RoH 8

Hell Is Only A Poor Synonym

Stardate 2260.175, 0800 hours, Deck 10, Conference Lounge One

“We’ll enter orbit around New Sydney at 1200 hours, with the Beta Two team on the bridge for the first orbital shift and Mr. Spock in command. After we’re done with ‘parking permissions’ and other formalities, away teams and shore leave parties will beam down starting at 1600 hours. Mr. Scott is in charge of acquiring additional supplies of pergium at the Tigan Mining Consortium. He’ll be accompanied by Lieutenants Chekov and Keenser. Lieutenant Amell and her team will oversee the handling and stowing of the pergium on board.” Jim consulted his PADD before looking at the assembled officers. “New Sydney is not a holiday destination. Pollution problems thanks to the pergium mines are still its most pleasant feature. Less attractive is the fact that it’s firmly in the hands of the Orion Syndicate, and slave trade is practiced openly. We can only beam to official transport platforms. I’ve received a friendly message from New Sydney police that beaming frequencies will be interrupted outside those areas. Nevertheless, I want the transporter team on alert 24/7 while we’re in orbit. Additionally, three security teams are scheduled to stand-by in case of trouble. Starfleet’s less than welcome here, and we’re far enough from Federation space that we’re on our own should anything come up. Therefore my orders are simple: There won’t be any problems. Make it so.” His best stern stare was rewarded with serious nods all around the table.

“Lieutenant Marcus and Ensign Canningham will accompany me on an away mission to make contact with a Federation agent. We’re taking a full security unit. Cupc— my dear Lieutenant Giotto, Lieutenant Davison, and Lieutenant Brenner, tag, you’re it.” Jim smiled at the pleased expressions of the officers. After weeks in space, everyone was eager to get on an away mission, never mind how fugly the planet. “We’ll stay in orbit until 2260.178, 2000 hours. Commander Paul is in charge of scheduling the rest of the away teams and shore leave for those crew members who dare to apply for some. That’s it from my side. Everybody shoo except for my away people. I need you to stick around to discuss the details of our mission.” He frowned. “Mr. Spock, Commander Paul, you’re cordially invited to stay as well.”

Commander Paul and Spock looked less than pleased. Too bad. But with what was at stake neither Commander nor Lieutenant Paul would get a free pass for New Sydney from him. Plus, the security officers weren’t the only ones on board with feet itching to get off ship for a change … Once in a while captain’s authority came in handy.

“Capital of the planet is Jubbulpore, right next to the spaceport. From the transporter platform we’ll head down Joy Street to the Plaza of Liberty. We’re looking for an agent of the Federation – Colonel Richard Baslim – who will be posing as a beggar. Code name is Baslim the Cripple. I’ve transferred pictures to your PADDs. If he’s not out on the street, we’ll check the taverns; the Supernova, the Veiled Virgin, and Mother Shaum’s, some others. The man’s been out of touch for a while. But for a field agent on an unaligned planet, which is nine days subspace lag away from Earth, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.” Jim had those details from Commander Paul, of course. But this was his away mission, so he got to do the talking, too.

“When contact has been made, this mission should be a simple matter of exchanging intelligence – data sticks for alms, most likely. Last but not least, Commander Paul had such a delightful description for the area we’re going to visit that I simply have to share it …” Another glance at his PADD. “Ah, yes: ‘between the spaceport at the end of the Avenue of Nine and the Plaza of Liberty, anything in the explored universe can be had by a man with cash, from a starship to Arrakeen Spice, from the ruin of a reputation to the robes of a Federation Council member with the councilor still inside.’ In other words: constant vigilance, people.”

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.175, 1600 hours, in orbit around New Sydney

“Alright, let’s get this show on the road,” Jim said and leaned forward to the comm pick-up. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to New Sydney. We’ll stay in orbit until stardate 2260.178, 2000 hours. Beta Two team is currently on command duty. Mr. Spock has the conn. Away teams and groups for shore leave have been scheduled by Commander Paul. If you haven’t read the file on New Sydney yet, I suggest you do so ASAP. As a reminder for those who have done their homework: New Sydney is an unaligned planet with a very diverse population and even more interesting crime statistics. Starfleet has no authority here. No one beams down without phasers set to stunning, and dirtside no one goes anywhere alone, not even to the toilet. Have a pleasant stay, and don’t get into trouble. Kirk out.”

Jim closed the line and stood. “Mr. Spock, have a seat.”

