Archive of Our Own ^beta

Stardate 2260.88
0048 hours

The Gorn is really ugly. Uglier than the ones Jim saw around campus during his time at the Academy-- though it occurs to him that he has no idea what Gorns consider attractive to each other. For all he knows this is the Gorn Miss Universe standing in front of him.

He doesn't have time to think. Gorns are slow movers, mostly because they average about 350 pounds of solid muscle cased in a skin like old shoe leather. If this one traps him, his skull will resemble a bowl of oatmeal in less time than it takes to sing "Yankee Doodle".

So he runs. Not dignified, not with any thought in his head but getting clear, getting to a place where he can hide and come up with a strategy. The desert world he's been taken to doesn't offer much in the way of cover, but he can see an outcropping of rock about half a mile ahead. He veers toward it, the planet's dry air rasping in his throat as he sucks in breath after breath, forgetting to pace himself, forgetting everything but running.

He thinks of last night, sitting in his quarters with a glass of wine in his hand, taunting Spock for worrying every time he goes down to a planet. Just because away missions go wrong a lot doesn't mean it's my fault, he'd said. I always get out of it anyway, don't I?

In retrospect, Jim thinks maybe he shouldn't have invited karma to slap him in the face quite so obviously.

---

2260.87
1230 hours

It's time to beam down and Jim is first to the transporter room-- even before McCoy, which is rare enough to be impressive by Jim's standards. He chats with Scotty as the rest of the landing party trickles in; McCoy, Madeline and her friend Li, and Gaila, who comes up close with a smart-ass smile on her face.

"Someone is looking cheerful today," she teases in a singsong voice, leaning one forearm against the wall and looking up at Jim with a knowing grin.

"Someone's looking for a demotion today," he mutters back, but the effect is diminished a little by the fact that he can't stop grinning, and if she keeps on waggling her eyebrows at him he might actually blush. "Remind me again why I tell you things?"

"Because you love me," she says, affectionately exasperated. "Come on, Jim, even if you didn't tell me, you can't expect me not to be able to know. I know what you look like when you've--"

He sees McCoy approaching out of the corner of his eye, and interrupts to change the subject. "Lieutenant," he interrupts in what he hopes is an authoritative and repressive tone, "is it your habit to beam down on away missions without your phaser?"

She glances down at her hip and makes a face that's part pout, part chagrin. "I didn't think it was that kind of mission," she says. "Dinner with Commodore Travers, right?" She looks at Madeline, who has her phaser, and Li, who doesn't have his. "Alright, come on, Li, you are coming to the armory with me," she grumbles, grabbing him by the elbow and heading for the door just as it opens to admit Spock.

"She's got a point," McCoy says, fiddling with the tricorder. "The Commodore is famous for his hospitality. You really think we're gonna need phasers?"

"Never hurts to be prepared, Bones," Jim says with a shrug. "He did request a tactical team beam down with us. Requested it twice, actually; said there was some interesting problem he thought we'd enjoy taking a look at, but didn't elaborate. I'd rather give a phaser back to the arms master unused than be caught saying 'if only'."

"How poetic," McCoy says, rolling his eyes. "I'm just looking forward to the dinner. You think he brought that chef of his with him to Cestis III?"

Jim laughs at the hopeful note in his voice. "Probably. Wouldn't you, if you were him? Going halfway across the galaxy to start a colony, not to see Earth for five years at minimum-- hell, I'd bring the entire staff of the Ritz-Carlton."

"Suppose that explains why he wants the tactical team," McCoy says. "Another few heads to bounce ideas off of. Though why he thinks he's gonna get good advice from you is beyond me."

"I also wonder at his request," Spock says, joining the conversation from where he stands beside Scotty's console. "The Commodore was rather insistent."

"The colony's on the edge of nowhere, totally exposed, nothing except a couple more colonies between it and the edge of Federation space," Jim says, shrugging. "He probably does want advice and didn't want to say so explicitly."

"Nevertheless," Spock says, but McCoy cuts him off.

"Spock, leave it alone. It isn't enough for you we're getting invited to the home of a decorated Starfleet Commodore for what amounts to practically a state dinner? If the idea of non-reconstituted un-replicated food doesn't excite you, I'm about ready to give up on you altogether."

Spock's eyebrow vaults toward the ceiling. "Your excitement is expected, Doctor. You are a dedicated hedonist."

"Bet your pointed ears I am," McCoy snorts. He seems about to say more, but Gaila and Li come back from the arms locker and everyone moves to assemble on the transporter pad.

Jim catches Spock's eye and can't help a grin, and probably a smug one too, from crossing his face. Spock's eyebrows twitch and Jim can't be sure, but it seems there's a slant of amusement to his mouth.

Scotty's giving him a funny look when he faces front, so he does his best to compose himself. "Energize," he says, letting the grin creep back over his face as everything dissolves around him.

To Jim, the moments between the transporter engaging and his atoms reassembling themselves always seem to stretch on longer than they actually are. He knows it's instantaneous, and yet coming back to himself after a transport is always a step by step process, even if the entire thing only takes a split second.

In this case, it's his sense of smell that returns first, and his nose isn't happy about the air here. It's acrid and thick, a sharp smoky burn. Then his taste buds kick in and his tongue curls as the air translates to a taste as sour as the smell. His ears register the eerie silence, and just before his eyesight comes back the thought forms coherently, Something is wrong.

Then Jim shakes his head, opens his eyes, and sees it's much worse than he could have expected.

The open space in which they stand was clearly once a courtyard, but two of its surrounding walls lay in pieces on the ground, and the third has a huge chunk eaten out of the top. Plumes of smoke rise from many points in their field of vision, and Jim can see more rubble, more ruined buildings, all over what used to be a thriving colony.

He hasn't even processed what he's seeing, can't possibly do so in so little time, but he has to start somewhere. McCoy already has the tricorder going and everyone else has their phasers are out and ready, but Jim's first thought is of the ship. He takes out his communicator and snaps it open. "Enterprise, this is Kirk."

Uhura answers from the bridge. "Go ahead, Captain."

"Uhura, go to red alert." Vaguely, he hears her voice peak over a question, and he shakes his head, realizing the right words to describe what he's seeing. "Red alert, Lieutenant. Cestis III has been destroyed."

---

2260.88
0119 hours

On the bridge, Spock paces. He is too restless to sit, even if the captain's chair were one he felt comfortable sitting in at the moment. Illogical to feel a difference compared to all the other times he has sat there; perhaps he is reacting to the stress of their situation. Understandable, he thinks, for what has happened to the Enterprise is far from ordinary.

Spock's knowledge of Federation history and their records of space explorations is impeccable, and he cannot recall any mention of a race with the technological capability to hijack a ship's systems at long range, to kidnap that ship's captain and beam him to an unknown location. These beings who call themselves the Metrons believe, indeed they have stated as if it were fact, that the crew will not see Jim alive again. Spock refuses the idea so wholly it feels like revulsion.

"Mr Scott, have you any progress on regaining control of the ship?" he asks, speaking to stop himself from thinking any further. "No sir," says Scott for the fourth time. He's starting to sound as tired of answering as Spock is of asking.

"Lieutenant Uhura--"

"Still reading no signal from any planet in the system," she answers before he's finished. He sees Sulu and Chekov exchange a worried glance.

They are all feeling it too, Spock knows-- the stress, the concern for Kirk's safety, fear bordering on panic. The shouts raised when Kirk vanished from the middle of the bridge were proof enough of that. As if it had not been enough of a shock when the ship was stopped, interrupted mid-warp like a wall had been thrown up in their path. Not knowing how it was done, or how they escaped damage to the ship-- everything was in chaos, and the captain being taken from their midst only intensified it.

The words of the Metrons still echo in Spock's head, and he turns them over in his mind while he paces.

Two spacecraft on a mission of violence... this is not permissible... your violent tendencies are inherent, therefore we must control them... A view of humans not unlike that which Sarek has expressed to him on multiple occasions. But Vulcans never took it upon themselves to meddle in the conflicts of other races. We will resolve your conflict in a manner suited to your limited intelligence, the Metrons had said. We have prepared a planet... your captain will be taken there, as will the captain of the Gorn ship, and you will settle your dispute in a contest of intuition, cunning and strength... a chronicle of this event will dissuade other members of your species from similar actions.

It is, as Jim would say, bullshit.

They are all-- Spock is no exception here, however he would like to deny it-- irritated by their own blindness, infuriated by their helplessness. Jim would no doubt laugh and mock him about getting riled up, and he would be right. Spock is riled up. He is anxious and angry, and it shows. And he knows their situation is as dire as he fears, because Dr. McCoy has thus far neglected to comment on his obvious distress.

At least he can be assured of this; whatever concern he feels for the captain's safety, the crew shares it. And whatever he does to get Jim back (and he will do something; it is only a matter of deciding what) he will not have to do it alone.

---

2260.86
2035 hours

"This isn't a work dinner, remember?" Jim says lightly, answering the question Spock's eyebrow is asking as he takes in the captain's jeans, t-shirt and bare feet; all signs of comfort, or perhaps it would be more accurate to call it intimacy.

"I did remember," he says.

"Rand made fun of me," Jim goes on, waving Spock toward the couch as he heads back to the side table and continues fiddling with some instrument meant to extract the cork from a bottle of wine.

"On what grounds this time?" he asks, settling on the couch.

"Well, I told her I had plans tonight. She asked what, I told her I was having someone over for dinner. Didn't say who, of course," he adds, looking over his shoulder with a knowing smirk at Spock's cautious expression. "Anyway, she asked, but I didn't tell her, just said it was going to be a quiet dinner, nothing fancy. And she said I have no life if my idea of a date is the same thing I do with you on a Tuesday night."

Spock hears the emphasis with a tiny smirk. He is impressed that Jim managed to keep their secret from Yeoman Rand, who is a notorious gossip. "And what would your yeoman prefer? If you emulated her choice of social interaction, at least insofar as alcohol consumption is concerned, I doubt she would appreciate dealing with the aftermath."

Jim snorts. "Got that right. Last time shore leave was over I swear she scheduled me for alpha shift the next day just so she wouldn't have to deal with my hangover."

"Ah," says Spock, "so now I know who to hold responsible for that memorable shift." He is warmed by Jim's laugh. "What exactly is it you are doing over there?" he asks, craning to look around Jim's body to whatever he's doing with his hands.

