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Beyond Dreams 8
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BEYOND DREAMS 8
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Want to read some of the zine before you decide whether to buy it? Sort of like picking up a book in the bookstore and flipping through the pages, it's a good way to discover if this zine is the right one for you. Just click on the links below to be transported into the special K/S world created by that particular author….
DROWNING BY DESIGN by Anne Elliot
LANGUAGE LESSONS by Jesmihr
COMMON GROUND by Dina Collins
THESE THINGS TAKE TIME by Jenna Hilary Sinclair
HEADING OUT by Allie Benet Atwater
CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE by J S Cavalcante
CHIMERA by Katherine Cooke
From Drowning by Design by Anne Elliot
Spock was beginning to hate the sound of rain.
An extremely emotional pronouncement, undoubtedly, but the cause was more than
sufficient. For the native of a hot and arid planet like Vulcan, excessive
precipitation was always disconcerting, and Paz Aquosa certainly had excessive
precipitation. From the moment they had beamed down it had drizzled, deluged,
poured, pelted, stormed, teemed, streamed and generally just plain rained
throughout the whole of the long Aquosian day and the short Aquosian night. The
leaves of the trees overhanging the isolated cabin drooped under it, the grass
was flattened by it and the leaden sky churned and rippled with the power of it.
As soon as the Enterprise had docked at the orbiting repair station, the heavy storm clouds stretched across the planet’s one land mass had been obvious, and forecasts had indicated that there was little chance of better weather before they were scheduled to depart. Most of the crew had immediately decided to postpone their leave until they reached a more pleasant venue, confining themselves in the interim to the dubious pleasures of the small space station. After seeing the lightening flashing through the cloud cover, Kirk had started to make noises about following their example.
Spock, however, had had other ideas. Kirk and he had intended to spend a week on the planet’s surface together, and Spock was determined that those plans should not be changed. His captain was clearly drained after the punishing events of the previous few months—his determination always to lead from the front made him an inspirational and highly effective commander, but it often left him exhausted—and in Spock’s view he needed to be away from his ship for a while. After three years of serving at his side, Spock knew Kirk only too well; if he stayed on board during the repairs he would just carry on working and neglect to take any time off for rest and recuperation. Fortunately, McCoy had shared this opinion and so, in rare public agreement, they had continued to work on their captain with varying degrees of subtlety until Kirk had smiled wanly and given in with as much grace as he could muster. They would stick to their plans, Kirk had said in brisk, determined tones, trying to make the best of it; just the two of them together in their rented cabin breathing fresh, non-recycled air, eating wholesome, non-reconstituted food and simply resting, even if the effort killed them.
After all, Kirk had pointed out rather more cheerfully as he had flown them over
the sodden landscape in their hired flitter, they had books, didn’t they, and
vids, too, and besides, he had added with his usual optimism, it was bound to
stop raining eventually. Spock had looked down on the swollen rivers, the
muddy fields and the flattened vegetation and entertained some serious doubts
about that possibility, but he had chosen to keep his mouth firmly closed. Kirk
seemed to be brightening up by the minute as the burdens of command slipped
further and further behind him, and Spock was disinclined to disrupt his
friend’s increasing good humour.
In more clement weather the scenery spread out below them would have been
spectacular. The whole of the land mass appeared to be formed of wave after wave
of deep, wide valleys separated by high, thickly wooded hills and threaded by
the silvered ribbons of winding rivers. Kirk, who still liked to think of
himself as an Iowa farm boy at heart, had pointed out that it looked as if
someone had taken a giant plough and worked regular furrows from one end of the
land to the other. Spock had smiled inwardly and allowed him his whimsy.
Their cabin, positioned deep in the woods on the hills above a particularly wide
valley, had proved to be very pleasant. Both bedrooms were spacious and
comfortable, the sitting room large and well stocked with objects of
entertainment, and for two days this had been sufficient for them both. Kirk had
slept late and eaten well and caught up on his reading until the circles under
his eyes had faded and he had regained some of his usual healthy colour.