Spock’s face gave nothing away as he took center chair. All the same, Jim knew that his first officer didn’t like the arrangements that had been made for their time on New Sydney. And sure, he had a point. Personal safety was an issue. But Jim was sick of all that secret Section 31 shit. After Marcus, after what had happened on Pyrithia, he couldn’t trust Commander Paul blindly, just because he was Section 31 and supposedly one of the good guys. Yes, Paul’s investigation was a priority. But Jim’s job was also important. He was responsible for the Enterprise and her entire crew. It was high time to get in on the action.

“My team and I will beam down after we got Scotty and his pergium team dirtside. Keep a close eye on everyone on the planet. I want the transporter room crew to be ready to retrieve everyone ASAP, should that be necessary.”

“Yessir,” Lieutenant Copage Elliot, who normally had the conn on the shifts of the Beta Two team, acknowledged, standing at attention.

Spock said nothing. It wasn’t that Jim didn’t trust Lieutenant Elliott in the center chair – or any of the other Command division officers on the primary and secondary shift teams. He did, absolutely; or he wouldn’t have signed off on the make-up of the command crews to start with. He just felt much better with Spock in the center chair while he was on the planet.

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.175, 1630 hours, Deck 8, Transporter Room

In the transporter room, Commander Scott, Lieutenant Chekov, and Lieutenant Keenser were already waiting to beam to the Tigan Mining Consortium, where they would finalize the acquisition of twenty-four kilograms of pergium.

The rare radioactive element of pergium was essential to maintain the environmental control system of the Enterprise. To be able to lay in an emergency supply of the stuff made Scotty look more relaxed than a dram of real Scottish whisky. Jim hadn’t thought twice about authorizing the expensive purchase, no matter how much the Finances Department had griped, what with the sum of bribes required to get past customs on New Sydney.

“Ready for your date with the pergium?” Jim asked.

Scotty laughed. “Nae, ready to hit the pub once we’re done dealing with them bampots at customs. New Sydney’s supposed to have some pure dead brilliant booze. Haven’t had a chance to get properly rubbered since Earth.”

“Vodka, they vill surely have vodka,” Chekov piped up, beaming. “Zis is a mining world; all miners drink vodka. Ancient Russian custom, rewered throughout the galaxy.”

Keenser remained, as always, expressionless. But maybe he was only thinking of a favorite Roylan brew that just happened to be served on New Sydney.

Jim had to stifle the urge to tell the kid not to drink too much. “Well, have fun, gentlemen.”

White flares of transporter beams enveloped the three officers, and they were gone.

“… and don’t get into trouble,” Jim muttered, now that they couldn’t hear him anymore.

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.175, 1800 to 2000 hours, Jubbulpore, New Sydney

Commander Paul’s briefing had been comprehensive. But nothing could have prepared Jim for the reality of Liberty Plaza and the auction block for live goods. The pens with the slaves were right next to it, and they reeked with the stink of unwashed bodies and vomit. The air was thick to choking with fear and grief. In front of the auction block, the beggars waited, adding their own touch of misery to the atmosphere. Starving, covered in sores, dressed in rags, they squatted and clawed at the passersby and wheedled alms from buyers who led their new slaves away.

Spread out in a semi-circle in front of the platform, seats were arrayed in casual rows for the rich and the privileged. Beyond the seats, to the left and the right, waited their servants and slaves, their bodyguards and drivers or bearers. The upper classes of New Sydney preferred sedan chairs to cars, at least in the city. Behind the seats of the rich, the crowds mingled – commoners and freedmen, street vendors and merchants, pickpockets and diddlers.

Jim circled the auction area slowly. He’d memorized Colonel Baslim’s face in a dozen disguises as well as a courier code. Commander Paul had assured him that Baslim would be on the lookout for Starfleet personnel, attempting to make contact on his own. But although there were dozens of beggars around, tugging at his uniform pants and thrusting their bowls into his face, there was no Baslim.

Up on the auction block an Orion girl around Jo’s age was sold. The auctioneer ripped off her dirty shift to expose her too thin, childish body to the scrutiny of the audience. Jim could only watch in helpless terror as the child was dragged off by her new master, a man much older than he was. Another round. Still no Baslim. But Jim noticed at least a full squad of armed men in the dark uniforms of New Sydney police spread around the Plaza. Like customs, the term didn’t hold the meaning it did in Federation space. Officially, the organization might be called “police”. But in reality it was nothing more and nothing less than militarized thugs owned by the Orion Syndicate.