"You'd never believe the kind of cooking you can do with a hot plate," he says, turning with a dish in each hand. He sets them down and goes back for the glasses-- his full of wine, Spock's full of something dark and smooth and a little sweet.

"There is chocolate in this," he says after a sip, and Jim grins.

"Can't let me have all the fun."

"I do not intend to."

He gets a snort of laughter for that, and gives Jim a bemused eyebrow that comes out more suggestive than he had intended. Jim leers back, and Spock drinks to hide a smirk.

He should not be surprised he is enjoying himself. In all things Jim enjoys having his own way, and has such singleminded persistence that he often gets it. Tonight is no different. Spock has commented several times on the dubious efficacy of badgering someone into a date, but Jim has naturally laughed it off. It's gonna happen eventually, he had said yesterday. Might as well just accept that and move on. How's 2030 hours sound, my quarters? I promise I can cook vegetarian.

Spock will reserve final judgment until the end of the evening, but he is thus far glad he allowed himself to be convinced.

---

2260.88
0125 hours

The Metrons gave him a voice recorder-- how kind of them, Jim thinks, because what a kidnapped starship captain really wants is for his crew to have an audio record of him fighting and possibly (probably) being horribly maimed and killed by a gigantic reptile. These people are so generous-- they even told him he could make weapons out of the raw materials here on the planet, if he was smart enough to figure out how.

Well, obviously Jim should've paid more attention during high school Eurasian History so he'd know how to make a catapult out of cactus stalks or whatever. As it is, he's sticking with his initial "run like hell" plan.

He makes it to the outcropping and moves on to the next one and then the next, climbs up and hides himself behind a rock. No sign of the Gorn yet, thank God. And somewhere along the line he's realized that even if he doesn't want to put his crew through listening to the details of his last few hours, Starfleet might want to hear what he has to say. So he pulls out the recorder and starts talking.

"Captain James T. Kirk," he says softly, "stardate 2260.87--well, probably .88 now. I've been taken captive by beings calling themselves the Metrons. No visual contact when they hailed us, no idea what they look like or how they learned to speak Standard. They observed the Enterprise in pursuit of a Gorn vessel which attacked the Federation outpost of Cestis III, and beamed me and the Gorn captain to this planet."

He heaves a breath and goes on. "We're supposed to fight. They've made this some kind of gladiator battle to the death. I want nothing to do with it. But from what I saw of my opponent, he doesn't seem to have the same scruples, so if I don't find a way to fight back I may be done for."

He relaxes back against the rock, thinking. His problem, or one of them at least, is that when he's mad he's kind of an asshole and doesn't care who he takes it out on. He wishes he'd been less of a dick to Spock and Uhura earlier, who were in the understandable position of not wanting their ship to blow up. It's their job to remind Jim what caution means, and they're great at it; it's his job to know when to stand back and let them do it, and today was a great example of how awesomely he can fuck that one up.

His mom used to warn him about this. Hell, she would know about stupid pride; anyone wondering where Jim got the idea that he could do anything he set his mind to (rules, regulations and the laws of physics be damned) clearly had never met Winona Kirk. Pride was what had kept her in Starfleet after the Kelvin, after everyone expected her to retire to a private life 'away from all this'. But she wouldn't be cowed by the fear of what might lurk in the far reaches of space, and she didn't think Starfleet ought to be, either.

Even after she'd come to San Fransisco to meet the transport carrying Jim and the twenty-odd others who'd managed to live through Kodos' insane megalomania; even then, she was outraged not just from weeks of fear and panic for her son, but that such a thing could have happened within the Federation. That they hadn't known enough or been powerful enough to stop it.

"We're more than that, better than that," Jim had heard her say. He remembers this pretty clearly for all that it was fifteen years ago. "We should do more, reach farther. What the hell are we doing out there if it's not to prevent this?"

Commodore Travers had seen it a different way. "Starfleet brass knows they did wrong by not putting more checks on Kodos," he'd said. From where he stood half-hidden in the doorway Jim had been able to see the viewscreen with the older man's homely face, bright eyes full of concern.

"More checks? How about a psych screening before they put him in charge of a settlement that housed not only fifty families but an interstellar school for gifted children?" Winona shot back.

"That too. Look, they know they did wrong. They apologized, made reparations to the families--"

"They did all that for the Kelvin," she snapped. "You think I need to get another 'I'm sorry now please take your tragic story away so we don't have to think about it anymore' check in the mail every month? I want to see them do things differently, Gabriel. I don't want them to have to trip over six apologies for every one useful proactive thing they do. I want them to do good, not come by it as a sidebar to covering their asses."

"Winnie," Travers said, and even at twelve Jim could pick out the mingled regret, sorrow and anxiety in his voice, "you can't get in their faces about this. You know it won't end well. I know you're pissed-- hell, I'm pissed too. But you can't change the world all by yourself."

"If not me, then who?" But she sounded tired even as she said it, and Jim had watched her drop her head into her hands for a moment, the slump in her shoulders making her look young and very vulnerable, before Sam had caught him eavesdropping and herded him back to bed.

Jim's caught his breath by now, and he flips the recorder closed, starting to get twitchy listening for any sign of approaching footsteps. "Well, time to get up, I guess," he says, his eyes lighting on a boulder looking conspicuous at the edge of the rock face a little higher up. Staggering to his feet, he picks his way over to it with one eye on the ground, ready to drop flat at any sign of the predator on his tail.

The rock is almost as precarious as it looks; he thinks with a good shove it might be inclined to fall, and there's a sheer drop to the ground below. "It's not the best plan in the world," Jim murmurs to himself, crouching as he sees the Gorn come out from behind the next rocky hill and head his way. "But we're gonna just ignore the fact that A, I'm talking to myself; B, waiting for Godzilla to come stand under this ledge long enough for me to push a rock on him is probably not the smartest idea; and C, if it doesn't work I'm totally fucked. Okay? Okay."

He flips open the recorder again and adds, "I gotta say I find it funny that this species, these Metrons, pride themselves so much on their degree of civilization and yet have pretty much sentenced the two of us down here to beat each other's heads in with rocks. If you're eavesdropping on me here, Metrons, polling indicates you should try to at least make it out of the Neanderthal age next time you have one of these contests. Pick up a book sometime, Terran history, ancient Rome. They did some pretty cool shit in closed arenas with lions, bears, flaming arrows, that kinda thing. At least make it interesting for us, know what I mean?"

He might be tempting retaliation, but he can't help it. Because what Jim learned best from his mother (besides her temper and her stubborn pride) is how to spit in the face of anyone who tries to get the best of him.

---

2260.87
1244 hours

After Uhura signs off, Jim puts his comm away and takes a steadying breath. "Okay people, first step is look for survivors, but be on the lookout. It looks deserted, but whoever did this could still be here, in hiding. Madeline, with me. Spock and Gaila, you're on point. Eyes up and out, everyone, and Bones, keep the tricorder going. Let's move."

They fan out across the terrain in silence; Jim can hear his own ragged breathing, and McCoy's, and concentrates on ignoring it. It's taking half his energy to hold the panic at bay, but it's giving him a hyperfocus that reminds him a little of the time he took too many caffeine pills in an effort to stay up studying for 50 straight hours.

"Anything?" he asks, his glance not quite reaching McCoy's eyes.

"No," the doctor says for the third time. "Jim, it seems pretty clear whoever did this is gone. It's been days-- these fires wouldn't have burned out in less than two days, at least."

"Those messages," says Spock, an edge to his voice that hints at anger.

"Must've been faked," he says. "Recorded Travers' voice, then spliced the tones over someone else's words." Another wave of rage tunnels through him and he stops short, bringing everyone about.

"This is taking too much time," he bites out. "Li, Gaila, Spock, take the tricorder and go that way, search for survivors. Bones and Madeline, you're with me. Be careful, everyone. Anyone still alive identifies themselves, and if they're not Starfleet they're going into criminal custody until we find out what the hell happened here."

They split up, and keep walking. The colony isn't big-- fewer than a hundred people had gone with Commodore Travers on the first mission to colonize the planet a year ago, and the number hasn't even close to doubled. Everywhere Jim looks there are signs-- a kid's bike overturned in a yard where the house is just a pile of debris, the stench of blood on the air. And where there hasn't been fire or artillery damage, there are bodies.

Jim remembers picking up The Stand years ago, fascinated by the idea of a plague that could wipe out 90% of humanity. Stephen King may have been high as a kite the entire time he was writing it, but the man knew how to tell a story, how to put you right there in the middle of it. Jim had been fourteen and embarrassed as hell that the descriptions had made him queasy.

It was still too close, he'd realized. Didn't take a rocket scientist to figure that out, and he was pretty smart. Freeways like parking lots transformed into vast morgues stretching on toward the horizon, every town in America become a graveyard; it was too much too soon, too like the graves where Kodos had dumped those who hadn't made the grade, the remains of everyone he deemed too weak or too flawed to deserve to go on living.

In the book, no one had outrun the superflu; they'd been immune to it by luck of the genetic draw, or they'd died. There had been no getting away from Kodos, either. Until someone stepped in to stop him, it was only a matter of time.

Jim had put the book away unfinished. But he remembers the sick sadness churning his stomach, and he feels the same way now, seeing the remains of over a hundred people, the rubble of their settlement all that remains of the dreams they'd brought, hoping to build a new life.

Someone did this, he thinks, and I'm going to figure out who it was so I can hold them accountable.

Suddenly there's the sound of footsteps and Gaila's there, out of breath with her eyes full of concern. "We need Dr. McCoy right away," she says, "we found a survivor."

It's a woman, older than Jim but not by much, lying amid a heap of branches and other plant debris in what was apparently once a garden. She's covered in dirt and blood, and as Jim kneels beside her he can see the burns on her face and arms, the bruising on her leg that means a broken bone.

"This is not good," McCoy hisses, scanning her with the tricorder. He looks at Jim, worried. "Several broken bones, internal bleeding-- she'll be dead within the hour if we don't get her some serious help."

Of course, it's just as Jim opens his mouth to answer that the flash-bang of the first explosion happens, a hundred yards away to the right but still way too close for comfort. His communicator's out in a second, his phaser in the other hand as he gets to his feet and puts himself between the explosion and his people. "Kirk to Enterprise," he barks, "we found a survivor but she's badly wounded and we're coming under attack, I need seven to beam up now."

