RoH 9

Pain Your Closest Friend

Stardate 2260.176, 0400 hours, Deck 5, First Officer’s Cabin

Three hours later, Jim woke with a start, cold sweat trickling down his spine, heart pounding. He twisted around and sat up, feet on the Vulcan-warm floor of Spock’s cabin. A dream? No. He would remember that, he always did. He could feel Spock slide out of from under the covers next to him. Turning his head, he caught Spock blinking a little more slowly than normal. No doubt he’d been startled out of … perhaps not sleep, but at the very least deep meditation. Definitely not a dream.

“I think,” Jim said reluctantly, “we should make haste to leave orbit.”

“Now?”

Jim took a deep breath. The sense of … of … he refused to even think the phrase “impending doom” – bad things to come was quite sufficient. Maybe not a premonition, but at least a very bad feeling in his guts.

“Yeah,” he said. “Now.”

Spock was already on his feet and reaching for his uniform. Before Jim disappeared into the bathroom, he hesitated for a moment. “Thanks for not telling me that I’m just paranoid.”

“There is statistical likelihood of 74.8% that New Sydney authorities will link what remains of the pergium spill at warehouse platform 312a with the disappearance of the sole dependant of the Federation agent who committed suicide while held in their custody. While I assess the probability that this logical conclusion will be reached before 1000 hours – when the next delivery is due at the platform – at currently below 28.9%, there is a statistically significant risk that the Enterprise could become the focus of suspicion sooner than that for various reasons,” Spock replied. “Sleep aids the human brain to form connections between perceptions below the awareness thresholds of the waking mind. It is not implausible to assume that your increased psionic potential as well as the presence of an actively telepathic mind in your vicinity may have sped up the process. Colloquially speaking, your ‘instinct for trouble’, which has always been more pronounced than in most Humans, may have been thrown into ‘high gear’ as a result. That has nothing to do with paranoia.”

Jim blinked. “Okay.” He scratched his head. “Thanks all the same. Wake Sulu and Chekov. I want a course out of this system that makes everyone think we’re heading straight back to Federation space. But instead I need us to go …” He shrugged and gestured in a random direction. “That-away, wherever. Somewhere else, where they won’t expect us to go. Preferably somewhere that’s somewhat safe and not too far off course where Arrakis is concerned. Oh, and get Marcus, too. Just in case.” He rather hoped they wouldn’t need her today, but he’d rather have her twiddle her thumbs than do without the best the weapons’ specialist on board. “I’ll go drag Scotty and Uhura out of bed on my way to the bridge.”

“On my way, Captain.” With that, Spock was gone.

Five minutes later, Jim was standing in front of Scotty’s cabin. He leaned on the door chime. Nothing.

He waited a moment, and then banged on the door with his fists. When he was ready to kick in the door, it slid back and revealed a sleep-tousled young woman wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt with the slogan “Engineers Do It With Precision” stenciled on it in big yellow letters.

Jim gaped. “… Lieutenant Amell?”

The girl – in that outfit she looked more like a teenager than the Assistant Chief Engineer – stared at him with huge blue eyes. “Uh… Captain.”

She followed his gaze to her t-shirt. Flushing bright red, she crossed her arms in front of her.

“Wow,” Jim said. Then he shook himself. “I need Scotty. Now.”

“Yes, Captain.” Amell disappeared.

A few minutes later Scotty showed up, still tugging at his uniform top, looking dog-tired and pale. From the stiff way he moved, Jim suspected that his injuries were way more serious than he’d let on during their discussion. Damn it. “Scotty, I need us out of here as quickly as possible. I’m having Sulu and Chekov plot a course that will look as if we’re heading straight back to Federation space. But when we reach a safe distance from this damn planet, what we really need to do is warp away here so fast that no one can see where we are going or catch up with us. Can you do that?” He frowned. Scotty didn’t look too good. “Or should I put Frank on the job?”

“Of course I can do it,” Scotty said, raising his chin. “Just need some caffeine and then I’m good to get my lady warmed up and purring like a kitten.”

Jim did his best to keep a straight face. “I sincerely hope you’re talking about the Enterprise, my friend.”

“There’s my lady and then there’s my girl, Captain,” Scotty said, as if the difference should be obvious.

“Evidently,” Jim replied, thinking of pub brawls and insults to the Chief Engineer’s honor. Then he frowned. “Please tell me she’s at least eighteen.” What with Chekov’s age during the Nero thing he knew better than to assume that all officers on board were legally adults.