Sick to his stomach, Jim did the only thing he could – he turned his back on Liberty Plaza with its despair and depravity and headed back down Joy Street. Not that the atmosphere of that avenue was in the least bit joyful. Thick gray-green layers of fog pressed down on the city. The air tasted like chemicals and burned in his eyes. Grog shops and gambling dens, brothels and theaters lined the avenue, all of them garishly decorated and slightly sleazy. Holding tightly onto his phaser and his comm unit, Jim didn’t doubt that every word of the description of Jubbulpore that he’d quoted at the briefing this morning was true. And that was probably putting it mildly. Marcus and Canningham stayed at his side, while the security team spread out around them, one in front, and two behind. They passed the fancy front of a theater called Port of Heaven Cabaret. A fortune teller in the colorful dress of a space gypsy was camped out in front of it. Jim had Gwaloth pay for a reading in order to pass on a message for the V’tosh ka’tur. But when the Wraith returned to his side, she could only report that none of their ships had been in orbit for four years. Damn.

“The Veiled Virgin”, the first tavern on their list, yielded nothing but a refreshing glass of fermented fruit lemonade – sunberry crush. They didn’t have better luck at the next two places. The last pub on the list was the “Supernova”, the place where Scotty had wanted to go with Chekov and Keenser. If Jim’s team hadn’t managed to locate Baslim when they got there, at least he would be able to wash away the bad taste that lingered in his mouth in good company. But for now, their next stop was “Mother Shaum’s”, a tap room and a lodging house of certain repute on Joy Street near the crewmen’s gate to the spaceport.

When Jim entered the tavern, most tables were full, packed with a diverse crowd from commoners to spacemen. Beyond the main room, in the hallway between tap room and kitchen, he glimpsed a poor men’s counter, where even beggars could have a pint in peace. But before he had a chance to look around, he was bodily apprehended by a matron of voluptuous curves and epic dimensions, with bright red curls and purple lipstick, dressed in red gowns with tassels and ruffles in various designs and violent shades of violet.

“Let me introduce myself, Captain,” she purred, “I am Mother Shaum, the owner of this fine establishment. It is an honor to welcome you to my humble abode.” But the way she scanned the room was too hectic. She spared barely a glance for the rest of his team. Jim realized she was trying to discover if they were being followed.

“Come,” she urged, when she appeared satisfied that their entry hadn’t caused any undue notice. “Upstairs are private rooms. Follow me.”

Jim hesitated, considering the risk. In the end, taking into account his back-up of three security officers plus Marcus and a Wraith who could do a mean salt vampire, as well as the vicinity of the official transporter platform and thus three additional security teams on stand-by up on the Enterprise, he decided to go with her.

“Giotto,” he ordered. “You wait here. Try to be inconspicuous.” He pointed next to the stairs. “Davison and Brenner, mingle, but don’t do anything stupid. You two,” he gestured to Marcus and Canningham, “come with me.” He turned to Mother Shaum. “Lead on.”

The pub owner headed up the stairs, massive hips swaying with frills of red fabric. But she didn’t lead them into a private dining room. Instead she took another stair up to the topmost floor, to her own private rooms by the look of it. In a cozy living room she left them standing between a couple of couches and armchairs with sage upholstery. She hurried across the room and disappeared through a door at the back – into her bedroom? For a moment Jim wasn’t sure if she expected them to follow her there, too. Thankfully, she returned a few seconds later, pushing a small figure ahead of her.

“Thank goodness you showed up on your own, Captain,” Shaum said. “With all them snoopers around, I’d no idea how to get hold of you for that rascal here without putting my own life on the line.”

Jim frowned. In front of him stood a painfully thin, young boy. He looked younger than Jo, perhaps eight or nine at the most. Dressed in rags he looked like one of the beggar boys Jim had seen at the auction block. His skin had a greenish hue. He stared at him with almond-shaped, black eyes under sharply slanted eyebrows. Long, matted black hair peeked out from under a dirty turban that hid the boy’s ears. “What in hell …?”