Sulu sounds harried, and Jim can hear voices in the background. "Captain, an alien vessel has just come into range from the far side of the planet and is firing on us. I've had to raise the shields, but just give me a second and I'll tell Scotty to--"

"You'll do no such thing," Jim barks, feeling his eyes go wide and his heart rate pick up from a jog to a gallop. "Can you identify the ship?"

"I think so, sir." He doesn't sound happy about the answer, and Jim soon understands why. "There's only one known record of a ship resembling this one, and it's the one that brought the five Gorn students to the Academy a few years back."

Jim barely has time to digest this (the idea of a ship from a non-Federation system having come into their space just to do this) before another explosion momentarily deafens him, halving the distance between them and the last one. Whoever's shooting at them is getting closer.

"Have they responded to hails? Nevermind, don't answer that, of course they haven't." Behind him, McCoy, Madeline and Spock are gingerly lifting the survivor and carrying her back behind the one remaining wall in the garden. Jim retreats with them, Gaila and Li covering behind, and his mind is racing a mile a minute but he already knows there aren't many ways out of this.

There's another explosion to their left,"Okay Sulu, you fire on that ship until they blow up or retreat, and until they do one or the other you do whatever you have to to keep the ship safe." Sulu starts to protest but Jim can't, won't listen. "Mister Sulu, that is an order," he says forcefully. "Keep the Enterprise safe, I don't care if you have to leave orbit to do it."

"Yes, sir," Sulu says after a dragging pause; Jim can practically hear his teeth grinding.

"We're going to try and draw out our attackers, we'll report back in fifteen minutes, Kirk out." He snaps the comm shut and turns to find Spock right beside him, phaser in hand and looking like he's ready to throw Jim down if he tries anything stupid. If this weren't actually a terrifying life-or-death situation Jim thinks he'd probably have the attention span to find that hot, but as it is he's just really, really glad Spock is here right now so whatever stupid thing he does do, he won't have to do alone.

"We are going to try and draw out our attackers?" Spock repeats, and Jim nods.

"Yeah, we are. Wanna help?"

One corner of Spock's mouth twitches. "I am surprised you felt it necessary to ask."

---

2260.88
0157 hours

"Would you stand still, you're wearing a groove in the goddamn floor," McCoy snaps, bringing Spock to the realization that he has traveled the length of the bridge and back so many times he has lost count.

"I am attempting to formulate a plan," he says, tamping down a sharper retort.

"How's that working out for you?" McCoy snarls, glaring at him.

"I do not see that I have any other choice."

"What about the Captain? He's out there somewhere, needs our help, and you're just standing here thinking."

"If I could help him, Doctor, I would. But I cannot." Other days, in other less dire circumstances, he would perhaps allow himself to be drawn into a confrontation with McCoy, a bickering debate about the merits of reason over emotional effusivity. But not today. Today he forces himself to ignore the doctor's irritation and focus.

But McCoy keeps talking. "You're the one that's always talking about logic," he says, glaring. "What good's logic now? If we can't find a way to put a stop to this, the only thing that's gonna help Jim is dumb luck. Which, I'll grant, he's got in spades, but I'm not counting on that to save him."

In spite of himself, Spock cannot help but agree; there is no logic in what has been done here. Taking Jim, forcing him to fight-- such tactics will hardly serve to warn other species against violence. The Metrons clearly have no understanding of the nature of humanity if they think Jim's death will not provoke vengeance, or that they can succeed in finally schooling the galaxy's youngest sentient species to pacifism.

It is not the nature of humans to back down. When presented with a warning they seek to overcome it, to surpass it, to prove it wrong. It is what made them seek the stars in the first place; the final frontier, the barrier they were told could not be crossed.

Humans are stubborn creatures. Perhaps inherently they are no freer of arrogance than the Metrons-- Spock knows his Terran history. There were often leaders who used their power and influence outside their reach, who meddled in the way the world worked and thought their superiority made it justified. And even after the Eugenics wars, that self-entitlement would rear its head from time to time.

He thinks of Khan. He thinks of Kodos, of the things he has read and the things which Jim has carefully never told him. He thinks of Jim swearing the Federation can be more, be better, that they were made for more than what they are. He wonders where the line is drawn, even as he knows without doubt that Jim is on the right side of it, and the Metrons are not.

No, there is no logic in this, only the vaulted hubris of a species who think themselves the highest beings in the galaxy, more fit to act as judge and jury than centuries of interstellar law.

"There is nothing we can do to help the Captain from here," Spock says quietly. "It seems to me that our first course of action should be to contact our captors and attempt once more to reason with them."

"The Metrons?" Sulu says, swiveling around in his chair. "What makes you think they'll be open to a deal? They didn't seem inclined to give us a break before."

"I have no reason to think they will, but no reason to suspect otherwise either."

"'Cause the first step in any good plan is beating your head against the wall," McCoy mutters.

Spock ignores him. "Lieutenant Uhura, is channel one still open?"

"Yes, sir," Nyota says. He can hear the strain in her voice despite her efforts to mask it, and for a moment he feels drowned in a wave of anger so strong he must close his eyes against it. He will follow through with his plan to contact the Metrons, and if they prove uncooperative he will take action against them. He thinks of the Prime Directive, such a close relative of the oath doctors take to do no harm. The Enterprise did engage in violence, yes, but in defense of innocent people. The Metrons' kidnapping and forced combat is nothing more than show business, making an example of two ships' worth of intelligent beings for no apparent purpose save their own sport.

Spock opens his eyes and looks toward the viewscreen. "This is Commander Spock of the USS Enterprise calling the Metrons," he says. For a moment there is silence, and he adds, "We urgently desire a conference. Please answer." The silence stretches out, until finally the viewscreen begins once more to glitter with flashes of light.

---

2260.86
2052 hours

He should feel more awkward, he supposes. This is supposed to be something new for them, something different. Jim obviously sees it as such-- and yet what is different is not Spock's presence, but the palpable sense that Jim has left the role of captain behind, that this is simply Jim Kirk, someone so unaffected by politics that he may as well be someone Spock has never known.

"Sulu's created a monster with this interdepartmental game club," Jim says as they dig into their pasta.

"How so?" he asks. Spock has not attended, though he has been invited, almost cajoled, by several people-- he suspects mainly so there will be someone capable of beating Jim at tri-D chess.

"It's out of control. People are bringing the most outrageous games they can lay hands on-- there's some weird Bolian game you play with sticks and rune tiles, someone got a Ba'ku dartboard last time we docked, and Chekov's been trying to get people in on this Denobulan drinking game." He pauses to sip from his wine, then adds, "Though I'm just glad there are no actual Denobulans on board, you know what they're like when they get competitive."

Spock nods assent. "And the video game you have been playing on your PADD with Lieutenant Sulu and Lieutenant Commander Scott all week?" he asks, betraying not a hint of irony.

Jim grins. "Caught that, did you? And here I thought I was hiding it." The satisfied curl to his lips suggests he thought no such thing, and was only waiting for Spock or Nyota to mention it. "We haven't brought video games into it much yet-- only old school stuff, nothing new." He shrugs, rolling his eyes. "And now if we did share new stuff we'd have to make everyone sign a form or something, saying we'd keep the consoles to ourselves, and where's the fun in that?"

Spock's eyebrows go up. "The new regulation--"

"'All forms of technology invented or adapted by a citizen of a Federation planet, whether used for military, civilian or entertainment purpose, will remain under the control and supervision of Federation and Starfleet personnel,'" Jim recites, sounding bored and looking annoyed. "It means anyone who hasn't sung kumbaya around the Federation campfire can't take apart so much as a pocket tetris game to see how it ticks. And any Orion or Bajoran or Tyrellian who discovers they kick ass at Resident Evil XIX or Battlecruisers III can't bring it home to play with their kid brother, either."

Spock feels his mouth twist, poorly masking his amusement, and something like chagrin; perhaps he spoke too soon when he thought this evening would be untouched by the politics of Starfleet. "I believe the Federation will have some degree of difficulty enforcing this regulation," he says. Jim is as aware of the black market in technology trading as Spock is, and knows just as well that the new law only means a large step up in pay grade for interstellar smugglers.

"Yeah, no shit," Jim agrees, gesturing with his fork, "but in the meantime anyone who leaves their comm unit in a bar on Deep Space Six can get smacked around for giving technology secrets to non-Federation species. 'Cause God forbid we, you know, share or anything." Jim shakes his head, disgusted.

"I wish to remind you of your earlier injunction on speaking of work," Spock says dryly.

"Right, right. It's just-- I dunno, sometimes I wonder if we're really out here to explore or just to keep anyone else from exploring first. And you're the only person I can say that to. Well," he amends with a grin, "I could say it to Bones, but he'd just tell me thinking so much is bad for my health."

"Whereas I would suggest it is bad for your tenure as a starship captain."

"My thoughts exactly," Jim says with a wry smile, drinking from his wine glass again.

---

2260.88
0206 hours

So the Gorn hasn't seen him yet, which is awesome, because it means that Jim might actually have a leg up on this guy (or girl, he still really hasn't got any idea what the indicators are on that one). At least in the element of surprise department anyway-- he figures the alien can't have a clue where he actually is, or he wouldn't be building a trap right in Jim's line of sight.

It's kinda scary, though, how fast the giant lizard can dig. Maybe it's some kind of genetic coding-- isn't there some species of lizard that builds traps in the ground and waits inside for prey to walk by? Or maybe that's a spider; beyond the distinction between pets and wildlife, Jim's memory of the animal kingdom is a little fuzzy. Anyway, if he weren't standing up here watching this pit getting dug, it would be pretty likely he'd actually walk into it. It's between that inviting patch of shade under the overhang and the open ground he'd have to cross to reach it, and if he wasn't paying attention, those sharpened sticks at the bottom would make his life pretty painful.

"Maybe waiting for Godzilla to walk by wasn't such a bad idea after all," Jim mutters to himself. He sets his shoulder against the rock and starts to push.

The rock goes bounding down the cliff face with a few satisfying thwacks along the way, and hits the Gorn full on just as he's clearing the lip of the pit. There's a hoarse anguished scream that Jim really didn't ever need to hear the likes of outside horror movies, and then silence. He looks down, knuckling sweat out of his eyes, and sees a few twitches but no other signs of movement.

Part of him knows it shouldn't be that easy, can't be that easy, but he has to go check. It's all he can do to keep from tripping over himself getting down there; he thinks his hands might be shaking. Blood pounds in his ears as he approaches the rock; the Gorn is face-down underneath it with its legs still half in the pit, and Jim can see one broken-off stick in its hand. Trying to stay focused, Jim goes closer, wishing more than anything that he had a phaser, or even that stick. He's got to be sure it's dead, and he doesn't know where to check for a pulse.

