Out of the Big Black:
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OUT OF THE BIG BLACK by Rae Trail
ONTO THE DEEP BLUE by Rae Trail
BESIDE THE EMERALD SEA by Rae Trail
AMID THE GREAT GREYS by Rae Trail
BENEATH THE AZURE SKIES by Rae Trail
Out of the Big
Black: A Series of K/S Stories
by Rae Trail
Jim couldn’t later recall the short walk and turbo-lift ride to the shuttle bay. He was standing still, shaking, as the tidy black ship was tractored in and settled on the vast floor. Picard, beside him, had a reassuring hand on his upper arm. Or perhaps the hand was restraining him. He felt like running. Jim stared at the door of the shuttle and waited.
Metal ticked as it warmed up. Silence fell. After an interminably long time the door of the little yacht swung open.
He was there. Dressed dark in Romulan finery, his cape swinging nearly to the ground. The face: older, harder than Jim remembered. Black eyes fixed on his own as the Vulcan crossed the floor. Jim heard Picard speaking, heard him falter and fall silent. His whole world contracted to that beloved face, inches rom his own. Older, a few more lines. Harder. Cold.
Spock raised a hand and brushed his cheek, and Jim felt as if his knees would give way.
“Spock…I’m so sorry.” Still, there was nothing. No inner connection, no flame of recognition. “I didn’t mean to leave you alone so long….”
And that was ludicrous. The dark eyes were matte, unreadable. “Do you have chambers? I do not wish to talk here, before these people.”
“I…yes.” He turned like an automaton. “This way.”
Kirk remembered even less of the walk back. Aware only of the footsteps of the man beside him. When the door to his cabin closed he merely stopped moving, frozen in place. A rustling behind him, and then Spock was there, his face anguished.
“Are you Jim? Even here, even now, I feel no…no thread….”
Jim knew he was weeping. “I’m so sorry. I left you, and I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Are you Jim?”
Jim reached out and grasped one hot hand, held it up to his face. “Come, feel me, feel for yourself. Come to me, Spock, I can’t bear it another moment.”
The Vulcan features hardened again and the hot hand closed on his face, the grip vice-like. Jim felt the sudden and oh-so-welcome loss of Self, the swirling universe dancing around him, and then the shock of recognition, the awareness of Other….
/It is you./ Soft. Wondering. /It is you./ And no gentle first probing meld, this. The whole of Spock burst in on him, surrounding him, filling his being with overpowering joy and love, and then a fierce, undeniable lust…. Sense fled, and Kirk crumbled to the floor.
Jim Kirk finished towelling his hair and, wrapping the towel around his waist, strode out to the living area of their suite on the Enterprise. Spock looked up from the PADD he was perusing at the dining table and raised an eyebrow. It was still a surprise, this youthful form his beloved had assumed. He let his eyes drift slowly down the tight young body and tried not to smile. Spock had become unused to smiling, these long decades. Unused to pleasure. Yet despite two days of near constant lovemaking since Jim had recovered, he felt a tug at his groin and forced himself to master it. Spontaneous dissolution in the Plak Tow had been horrible—he had no wish to injure his mate again with his appetite.
“Hardly appropriate clothing, unless you wish to return to the bedroom.”
Jim smiled and sat down. “I think I need a bit of a breather.” He surveyed the various dishes on the table and began to help himself to toast and peanut butter. “But maybe, after breakfast….”
Spock let the smile out and poured a cup of coffee for his mate. “You distract me. I wish to talk with you. I have a proposal.”
Jim snorted, remembering their careful, secret courtship, so long ago now. “You already proposed. I accepted. That’s why I’m half naked at your breakfast table…thanks for the coffee.” Jim finished his first slice of toast, began slathering jelly on top of his second. “Lord! You do give a man an appetite. But you know what, Spock? This time I’m not gonna get fat.”
/Then you will have to avoid such things as peanut butter and jelly on buttered toast, James. May I have your attention for a moment?/
“What’s your proposal, lover?”
“You have acknowledged that you do not wish to spend a second lifetime devoted to StarFleet. We both acknowledge that we are not men to sit idle. I have a career in mind that we might both find satisfying. You will, of course, remember our mission into the past of Earth, to return the extinct species humpback whale….”
“Spock! You’ve gotten awfully formal since I died. But yes, I remember it clearly, how could I forget? It was during that trip to the past that you remembered we had been partners before…before you died.” He hesitated over reaching for a third slice of toast and then sat back with a sigh. “Sorry to interrupt. Please, carry on.”