“Of course she is,” Scotty retorted, indignant. “She’s twenty-two!”

“Way to go, Mr. Scott.” Jim sniggered. And because he simply couldn’t resist an opening like that: “Just keep them both purring, buddy.”

Scotty muttered something unintelligible. He patted his uniform pockets. Then he headed back into the cabin to grab his comm unit from the coffee table. Jim managed to get a glimpse of how Scotty drew Amell – who’d been hiding out of sight so far – into a tight embrace, murmuring something into her ear. Their kiss started as a quick, gentle goodbye between casual lovers. But it rapidly deepened into something more, something passionate … something not at all casual.

Before Scotty could disappear into the turbolift across from his cabin, Jim added as a parting shot, “By the way, since nothing official has passed my desk yet – I’d definitely remember that – need I remind you that for permanent private relationships in the same chain of command a report from one of our counselors needs to be logged how you’re going to stay professional about it?”

Scotty froze and blushed. “Aye, sir. Errr… I’ll – I’ll be down in Engineering, getting the warp drive ready.” With that, he fled into the turbolift.

Jim grinned. Personally, he had decided to interpret that required counseling rigmarole as nothing but an embarrassing formality. What people did when a relationship got serious. What with that kiss and Scotty blushing like a boy, Amell was obviously not just a fling for Scotty. Mind, Jim couldn’t quite see Scotty tying the knot. But how cool would it be if the first wedding he got to officiate on the Enterprise would be for one of his best friends?

On his way to wake Uhura, Jim only remembered that she usually got up early for a workout when he ran into her in front of her cabin. “Sorry, no workout today. Need you on the bridge, now. We’re leaving, and I need you to notice if anyone’s checking us out.”

When she made to go back to her cabin to change into her uniform, Jim shook his head and tugged her toward the turbolift instead. “No time for that, sorry. Besides, you’re cute in that outfit. I bet John likes it.”

They stepped into the lift. “And how come you know about my private affairs, Captain?”

“I have my ways …” Jim smirked. “Also, you just confirmed an educated guess.”

Thankfully the turbolift opened onto the bridge a moment later, so Jim got off lightly – he had to suffer just an annoyed look instead of a smack on his head.

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.176, 0500 hours, the Bridge

Lieutenant Immamura jumped up, snapping to attention with perfect posture. Jim frowned. When had he become that kind of captain? But there was no time to worry about how intimidating he was now. “Sulu, Chekov – do we have a course?”

“Ready to go, Captain,” Sulu replied.

Jim bent forward and tapped the connection with Engineering. “Scotty?”

“We’re all hot and bothered down here, Captain, at your service,” the Chief Engineer answered promptly. “Just take us out of orbit and scanning distance.”

With a deep breath, Jim looked up, searching Spock’s eyes. His first officer met his gaze without hesitation. Jim looked out the observation window. New Sydney was an ugly planet even from this perspective – its skies a sick mixture of grey and yellow.

“Let’s get the hell away from here,” Jim ordered, hoping that they still had a head start.

When they left orbit, the comm unit lit up like a Christmas tree with hails. The weapons’ station also started beeping and blinking.

“New Sydney authorities are hailing us, sir,” Uhura reported.

“And attempting to scan the ship,” Marcus added.

“Will our normal shields suffice until we’re far enough away?” Jim asked. “I don’t want to arouse more suspicion than necessary.”

“I’m not sure, Captain. The scanners the authorities down there used on the transportation beams were extremely refined.” Marcus considered the readings on her console. “I could infuse the shields with a layer of static. That might do the trick without causing alarm. But it would interfere with communications.”

“That’s perfect,” Jim said. “I’m not in the mood for long discussions with them anyway. Uhura, at my sign you report a malfunction and cut the connection. For now, put them on audio only.”

“New Sydney to Enterprise, New Sydney to Enterprise.”

“Hi, Enterprise here, Captain James Tiberius Kirk. What’s up?” He did his best to sound unconcerned, as if he was sprawling in the chair and not on the damn edge of his seat.

“Your orbiting permission extends for a further forty-eight hours,” a harsh voice poured out of the comm, “Why are you leaving? Have there been any problems? The New Sydney Council is at your disposal to discuss any further requirements you may have.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry about that, but something’s come up. We’re needed back home. You’ll understand that I can’t go into details.”

Marcus stared at her console, then whipped around and made a frantic gesture. Fuck. Their scanners were even better than she’d feared. He pointed at her console and mimed sliding a knob to the highest setting. Then he pointed at Uhura and mouthed: “Now.”