He's two meters away, maybe less, when the Gorn's arms clench, all eight of its clawed fingers digging into the sand, and it rears back, throwing the boulder off with chilling ease. The roar of rage it emits sends adrenaline burning through Jim's veins at warp speed, but he's frozen to the spot.

He's sick of running, too tired to get far, but he starts anyway, thinking to get back up on the high ground. But he hadn't counted on the Gorn having good aim, and he's hit between the shoulder blades with a rock (thank God not the one he'd tried to drop on the scaly bastard) that sends him sprawling on his face. All the wind is knocked out of him and for a few agonizing, panic-stricken seconds, he can't breathe at all. His throat and chest work convulsively but he can't make his lungs draw in air, and he lets out a gargling whistle of terror as he rolls over and sees the giant lizard approaching.

It grabs him around the throat and hauls him to his feet, the hot sulfur of its breath turning Jim's stomach. He claws at the fingers crushing his windpipe with no luck; it finally occurs to him to use his legs, and lashes out with one boot to the side of the Gorn's knee. He doesn't have enough leverage to make it painful, but it surprises the alien long enough that Jim can jab it in the eye, which has the dual effect of making it let go, and making it a lot more pissed than it was a second ago.

He jabs for the eyes again, then kicks out to where he has a vague idea a vulnerable organ might be, and despite the absolutely ridiculous amount of pain that flares out from the spot where his knee connects, he's rewarded by the Gorn taking another step back. Then it rallies enough to clock Jim upside the head and he staggers back, shaking his head to clear it.

"Fuck this," he spits, gasping for breath and hurting in a dozen places. Fighting a Gorn when it's a friendly match and you aren't dehydrated, sleep deprived and hungry is one thing; this is going to kill him. Which, he remembers, is sort of the idea.

He circles around and scoops up a couple of the sharpened sticks the alien was going to put in the bottom of its little trap door pit, throws one like a javelin before the Gorn can turn around. It's well-sharpened, and sticks in the meat of the lizard's upper arm, bringing its head back in a howl of pain.

Jim takes that opportunity to run like hell in the other direction. He doesn't like running, but he's not willing to chance dying before Spock and Uhura have time to rescue him. It wouldn't be fair, and besides, they'd probably resurrect him just so they could yell at him for being an idiot.

You have the smartest crew of any ship in Federation space, he reminds himself as he runs, ignoring the twinges in his side and leg. Just give them time, they'll figure it out. It's a sound plan, as long as the Gorn doesn't catch up with him and turn his skull into pudding first.

---

2260.87
1428 hours

"--out of here now, Scotty, and tell Sulu to follow that ship, warp factor six." As they materialize on the transporter pad Jim is still talking into his communicator, already moving to follow McCoy to sick bay. He tosses the comm unit to Mr. Scott and stalks out of the transporter room so fast Spock must stretch his legs to catch up.

"Jim," he says, hearing the urgency in his own voice. "Jim."

Kirk stops and turns to him with haggard lines etched on his face. "Don't," he says quietly. "Spock, don't." He looks down at his hands, filthy with soot and Ensign Li's blood, and turns away without another word.

Spock follows, heedless of the looks they are getting as they walk through the halls. He too is coated with a dusting of ash, and his ears are still ringing. But even as he walks, he is thinking, attempting to assess exactly what happened on the planet and if there was anything they could have done differently.

In the time it took them to locate their attackers and return fire, the enemy forces locked onto signal of McCoy's tricorder and used it to focus their next volley. The explosion blew Ensign Li and Lieutenant Gaila backward into a half-fallen wall, the remnants of which promptly toppled over on them. They were beamed directly to sick bay when the alien ship had moved off enough for the Enterprise to lower shields.

Spock still is not certain if their own missile attack drove the aliens away, or if some other factor was at work. Still, speculation will not serve them now, and Jim is more agitated than he was even on the planet.

Inside sick bay it is mostly calm. Ensign Li's body lies covered on a biobed, and Spock watches Jim sit by Gaila's bedside, holding her hand and talking to her to keep her distracted. It sounds as if they are discussing the comedy routines of the host of a Terran television show. He looks away as he sees Jim lean in to kiss her forehead, squeezing her hand as Dr. McCoy administers a hypospray which puts her quickly to sleep.

A moment later Kirk joins him at the survivor's bedside. "I need to talk to her," Jim says.

McCoy holds up a hand. "Jim, she's unstable, I don't think--"

"Bones, I have to know what happened. I lost a crewmember, almost lost two, and we're in hot pursuit. I have to know what we're up against."

McCoy sighs. "If she starts to deteriorate, I'm gonna have to put her under again."

"I know. Just bring her around."

With a furrow of concern between his eyes, McCoy preps a hypospray and presses it to the woman's neck. Within seconds her eyelids flutter open, and she groans.

"You're safe," Jim says immediately. "You're on board the USS Enterprise. I'm Captain Kirk, what's your name?"

Her head lolls toward them and Spock sees the ravage of burns spread across her face and neck, the puckered flesh even a regenerator will have trouble fixing. "Ensign... TJ Dillon, Captain." Her voice is burned raw.

Jim waits until her breathing slows, then asks, "Can you tell us what happened?"

"They surprised us," she mutters. "Our sensors reported a ship coming in... we get them now and then, everyone's welcome to use our facility, you know... They knocked out our phaser battery with the first hit, and from then on we were helpless." She convulses in coughs, but quickly recovers. "We weren't expecting it, Captain. Why would we? We didn't have anything anyone would want. Just a way station, you know..."

She coughs again, and Spock looks from McCoy's worried face to meet Jim's eyes. He recognizes the resolute fury in them; whoever these attackers were, they have incited the captain to anger, and Spock knows now beyond what little doubt there was before, that there will be a pursuit, and retribution.

"We tried to surrender, Captain. Hailed them, told them we had civilians, spouses and children. They didn't reply, didn't let up. You saw... the result."

Jim nods. "You're very lucky, Ensign, and we're lucky to have found you. I have to ask one more thing," he says gently, though Spock can see the lines of tension tightening his shoulders. "The Enterprise received two messages yesterday, one summoning us to Cestis III and one requesting that we and our tactical team beam down."

Already Dillon is shaking her head. "Commodore Travers died in the first hit, Captain," she breathes, and Spock sees Jim's mouth tighten. "This all happened two days ago... those messages... I don't know where they came from, but it wasn't us."

She leans up suddenly, and grabs Kirk's hand. "I don't understand it, Captain. Why attack us? There has to be a reason... all that destruction, everyone in the colony... why?" She begins to cough and the monitors above the biobed make soft beeping sounds. Jim continues to hold her hand, but can give no answer. McCoy is there with another hypospray; at Jim's nod he presses it to her neck, and within seconds she is unconscious.

---

2260.88
0210 hours

"I say again, this is Commander Spock of the Federation starship Enterprise, calling the Metrons. Please answer."

Spock hates the moment when asking for what he wants borders on pleading, and hopes neither his anxiety nor his annoyance are clear in his tone. He also hates wondering if the Metrons are trying to make this as painful for them as possible; if that is the case, they are doing an expert job.

He watches the strange pulse of light and static appear on the screen again, and tries to stay calm as the cool voice replies.

"If you wish to bargain with us, it is useless. Your captain is losing his battle." There is some murmur from the crew at that, but a quick motion from Spock's hand cuts it off. The voice sounds more condescending than ever. "We suggest you make any memorial arrangements as are customary in your culture. We will return his body to you when it is over."

This is more than McCoy is able to take; he starts forward with his hands balled into fists, furious that there is no visible adversary on which to vent his rage. "We appeal to you in the name of civilization!" he says, his accent thickening. "Put a stop to this, dammit!"

"Your violent actions have proven that you are not civilized," the bored voice says. "However we are not without compassion. We recognize you may have... feelings for your captain." Spock is almost impressed; even he has never put as much disdain into that word as this being just did. "To prepare yourselves, we will allow you to see what is now transpiring on the planet. But do not bother trying to contact your captain through this link. You cannot."

And with no farewell, the light disappears, the voice vanishes, and the viewscreen is filled with the image of a desertlike environment, rocky with only scrub vegetation visible. Jim is crouched behind one of the rocks, looking exhausted. Of the Gorn, there is no sign. Jim is talking into a handheld communicator, but there is no sound, they cannot hear what he is saying.

Spock spends twenty seconds motionless behind the chair, unable to look away. His body's reactions to this helplessness are conditioned; he is emotionally compromised, and he remembers too clearly (as if the memory could ever fade) Chekov telling him they are creating a singularity that will consume the planet. He feels the same fear constricting his chest now, and it does not matter that the threat is personal, that what he stands to lose is a person and not a planet.

Then he hears Nyota behind him, and forces himself to move. He pivots smoothly on his heel to meet her gaze, the mix of worry and determination on her face a familiar and welcome bolster to him. And suddenly, he has an idea.

"Lieutenant Uhura," he says, "would you please retrieve Lieutenant Gaila from sick bay and meet me at the sensor arrays in fifteen minutes? Doctor, you may accompany her if you wish to check on your patient."

"Aye sir," she says, the length of her strides toward the turbolift the only sign of her impatience for a solution. Or perhaps she wants to give Spock the satisfaction of watching McCoy run to catch up.

"I have an idea which I hope will prove fruitful," he tells the rest of the bridge. "For the moment, do nothing. If there is any change whatsoever, on the ship or off it, contact me immediately. Mr. Scott, come with me."

Lieutenant Gaila leans on Nyota's arm as she walks down the corridor between the sensor banks, but straightens as she comes to stand in front of Spock. She's never been nervous or even awkward with him; she was an excellent student, he remembers, and always been discreet with her knowledge of his and Nyota's relationship. Also, she cares for Jim as much as Spock does. "Lieutenant," he says, "thank you for leaving sick bay."

"It's my pleasure, Commander." She seems as eager to work as Nyota and Scott, and for a moment Spock is grateful he does not have to do this alone.

"Lieutenant, it is my understanding that you are an expert engineer."

"I am certified and proficient for my level of study, yes."

"And during your time at Starfleet Academy you were responsible for the creation and maintenance of a transmitter used to pirate bandwidth from local networks and broadcast an underground signal for the students' use."

Gaila only blinks once before nodding. "Yes sir, I was."