“Since that time, there has been a concerted and successful effort to repopulate the oceans of Earth with every species of Cetacean for which humans had clonable material. It was a success due to the fact that the Humpbacks themselves carried forward to our time something called, in human short hand, The History of the People. It amounts to a song cycle that is part learned, part racial memory, and it contains information about all the languages and cultures of the Cetacean people. The cycle takes…” Spock paused, translating an exact figure into an idiom… “upwards of three months continuous singing to complete, a unique form of oral history in the known galaxy. The Cetaceans also received a great deal of help, intellectual and cultural, from the Probe. There is now a thriving population of Humpback, Grey, Blue, Narwhal, Beluga and Orca, various dolphins and porpoises…actually fourteen species of Cetacean, with several more in the planning stages.”
“That’s fabulous, Spock! A reversed extinction? Are all of the Cetaceans intelligent, like the Humpbacks?”
“They are all intelligent in varying degrees, Jim, though it is very difficult for land-based creatures such as humans to understand them. Their view of the world, of time, of space, is very different from ours. Humans are trying to set up long-term missions and to translate the History of the People, among various other tasks. There is a demand for researchers and liaisons; however, only telepathic people can learn anything more difficult than the first or second level of the Cetacean languages. Because of that there are no means of translating the more intricate nuances and advanced structures of the Song. Without direct telepathic communication it is impossible to conceive terrestrial equivalents to the way whales think.”
“Of course.” Jim finished his coffee and nodded. “Sounds like your kind of job all right. Difficult, intricate, using all your skills, and extremely long term. You’d work directly with the Humpbacks?”
Spock agreed. “The job description is ‘Cetacean Partner,’ and they are desperate for telepaths, especially ones with a background in marine sciences, alien first-contacts or diplomacy.” He carefully refilled his partner’s mug before continuing. “There is also a shortage of licensed sail captains on Earth. Those with the necessary temperaments tend to go to space, and the Cetaceans, except for the dolphin and porpoise groups, refuse to even approach powered vessels of any kind. Would you consider a second lifetime as the captain of a research and exploration vessel, Jim?”
Jim’s mouth fell open, and he shut it with a snap. “Spock! A real sailing ship? How big? What sort of complement? Where?”
“I do not know. I have researched several possibilities. I take it the proposal is not entirely unfavourable to you?”
A wave of almost sexual heat passed over Jim as he tried to wrap his mind around the possibility. A sail captain, his own ship, the deep wide ocean, Spock at his side again doing important, daring, exciting work. /I’m thinking that you’re the one in inappropriate clothing, lover./
“Is that pork I smell?
The voice, coming out of the dark, startled him so badly that he nearly dropped the opened leaf. He swung his head around. In the pitchy blackness of the forest behind him he was barely able to make out the speaker, who he at first took for a child. Then the voice registered, and he realized he was looking at a very small-statured man.
“Yes, it is,” he replied. The man sauntered over and squatted a couple of paces away. With the distant lights of the town on his face Kirk could see he was Hawaiian, and older than Kirk. He had very long straight hair that brushed the ground around him as he bent there. Kirk was reminded of Alexander of the Platonians, for the man had the same powerful shoulders, though he seemed more in proportion than Alexander had. He also appeared to be naked, but on a Hawaiian beach at night that wasn’t unusual. “I’m Jim Kirk.”
“Aloha, Jim Kirk. Did you know, in the olden days, it used to be death for a commoner to eat pork?” The tone was conversational, the man now looking out to sea. “I think it was because pigs eat the same sort of food people do, and so were very expensive to raise. Isn’t it funny how we can analyze our old beliefs these days and discover science behind them! Pigs, they were sacred to the Alii Nui and to the gods.”
“I didn’t know,” Jim replied, taking another bite of potsticker and swallowing. He smiled again at his uninvited company. “We’re lucky that the Alii Nui today thinks there’s enough to go around for everyone.” A thought struck him; the man might be hungry. “Would you like some?”
The man faced him again. “You are offering me food from your own dish?”
That was a queer question. Perhaps the man was afraid of infectious disease; lots of older people were, Kirk knew. “If you like. Or, I have a whole other packet of them in here, not opened yet. You’re welcome to it.” He rummaged in the bag and pulled out the other leaf-wrapped package to hold out to the older man. “Will you tell me your name?”
There was a moment of silence, and then the man reached out and grasped the package. “I am called Mo’iki,” he responded. “Mahalo for the pork.”
“You’re welcome, Mo’iki,” Kirk replied. The man shifted out of his squat to sit cross-legged and opened the package. Kirk finished his potstickers and pulled out a package of chicken, his hand brushing over one of the containers of poi. “Would you like poi?