Promptly, the audio connection began to crackle with static.

“Thanks for asking,” Jim went on to reply as smoothly as he could, “There’ve been no problems. None at all. Our stay has been … awesome, really. But—”

The interference increased. “New Sydney? New Sydney?” Uhura interrupted. “We’ve got some interference here. Ionic disturbances. New Sydney? I’m sorry, but I’m losing you.”

Marcus pushed a button on her console and swiveled around to face Uhura, giving thumbs-up.

“New Sydney?” Uhura tapped on her keyboard, and then turned around as well. “The connection is dead, Captain.”

“How long until we’re out of scanning distance?” Jim turned to Marcus.

“At our current speed and course, five minutes, Captain.”

“Great. Keep an eye out for scanning activity, tractor beams or any shit like that. Chekov, if a ship in this system so much as burps, I want to know about it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“New Sydney is hailing us again,” Uhura reported.

“Send them white noise.” Jim balled his hands into fists. The seconds ticked by. One minute. Two minutes. “Marcus? Chekov?”

“Nothing,” Chekov replied.

“No new activity as far as I can tell,” Marcus added.

Another minute went by. Four minutes. Jim swallowed hard. They were just a random starship leaving a bit early. That was perhaps less than polite, but no serious offence. There was no reason for New Sydney to go after them, especially since they had paid good money for a load of pergium and customs bribes.

Five minutes!

“Punch it, Sulu.”

Outside, the stars bunched together and unfolded into the lightning ribbons of warp speed.

“Steady at warp seven,” Scotty reported. A minute later. “Should be able to keep her at it until course change.”

“Chekov?”

The navigator’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “Course confirmed toward Starbase 32 for one day and seven hours. Course change to Timor stardate 2260.177, 1200. Projected arrival in the Timor system at warp six in eight days and twenty-three hours, stardate 2260.185. Remaining travel time to Arrakis at warp six: stardate 2260.198.”

“Thank you, everyone. Good job.” With a deep breath, Jim leaned back in the chair. “Marcus, Chekov, keep an eye out for any unusual activity. Scotty, I need you ready for warp eight just in case.”

So far it looked like they’d made a safe escape. But he wouldn’t take any chances. Too many lives depended on that …

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.176, 0800 hours, Deck 7, Sickbay

Spock sat next to the boy’s bed, carefully monitoring his vital signs. He had considered melding with “Thorby” while he was unconscious. It would have been easier. But in the end, Spock had decided against it. That which was easier was not always the most beneficial strategy to choose. And this young one had been violated enough in his short life. Spock was loath to add to that, even if his intrusion on the boy’s mental privacy would be out of medical concern. So he sat and waited. He noted his apprehension, justified and understandable, and easily set it aside.

The rhythm of the child’s breathing was changing. His heartbeat accelerated. His lids fluttered. He was waking up. A second later, the boy lay frozen, holding his breath, his black eyes wide open and blank.

Spock did not move. He had lowered his chair as far as possible, even though that resulted in an awkward position, with his knees higher than his posterior. But that way, from the boy’s perspective, he would pose less of a threat. Spock also made sure that both of his hands were visible, relaxed and motionless on the armrests of the chair.

“You are safe,” Spock said. “You are on board of the Federation starship U.S.S. Enterprise NCC-1701 under the command of Captain James Tiberius Kirk. I am his first officer.” He hesitated. Then he added with Vulcan solemnity, “I would offer you my name: Commander S’chn T’gai Spock, son of Sarek, from the House of Surak.”

The boy did not reciprocate the polite greeting. He appeared paralyzed.

“We are currently at warp seven on a course toward Arrakis. We left the orbit of New Sydney and the Sappora system four hours ago. You truly are safe.”

The child just kept staring, cold, withdrawn, his control tight, his tension tangible.

Spock knew he was out of his depth. That was a fact to be accepted. Psychology was not his area of expertise, the treatment of traumatized children even less so, that of Vulcan children least of all. He considered what he knew of comfort. Plomeek soup and an ancient proverb; his brother’s interventions during his childhood; Nyota’s kisses, filled with kindness and carefully muted desire, not entirely unpleasant but forever tainted with his failure to reciprocate appropriately; holding Jim’s hand in Starfleet Medical – perhaps the most precious moment of his life thus far, but not an appropriate inspiration for resolving the situation at hand. Soup might be beneficial. While plomeek was not available on board, replicated carrot soup was similar and quite palatable. Most favorable, of course, would be a healing intervention such as his brother was capable of. But to take pain was a rare talent even among the best Vulcan mind healers. Still, even without that skill, a mind meld might at the very least aid in the assessment of the damage done to the child’s mind and psyche.