“I am Thorby,” the boy said in a high, monotone voice. “Son of Baslim the Cripple. I have a message for you.” Closing his eyes, the kid started to rattle off a missive – in German of all things, one of the lesser known Earth languages still used by field agents of Section 31 when effective communication was more important than absolute secrecy: “An den Captain des Sternenflottenraumschiffs momentan im Orbit von New Sydney, von Baslim dem Krüppel: Ich spreche zu Ihnen durch meinen Adoptivsohn. Wenn Sie diese Nachricht empfangen, bin ich bereits tot—”

”To the Captain of the Starfleet ship currently in orbit around New Sydney, from Baslim the Cripple,” Jim’s translator echoed Thorby’s words. “I am speaking to you through my adopted son. When you receive this message, I am already dead …”

“What?” Jim interrupted. “Baslim’s dead? How did that happen?”

“How would I know?” Mother Shaum shrugged. “The police picked him up. The word is, he died or poisoned himself, or something, before they could question him.”

Jim turned his attention back to Thorby. “Go on.”

“—bin ich bereits tot. Mein Sohn ist alles, was mir noch bleibt; ich vertraue ihn Ihrem Schutz an. Ich bitte darum, ihn nach Neu-Vulkan zu bringen oder nach Arrakis, zur Kolonie von Sybok, Sohn von Sarek, oder auf ein Schiff der V’tosh ka’tur, in der Hoffnung, seine Identität festzustellen und ihn mit seiner Familie wiederzuvereinen. Insofern vertraue ich auf Ihr Urteilsvermögen. Ich habe ihm befohlen, Ihren Anweisungen zu folgen, und bin sicher, dass er das tun wird; er ist ein guter Junge. Jetzt muss ich mich dem Ende stellen. Meine Mission war nicht ohne Erfolg; ich bin zufrieden. Leben Sie wohl.“

“… I am already dead,” the translator went on. “My son is the only thing of value left to me; I entrust him into your care. I ask that you deliver him to New Vulcan or that you bring him to Arrakis, the colony of Sybok, son of Sarek, or that you arrange passage for him on any vessel of the V’tosh ka’tur, in the hope to establish his identity and restore him to his people. I trust in your good judgment in the matter. I have enjoined him to obey you, and I believe that he will; he is a good lad. Now I must face the end. My mission has not been without success; I am content. Farewell …”

“There’s more.” Thorby opened his eyes, then squeezed them almost shut again in pain. A grimace of agony contorted his thin face. He went on regardless, “Correct authorization is required. Provide the code, please.”

“Not now, not here,” Jim cut him off. Baslim was dead. The information he was supposed to retrieve for Commander Paul wasn’t a data stick but a kid. And it looked like getting the data out of his head seriously hurt. Shit. “Baslim told you to do what I say, is that right?”

“Affirmative,” was the stoic reply.

“Good.” Baslim’s request, and the boy’s appearance – greenish pale skin, almond eyes, slanted eyebrows, hidden ears – he must be Vulcan. How had a Vulcan youngster ended up as the adoptive son of a beggar-cum-secret-agent on New Sydney? But that and any other questions had to wait. “You’ll come with me to the spaceport and on my ship. Agreed?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mother Shaum interrupted, “You mean to take him on your ship?”

“Any objections?” Jim wasn’t in the mood for discussions.

The pub owner shrugged. “Huh, me? None at all. If you don’t care that the police rack him apart.”

“What?”

“Snoopers,” Mother Shaum said succinctly. “Six units at least, between here and the transporter platform of the spaceport. The frequencies outside official transporter areas have been jammed for two days. Every Syndicate copper on the planet is greedy for the reward put out on his head. And they monitor beaming. They’ll know the second you beam someone up who didn’t come down with you.”

“There’s a reward out for the kid?” Jim wanted to groan. Was that what the presence of those goons at the auction block and in the streets was about? Damn it! He’d had a bad feeling about New Sydney from the beginning. Really, really bad. Back on the ship he’d have to make time for another chat with Bones concerning psionic potential and esper ratings.

The matron just shook her head at him. As if he were stupid or something. “Why do you think I’ve hidden him in my own bedroom? He’s as hot as bubbling cheese.”

“Well, shit.” Jim scratched his head. He had to think fast. No telling if their presence and the personal welcome from Mother Shaum had already been noticed. There was no question that they had to rescue the kid, information or no information, and never mind Baslim’s request. There was simply no way Jim would leave the boy behind. No way in hell. But how to get him on the Enterprise if the Syndicate scanned beam-ups? How to smuggle the boy out of here and to safety? How could he hide a little kid in a way to fool security scanners? Then a thought hit him. A crazy idea, sure, but it just might work …

He pulled out the comm and hit the code for Engineering, secret emergency frequency. He could only hope that line was as secret as Gaila and Uhura had promised. “Lieutenant Amell? Are the pergium containers up there already?”