"It is my intention to discover if you might replicate the transmitter using our sensor arrays," Spock says. "Since reasoning with the Metrons was unfruitful, it is my wish to contact the Gorn ship."

"That didn't seem to get us far before," Scott says dubiously.

"They are now stranded and leaderless, just as we are. They may be more willing to cooperate."

"And you're willing to cooperate with them?" Nyota asks.

"I did not share the captain's fervor for pursuing with intent to destroy. I believe there is more to this story than we know, and with your help, I intend to discover it."

Gaila salutes, then grins, rolling up her sleeves. "Alright, Boss," she says as Spock turns away, "let's dismantle this console and see what Keenser's going to have to get me from downstairs."

---

2260.87
1502 hours

As they leave sick bay, Spock is so busy processing everything Ensign Dillon told him that he barely realizes Jim is leading them to his quarters before they are inside.

"It was a trap," says Jim as soon as the door closes, the hard bite of anger sharpening his voice. "All of it-- getting the Enterprise there, getting us and our team down to the planet. It was a setup the whole time."

Spock speaks as soon as Jim breathes. "A very clever one at that. As to the reason--"

"The reason is obvious," Jim cuts in. "We're the only protection in this section of the Federation. Destroy the Enterprise, the whole sector's open for business."

Spock feels an unpleasant dip in his stomach; he is not often surprised by a line of thinking, and yet this had not occurred to him. "You refer to invasion," he says slowly, yet positive proof is not--"

"I have all the proof I need," Jim snaps. He paces between his desk and the door to his sleeping area, where past the rumpled bed Spock can see on a shelf, a framed photo of the famous Commodore Travers and a woman with Jim's sandy hair and wide smile.

He tears his eyes away as Jim stops mid-stride and slams his fist hard into the wall. "You are distressed," he observes.

"No shit," Jim says, his eyes narrow. "And just so we're clear, if the phrase 'emotionally compromised' comes within fifty feet of this conversation, I'm walking."

"It had not occurred to me," Spock lies smoothly.

"Whatever." He turns away again, and Spock remains where he is. "I have to make this better. I can't go to the admiralty and say 'Whoops, not only did I let one of your outposts get blown to hell, but I let the bad guys get away.' They've got to be brought to justice, or I'm not doing my job."

"Your job is to ensure the safety and integrity of the Federation and this ship," Spock counters. "If they cannot be caught, surely pursuing them out of Federation space--"

"Are you out of your mind?" Kirk explodes, whirling on Spock with a flushed, furious face. "They flew in here and attacked a settlement with no warning! Destroyed an entire colony, a year of hard work not to mention the lives lost! Over a hundred people are dead, Spock, and you're counseling caution? How can you possibly hope to explain a massacre like that?"

Spock knows what Kirk is going to say next. It is not the first time he has wished the captain were not so easy for him to read, or at least that their relationship were somewhat less complicated than it is.

Jim does not disappoint. He closes half the distance between them and lowers his voice. "You're a pretty smart guy, Spock. I know the similarities haven't escaped you. So why are you pretending this isn't at all like what happened two years ago? Sure the planet's still here this time, but d'you think it feels a whole lot different for Ensign Dillon than it did for you?" He looks away, his mouth tight. "You might be good at putting the past aside when dealing with the present, but I'm not."

Spock knows protesting will do no good, and he is too conflicted to do so efficiently. The part of him that watched his home planet crumble to dust cries out for vengeance, yes; but he is also a student of logic and law, and his mind is a higher power which knows they are duty bound to discover the cause of the attack on Cestis III before they react to it.

So he falls back on logic, his jaw tight around the words. "To suggest the destruction of Vulcan should influence my reasoning--"

"I'm having a hard time seeing why it shouldn't," Kirk shoots back. "Spock, we just had this discussion last night! Every admiral on the board except Pike is perfectly happy going along thinking the world is the same place it was two years ago. They're thrilled to imagine the Federation is untouchable, that since we beat Nero our place in the galaxy is secure."

"And you disagree."

"You know damn well I do, just as well as I know you feel the same. You've talked to the Ambassador," he says, even more quietly. "You know how things have changed from the way-- the way they went the first time."

"That should not give us license to act without full consideration of the facts of a situation--"

"What other facts need considering?" Kirk demands.

"Ones we do not as yet possess," Spock says implacably. He is not playing devil's advocate; the longer this conversation goes on the more certain he is that to act rashly would be disastrous. As terrible as the past hours have been, to retaliate without full consideration of the evidence would be far worse. "We must make contact--"

"Absolutely not," Kirk interrupts again. "The threat is clear and immediate, Spock. Invasion. Do you really want to take a chance, even a one-in-a-million chance, that you could be wrong?"

Spock is silent, the weight of quiet in the room pressing on his chest, and Kirk wisely lets him think. Something is tightening its hold on his chest, something he could take the time to put words to, but he knows in the end Kirk will wear him down to doing things his way. I am still emotionally compromised, he thinks, the old familiar wave of shame tugging at him.

He swallows, pushing it away, and when he speaks it is with total composure. "Then it seems, Captain, you must ensure the alien vessel never reaches its destination."

Kirk seems to consider touching him then, a comradely slap on the shoulder, but thinks better of it. "I intend to do exactly that," he says, and starts toward the door.

---

2260.86
2111 hours

His glass empty once again, Jim sits back, stretching his arm along the back of the couch. "The thing is, I didn't sign up to stand at the border cracking my knuckles at the bullies in the next schoolyard."

"Nor did I... or any of the crew." Well, perhaps the security staff did, but Spock thinks that might be considered something of a job requirement for a security officer.

"Pike understands. Hell, he's the one who trained me to think like this. But he's the only one on the board without his head up his ass."

"I am certain he would thank you for designating him thus." Spock can't argue with Jim's assessment; his experiences with the Admiralty have left him wary of his superiors and their motives. However much he may deserve the praise they have heaped upon him, Spock knows there is an element of show business to every award he has received, that in some ways he is the poster child for interstellar cooperation that allows so many other species to slip through the cracks.

"He just might," Jim agrees. "He's not done being pissed that he can't still be out here with us, and I think he gets his kicks being as much of a pain in the ass to the Admiralty as I am." By which Spock knows he means that Pike is the only Admiral who shares Jim's views on what Starfleet can and should become, his only ally in changing the way the Federation operates within itself, and within the galaxy.

But all Spock says is, "He does appear to derive great enjoyment from stories of your adventures."

"That's an awfully tactful word for it-- are you trying to be nice to me so I'll put out?" Jim waggles his eyebrows in an extremely unsexy way.

"I did not expect flattery to be necessary to achieve that goal when it was not previously," Spock says, completely deadpan, "and in any case I chose to use the word I have often heard you use to describe our away missions."

"You can think of a better one?" Jim challenges, not commenting on Spock's banter but clearly enjoying it.

"I can think of many, beginning with 'disaster' and progressing in intensity from there."

"Oh come on, Spock, just because away missions go wrong a lot doesn't mean it's my fault," Jim says with an expansive gesture, chuckling and ignoring Spock's raised eyebrow of disbelief. "I always get out of it anyway, don't I?"

"A pattern of escape and rescue has established itself, yes," Spock allows, as dry as possible. "But any student of probability would tell you that to depend on the continuation of a pattern is folly, especially when the determining factor in said pattern is, more often than not, luck."

"Way to make it sound like I can't tie my own shoes without help," says Jim with a snort.

"That was not my intention. I am certain you are capable of tying your shoes; though I feel I must point out that Starfleet uniform boots close with a zipper."

---

2260.88
0319 hours

"Memo to self," Jim mutters, "message Admiral Pike, tell him recommend more survivalist training for all personnel with likelihood or capacity to be tapped for away missions. Because this," he wheezes, looking down at the distance from where he is down to ground level, "is some serious bullshit."

There's a ledge a few feet up and he goes toward it, not so much sitting as falling down when he gets there. His leg is throbbing and when he pulls up his pant leg he can see a really beautiful bruise starting to form. Letting his head rest back against the rock, Jim takes out the recorder and switches it on again. "This might be my last entry." If only because his next idea is to take the damn recorder apart and try to make a taser out of it.

"I'm pretty beat right now, but I have no idea where the Gorn is, and the sun's starting to go down. I don't know how cold it gets here at night, so that might be a problem. On the other hand, as soon as he catches up with me again I'm probably a goner. He almost had me last time-- the only advantage I have is speed, and I'm pretty well depleted on that front." And that's putting it mildly. He feels like a truck ran him over, then swung around and ran him over again.

Then the recorder in his hand crackles. Jim gets excited because hey, that's new, and might mean Uhura's finally found a way to get a lock on him. But the voice that comes through is definitely not Uhura's.

"Terran," it says, a low rumble. "Terran captain from the Federation." For a moment Jim doesn't say anything, just sits frozen like a stunned rabbit, listening. "Terran, this is your opponent," the voice says, and Jim can't help it, he kind of gets chills.

"What do you want?" he asks finally, careful to keep his voice down. If the Gorn is nearby he doesn't want to give away his spot.

"I want an end to this," the Gorn says. "Night is coming and you will not survive the cold. Give yourself up."

Jim doesn't swear, even though he really wants to. He can curse colorfully in about ten languages, and he'd like to use them all right now. But he doesn't. He doesn't even know if it would translate. "Thanks, but I'm doing okay right where I am."

"If you end it now, I will be merciful. But once I have waited all night without food, I cannot promise the same."

Jim snorts. "Merciful? That's funny."

There's a long pause before the Gorn captain speaks again. "I do not recognize your--"

Jim lets out a fast exhale, cutting him off. "Your ship blew a Federation outpost to pieces, you slaughtered over a hundred people, what's the point in being coy about it?"

There's a growl, inarticulate but unmistakeably angry. "You refer to our defense of an established outpost, yes, we fought them."

"You butchered helpless people, citizens of the Federation who were only there to--"

"We destroyed invaders, as any self-governing race may do to those who encroach on their space. That planet was ours long before Starfleet sent its people to take it over-- sparsely populated, you thought it meant easy pickings, Terran, but we are not so easily conquered."

Jim is silent, a little stunned. "Do you--" he stops, then tries again. "Are you suggesting that Starfleet knew of your claim before--"

"Not suggesting, Terran, it is fact. The planet you call Cestis III was ours, and when it was invaded, we took it back."

"Why did it take you a year to do it?"