“I would have your thoughts,” Spock suggested, “to ease your pain.”

“No!” The boy shot up. He shook his head wildly, long hair flying, eyes blazing. From one second to the next, the child’s control evaporated and exploded into emotion, shocking in its unexpected violence. “No! My pain belongs to me. It’s mine. It’s all I have left. I will not share it or let you take it from me.”

The outburst reminded Spock of his own reaction to his brother’s attempts at psychological intervention on his behalf as he grew older and came to resent Sybok’s well-meant meddling. For years he’d held on to his pain then, with almost possessive pride, the one unwavering focus of his meditations.

“Dakh’uh n’pthak. Dakh’uh n’reshan. Dakh’uh n’kusut. Nam-tor ri ret na’fan-kitok fa dakh tu pthak, reshan, kusut,” Spock quoted, his tone mild. “Tartor Surak dom.”

Cast out fear. Cast out anger. Cast out pain. There is no room for anything else until you cast out fear, anger, pain. So says Surak.

“That’s easy for Surak to say.” The young Vulcan met Spock’s gaze. A fierce, feral expression glittered in his eyes. “I don’t remember much about Surak. But I do recall he was a hero. He never suffered k’la’sa of mind and body. He never was a slave. So what could his philosophy mean for me?”

In his mind, Spock saw another pair of black eyes, burning Vulcan-bright. He heard Sybok’s voice, hot with passion. “That’s easy for Surak to say. He never understood our emotions. He only saw the effects of trauma, the terrors of war. His philosophy is unbalanced. Its logic is lost.”

Then, Spock had tried to counter the argument. He had attempted to point out the beneficial influences of Surak’s teachings on the Vulcan psyche and society.

But his brother had just looked upon him with contempt. “You even fail to understand yourself. How can you pretend to understand your father’s people?”

Spock forced himself to focus on the child before him. He did not try to argue this time. Instead, he opted for honesty. “I do not know.”

The effect of his words on the boy was immediate. The fight went out of him from one heartbeat to the next. He slumped back down on the bed, gazing at the ceiling in silence for seventeen minutes and forty-three seconds.

“I was Thorbehrak,” he whispered at last, his voice almost inaudible. “My father and all of my House are gone. That much I remember. And now I have lost another father.”

Grief broke free from its prison in Spock’s mind, sinking razor-sharp claws deep into wounds barely sealed. “Tushah nash-veh k’du … I grieve with thee.”

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.176, 1000 hours, Deck 7, Sickbay

Leonard was in his office when Spock returned from his visit with the Vulcan kid. He sat down in the visitor’s chair prim and proper, the way he always did. But to Leonard, who’d come to know Spock pretty well during Jim’s time in Starfleet Medical, he looked … brittle. Fragile. If it had been Jim looking like that, Leonard would have broken out his secret stash of liquor. He had no idea what to do with a devastated Vulcan on his hands.

“I am sorry, Doctor,” Spock said, his voice even softer than normal. “But I cannot help … Thorby. He rejects – logic. Control. And he will not permit a meld.”

Leonard’s first reaction was surprise. Then his stubbornness tried to get a foot in the door. But by now he had more experience than that. He may not have the intuition and sensitivity of Guinan or Elbrun, but he wasn’t a complete dolt. “Thank you for trying, Spock. I’m sure it was still a good thing that you were there when he woke, fellow Vulcan and all.”

Spock looked gutted at that remark, his dark eyes as expressive as any human’s. Leonard didn’t like that. He’d been expecting Spock to break down since … well, ever since the man hadn’t killed Khan. He’d kind of hoped that Spock would get it over with while they were still on Earth, but thanks to his Vulcan mind voodoo that hadn’t happened.

“I … don’t think my presence was beneficial, Doctor,” Spock admitted. “Of course I will always be available for Thorby while he is on board. He is Vuhlkansu. But after my conversation with him, I do believe that Dr. Elbrun will be a better choice to aid him in his current mental state and to assist with the retrieval of the information Colonel Baslim stored in Thorby’s mind.”

“Thank you for trying anyway, Spock,” Leonard said. He frowned at the Vulcan. If Jim was a difficult patient, Spock was downright impossible. “I also want you to think about who might be the best choice for you to approach to help you with maintaining your own uh… balance. Logic.”