This time there was quite a long silence before the hand reached over again. “Is it good poi?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know. I bought it from a street vendor.”
“You paid for it?” There seemed to be wonder in the voice. “I am pleased to accept it.”
“No problem,” Kirk said, wondering if the man were, perhaps, a bit simple. “I’m thankful to have plenty and to be able to share.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes, Kirk taking occasional swigs from the water bottle. He offered Mo’iki part of his fish, which was refused, and the rest of the poi, which was accepted in a manner that Kirk could only call gracious. Finally Mo’iki set down the last poi container and belched loudly. “A meal fit for a king,” he announced. “I thank you, Jim Kirk, I can work all night on that.”
Jim, pleasantly full himself, decided against eating any of the fruit or drinking a beer. “You’re working tonight? What sort of work do you do?” he asked, handing Mo’iki the water bottle.
“Odd jobs,” Mo’iki chuckled. “Tonight I am going to rebuild my fish trap, just down there. It’s hard work, but will be easier now after that good food.”
“How can you work on a fish trap in the dark? That seems dangerous to me,” Kirk ventured.
“Oh, no. The moon is starting to peek over the hill now, and she’s full tonight. Easier to work by the moon’s light than in the heat of the sun. If I start now, with luck, I will finish before the sun comes up.” He rose and looked down at Kirk. “It is a good job worth doing well,” he finished. Jim began to stuff the remains of the meal back into the bag. He was well fed, not the least bit tired, and intrigued by his companion.
“I have never seen one built, though I understand the theory. If I lend you a hand with it, perhaps you can teach me how to do it properly. I think it would be interesting to learn. You never know when you might need that sort of knowledge.”
The moon’s first light came over the trees behind them and illuminated Mo’iki. He was grinning broadly, and Kirk could see in the surprisingly bright light that he was missing his front teeth and that he was, indeed, naked. “To help in a project such as this isn’t easy, Jim Kirk, but if you want to help you are welcome. I admire a man who pursues different sorts of learning. Though I warn you it is difficult, moving the stones.”
“No problem.” Kirk rose and dusted his hands on his shirt. “I’m assuming I’m going to get wet. Perhaps I’d better leave my clothes here.”
“They’ll be safe enough. Nobody else will come down here tonight.”
Minutes later Kirk was half-regretting his impulsive offer, and half glad he’d made it at the same time. It was staggering work, moving the rocks as directed by the little old man. He didn’t voice a complaint though, as Mo’iki was moving rocks at least as large as the ones Kirk set his hand to, and moving them at a pace that astonished Kirk. The old man was certainly fit, but Kirk knew there was no way he could have accomplished this alone! Kirk followed his directions, wading into the surf from the beach, placing the rocks where he was told, Mo’iki following behind to make sure that they were secure. The work seemed to get easier as his muscles loosened up.
While he worked, he talked. Mo’iki wanted to know all about him, and Kirk answered his questions about the whales, the sailboat, and his earlier life among the stars. Mo’iki volunteered little about himself, however, and after a while Kirk tried to draw him out. “Have you lived here all of your life, Mo’iki?”
“Oh, most of it,” the old man replied. He had pulled some sort of wooden rack out of the bushes and was standing in the shallows, his hands busy re-weaving branches together while Kirk stacked rocks in the warm water, into what was rapidly becoming a significant wall. “I moved here in my early youth. A long time ago now. I don’t remember much before coming here.”
“Where was that from?”
“The south,” Mo’iki replied. “Now look here, the entrance to the trap must be made just so….”
Kirk attended to the weaving lesson, and then helped place the wooden entrance at the mouth of the trap. “Do you have a family here?”
“They’re pretty scattered,” Mo’iki replied cryptically. “Now, we need to anchor the entrance with two more rows of stones, to bring the wall above the high tide line. The fish swim in and are caught, and most remain alive until we need them. Do you understand?” Kirk gave up on the interrogation and moved back up onto the shingle to gather the required materials.
At some point he was telling Mo’iki about the drawbacks of telepathy, about the difficulty he had shielding his thoughts and emotions from his young sons, and about the strain it was putting on Spock. Now that the boys were verbal, he feared that the strain would become worse. Mo’iki had chuckled softly and agreed that sometimes keeping one’s thoughts from one’s family was very important indeed, and then sent him after some smaller rocks to reinforce the top row of large stones.
It was with relief that he placed the last stone, Mo’iki declaring the trap perfect. The old man followed him back up onto the headland, and Kirk looked around in astonishment. The town lights were mostly out now, and the moon was sinking fast toward the sea. “Mo’iki! Time flies when you’re busy, I had no idea it was so late.”