“Almost, sir,” the lieutenant replied. “There’s been a delay with customs. They had to scan everything three times to make sure there’s only pergium in it and nothing else. Kind of warped security measures for a planet that makes one third of its gross domestic product with smuggling. But we’ve got everything sorted out now. We should have them up in thirty.”

“Belay that,” Jim ordered. “Something’s come up. An … extra shipment. Can you get down to the transporter area without rousing suspicion to help with stowing it? And make sure we’re alone down there?”

“We’ve got the all clear from customs. I can tell them I need to do one last safety check. They don’t care about radiation hazards here, especially now that we’ve paid the bribes. You wouldn’t believe the readings we took in the warehouse … You need to go to warehouse platform 312a – and there shouldn’t be anyone in the area now. I can be down in ten, Captain.”

“Make that twenty, I still need to get there myself. Bring suits. For you, me, and a small one, kid-size. And some decontam foam. We need to get rid of the contents of a pergium container without triggering an alarm. Watch your back. Kirk out.” He put the comm away and turned to Mother Shaum. “Alright. We need to get the kid into the spaceport, to warehouse platform 312a. Can you help with that?”

“Of course, Captain,” Mother Shaum promised. “It’s the least I can do. Baslim was a good man.”

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.175, 2100 hours, Jubbulpore spaceport, New Sydney

Mother Shaum’s help consisted in stuffing Thorby into the seat cube of her sedan chair, and bundling herself up on top of him. Jim was forced on his knees in front of her, head obscenely squashed against her ample bosom. As a final flourish, she drenched him with the worst perfumed liquor he’d ever smelled. The idea was that he’d had too good a time with her. And because he was such a special customer, she was now aiding him to get back to his ship as unobtrusively as possible. To support the story, he sent Marcus, Canningham and the security team on to the Supernova. They could keep an eye out for trouble, and they more than deserved a pint by now.

The sweet scent of the liquor, the stuffy heat inside the sedan chair, and the swaying motion made Jim increasingly nauseated. He wondered how he’d ever thought that female breasts of ample size and softness could be a thing of erotic beauty. Thankfully, it didn’t take the chair long to reach the Traders’ Gate of the spaceport – twenty minutes, tops. Beyond the gate, the outlines of many warehouses loomed. Adjacent to each building was a transporter area, where shipments were inspected, customs were declared, and finally all goods were piled up on a platform to get beamed up to the relevant starships.

“Open up!” Mother Shaum snapped at the guards.

From the corner of his eyes, Jim realized with a measure of relief that there were only two guards at the gate at this time of the night. One was standing in the little watchroom of the gate barracks, the other was lounging outside, with a bottle next to his chair. Now he rose to his feet and came over. “My lady has a pass?”

The man bent forward to peer into the sedan chair. Promptly, Jim affected a swoon into Mother Shaum’s bosom, while praying he wouldn’t throw up on her.

“Oh.”

Don’t breathe and think of the Federation, Jim told himself, while his heart pounded like crazy and his stomach contorted.

“Oh,” the guard repeated. “I see. You errr… you may pass. Ahem. Platform 312a.”

As promised, the platform was empty save for Lieutenant Amell. Jim stumbled out of the sedan chair and slumped down, valiantly fighting his need to vomit. On the transporter pads, twelve wine-barrel sized casks with the pergium sat ready for beaming. Mother Shaum pulled a dazed Thorby out of his hiding place inside the seat.

After a bone-crushing, breath-taking, brain-numbing hug, Shaum got back into the sedan chair. Urging the bearers not to dawdle, she disappeared in the darkness beyond the transporter platforms.

“Captain …?” Lieutenant Amell asked cautiously.

“Everything’s fine,” Jim said and wheezed. An allergy on top of everything else. Great. Either the liquor or the perfume or both. “Lieutenant, we need to empty one of the tons and hide the kid in it. Do you have the suits and the foam ready? I’d rather not expose us to more radiation than strictly necessary. Spending hours in decontamination is no fun.”

Amell pointed at the equipment she’d spread out behind the containers.

He turned to Thorby. “Can you do something for me?”

The boy just stared at him, expressionless. Jim had no idea if that was Vulcan stoicism or shock.

“You need to get into the suit this lady here has for you. She’ll help you. And then you need to climb into this barrel here. Just for a short time. Don’t worry. You need to be very very still. Meditate, perhaps. It won’t take long. And then you’re safe. I promise.”