Spock was already opening his mouth to argue, but Leonard shook his head and cut him off. “I need you to be the smart one here. The one who swallows his pride to get the help he needs. Because Jim may be trying, but he’s still too stubborn for his own good. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the song and dance routine the two of you have been acting out around Jim’s claustrophobic episodes. I’ve been in and out of his quarters often enough to notice which doors are open at odd times.”

“Doctor—”

Leonard sighed and wondered, not for the first time, when he’d started worrying about the damn green-blooded hobgoblin as much as he did about Jim. “I know the two of you have difficulty wrapping your minds around the concept, but you’re both more human than you think. You’re not infallible. You’re not perfect. You don’t have to be strong all the time. And there’s nothing wrong with asking for help if you need it.”

And because he wasn’t in the mood for any backtalk, he growled, “And now get the hell out of my sickbay, there’s a pretty lady waiting for her check-up outside.”

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.176, 1100 hours, Deck 7, Sickbay

Carolyn Paul entered Doctor McCoy’s office with obvious reluctance. She had done her best to evade his clutches the last few days. But there was no way in hell he’d let her get away just like that. Not after the stunt she’d pulled on Pyrithia. She’d gotten herself banged up well and good, and then there were those old injuries he’d caught in the scans attached to her files without any details of the where and how and why. He didn’t like that. At all.

“I’m mostly all right, good as new, just like you advertised,” she said, even though you didn’t need glasses to see that she wasn’t. The woman was pale as a ghost. She’d lost weight, although she was still deliciously curvy from a purely aesthetic point of view. The purple smudges under her eyes that indicated sleeping problems were less attractive.

“Personally, I’d prefer it if you’d just scan me real quick, so I can get out of your hair,” she muttered.

Not another one of those, Leonard thought. I already have my hands full with Jim and Spock. Aloud he said with his best frown in place, “Thank you, Lieutenant, but I like you in my hair just fine. Please sit and let me do my job.”

She nodded, and from the way she settled in the visitor’s chair she seemed to accept the necessity of a thorough evaluation. That, more than anything else, told him that she was not “mostly all right”, and that she knew it, too.

“So how have you been?” he asked. If there were psychological issues involved, triggered by what happened on Pyrithia, he’d better ease her into the conversation.

“In many ways excellent,” Carolyn Paul said firmly. “At least, where my job is concerned. I’m doing those workshops right now, and you wouldn’t believe it how people take to that.” She beamed at him. Well, that was reassuring; she was still able to focus on the positive aspects of her everyday life. He made a note on his PADD. “The creative potential on board is amazing.”

“The what?” Leonard stared at her. Then he remembered that she wasn’t just a regular school teacher, but also involved in career development. (And in idiotic undercover away missions – but he wasn’t going to forget that in a hurry, not after spending so much time fixing her up afterwards.)

“Yes, I know! I’m surprised myself. It’s one of those new projects Starfleet HR has come up with, to bolster the psychological resilience of the crew. I never imagined that so many officers would be interested in participating.” She was honestly excited about whatever piddling scheme those morons at HR had cooked up this time. Perhaps he should keep her talking until he knew what it was all about – just in case he needed to come up with a good excuse why he couldn’t be bothered to join the circus.

“And what might that be?” he asked warily. “I’m not sure I recall the details; it’s been kind of busy around here lately.” He scowled. “At least in part thanks to you, Lieutenant.”

She ducked her head. Sheepish, with a side of mischievous. “Creative writing workshops. It’s amazing. Mr. Spock and Mr. Sulu have started a project about haiku and tanka and those Vulcan desert poems. Mr. Chekov is convinced that he can write the next great Russian novel, and the thing is, I’m almost sure he’s right. He has such a flair for melodrama. And then there’s the fan fiction program for current holo-entertainment I’m doing with the kids right now. Transformative storytelling is such a great way to draw kids into literature. Has Jo read her latest story to you? If not, you need to ask her about it. It’s amazing. Wicked and funny and sad all in one.”

Leonard noticed a distraction tactic when he was the victim, all right. He still couldn’t help taking the bait. “Jo writes fan fiction?”

The teacher smiled. She has a beautiful mouth, Leonard thought. Generous and sensitive, where Jocelyn’s lips had been thin and narrow. And her teeth were holo-star material now. “Oh, yes.” She nodded. “Jo’s into Superman and Khan holo-comics.”

“She writes slash?! But she’s just eleven!” Leonard boggled. He remembered too well how his sister had gotten into slash fanfic about a historical romance with vampires and werewolves. No brother needed to know that his younger sister got off on gay porn like that. He shuddered.