Then, inevitably, he had become restless, and by the end of the third day of
confinement he had taken to pacing the rooms and prowling around the edges of
the property like a caged lematya, the sense of barely-contained energy
crackling around the cabin as if the rooms were filled with static electricity.
Spock had always appreciated his captain’s drive and enthusiasm and very much
enjoyed his company, but it was at times like these that he wished Kirk were a
more tranquil companion. The human’s powerful personality filled every corner of
his ship, so it was hardly surprising that, trapped within the walls of a
five-room cabin, it occasionally became overwhelming; at times the atmosphere
became so suffocating that Spock could feel his throat closing against it,
almost as if he were drowning.
Consequently, he found himself watching with a certain amount of guilty relief
as each evening Kirk donned his running shoes and raced away into the gathering
dusk, leaving Spock to a welcome period of solitude and peace. The rain was
generally at its lightest at that time, and each night Kirk would burst out of
the cabin and into the world like a coiled spring too long confined. He was
usually out for about an hour, feet flying through the encroaching forest,
returning breathless and aglow from the exercise, silvered droplets sparkling in
his hair and hanging like tiny crystals from his long eyelashes. Each night on
his return, Spock would meet his captain in the hallway with a towel and Kirk
would shake himself like a dog, teasing, spraying water over Spock and the
carpet and laughing as Spock jumped for cover. It was a most agreeable ritual
and one that Spock had come to enjoy, in a faintly masochistic way.
From Language Lessons by Jesmihr
Do you remember the last time I was home, I told you about Captain Kirk—what a
remarkable person he is and how grateful I feel to serve on the bridge with him?
I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who is so full of life. Whatever happens, he
embraces it fully: joy or grief or—too often I suppose—regret, the kind of self
reproach that comes from being in the position of deciding life or death for
others. I’ve seen a lot of different kinds of people in my career, and too often
the ones with that sort of power become callous just as a means of
self-survival. Never Captain Kirk. If he loses a crewmember, he grieves openly
on the bridge, unashamed of his sorrow and unflinching in his acceptance of the
responsibility for the loss. I’ve often thought that if ever he fell in love, he
would do that fully, too. It would be a no-holds-barred kind of love, a love
that could only be borne by someone with equal courage and equal strength.
And that brings us to Mr. Spock. I know I’ve told you about him, too. I have to
confess that when I first began to serve with him, I didn’t like him. He seemed
cold, unappreciative and…well, kind of snotty, actually. Like he thought he was
utterly superior to all of us mere humans. One time, before Captain Kirk came on
board, I worked a twenty-four hour shift during a life or death emergency.
(There is no other kind on the Enterprise, of course. I won’t take
up space here with all of the details, but it involved breaking a fiendishly
complex code. There were some very high stakes involved, and Mr. Spock and I
slaved over that code as the clock ticked away—both of us seeming to get further
and further from a solution with every passing minute. Suddenly, it flashed into
my head that its structure reminded me of an obscure language I’d once studied
called Chortan. It was a sheer fluke that I even knew about that language, since
it’s nearly extinct, but it ended up being the little bit of inspiration that we
needed to figure out the message and save the day. And what do you think Mr.
Spock said to me at the end of that grueling twenty-four hours? “A satisfactory
result.” And then he turned and walked back to his station as if what we’d just
accomplished was everyday routine! As if I hadn’t just broken my neck to pull
off a miracle! I was so mad at him, Kamaria! I stewed about it for days,
in fact.
But maybe that’s the thing that made me really start to pay attention to him.
You know how I’ve always been: it drives me crazy if I can’t figure people out,
what drives them, what lies beneath the surface. I have to say that trying to
understand what makes a Vulcan tick is at least as hard as cracking that code
was. But it’s worth the effort, because there’s so much there, at least in Mr.
Spock’s case, which would otherwise be unseen, unknown, and unappreciated. I
started to watch him, and I realized that by telling me the result was
“satisfactory,” he had actually offered me high praise in the only way he knew
how. I studied him as he interacted with others on the ship, and I began to read
in his eyes his own painful uncertainty, masked so expertly by that air of
self-possessed detachment. And I realized then that he and I had more in common
than I ever would have guessed: we both know exactly what it feels like to have
to learn a new language from scratch.