There's another pause, almost awkward, before the other captain replies. "We did not have the capabilities. The technology. We had to barter for it."

A knot settles low in Jim's stomach. There's really only one place they could've gotten that kind of technology. "And you went-- to the Romulans, of course."

"They were sympathetic to our interests and promised they would not interfere with our ruling ourselves."

Well, what more could you ask for? Jim wonders. How nice of the Empire to help out a struggling civilization who'll be all set to take the bullet if this goes to hell-- and really, how could it not. He's also trying to deal with the idea that if this is true (and it's got to be true, there's no way this is a fabrication) it means Spock was right all along, and there were facts they were missing. Being wrong isn't new, but being wrong on a scale like this is coming way too close to disaster for his taste.

When he'd first found himself down here, Jim hadn't thought there was anything that could make him want to fight the Gorn less than he already did. Turns out he was wrong about that part too. He sits back and closes his eyes, digesting everything he's been told and everything it means. What he's been told is that everything he thought about the attack on Cestis III was wrong; what it means is that everything he does from here on out has to be different.

Now he just has to figure out what that's going to look like, and if he can keep it up long enough to stay alive until he's rescued.

---

2260.87
1525 hours

Spock follows Jim from his quarters, trying to calm the disturbance tightening his stomach. Stress, lack of sleep the previous night, lack of nourishment (they had been beaming down to take lunch with Travers, he remembers now) combined with the shock of the battle to produce a troubling state of mind. He is operating at approximately half his normal functionality, he estimates, which is dangerous not only for him but for the crew. Arguing with Jim has only added to his stress, and their pursuit of the Gorn ship is increasing it further.

You must persevere, he thinks, grateful for the brief ride on the turbolift to give him a moment to close his eyes and re-center. He looks up to find Jim watching him with an unreadable expression. Before either of them can say anything, however, the lift comes to the bridge and they exit amid the murmur of many voices.

"Mr. Chekov, have the scanners lock into the computer memory banks, I want a complete record of everything that happens from here on out," Kirk says, giving Spock a last glance as he moves toward the captain's chair and Spock takes his seat at the science station. "Sulu, what's the status of the Gorn ship?"

"They've caught on we're after them, Captain," Sulu says, not sounding happy about it. "They've gone to warp 6 also."

There is quiet on the bridge as most of the senior staff pretend not to be looking at Kirk. He ignores them all and gestures toward Sulu. "Warp seven." Chekov's shoulders tense and Sulu tries to hide the fact his eyebrows are vanishing into his hair, and from his station opposite Spock's, Mr. Scott snorts.

Spock turns in his chair to find Kirk standing behind him and Nyota, looking at the two of them like he can already hear the lecture brewing in their heads. "Something the matter, Mr. Spock? Lieutenant Uhura?" he asks, dry and flat, daring them to say what's on their minds. It is hardly an unreasonable expectation; they often do.

Nyota barely restrains a roll of her eyes, and Spock answers before she can say something that will rile Kirk up even more. "You are well aware that sustained warp seven will be dangerous, Captain."

"Yeah, I am. But our Engineering department's not run by an insane astrometrics genius for nothing. I mean to catch them, and that's not going to happen at warp four."

Scott chimes in, rather too cheerfully for Spock's liking. "I'll let you know when we're coming close to blowing out the engine, Captain."

Kirk looks hard at Spock before answering the engineer. "Excellent." He turns away, his expression still as closed-off as it's been since they left his quarters. Spock exchanges a look with Nyota, who shrugs, looking unhappy.

Spock has to think for a moment, to decide how to articulate his position. He understands Jim's desire for vengeance, but cannot allow him to act on it.

He goes to stand beside the captain's chair, facing away from the viewscreen, his eyes not quite meeting Kirk's. "You mean to destroy them," he says quietly.

Kirk just looks at him, and he realizes abruptly that this is a bad idea. He has never seen this barely-leashed rage and stubbornness in Jim's eyes before, and though they are not about to have a physical confrontation on the bridge, this is nevertheless going to be an ugly conversation.

"Or shoot at them until they surrender," Kirk says, almost flippant. "The settlement on Cestis III was obliterated, I don't think it's uncalled for."

So he is going to be belligerent; Spock expected as much. But if he is bent on having this argument, Spock will not disappoint him. "Destroying their attackers will not help that colony," he says, clasping his hands behind him and keeping his eyes firmly on the railing above Kirk's head.

Kirk's eyes narrow to thin blue slits. "If they go unpunished they'll be back," he snaps. "Back, attacking other Federation worlds. Didn't we already have this conversation?"

"Indeed, you know my position on that subject. But putting the ship and the crew in danger--"

Kirk stands, cutting him off. "I weighed the risks and deemed them acceptable. There's no time for anything else." Spock sees Nyota turn in her chair, an incredulous look on her face. Spock would like to give voice to his own disbelief, but the captain's proximity, the heat of fury almost tangible in the space between them, makes it impossible. It is suddenly difficult even to stand this close, when he cannot decide whether he wants to shake him by the shoulders or simply demand he explain what is driving him to such violence.

"It's not just a matter of policy," Kirk interrupts his thoughts by shifting into his line of sight, forcing eye contact when Spock does not want it. "Out here we're the only policemen around, and an act of war has been committed, a heinous crime that demands justice be served. We're the bringers of justice, Spock. Is that clear or do I need to elaborate?"

And what of cracking your knuckles at the bullies? he thinks, something like disappointment twisting heavily in his stomach. "Very clear, Captain," Spock says.

"I'm delighted, Mr. Spock," Kirk replies, and brushes past him to stand behind Sulu. "Where are we?" he asks the helmsman, and Spock turns back to his station, feeling like he has been holding his breath for the past ten minutes.

---

2260.88
0323 hours

Spock is so grateful for Gaila's hail he has to force himself to walk and not run to the sensor array. Nyota already has her earpiece in, Scott is tinkering with replacing the last panel on the console, and Gaila is already typing out a message. "What do you have?" Spock asks, terse and feeling stiff with anxiety.

"This is so cool," Gaila says, turning to give him a smile. "Instead of pulling the signal just from the networks of all three ships, I'm bouncing it off the planet too. So anyone tries to track it, they won't know where it's coming from or where it's going."

"And how will you prevent the Metrons from blanketing us with an all-system dampener?"

"Well, I analyzed the signal they used to shut us down," Scott takes over, "and it was specifically targeted to our dilithium engine. They've got the advanced tech, but it's highly specialized. So this baby," he taps the console as he gets to his feet, "is pulling power from life support, hydraulics, air purifiers-- and it randomizes every fifteen minutes, so if they try to track it, they won't be able to, and since they want us alive until their deathmatch is over, they can't blanket us without risking killing us all."

Spock nods. "Very well done, all of you. Now, to contact the Gorn ship."

Nyota gets out a special earpiece and gives it to him. "Right here. There's a vocal synthesizer in there, so whatever language they're speaking will be translated into Standard."

"Good. Let us not waste any more time. Jim's-- the captain's life depends on us." He presses his lips together, chagrined at the slip, but he forgets at times that they are all Jim's friends too; he would not let it be any other way for the family he has created here, and Spock is not the only person here who would do anything to get him back.

Gaila lays a hand on his arm-- does not take his hand, he is surprised by the gesture and the courtesy, then reproaches himself for it-- and gives a sympathetic squeeze. "Let's do it."

He puts on the earpiece and takes a calming breath before speaking. "This is Commander Spock of the USS Enterprise hailing the Gorn vessel. We wish to speak with you regarding our shared predicament."

It takes a minute, maybe more, for the connection to go through, but finally there is the crackle of static as the Gorn ship answers. "This is Tzrghl of the Gorn. State your purpose."

Spock does not waste words. "To combine our forces in the effort of rescuing our captains from the hold of the Metrons."

There is another pause, and when the Gorn speaks again the voice sounds suspicious. "How are you contacting us? Our communications are blocked."

"Ours as well. Our engineers have-- have hacked a signal that will allow us to contact you without detection." He is reluctant to admit this, his conversation with Jim on the nature of Starfleet's new regulation still fresh in his mind, but it cannot be avoided.

"How was it done?" When Spock does not answer, the hissing voice continues, "We will not be kept in the dark by the Federation when the Federation comes asking for help. If we are to share forces, we must share. How did you do it?"

"To explain would take--"

"No explanation necessary. Send schematics."

"Please... hold one moment." Spock mutes the signal and explains tersely what the Gorns want. "If we do this..." he begins, then trails off.

Nyota has kept pace with his line of thinking, and is slowly nodding. "I know," she says, as if he had asked a question. "It's a serious technology boost, not only an insight into our systems but a way to avoid detection and blocking."

Gaila looks at Scott, then at him. "Starfleet could really nail us for this." Spock thinks of Jim, of the lengths to which he has traveled to save his crew, the times he has put his life and his career in danger for the chance to make things right.

"Send the specifications, Lieutenant," he says. "The captain's safety--"

"Oh, thank God," says Nyota, letting out her breath all at once. "For a minute there I was afraid you were going to say no, and I was going to have to lead a mutiny all by myself."

"Then you erred when you underestimated me," Spock tells her, his mouth curving fondly for a moment. Then he looks at Gaila, his expression falling into seriousness again. "Send it," he says again, "and we will see what comes of it." Gaila's fingers fly over the controls as Spock tells the Gorn to look for their transmission, hoping fervently he has not just consigned himself and his colleagues to court-martial.

Minutes later the earpiece crackles again and Tzrghl speaks again. "I am here, Commander. Plans received. You must be desperate to ask for help from us. Especially after you invade our space and chase us halfway across the galaxy."

Spock feels his eyebrows draw together. "I do not wish to argue, but it was a Federation colony you attacked. We were defending--"

"You call it defense to chase us down like rats? We were keeping what is ours."

"The Federation had no record of a claim on Cestis III," he says slowly, abruptly wondering if that is actually true.

"Then the Federation needs to keep better records. We submitted a list of our planets to your Federation at the same time we declined membership into their clubhouse."

Spock looks at Nyota, who looks troubled. "We-- the Enterprise had no knowledge of it. Nor did the colonists on the planet." He does not like this uncertainty; how would the Federation act in regard to a claimed but seemingly unsettled planet? Plausible deniability-- Jim would accuse the Admiralty of sticking at nothing, but Commodore Travers, so long an active voice for peace?

He pushes the thoughts away, unable to process them all. "In the interest of expediency, may it suffice for now to set the matter aside for consideration after we reclaim our captains?"