Carolyn burst out laughing. “Oh, goodness, Doctor, you should see your face! I’m sorry, I’ll calm down in a second.” After another giggle or two, she regained her composure, even though her hazel eyes still sparkled with amusement. “Don’t worry. She’s not writing slash. I’m sure she’s aware of it – she’s awfully mature for her age.” Now she looked at Leonard with a solemn, almost sad expression. “Mature,” she reassured him, “not troubled. Look, thanks to being in charge of those extracurricular projects, I get to hang out with the kids more than most of the other teachers. If I’d noticed that Jo has any problems, I’d have contacted you at once. Jo’s doing really well. She has friends, she’s working hard. I think she’s happy.”

He couldn’t help frowning again. Maybe he should have taken Paul up on one of her regular invitations for her office hours. Maybe he should have attended that parent-teacher conference. But he’d figured as long as Jo wasn’t in trouble, he’d do better to let her be. He’d tried to leave her behind. And the way she’d reacted to that … Well, he didn’t think he was one of his daughter’s favorite people at the moment. “Really?”

Another smile that lit up Carolyn Paul’s face. She nodded. “Absolutely. As for her stories … well, how she writes her favorite characters – Khan and Superman – those are definitely couple dynamics she’s writing there. But everything I’ve seen could be labeled ‘approved for all audiences’. As you said, she is only eleven. She writes about friendship and trust and adventure, with a dash of hurt/comfort. Her stories are good. You should read them sometime. Or better yet, get her to read them to you.”

“Hmm.” He’d have to think about that. But now there was another matter to deal with, and he wouldn’t allow himself to be distracted anymore. “Back to business, Lieutenant Paul. Tell me how you’ve been apart from that.”

“Mostly fine …” She started but trailed off again.

Leonard raised his eyebrows. He was tempted to reply with one of Spock’s favorite phrases of how “fine” was an inadequate reply because it was not at all concise and way too open to interpretation. He’d also hoped after talking about her job and Jo, she’d be ready to open up a bit. But before he could find fault with her answer, she added, “Still sore. And just as you told me, my fingers are hurting like hell when I don’t take the meds you’ve given me. And don’t worry, I am taking them exactly the way you prescribed now after the one time I forgot about them.” She made a face.

Then she drew a deep breath. Abruptly, her smile was gone. Her posture had changed, too. She appeared tense now and too controlled, not at all like a creative writing teacher. “Actually, I’ve been having some … issues.”

She looked past him, at the wall, her face troubled. “Doctor McCoy, when you fixed me up, I’m sure you’ve noticed old injuries. Injuries that are listed in my file without any explanation.”

Okay, he hadn’t seen that one coming. He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “Indeed. Go on, Lieutenant. I’m all ears.”

That she didn’t fidget at his tone but kept completely still was telling, and not in a good way. “May I access your console, sir?”

He turned the screen and the keyboard to her. She called up the private login page and entered some codes. “I’m with Section 31. That’s why my normal medical file is incomplete.” She didn’t look up, just stared at the keyboard. “I thought … I thought by now I was in a better place to … deal with things.” She hit enter and inhaled a shivery breath. “But I’m not. So I guess I have to act like a mature adult and ask for the help I need. Problem is, with my file I can’t go to the regular counselors.” She turned the screen back for him without looking at it. “Sorry.”

One glance at her unlocked file told Leonard why that was. Carolyn Paul leaned back in the visitor’s chair. With a stony expression she stared at the wall while she waited for him to go over the new information in her file. Now, that was reading material he could have done without. He cursed under his breath, but kept his temper in check. Paul needed help, not additional stress.

“Lieutenant Paul, there is nothing you have to be sorry about,” Leonard said calmly at last. “I may not be the best qualified psychologist and therapist on board, but I am qualified to help you. That’s my job. Just as it’s your job to make Starfleet officers write poetry and to undertake dangerous missions for Section 31. And while it has been …” He scanned the data on his screen. “… fourteen months since you were admitted to Starfleet Medical after your rescue, that is not a timeframe that would make anyone expect you to deal with new trauma as if nothing had happened before. It is normal for you to experience problems now.” He considered the physical and psychological aspects of her case. “How’s that shoulder doing? Considering your previous injuries, I’m guessing you’re still in considerable pain.” God, and those injuries had been awful, in a manner horribly reminiscent of medieval torture chambers. She was damn lucky to be alive.

“It’s very stiff,” Paul agreed. “And yeah, it still hurts quite a lot.” She grimaced. “The pain often keeps me from sleeping, and it gives me nightmares. Flashbacks, sometimes.”

