorts George.
Jim claps his hands. "Yes, precisely! I knew you'd understand!"
George only smiles grimly.
"Captain, he's heading to engineering," warns Hendorff a tad late; Jim is already backed up against the sealed doors of engineering. His hand slides to the security panel; please, if there is such a thing as fate, if there is such a thing as luck, if there is such a thing as a universal constant...
His Captain's pass code punched in, the doors slide open and he stumbles backwards through them. The red shirts at this side of the door scatter as he runs past them. Jim doesn't even know where he's going; engineering is huge, but in the end he's still in a ship floating in the emptiness of space.
"Captain Kirk, you have to believe me!" yells Jim without even looking back now. The echo of the footsteps behind him drum up a storm. Add the hissing and coughs of the engines and you have a cacophony. "Spock—ask Spock to mindmeld with me, and you'll see—“
A phaser beam barely missed his head; it charred the pipe just beside Jim.
"Are you crazy?!" cries Jim.
"Back at you, Captain! Why should I risk my Vulcan First Officer to mindmeld with a Romulan agent trained to resist mindmelds?" comes the reply.
He sees two red shirts jumping down onto the catwalk ahead of him. "In my defense, Romulans don't do that where I come from!" he says. He catches hold of an overhanging pipe and swings himself over to the adjacent catwalk.
Another phaser beam whizzes past and clangs past a water tank.
"Mr Batu, stop shooting!" says George's exasperated voice, "we're at the heart of the engine room!"
"Listen to the Captain!" agrees Jim. He flings himself off this catwalk and lands with a bang on the level below. He can't keep this up forever. There is no escape, literally and—
Oh my God, does he fucking love this ship.
"It's over," announces George. He's hardly panting—he's in an amazing shape for his age. Jim looks up from the side panel.
"Listen," says Jim, hands raised as if trying to tame a wild buck, "Captain Kirk. I don't know what this is, a dream, a hallucination, weird interdimensional phenomenon, but please, we don't have to do this." He smiles pleadingly. "You've haunted me my entire life. I joined Starfleet because of you, and every single damn day I wonder if I've done right by your memory. And now you're in front of me, and there is so much I want to ask you, Dad."
George looks at him with eyes that burn cold. Jim backs up and against the smooth walls of the Kelvin pod.
"My son died thirty-two years ago," he says, "Romulan bastards killed him, killed Winona." He takes a deep breath. "My Jim was alive for mere minutes before the shuttle was—" The muscles in his jaws lock. "I should've known the Romulans would stoop this low. The war had really changed them for the worse."
"Dad, Captain Kirk," says Jim slowly, "the Romulans might have taken your son away once, but don't let your hatred cause you to lose another one. Please, Dad, just... Just see me."
George stares at him, as still as a marble statue. Then he closes his eyes and sighs.
"There's no such thing as ghosts."
"Captain?"
Jim hasn't even noticed George's phaser in his hand until it's now trained on his chest. "Come quietly," says George, "the Federation guarantees your right to a fair trial."
Jim can't afford to be disappointed—he's survived an entire life of father issues, and he will continue living just fine with them. He just needs to worry about living for the moment, and from the way everyone here espouses pure unadulterated hatred towards the Romulans, Jim really doesn't feel like taking this Federation's idea of a fair trial at face value.
"Three questions," says Jim, "Remember? I still have a third one."
"What?"
"My question, Captain," exclaims Jim in a loud and ringing voice, "Is the Emergency Override Code in this ship Zero Zero One Alpha Five Charlie Gamma Eight Eight Seven Zero Epsilon?"
"Emergency Override Code accepted," croons the Computer. The Kelvin pod slides open; Jim falls back into it; the Enterprise rushes past in a blur; there she is now, shrinking smaller and smaller, a speck of silver suspended in the blackness of space; Jim laughs even as he is hurled into this all consuming blackness, because if that hadn't worked, he would have looked pretty fucking stupid in front of his dad.