Another long pause. "Tell us what you know of the Metrons."

Spock finds himself grateful for the curtness of the Gorn's speech; especially after the Metrons' rambling prevarication, it is refreshingly direct. "Very little, save that their technology is much advanced from our own. They place a high value on civilization, as I am certain you have learned."

The Gorn commander makes a sound like a snort. "They took our captain from her station on the bridge."

"Ours as well. Did they give you a reason?"

"Violence is not civilized," and Spock knows he is not imagining the scorn in Tzrghl's voice. "They say there is a fight between your captain and mine. To the death."

"Yes." Spock cannot say more; now it is their turn to reach out.

"I do not doubt that our captain will triumph... but I know it will go ill for our race if yours should perish. We are not part of the Federation, but nor do we want your enmity."

Spock does not have time to listen to explanations, however badly he wants to know the details. Whether or not the colony was contacted by the Gorn before they were attacked, why the Enterprise was summoned and the away team lured down to the planet-- these are important questions, but not more important than saving their captains' lives. If they are successful, there will be time for discourse later. "What do you propose?" he asks.

"A hack similar to the one your technicians performed to allow us to contact each other. Locate the captains' communication devices and tell them to stand down. A stalemate will force the Metrons to set us free, or at least buy us time to contact our homeworlds."

Spock is silent, thinking. His eyes lift to Nyota's. Her arms wrapped around her middle, she looks vulnerable, and that more than anything makes his mind up. "Agreed. I am passing the communicator to Lieutenant Gaila, she will work with your technician."

"Very well."

---

2260.86
2143 hours

"So what would you call this, date number three?" Jim says as he's finishing the bottle of wine.

"I do not think our prior-- encounters necessarily deserve the title," Spock says, one eyebrow up. He can feel the effects of the drink on his system (his glass has been refilled twice, and if Spock were less relaxed he might accuse Jim of trying to get him drunk) and a warm flush tinges his neck at the reminder of the events that led to this night.

"What, you don't think--"

"A date implies a prearranged activity. The other occasions--"

"Were kind of an accident, I know. I didn't hear you complaining."

"Nor will you."

"Good," says Jim, setting his glass down on the table. "I wanna make sure I'm not gonna get manhandled for doing this." And he shifts closer, pulling Spock into a lingering kiss.

"Unless I mistake the meaning of the word," Spock says, trapping Jim's wrist in his hand, pulling him onto his lap, "I would expect you to consider that an outcome to be desired."

"Touche," Jim whispers, hands tangling in Spock's hair, and their mouths meet again.

---

2260.88
0411 hours

So they're back to this again; Jim's running for his life while the Gorn captain chases him down like a dog hot on the scent of a fox. It's like some horrible parody of that stupid fable-- slow and steady's going to win this race, if only because the next time the alien actually catches up with him, Jim's pretty sure he's toast.

He's come back around to the cliff where they began, and stops for a minute in the shade of the lee side when he hears the Gorn talking to him again.

"You are losing, Terran, and when night comes you will have lost." Jim looks at the sinking sun; the shadows are getting long, but he doesn't think he has to worry about it yet. "All you are doing is running. If you stop now and surrender I will end you quickly."

"Thanks for the offer," Jim says back, "but really, I'm gonna take my chances."

"Have it your way," the Gorn growls, and that's when Jim realizes the other captain is a hell of a lot closer than he thought. Like, practically on top of him close, coming around the side of the rocks and ambling toward him with a sharp rock in one claw.

This is it, Jim thinks, I'm actually about to get beaten to death with a rock. He knows he's too exhausted to run (and anyway, given what happened last time he turned his back on the Gorn and a rock, he's not eager to repeat the experience).

"It was just a mistake," he blurts, scrambling up onto the ledge, like explaining himself is likely to interrupt the alien's focus on carrying out the terms of their imprisonment here. "We didn't know why you'd attacked, and I mean, you shouldn't have done it, there were better ways to go about it, but--" he stops, hops up onto the next ledge, keeps talking though he doesn't even know if the Gorn is listening-- "but you kinda lose it a little when something bad happens. Your people die, you think you're being invaded, so you think you have to do something about it, but you don't always have the whole story."

The Gorn looks like he's looking for a way up after Jim. Its huge leathery feet couldn't even come close to using the footholds that Jim had, so it'll have to find another way if it wants to chase him. Jim is actually panicking now, his breath shallow, his heart racing like he's just run a seven-minute mile. What is it with being chased by monsters? he wonders, thinking back on the disproportionate volume of things that have wanted to kill, maim, eat or otherwise destroy him since he joined Starfleet.

He looks down and sees the Gorn has one rock clutched in its fist, and is scanning the ground for another one. Jim leans his back against the cliff and presses his fingers to his eyes, holding the recorder up to his mouth with his free hand."Look, you want to be taken seriously, you want the Federation not to ignore you, d'you think killing me is a good way to do that? You wanted to make some kind of bold statement by bombing that outpost, well you got our attention, but if you blow shit up and run away that makes you a terrorist, and Starfleet doesn't ally or negotiate with terrorists, it destroys them. Which isn't to say you should back down, just, you know, it's something to consider." He grits his teeth and blows hair out of his eyes, hating every second of this, not knowing who he's more angry at-- the Federation for creating the situation, or himself for falling headfirst into it.

Jim doesn't know how to explain to the other captain that it looks like the Romulans played him for a fool, not in the three or so minutes he judges he has left before the Gorn gets pissed and starts throwing rocks at him. "You're resourceful, you're smart, you know how to get what you need, so why are you accepting the structure of this stupid, stupid contest? You don't have to come at me just because the Metrons told you to," he says, desperate, because he can see the Gorn standing struck still with the rock in its hand, looking like he's actually listening to what Jim has to say.

"You don't have to play by their rules," Jim says, and that's the moment when he loses his mind. Or at least, he thinks he's losing it, because he's hearing the Gorn's voice overlaid with Gaila's, and he's heard of wishful thinking and mirages in the desert and everything, but that's a little ridiculous.

Only then the Gorn's voice comes in clearer and it's not the same one, not the one Jim's been running away from for the past few hours. Also, it's not speaking Standard, but some gravelly grumble of a language Jim assumes is the Gorns' native tongue.

And he isn't hallucinating, because then he hears Gaila's little murmur. "Sure, go ahead, you first." He sags with relief; he's not going insane, he's not going to get his head bashed in with a rock, and he's going to get to go back to his ship.

"Gaila," he says, "what the hell did you do?"

"Oh, it wasn't me," she says. "Mr. Spock put me to work, and I just did what he told me to do."

"How's your leg?"

"Fine, Jim. How's yours?" He looks down in reflexive surprise; how did she know?

"You're up on the viewscreen, Jim. The Metrons... they've sort of given us a front row seat."

And that somehow manages to make him more angry than he's been yet. "I always wanted to be a movie star," he says snidely. The Gorn captain's voice raises suddenly and he remembers he had something to tell them. "Gaila, you have tto tell Spock, there's something really fucked up going on here, that planet was colonized--"

"--before the Federation settlement began there, yes, Captain, we have been informed." It's Spock now, and Jim probably shouldn't grin like that just from the sound of his voice, but it unties a knot in his stomach and he can't stop it spreading across his face til it hurts. "You are injured," Spock adds.

"It's nothing," says Jim, waving it off. "How are you talking to me? The Metrons are going to flip out."

"It is imperative that you and the other captain desist in this contest."

"And not just 'cause I was getting my ass kicked, right?" Jim asks, only half kidding.

"Correct." There's a pause, then Uhura's voice comes through the recorder. "The Metrons might try to get creative to make this go on, but don't fall for it. We're doing everything we can from this side, we'll get you out of there."

"And that's what the Gorn's people are telling him?"

Uhura snorts. "That'd be her, Captain, and yes. We've been talking with the other ship for over an hour now, trying to hack those recorders."

"Huh. Okay." Jim shrugs, hoping they're all getting a kick out of the expression on his face right now.

He picks his way down to the ground and hopes like hell this is actually going to work the way Uhura says it will. Once on solid ground, though, he shrugs off the nerves and tries to pretend this isn't the same creature who was actively out to drink his blood fifteen minutes ago.

He's careful to keep the recorder running; whatever does happen here, he wants a record of it. "Captain," he says, still keeping a healthy distance between them. "I'm sick of being manipulated by these Metrons and I think it's not a stretch to say you are too. That about right so far?" The Gorn nods, and Jim smiles thinly. "Good. Then I propose a truce, a formal agreement of nonviolence between us, starting now."

The next part is not something he wants to do; he feels a sour twist in his stomach, but keeps thinking of the Enterprise, of everything Spock and Gaila and Uhura and probably twenty other people had done to get him this far, and makes himself keep talking. "What's done is done, and by my status as a flagship captain and an envoy of the Federation, I'm offering your people full amnesty for the attack on Cestis III, and my pledge that when I return to my ship I will contact Starfleet Headquarters and ensure the planets you've claimed as colonies are designated as such." Jim sticks out his hand, then belatedly considers that she might not know what a handshake is, what it means.

This one does, apparently. She steps toward him and takes his hand gingerly, quickly. The pebbly skin is dry and Jim wonders if his skin feels equally strange to her.

"Agreed, Captain," she says, just as the Metrons begin to materialize around them.

---

2260.88
0448 hours

When Jim reappears on the bridge in the same abrupt fashion in which he was taken, Spock is as startled as everyone else. He merely does a better job of masking it. Suddenly there is more chatter on the bridge, people moving about and returning to their stations with purposeful steps and ruler-straight posture. The captain is back; it is time to work.

Jim's friends say very little, but words are not necessary to express their relief. Gaila and McCoy seem to teleport to Jim's sides, propping him up in a way that manages to give the impression he does not need the support. Nyota and Mr. Scott draw near, Sulu and Chekov swivel in their seats, but the doctor glares them into submission.

"You're going to sick bay, Jim," he orders, and Jim nods.

"Look, I'm sorry you guys had to see that," he says, waving his hand in the direction of the viewscreen, "but I'm fine." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the cylindrical recorder the Metrons had given him, and tosses it to Nyota. "Get the recording off that, then take it apart and tell me everything you can about it. I want a report by 0800."

"Yes sir," she says with a bright smile and impeccable salute, and heads back to her station as McCoy and Gaila move Jim toward the turbolift. As he's being shuffled off, Jim manages to turn around in their hold so he can catch Spock's eye, grinning.