Leonard nodded. “I’m not surprised. I’ll give you stronger pain meds, and something to help you sleep. You’ll need more physical therapy. I’ll put a regimen for you together. Additionally, I want to set up regular appointments for us to talk. Also, no more bullshit about being mostly fine or being sorry to bother me or something like that. You got a problem, you comm me. No matter what time it is. Is that clear, Lieutenant?”

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.180, 1600 hours, Deck 5, Captain’s Cabin

Jim had time on his hands and sex on his mind. And he had access to interesting databases. A dangerous mixture, as most everyone on board of the Enterprise would agree. Therefore he lay comfortably stretched out on his bed and stared with interest at a high resolution picture on his PADD: Vulcan genitalia of the male persuasion. Right now he was torn between aesthetic appreciation, the base desire to jerk off and think of Spock … and academic curiosity about what else might lurk in the databases.

One thing was sure, it was … beautiful. In the strange, weird and wonderful – and slightly ridiculous way – that human bits were awesome, too. In size and shape it seemed similar, at least. However, it was very definitely green, pointy at the end (no surprise there, what with the ears, he guessed), and … barbed. Which should have been scary, really, but when zoomed up, the spikes looked more like bristles. Soft. Not hard. Interesting. And there was a ring at the base that looked as though it might do something at some point. Swell up, maybe? More interesting. What with standard uniform pants being rather formfitting, Jim was also certain that the whole thing retracted, perhaps even completely. Because he kind of did appreciate how Starfleet’s tight pants accented what nature had bestowed upon men and women alike. And he really liked looking at Spock. So he would have noticed this beyond whatever balls Spock had – and so far he hadn’t given much thought to those because something was so, well, so obviously there, pants or no pants. The picture confirmed that impression, too. Vulcans had balls, and they looked pretty human, if larger and more hmm… attached to the body. That was also true for the Vulcan rear end and the relevant insides, including a prostatic body, thankfully.

And if Jim’s interest in those particular features of Vulcan anatomy was entirely self-serving, so what? However, to Jim’s disappointment, there were no descriptions, no accurate anatomical terms and most of all, no instruction manual – even though this particular picture was part of the ordinary sciences database (if you knew where to look). Damn secretive Vulcans.

Chewing on his lower lip, Jim forced himself to ignore the tight feeling of arousal in favor of scientific research. Genetically speaking – at the DNA level – humans were closer to Terran mushrooms than Vulcan people, according to Bones.

On the other hand, there was the law of genetic convergence. Jim still remembered that from xenobiology 101. Normally, evolution occurred through divergence of genes, proteins and ultimately phenotypes – hence the wide variety of genomes on Earth, for example. However … and that was kind of a kicker, in terms of xenobiology: similar traits also evolved convergently in completely unrelated species, owing to similar selection pressures. Which was why so many wildly different humanoid species were still so similar in their genetic make-up that all kinds of human-alien hybrids could exist. Like Spock.

Though Jim knew, of course, that Spock was no accident but the product of careful genetic engineering. The thought occurred to him how now that he himself was part-Augment, they had more in common than before … The next obvious question was how Spock had been created (if he matched the picture on Jim’s PADD). No doubt two principles had ruled the process: the Vulcan belief in IDIC, infinite diversity in infinite combinations as per the beneficial randomness of nature, and the priority of viability.

But that just left Jim staring at the picture of a perfect Vulcan penis on his PADD, pondering Spock with even more fascination. At first glance, Spock appeared to be all Vulcan, ears, eyebrows, unemotional intellect and all. Most likely that extended to his genitalia. It was a question of viability and practicability, after all – plus his parents had meant him to grow up and live on Vulcan. Jim also realized it was unlikely that Spock was exactly half Human and half Vulcan. It was much more likely that his human heritage made up thirty to forty percent of his genes. Perhaps even less.

Where did they go, Jim wondered, your human genes? What are they doing to you – what are they doing for you? Does anyone know? Or even care?

He didn’t like that train of thought much, so he turned back to poking and prodding the medical databases. Thanks to the current missions of the Enterprise involving the Vulcan colony on Arrakis and the V’tosh ka’tur, there was tons of stuff accessible that he wouldn’t have been able to lay his eyes on under normal circumstances. Details never mentioned in any of his academy seminars.