When I understood that, I felt compassion for him, and admiration, too. After
all, he could have chosen to live among Vulcans instead of with us chaotic
humans. It was a brave decision he made to serve on the Enterprise—as
brave a decision as any Captain Kirk has made, I think. Once I reached that
conclusion, I decided to help him become fluent in his second language of
humanity. I calmly thanked him when he gave sparse praise, dared to tease him a
bit, and began to sing with him when he played the harp. I stood near him at
ship’s parties, where I knew he felt awkward, and tried to show him how to
banter with people. (It turns out he has a gift for that, as our ship’s doctor
would attest.) I became his friend.
From Common Ground by Dina Collins
Jim Kirk sprawled in his desk chair and noisily drummed his fingers on his desk
as he waited for his ship-to-shore comm call to be placed. As he sighed for the
third time, the computer beeped to notify him that his transmission had gone
through. The blank screen flickered once and then the image of a woman
solidified. Jim jerked upright.
“Mom! Hi!”
“Jimmy? Is that you?”
Jim’s mother, thin and tired looking, peered blearily from the screen through
bloodshot eyes. She ran her tobacco stained fingers through disheveled brown and
gray hair.
“Yep, it’s me. I’m happy to see you.” Jim forced a broad smile.
“What’s wrong?”
Jim’s smile faltered before resuming.
“Nothing’s wrong. The Enterprise is in
spacedock for seven weeks for an air and water replacement. I wanted to let you
know I’m here, that’s all.”
“Oh, that’s nice.”
“So…I want to come visit you. We haven’t seen each other in at least three
years.”
“It’s really not a good time. Things are pretty hectic around here and we’re
kind of busy. Mario doesn’t like visitors much anyhow.”
“Mario? What happened to Chris?”
Winona chuckled and smoke swirled around her head as it exited her nose and
mouth.
“Chris is ancient history, that good-for-nothing bastard. After Chris I saw Joe
for a while, but that didn’t work out either. Then I met Mario and we hit it
off. He lives here now. He’s not much on visitors. Anyway, the place is a mess.”
“Mom, don’t worry. I won’t stay long and I’m going to get a hotel room while I’m
here.”
“I told you, Mario doesn’t like visitors much. And we’re awfully busy lately.”
“But I haven’t seen you in ages, and it could be a long time before the ship
comes back to Earth,” Jim said.
“It’s just not a good time.”
“Damnit, Mom, are you telling me you don’t want to see your own son because of
some guy? Or because you’re too busy?”
“Don’t you swear at me, James!”
Jim held his breath as he silently counted to ten. He exhaled slowly before
speaking again.
“Sorry, Mom.”
Jim watched as Winona stubbed out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and
immediately lit another. He tried not to notice the chipped nail polish and
grime-encrusted nails. She still smoked the cigarettes she had smoked in his
youth: Charleston Lights. For a moment he could almost smell their cloying,
stale odor.
“Look, it’s just not a good time for a visit. But I’m glad you called, baby,
‘cause I’ve been thinking about you. You’re not working too hard, are you?”
“I’m fine.” As soon as the words were out, Jim realized how curt they sounded.
“That’s good, honey. Jimmy, I really hate to ask you, but we’re a little short
on funds this month. The roof’s leaking again and that old flitter’s running
bad. Could you help us out?”
“Why’s the roof leaking? It was replaced just last year. Call the repair company
and make them fix it.”
“Well, I’ve been meaning to tell you—I didn’t exactly get the roof fixed last
year. We had a little emergency and I had to use the credits for the roof. This
happened while Chris was still here. He got himself picked up for drunk piloting
and I had to bail him out. That goddamn cop had it in for Chris a long time.
Then we had lawyer’s fees. You know how it is.”
Jim frowned and absently rubbed his temples. His head began to pound. All those
hard earned credits he had given his mother were gone.
“Okay, fine. But don’t ask me again. I’m not paying for your drunken boyfriends.
I’ll send you enough to replace the roof and pay your bills this month. Fix the
roof this time, Mom. I mean it.”