"I told you I always get out of it in one piece, didn't I?" he says, sounding both smug and cajoling. Spock has to exert some control over his expression, and by that time Jim has been wrestled into the turbolift. He waves a little as the doors close; Spock is then free to roll his eyes, knowing Sulu and Chekov will pretend they did not see him. The feeling on the bridge is infinitely more relaxed than it was mere minutes ago; now that Jim is safely back on board, it is as if the entire ship has let out a long-held breath.

Later, when they are at warp once more and he has dismissed everyone who stayed on the bridge for nearly a triple shift, Spock goes to sick bay. McCoy looks up from his desk, brow furrowed, questioning. "What, you don't sleep? Don't answer that," he says with a wave of his hand. He gets up and comes around to sit on the desk as Spock pauses in the doorway.

"How is he?" he asks, and McCoy shrugs.

"Ultimately he'll be fine. Dehydration didn't really have time to set in, but he's exhausted and he took a beating. Not as bad of one as he could've, I'll grant. Guess getting into bar fights isn't as bad for him as I always tell him it is."

"I would suggest for your own well-being, Doctor, you never say as much in his hearing."

McCoy looks like he's thinking about bitching some more, but relaxes with a shrug and a little smile. "Yeah, well, he's earned a little praise right now. I'll say this for Jim, he's not bad at forcing the universe to behave the way he wants it to."

Spock nods. "Indeed. He is... very persuasive when he wants something."

McCoy nods back, then does something of a double-take, staring at Spock in amazement. "Holy shit," he breathes. "It's you, isn't it."

Spock is abruptly uncomfortable. "I am not certain of the context of your assertion, Doctor--"

"Jim's date. The person he's been after to go on a date with him for over a month, oh my God." McCoy shakes his head vigorously. "And you're not denying it, which means oh God." He steps backward into his office, and Spock watches him go, carefully expressionless. McCoy can sometimes tell when Spock is inwardly laughing at him; now is not apparently one of those times.

"Do you require assistance, Doctor?" He can't help himself sometimes; McCoy does make it invitingly easy.

"No, for God's sakes, just--" he waves his hand toward the bed where Jim is sleeping. "Just go, get out of my sight, God, the things I never wanted to know about you..."

Bemused, Spock turns away, leaving the doctor to minister to his overactive imagination in solitude.

At Jim's bedside he draws a chair close and sits, getting comfortable before speaking. "It is considered impolite in most cultures to eavesdrop on others' conversations."

One of Jim's eyes cracks open and he mumbles, "Even when they're about you?"

"Especially so in that case, I think."

"But it's hilarious when he gets all disgruntled like that. They don't have TV in here, I gotta get my kicks somehow."

"Much as I sympathize with your enjoyment of the good doctor's discomfort, I protest being made the messenger."

"How'd you know I was awake?"

"I guessed." He made a gamble, actually, but was not at all surprised to see that it paid off. "Are you in much pain?" Spock can count seven bandages, and he knows Jim's ribs have been stabilized, but (Spock does not know what to think of the fact that he recalls this with no difficulty) Jim has returned from away missions looking far worse and with considerably more serious injuries.

"Aw, I love it when you go all mother hen on me," Jim says, laughing. "I'm fine. Feel like I could sleep for a week, though. Guess it's lucky Bones is going to keep me here for the rest of my natural life."

He lifts a hand, motioning Spock closer, and when Spock pulls the chair close Jim lunges and grabs his wrist before the reflex to pull away can kick in. "I was a dick to you and Uhura before. I didn't--" he sighs, impatient with the limitations of words. "I know what you guys were trying to do, and I didn't let you do it. I was being an idiot."

Spock nods, shifting his hand in Jim's grip to brush his fingers against the inside of his wrist. A murmur of resentment rises in him at the reminder of their earlier argument, but he presses it down into submission once more. "I understand your motivations, Jim. I do not blame you. However--" he hesitates for a moment before continuing-- "you must allow me to do my job."

Jim's eyes drop, and he nods. "I-- yeah, that's really what it is, isn't it?" He smiles ruefully, glancing back up to meet Spock's gaze again. "I fucked that one up pretty good, huh."

"At the risk of belaboring a point which has already been brought home to you, yes." Spock's head tilts to one side and he adds, "I trust in the future you will remember this, and remember to allow for the possibility that you are not always right."

"Thanks for saving my ass," Jim says, his eyes wide and honest. Then he cracks a smile and adds, "Again."

"Thanks are unnecessary, Jim. There was never any question that I would do whatever was necessary to liberate you."

Jim's hand closes tight on his then, and Spock feels the undercurrent of understanding/regret/reassurance emanating from his thoughts, the warmth and gratitude he can't quite put to words. Then Jim shifts, his brow furrowing in thought, and he lowers his voice.

"I need to talk to Pike."

"I hardly think that wise given your current--"

"I need to do it now before the families of the colonists from Cestis III start calling Starfleet wondering why they haven't heard from anyone." He smirks a little. "Then there's the little problem of four of my best officers flouting a brand-new Starfleet regulation in an effort to save my sorry ass, and I figure I might wanna get out in front of that and make sure the Admiralty doesn't get any stupid ideas about making an example of you guys."

Spock has the good grace to look chagrined. "Your logic is sound."

Jim snorts. "When's the last time that happened? " He sobers and sits up in the bed, letting go of Spock's hand and pointing toward the comm unit on the wall. "Swing me around that way, will you? I want you listening when I talk to him."

When Pike picks up, he doesn't even bother with hello. "Why is it when you call me in the middle of the night you've got a black eye more often than not?"

Jim shrugs. "I like to be consistent," he says. "There's-- look, there are about fifteen things that happened in the past two days that I need to tell you about, but there's two things that are more important than the rest, and you need to hear them before I file my report."

"Well that sounds promising," Pike sighs. "Shoot."

"The first is that the colony on Cestis III is gone. Totally wiped out. There was one survivor, we have her on board, but everyone else is dead. Including Commodore Travers."

Spock watches Pike's face pass through several different expressions before settling. "There was an attack?"

"Yes sir. It's been handled, you'll see that in the report. But I need to ask you something and I respectfully request that you tell me the truth. Did the Federation know that Cestis III already had a prior claim on it before we sent a hundred people to colonize it?"

Pike's eyebrows shoot up and Spock detects no dissembling in his voice when he says, "Hell, Jim, how can you ask me something like that? I never knew anything of the sort, and if Intelligence did, they didn't share it with me." He is silent for a moment, and Spock imagines he can understand some of what the Admiral is thinking. He sees Jim wrestle with this daily; the desire to do good, the frustrating bureaucracy of Starfleet, diplomacy and politics superseding exploration and discovery.

He has heard the story of Jim's recruitment a hundred times, only one of them from Jim's own mouth. He dared me to do better, Jim had told him, so I did. Admiral Pike would like to dare the entirety of Starfleet to do better, and over the course of five years he has taught Jim to do the same. Spock thinks if they are successful, the Federation might actually begin to resemble the cooperative interplanetary force for good that its cadets are instructed to believe it is.

Spock joined Starfleet to explore, to put his talents to use, to see more of the universe and discover the ways in which it might change him. He never anticipated feeling such affinity for it, nor the ways in which that loyalty would shift in the aftermath of Nero. Spock believes in the Federation, but he also sees how unprepared it was to deal with Nero's attack, and has spent every day since then with an undercurrent of fear for what the future might hold. He will find it ironic if Pike and Jim's ideas come to pass-- if they prove that it is possible to love the Federation enough to change it-- and the more time he spends with both of them, the more strongly he feels he will be proud to have been a part of it.

"...if there was a claim, I'll find out about it," Pike is saying now, and Jim is nodding.

"I'm not saying it was definitely our fault," he says with a shrug. "But the Gorn captain had no reason to lie, and with the Romulans involved..."

"It's ugly," Pike acknowledges. "And could get uglier. God, I really kind of miss the days when shit like this was above my pay grade."

"I appreciate your help, sir," Jim says.

"You know you'll always have it," Pike replies. "But Spock could've told you that. Tell him hi for me, he's standing right there, isn't he?" When Jim doesn't answer, only looks guiltily pleased, Pike goes on. "Well, at least the Admiralty won't get to bury this, no matter what the story actually is. When it comes to the Empire, everything else takes a back seat."

"You'll let me know?" Jim asks.

"Soon as I find anything out. Was that the other thing you needed me to know, or was there something else?"

Jim grins, and Spock senses this is going to be both uncomfortable and entertaining.

"Well, it seems that while I was being held prisoner on an uncharted planet in an uncharted solar system by a race of aliens the Federation has never encountered before, my first officer led my Chief of Communications and my Chief of Engineering in a daring rescue endeavor that involved sharing some of Lieutenant Gaila's more original programming hacks with the Gorns. Oh, and then I had to pardon the Gorns for their attack on Cestis III because without their help I'd be dead. That's not gonna be a PR problem for Starfleet, is it?"

Sometimes, Spock thinks, watching Admiral Pike try to reconcile a horrified expression and a choking snort of laughter, Jim's sense of comic timing is quite effective.

---

2260.811
0730 hours

Jim wakes up to lights. Not his alarm, which at this point in the morning is usually going off in his ear at seven hundred decibels to make sure he's actually awake when he puts his uniform on, but the lights in the room getting steadily brighter, slowly urging him into wakefulness.

"The heck," he mumbles into the pillow, turning his head and cracking one eye. "What is that about?"

Spock is already dressed (of course he is) sitting back against the pillows with his padd, reading through reports or diagnostics or whatever he considers light reading. It's probably a good thing there's no chance Spock has ever read the Harry Potter books, or Jim would spend all his free time coming up with inventive ways to compare Spock to Hermione.

He looks down at Jim, clearly amused. "Good morning. That is the alarm, which I set for this time so you will not be late for your shift."

Jim rolls onto his side, wincing. "You mean you're not gonna try and keep me bedridden for another day?"

"The chances you would allow yourself to be restricted to your quarters--"

"Yeah, good point, minimal," Jim mutters agreement.

"--especially considering that you were supposed to spend last night in sick bay."

Jim grins and stretches, smug as a cat. "Didn't hear you complaining."

Spock's eyebrow quirks. "Nor will you."

"Awesome," Jim says, propping his chin on his hand and leering up at Spock. "Now put that thing away. I have fifteen minutes before I have to get dressed, and I don't want to spend them alone."