Twenty minutes later or so, arousal was the last thing on Jim’s mind. He exhaled in a sigh and stared at the ceiling for a lengthy period of time. On the one hand, he wanted to go and throttle Spock. On the other hand, he was … oh yeah, even more scared of fucking things up for Spock than before. He had already guessed that Vulcans didn’t do casual sex (you didn’t have to be a genius to figure that one out). But the somewhat confidential content of the medical databases told him that under normal circumstances sex meant telepathic Bonding for Vulcans, which in turn meant life-long monogamous physical and mental commitment.

That self-sacrificing idiot of a first officer had honestly suggested pretending that he was a Vulcan sex slave on New Sydney? There. Were. No. Words. Jim ground his teeth.

And then there was the part of the medical data on Vulcans that was seriously locked up. Secured in a way that Jim knew it would be an actual challenge to hack into the files. Fun, in other words. It was hard to resist that kind of an invitation. There was just one tiny little catch. He recognized the style of the security code, although he’d never seen such code before. How was that even possible? How could such elegant passages of code feel so achingly familiar and yet so alien?

Jim switched off his PADD and folded his hands over his stomach. What did that code remind him of? He let his thoughts drift. When was the last time he’d even studied code at length … admired it for its elegance, its complexity?

… oh.

The Kobayashi Maru. Two years and two lifetimes ago. But the security stuff in the medical database was not Spock’s coding. It was similar, but not the same. If you eliminate the impossible … The other Spock, then. But why? It must be something incredibly important. A Vulcan secret. Something vital. Something that Humans shouldn’t know about under ordinary circumstances. Something private then. Intimate. Information the old man wanted them to have access to just in case … if something went very, very wrong with Vulcan biology.

Now even Jim’s curiosity flagged, leaving behind the uncomfortable feeling that he should talk to his Spock and ask him if there was anything he should know about Vulcan mating habits …

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.185, 1700 hours, Deck 5, First Officer’s Cabin

Spock stared at his PADD. He was in the process of composing a message to his father. A task that was laborious at the best of times, and excruciating in this instance. Yet he did not see another logical way to resolve his current dilemma.

His message would take one month, ten days, nineteen hours and seven minutes to reach New Vulcan. In consequence he had decided to confine himself to a written message. There was no logical reason to send a video transmission. Furthermore, there was no rationale to increasing the emotional difficulties he was encountering in the composition of this missive.

“Father,” he wrote and halted.

His older counterpart had told his – their – father that the scientists who had constructed his genetic make-up had failed in their efforts to spare him the time of madness.

In another universe, Spock knew that he had shared a betrothal bond with a Vulcan girl as was customary among his people. In this universe, his parents and the medics responsible for him had decided against that due to the lack of emotional control he had suffered from during his childhood. It would not have been beneficial to subject another child to his mental problems. Thus Spock had been spared the agony of a broken Bond when Vulcan was destroyed. Perhaps a minor difference between the two universes. Beneficial, in that he had been spared considerable mental trauma. Detrimental, in that he was less prepared than any other member of his race to enter into a Bond and to overcome the blood fever with the aid of his Bondmate.

The taboo surrounding pon farr was near absolute. It was not a topic for civilized conversation.

Spock was also of an age that left the choice of a Bondmate to his discretion. Hence his father had not made mention of the issue. It seemed likely – with a statistical probability of 89.75% – given the mission of the Enterprise that his father expected him to find a compatible mind among his brother’s people on Arrakis. Due to the different attitude of his brother’s followers regarding emotions and emotional control it was a logical expectation that Spock might find a better match for his mind on Arrakis than on New Vulcan.

“In this my life it remains uncertain when I will have to endure the Time,” Spock wrote. “Evidence has been laid out for you and me that it may not come upon me for another seven years. Yet as we approach Arrakis, I find myself considering the impact of the Time on a potential Bondmate, specifically on a Bondmate not of our people. I am aware that Mother’s view of the Time differed from the traditional Vulcan outlook on the matter.”

The memory of his mother speaking to him of the Time in frank terms and full of fondness tested his emotional control even after fourteen years. He wanted to cringe.

“Taking into account the fact that Mother’s constitution was not especially robust for a Human, I am at a loss to formulate a satisfying scientific explanation for her attitude. If you could take it upon yourself to enlighten me upon the matter, I would appreciate any information you see fit to share with me.”

♦♦♦

“… the Pain puts its arm over your shoulders. It is your closest friend. Steadfast. And at night you can’t bear to hear your own breath unaccompanied by another and underneath the big stillness like a score is the roaring of the cataract of everything being and being torn away. Then. The Pain is lying beside your side, close. Does not bother you with sound even of breathing.”
– Peter Heller, The Dog Stars