“Thank you, honey. You call me before your ship leaves and we’ll talk.”
Winona smiled brightly and Jim noticed with a pang how young and pretty she
looked at that moment. He suddenly remembered his first day of school. He had
insisted that his mother allow him to find his classroom alone, stating that
only babies needed their mothers to take them to class and he wasn’t a baby
anymore. Winona hadn’t pushed the issue. Instead she had smiled and stroked back
the lock of unruly hair that always fell across his forehead. “That’s right,”
she said. “You’re a big boy now. I’ll see you right here when school’s out.”
A man’s voice yelled Winona’s name and she looked over her shoulder in the direction of the sound.
“Hold on just one goddamn minute, Mario!” Winona turned back to the comm-screen.
“Look, I have to go, Jimmy. Can you make the transfer today?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Good. Don’t forget to call me before your ship leaves, okay? Love you, baby.
Bye-bye.”
“Bye, Mom,” Jim said, but the screen was already blank. He continued to sit for
several minutes and stare at the empty screen, his fingers aimlessly rearranging
a stack of data disks. Suddenly he sent the disks clattering to the floor, rose,
and stalked out of his quarters.
From These Things Take Time by Jenna Hilary Sinclair
So on a bright spring day I packed my bag, told my secretary Janice to hold the
fort, instructed Scotty, my chief operating officer, to keep the planes in the
air and the packages flowing, and I set off for Jefferson, gritting my teeth and
doing my best to convince myself that it was possible for my time away to be
worthwhile.
You see, I love my work and resented any interruption to it. Back then, I loved
what I thought my work could bring me. I had sown my wild oats when I was young
and then, enticed by a vision of what I could accomplish, I’d started my company
with two credits and a dream. I’d rolled up my sleeves with relish. We’d done
well since then, but I knew we could do better.
Which was why, on a sun-filled Monday morning, I was sitting in a classroom with
thirty other men and women, all of them CEOs of small businesses like mine,
ready to absorb what our new government was instituting as requirements for any
company who wanted to do business off-planet and within Confederation space.
Spock caught my eye immediately; he was the only non-human there. You don’t see
Vulcans too often. I’d known there was a settlement of them on Marius III, in
the system furthest out and least known in our tiny Confederation, and I knew
that they practiced restraint of emotion, rarely laughed or smiled, and were
among the smartest beings around, but I’d never met one personally before.
Yes, I noticed him, but not for any of the reasons I’d look at him today. I
thought he was, oh, I don’t know, compelling in a way I couldn’t quite define.
So different from the faces that usually confronted me over boardrooms during
negotiations as I tried to land another client, or in one of our warehouses as I
made sure our employees understood my very high standards for handling every
package entrusted to us. Those Vulcan features fascinated me from the moment I
caught sight of him, one seat in front of me and two rows over, and while I
dutifully paid attention to what was being said at the front of the room, I will
admit that often my eyes strayed to those elegantly pointed ears.
From Heading Out by Allie Benet Atwater
Kirk glanced to McCoy on his left and then at Spock on his right, confirming
that all was as it should be. He settled into his command chair, eager to be
away from Starbase 14 and on to the new mission. “Mr. Sulu, take us out of
orbit. Course, 139 Mark 6. Warp 2, if you please.”
Sulu acknowledged as always, reciting the confirmation crisply. The crew had
enjoyed two weeks of excellent shore leave, and it was always exciting to be
heading out on a new mission, even if it was only starmapping, investigating a
vast, heretofore unexplored sector of space. There was no telling what they
would discover, especially with Captain Kirk in command, for he had an uncanny
knack for unexpected encounters in the most unlikely of places. Most recently,
Sulu was almost certain he had caught a glimpse of a familiar rear—albeit, a
naked, pink one—in the Grotto Room of the Ladderly Hotel. He had been a guest of
a well-heeled friend; otherwise, he would not have been staying overnight at the
expensive resort hotel. Despite being curious, he was not so foolish as to ever
pry or ask about the captain’s private business. He knew how to be discreet,
even with the most personal secrets of his friends and fellow officers, and he
expected the same courtesy from them.