The boy didn’t move. Jim was pretty sure that Vulcan control had nothing to do with his behavior now. The kid looked more or less frozen in panic.

“Thorby, I know Baslim told you to do what I say. And I know you promised to obey him,” Jim said gently. Breathing was getting harder. Damn those allergies. And they were completely exposed out here. Any second someone could notice them. He’d order to beam them up right away in a pinch, of course, never mind the reward on Thorby’s head and the security scans of the local authorities. But the problem was, he had no idea how the PTTB of New Sydney would react – would they talk or fire without questions asked? He also didn’t know if they could or would send ships after them if the Enterprise simply warped out of the system as fast as Scotty could get them away from this hellhole. “Please, Thorby.”

Lieutenant Amell held out one of Keenser’s small suits for the boy. “C’mere, sweetie. Let me help you.” Without a word, with shaking hands, the child reached for the suit.

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.175, 2300 hours, Deck 7, Sickbay

“Kid’s sleeping now,” Bones said and wearily sat at his desk. “I’ve given him as much of the good drugs as I dared. He should be asleep until tomorrow morning, maybe even noon. But Vulcan metabolism isn’t an exact science, especially at that age and in his condition. I’d like Spock to be here when he wakes, if that’s possible.”

Jim slumped back in the visitor’s chair. “Good. Thanks. Spock will be here.” He sucked in the last dose of his inhaler, and then put it away with a relieved sigh. “Okay, a summary will have to do. First the kid, then me. Spock should be back any minute now from breaking up that pub brawl. No idea how bad that was, but there are probably up to eight crew members involved: Scotty, Chekov, Keenser, Marcus, Canningham, Brenner, Davison, and Giotto. No idea if everyone ended up hurt, but better be prepared.”

Bones looked ready to rebel, but Jim shook his head. “No time now. Thorby?”

“The boy is Vulcan. As in born on Vulcan; the scans are clear on that. Ten years old. Thankfully no trace of radiation made it through the suit. He is moderately healthy. Malnourished, worm-riddled, with old scars covering most of the body, but no recent injuries. He’s been whipped and abused in the past, but not in the last nine months. Slave tattoo on his right leg. Brain scan’s abysmal for a Vulcan – brain activity all over the place. M’Benga thinks it’s trauma and severed bonds, perhaps dating back to … to when the planet was destroyed. I hope Mr. Spock will be able to make better sense of it. Maybe he can meld with the boy, look at him from the inside.” Bones shrugged helplessly. His eyes had a haunted look. No wonder after spending an hour counting scars on the fragile body of an unconscious child.

Jim tried to come up with something useful to say. But there was nothing, just the memory of the slave pens, the naked little girl up on the auction block, that pervasive, gut-wrenching stink of fear and grief. In the end he just nodded. “Thank you.”

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.175, 2330 hours, Deck 5, Captain’s Office

Jim had the miscreants lined up on the other side of his desk. For a moment he just sat there, thinking how much he wanted to be somewhere else and not deal with this kind of shit right now.

One thing was sure, if there ever was an altercation with more people involved, he’d have to move happy hour to a conference room or the brig. Eight officers with expressions ranging from blank through sheepish to rebellious was the absolute maximum of what his office could hold.

Also, he’d have to talk to Bones. Jim thought he got the doctor’s message. McCoy wanted to teach a lesson about the limits of his tolerance for pub brawls, and how that affected the quality of first aid rendered on his sickbay. Jim just wasn’t sure about the effect on crew morale in this case. Eight officers limping around the Enterprise with black eyes and fat lips after drinking games with Klingons might not be the best idea Bones ever had.

“I want to know who started it,” Jim said. Most of all, he was pretty tired by now. He was in no mood for taking any kind of disciplinary action. With a sigh, he dragged himself to his feet and paced in front of the crew members standing at attention. Finally he stopped in front of Marcus. “I’m waiting.” Marcus’s left eye was swollen shut. Her right arm was in a sling. Groggily, she blinked at him with her good eye. “Lieutenant Marcus, who started the fight?”

Marcus cleared her throat. “I don’t know, sir.”

That was possible. If the fight had started before she and the rest of his away team had hit the “Supernova”. He turned to Chekov and did his best to keep a completely straight face. “Okay. Chekov, buddy. I know you. You started it, didn’t you?

The kid flushed bright red. “No, sir, I didn’t.”