Kirk rubbed his palms together in anticipation and happened to glance up as
McCoy yawned widely. “Late night, Bones? Or are you bored already?”
McCoy sketched a female shape while glancing sidelong at the Vulcan he loved to
tease. Spock was looking just too damned mellow and deserved a shaking up. “I
don’t know how you can get so excited about starmapping, Jim. Seen one solar
system, seen ’em all.”
Spock inhaled, opened his mouth, and prepared to launch into a lecture on the
infinite diversity to be found in the universe. Apparently, the gods had laid
the Herculean task of educating the good doctor on him.
Kirk interceded, not a moment too soon. “For god’s sake, Bones, don’t start up
baiting Spock already. Wait a month or two or three. At least until I’m—we
are all bored stiff.”
McCoy grinned a truce at his favorite target and patted his captain’s shoulder.
“Okay, Jim, just to humor you along. ’Sides, I’ve got interesting work to do
processing the new crewmembers. Twenty-five new bodies to examine. I hear most
of them are aliens.”
“Really, Doctor. ‘Aliens’ is a pejorative that you should not use when—”
Kirk managed another preemptive interference. “Don’t you start either, Spock. If
you two can’t get along, I’m going to send both of you off to stand in the
corner.”
Spock gazed at McCoy, then at the captain, a brow raised in challenge or
conspiracy. “Exactly what would be the purpose for this abhorrent waste of our
time?”
Despite himself, McCoy sniggered. Then he laughed out loud as Kirk sputtered for
a moment, then muttered under his breath, “Smart-ass jack-asses. Both of you.”
McCoy wasn’t about to touch that with a ten-foot pole. “Well, now that we’re off
to a good start, I’ll be in Sickbay. See you all at dinner time, Jim. Spock?”
McCoy waited until the sleek head nodded confirmation. The Vulcan hadn’t
diverted his attention from Kirk for a single second. Yep, all was right on the
Big E. Grinning to himself, McCoy headed to his own bailiwick.
“Bones is right, you know. Of the new crew, only four are human.” Kirk had been
notified that the Enterprise had been selected to attempt yet another
Starfleet integration plan. Command was also well aware that he had never
allowed discrimination of any kind on his ship; therefore, the project was most
likely to succeed. This time.
“Seven Andorians of various specialties. Six Canopian engineers. And six
Capellans—security replacements,” Spock clarified. It was a sore point with Kirk
that so many young security men had been lost in the line of duty over the past
three years. A new training program of Spock’s devising was currently being
installed in the security section. “And two Vulcans,” Spock concluded.
Kirk glanced up at Spock in concern. “Vulcans? Scientists, I assume?”
“Of course. Graduates of the Vulcan Science Institute as well as the accelerated
program at Starfleet Academy.” Spock couldn’t imagine any other field of worthy
endeavor for a Vulcan. Possibly ambassador, but Sarek seemed to have cornered
that occupation.
“Of course,” Kirk said slowly. “Rank?”
“Both are lieutenants. Silon is assigned to Computer Section, Storr to
Astrophysics. They appear to be well-qualified and have the potential to be
assets to the ship. I foresee no difficulties.”
“You—you think they’ll be able to fit in? You know—get along with humans? Work
so closely?” Kirk shrugged, hoping he didn’t offend Spock by questioning his
fellow Vulcans’ sociability. Spock was unique in so many ways, which was why
Kirk couldn’t help loving him.
“I believe they will make every effort to do so. According to Placement
Evaluation, they were both quite eager to be assigned to the Enterprise.”
Spock had not yet found the time to do more than scan the list of new recruits.
Kirk had not seen any files. But he would read every word. Closely. Integration
was vital in their microcosm.
Kirk shrugged, a bit skeptical of motives. “Yeah, sure they were. I’d bet they
even volunteered. After all, since the Intrepid was lost, there’s no
all-Vulcan manned science vessel that offers the same opportunities. In their
shoes, I’d be hot for the chance to hop on the first starship I could.”
Spock shifted slightly. Hot had become a descriptive sexual…. McCoy’s
pointed accusation came to mind: “drag yo mind outta the bedroom, boy.” “Indeed.
Limited options. One must seize one’s oppor—”
Kirk glanced up, head tilted just so, deliberately provocative. He nibbled his
bottom lip—right where Spock had unintentionally nipped him during an especially
vigorous fucking on the last night of shore leave.
Spock closed his mouth mid-word. The knowing hazel eyes read him like a book. He
had admitted that twelve days of uninhibited lovemaking had not fully sated him
and, apparently Jim was still wanting…. Spock forced his attention back to the
business at hand. “Shall I schedule your usual address to the new crew?” A
long-standing Starfleet tradition.
“Not until I’ve thoroughly studied their files. Since there are only twenty-five
of them, I think something informal would be more effective. Maybe a sit-down
coffee meeting in Rec Room 7?”
Spock sighed faintly. “Very well. Please notify me when you are prepared.”
Kirk knew his Vulcan and held Spock’s gaze. “Why do you sound so disappointed?”
Kirk began to smile. “Don’t tell me you still get a thrill when I give my
welcome-mission speech?”
Spock felt his ear tips heating slightly. He glanced around to see if anyone had
overheard. Kirk was a master at speaking only loudly enough for Vulcan hearing.
“I never fail to be inspired, Captain. I, especially, like the part—quote, go
where no man has gone before, unquote.”
Kirk opened his mouth, but there was no possible rejoinder he dared make. At
least not on the bridge. He didn’t get the chance anyway. Spock was already
heading toward his station. Kirk chuckled to himself and signaled his waiting
yeoman. There was always work to be done. And tonight? If he wasn’t too tired,
he’d give Spock another kind of thrill by going where he went frequently….
From Circumstantial Evidence by J S Cavalcante
Consciousness hit him like full gravity after weightlessness, leaching the
remaining strength from his body. Like a half-drowned swimmer tossed onto land
by an indifferent ocean, Spock lay quietly, trying to summon the will to open
his eyes. He could scarcely feel his body, but that was not unusual after having
been focused so intently on matters nonphysical.
Feeling returned very slowly. Eventually, as he rested, two new bits of data
impressed themselves on his awareness. One, he was lying face down on a rather
uncomfortable surface, and two, both pairs of his eyelids were shut, something
that rarely happened during normal sleep. Was he ill, injured? All his eyelids
felt leaden, so he didn’t open them. Though he still had not reached full normal
awareness, he managed to begin a mental inventory of his physical sensations. He
had sustained no major injury, but his head ached slightly, and that was worth
noting, as he was not given to headaches. He concentrated, seeking more
information, and realized he was cold. He sought the reason, and realized he was
naked.
He did remember where he was, and that fact added to his perplexity. He could
not remember having undressed completely, and it would have been
uncharacteristic for him to have chosen to sleep nude here, for the southern
hemisphere of the planet popularly called “Fortress” was much too chilly, even
indoors, for a Vulcan’s comfort. He would require more data, and collecting it
would require full alertness. Reluctantly, he prepared to open his eyes.
It was only then that he realized that the uncomfortable surface beneath him was
more than just a lumpy Fortressian mattress. Shocked, he realized he was
sprawled half across another person. Who? The only person on this planet that he
could imagine trusting enough to fall asleep with was—
“Jim!” His voice was only a harsh whisper, but the body beneath him began to
stir at the sound.
Spock opened his eyes, not bothering to control the expression of shock on his
face. The person beneath him was indeed the captain of the Enterprise, and he
was as naked as Spock. He lay on his back with his left hand tucked under his
hip and his right arm resting across Spock’s back, his fingers splayed over
Spock’s shoulder blade. Likewise, Spock’s left arm was wedged completely beneath
Kirk, his open hand flat against the smooth, soft skin of Kirk’s lower back.
Spock swallowed. He knew it was not becoming an officer to scrutinize his
captain while he slept, but the circumstance in which he found himself had
rather obviated any questions of military decorum.
He could not tear his gaze from Kirk’s face. The nearly symmetrical features
were relaxed completely in deep sleep, all the more beautiful for their total
languor. Spock had seen Kirk sleep so deeply on occasion, usually after the
captain had cut a safety factor too close and was recovering in sickbay.