Jim rolled his eyes. Of course the kid hadn’t started anything. Everyone knew that. But someone had started something, and someone was going to have to tell the captain something about how it all went down. The boy was simply the most promising candidate for providing the information Jim needed. When he didn’t say anything else, Jim asked, “Well, who did?”

This was getting ridiculous. I’m the captain, damn it, not an elementary school teacher! Jim thought and almost groaned when he realized that he sounded just like Bones.

“I don’t know, sir,” Chekov replied.

And that, Jim knew, was a lie. It was nearly midnight. By now Jim had been awake for twenty hours. He had smelled the stink of slavery up close and way too personal. He had nearly suffocated thanks to yet another awesome allergic reaction. In sickbay a traumatized little Vulcan was waiting to have his brains squished through a sieve because there was secret Section 31 data stored somewhere in his head. And now a member of his command crew was standing in front of him and lying to his face about a stupid pub brawl with some Klingon jerks.

“I don’t know, sir,” Jim repeated, his voice harsh with sarcasm. “Brilliant. No more shore leave for you guys until I find out what happened.” That was the best idea he could come up with at short notice. He’d talk it over with Spock at breakfast tomorrow. Or with Commander Paul. He had to talk with the man anyway. “Dismissed.”

Out they went. “Scotty, not you.” In a last ditch effort, Jim stopped the engineer. “Talk to me.” Jim returned to his desk and slumped down. Normally he was not the kind of captain to sit while letting others stand at attention. But he was willing to make an exception tonight. “Who threw the first punch, Scotty?”

“I did, Captain,” Scotty mumbled. “They insulted us, sir.” Then he clammed up again.

“Scotty, it’s way too late for this shit. Would you please start talking, so we can go to bed? There are bigger problems on our plate right now than a damn pub brawl. How am I supposed to deal with the difficult stuff if you won’t talk to me about the easy things?” Jim smacked the table with a flat palm. Scotty blinked and finally met his eyes. Progress.

“Um… well, the Klingons, sir… Is this off the record?” Scotty shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

Okay, no, just … no. Jim was now officially at the end of his tether. Ship’s discipline might not be his forte, but that was absurd. “No, damn it, this is not off the record!”

Scotty stared at him for a moment. Something in his expression must have given away how pissed off he was, because Scotty paled and kept talking. “The Klingons called you, uh… it doesn’t translate very well, what they said.”

“I suggest you try, Mr. Scott.” When Scotty grew even paler and swayed on his feet, Jim frowned, suddenly more worried than annoyed. “And for god’s sake sit down, man. Whatever did those Klingons do to you anyway?”

“Just a cut,” Scotty insisted. But he awkwardly sat down, favoring his right side. “And what they said, well, they called you something along the lines of wannabe Frankenstein and radiation roast. That’s when Chekov wanted to punch them, but I held him back.”

At first Jim only wondered how Klingons came to read Mary Shelley. “I see. And after they said all this, that’s when you hit the Klingons?”

“No, sir. I didn’t. You told us to avoid trouble,” Scotty said firmly. “And I didn’t see that it was worth fighting about. After all, we’re big enough to take a few insults. Aren’t we?”

“Then what the hell did they say that started the fight?” Jim was grinding his teeth now, Bones’s lectures about dental health be damned. How could a man who’d just been nearly filleted by Klingons be so stubborn?

“They called the Enterprise a garbage scow, sir.”

Jim threw back his head and laughed.

“Well, sir,” Scotty said, sheepish and rebellious at the same time. “It was a matter of pride, then.”

“Of course. They insulted your lady love.” Jim shook his head and rolled his eyes for good measure. “Dismissed. Oh… and Scotty, you’re restricted to quarters until we have to get out of orbit.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. That’ll give me a chance to uh… catch up on my technical journals.” Scotty grinned a little too happily at that idea, but at this point Jim simply didn’t care anymore.

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.175, 2400 hours, Deck 7, Sickbay

Instead of heading to his cabin and going to bed, which would have been the sensible thing to do, Jim took the turbolift to deck seven and walked to the private room in sickbay where Thorby was sleeping.

He didn’t enter, just stood at the door. He didn’t even know what had compelled him to come down here again. Thorby wouldn’t wake up for hours yet.

The little boy looked lost in the big biobed. Someone had washed and combed his hair. It was much too long for a Vulcan and curling ever so slightly. The delicate tip of a pointed ear peeked through the glossy black strands on one side of his pointy face.