Angelic, McCoy called that expression, with a self-conscious snicker, but
the doctor’s eyes would be soft with emotion at the same time. That is the
sleep of a man with a clear conscience, McCoy had said at one of those
times.
Spock cleared his throat softly. He must extricate himself, but he must be
careful not to wake Jim, lest the captain discover himself in such an awkward
position with his second-in-command. He lay quietly for a moment, waiting for
Kirk to cycle back into deeper sleep.
As he watched his captain’s face, Spock searched his memory, horrified to
realize that he could not remember falling asleep the night before, could not
even remember preparing for bed. For a Vulcan with an eidetic memory, such a
lapse was extraordinary—alarming, even.
From Chimera by Katherine Cooke
The escape pod glinted in starlight as it tumbled in slow motion. It passed a
bright cloud of interstellar gas, and opalescent rainbows played on the face of
the pod’s occupant for a moment, then shadow fell again.
Spock awoke and remembered everything. Jim had knocked him out with an anti-grav
unit—the bruise had swollen the tissue at the base of his skull, a throbbing he
dismissed from his mind—and must then have dragged or carried him to the airlock
of Sybok’s ship and bundled him into the pod. That was eighty-one hours ago.
Spock’s eyebrow rose as he considered the consequences had he slipped into the
healing trance, and then concluded he must have been sedated. Normally, escape
pods maximised passenger survival by slowing body functions to a minimum; they
also allowed escapees neither information nor independent action. Spock had no
readouts on position and no guidance controls, only the steady blink of the
distress beacon indicator. Always a last resort, evacuation in a pod meant
passively waiting for rescue or death.
Turning his attention to his physical status, Spock noted dehydration, and
significant bruising and abrasions covering his upper body. Blood-loss had
weakened him. His mental processes were slower than usual and emotional control
required more effort than he cared to expend; he was alone, after all. Alone,
cold, and hardly able to move. The port in front of his face presented him with
a star field, and he memorised the view as the pod turned aimlessly, setting a
portion of his awareness to compute his whereabouts from the relative positions
of constellations—time consuming, but possible. Spock disliked lack of data even
more than enforced helplessness.
He thought it likely he would die soon, since his awakening proved the pod’s
resources were depleted. With the loss of life support, a Vulcan could survive
forty minutes, perhaps, no more. Was all lost, then? Spock closed his eyes and
immediately lost track of his navigational calculations. For a time, he clenched
against the memories he could not bear: Jim turned killer, a stranger to himself
under the laughing gaze of a madman. Spock forced the images from his mind with
a barrage of theorems and equations. While he still lived he would keep faith
for Jim—it seemed almost certain Jim had lost his own. Spock shuddered,
separated from the cold of space by a thin skin of metal, his limbs like marble,
and the pain in his throat the only part of him that felt alive.
Time passed. As Spock looked out into the brilliant night, he allowed his tired
perceptions to lie to him: there was no pod and he floated free through the
heavens in a lazy parabola with no notion of up or down, a piece of space
debris, a fragment of conscious flotsam contemplating the deep. As he tumbled
erratically, a smoky nebula came into view. Like the stars, it appeared utterly
static; he was the only moving object in a frozen universe, the soft gasp of his
breath the sole proof that anything alive had ever existed. This illogic of the
senses he didn’t bother to correct because he was too cold and tired.
Jim had been lost like this once, anchorless for hours in a spacesuit in the
Tholian Sector. Spock remembered how his captain’s spirit had quailed at the
sensation of being alone in the vastness.
“Jim.”
Spock trembled, shocked by the sound of his own voice, the effrontery of
challenging the static cosmos with language and a name. He said it again,
defiantly, as if it were his answer to infinity, then tenderly, as he would
speak to the man he’d left behind in Sybok’s power, to remind him who he was.
“Oh, Jim.” Breathy sound, the void sucking away voice and name into a creeping
dominion of silence. Spock knew he was close to death, but he refused to make
peace with the night while he could still hold that one name in his mind.