Next to the bed, Nurse Oli sat with a lit-up PADD. She was reading to the kid, in a very low, very soothing voice. And … in Vulcan, Jim realized. He listened carefully. Vulcan … songs? He frowned. Nyota had mentioned something about Vulcan songs, he recalled. Lieutenant Milekey, the guy in charge of the Enterprise music group was doing a remix of Vulcan and Terran songs as the group’s first big project. That must be the collection of songs Nyota had been talking about. He hadn’t known Oli was in the band.

Jim kept standing in front of the door for a while. Oli’s voice was gentle and calming. In his mind, however, Jim heard different voices. A boy’s voice and the voice of a dead man: “I am speaking to you through my adopted son. When you receive this message, I am already dead …”

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.176, 0100 hours, Deck 5, First Officer’s Cabin

When Jim entered his cabin, he gratefully noticed that the bathroom doors were open. Both of them. And Spock was still awake. Dressed in Vulcan robes of black silk, he sat curled up on his meditation rock in the tightest traditional posture.

Jim changed quickly, putting on standard black PJs – short ones. He kept the temperature in his cabin as high as Spock preferred these days. If he didn’t have to be prepared to get out of bed and up on the bridge at a moment’s notice and at any hour, he would have loved to sleep naked in that kind of heat. Without a word, he went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He even remembered to comb his hair. Spock’s positive influence, no doubt. He’ll turn me into a neat freak yet, Jim thought with a wry smile.

A moment later, he stepped into Spock’s cabin. At once the other man unfolded from his seat, a quick, graceful movement. Just to stand in front of Spock now, at the end of this day, made life easier. Jim exhaled in a deep sigh. “I’m too tired to even talk about it all at the moment, Spock. Sorry.”

“The command crew has been kept up to date,” Spock reminded him. At least he hadn’t addressed him as “Captain”. Wearing nothing but PJs that would be too weird.

“Yeah, I know …” Jim slowly shook his head. “But that’s not what I meant. I know you always know everything.” He rubbed at his eyes. They were burning with fatigue. “Not facts and briefings, Spock. Talking.”

“Ah.” Spock inclined his head. “An informal conversation to relieve the tension of the day.”

“Yeah, that. Only, I’m too tired.”

“There is no need to apologize for that, Jim,” Spock said evenly. “It is your need, not mine, that remains unassuaged, after all.”

“Told you I’m tired. And we need to get up really early tomorrow … in a few hours … later … to get the hell away from New Sydney and out of this system.” He knew that didn’t make sense as a reply to Spock’s comment, but he wasn’t up to Vulcan politeness tonight. Jim took another deep breath, almost a yawn. “Spock?”

“Yes?”

“Would you mind tonight … I just don’t want to be …” He couldn’t even bring himself to say the word. Alone.

But he didn’t need to. Without another word, Spock drew him over to his bed. He climbed in first, then pulled Jim down to lie in front of him. Vulcan warmth enveloped Jim.

“Hmmm… Nice. Like that nap after we found Jo,” he mumbled, already half asleep. “Just one more thing …”

Eyes closed, he reached out in an awkward gesture with his right hand. Hot fingers captured his.

“Guh…” he sighed. Warm. Safe. Not alone.

Jim didn’t know if he heard the reply, or felt it, or dreamed it: “No, not alone. Never alone.”

♦♦♦

“Alone. Yes, that’s the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn’t hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym.”
– Stephen King

♦♦♦♦♦♦

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Author’s Notes

• Pergium used for the environmental control system for filter regeneration is canon for Voyager, Intrepid-class starships. But as pergium is also mentioned in TOS canon, it’s likely that it was already used in environmental systems on starships in 2260.

• “Constant vigilance” is of course a hat-tip to Alastor Moody from Joanne K. Rowling’s “Harry Potter”.

• Thorby & Baslim-the-Cripple are from “Citizen of the Galaxy” by Robert A. Heinlein. Thorby was human in that one, of course. The way the scene unfolds follows CotG canon. Parts of the description and the dialogue are based on or quoted directly from the book, for example the wonderful description of Jubbulpore, which is originally: “Its inhabitants brag that within a li of the pylon at the spaceport end of the Avenue of Nine anything in the explored universe can be had by a man with cash, from a starship to ten grains of stardust, from the ruin of a reputation to the robes of a senator with the senator inside.”

• The pub brawl & the interrogation scene are inspired by the TOS episode “Trouble with Tribbles”; parts of the dialogue are quoted verbatim from the script.