“It is a long job,” Mo’iki agreed. “But now it will stand for years, unless men break it down.”
“Or unless there’s a tsunami or earthquake,” Kirk hedged. Mo’iki nodded, squatting again on the rocks. He seemed as fresh as he had at moonrise. Kirk hoped that he would be as fit and healthy when he reached Mo’iki’s physical age. “May I offer you a beer? They won’t be cold anymore, but a job like that deserves some celebration, don’t you think?”
Mo’iki shot him a look of pure happiness. “I would love a beer,” he replied. Kirk grinned and sat down on his folded pants. He extracted the warm tubes from his bag and popped the tops, handing one across and settling back to watch the moonset. Mo’iki crouched beside him, sipping the beer slowly and sighing now and then. They drank in silence otherwise, watching the moon path grow and then shrink as the white ball sank slowly into the ocean.
Finally the old man rose and handed the empty tube back. “Thank you, Jim Kirk. It has been a long time since I so enjoyed a night’s work. In the old days you would be entitled to half of the fish from my trap. Consider Mo’iki to be watching out for you; if you need my help, just come down here and ask. I’m always around somewhere.”
The sea was still steaming around the small vessel. Kirk sized it up as they skimmed toward it; half submerged, it had the look of a private yacht, though any markings that had been on the hull had been destroyed in the heat of its descent. As soon as the skiff touched the blackened hull Kirk was out of the wooden boat and up on the hull of the fallen spacecraft. The hatch was topmost; at least they’d had the luck of landing right side up. The wheel mounted in its centre was large and turned easily, and though Kirk knew he was probably burning his hands, his adrenalin level allowed his body to register no pain. He spun the wheel fast, yelling over his shoulder. “Rope! North, get a rope to me.”
The end of length of ten-tonne filament snaked over the hatch even as Kirk pulled it open. Smoke billowed up at him. He peered into the dark interior of the little craft and swore. “Mike, stay in the skiff and secure the rope. North, get over here and brace it, I’m going in.”
“Captain! It’s too dangerous, the whole thing is settling lower!”
“Shut up and get over here, North!” Kirk slid around and lowered his legs through the hatch, then dropped down into the ship, taking the rope end with him. He landed in the shockingly cold water, almost up to his thighs already and with a strong current that suggested a major structural failure below the waterline.
He didn’t have long.
The atmosphere inside was still thick with smoke, but clearing, though the little craft was groaning awfully. Kirk, coughing, swept the small room with his arms wide, finding the central chair, the control consoles, but no people. Then he stumbled as something in the cold water thumped against his hip. Reacting instantly, he pulled the body of one of the ship’s occupants up from the steadily rising water.
/Vulcan!/ He felt Spock’s surprise through their bond. He staggered over to the hatch and grabbed for the rope, supporting the unconscious alien with one arm, his task made easier by the rising water. Shifting position, he made to tie the rope around the other’s chest, intending to secure him and search for others, when suddenly the deck below him lurched. There was a screech of distressed metal, and the icy water surged around him. Then, with a thud and a groan, the ship tilted and water began to cascade through the hatch onto his head.
He was swept off his feet, one hand on the rope and the other holding the Vulcan. Out of time. Fighting the flood from below and above, he managed to get the rope around his own torso and tied it tightly, then grabbed the other man firmly under both arms. “Pull! North, pull me up!” he yelled, as the water rose around his chest.
It was like being sawn in half. The pressure of the rope bit into his back and across his chest and under his arms, dragging him up against the force of the water coming down. Before he had time to draw a breath he was under water, the ship sinking around him, the river of water a torrent. Kicking and flailing with his legs he tried to follow the pull of the rope, the weight in his arms almost unbearable. Sparks were dancing behind his eyes when the pressure suddenly eased and he shot out of the hatch to the surface.
He gasped in a great lungful of air, pulling the Vulcan’s head up beside his own, and then looked around wildly, coughing and spluttering. Kim and Andros were pulling up in the second skiff, both in dry suits, with Demi at the tiller. The other skiff was swamped, Mike and North clinging to it and to the other end of the rope under his arms. Kirk kicked toward the second boat, the cold finally beginning to numb his exhausted limbs. In seconds Kim was over the side, helping him to lift his burden into the skiff, then pushing him in after, Demi hauling him by his arms. Andros had already begun mouth to mouth on the unconscious Vulcan. Kirk sprawled in the boat, too spent to even try getting the rope untied from around his chest.
“Is he alive?” he managed. North was hoisting herself into the skiff; she tumbled down beside Andros and felt the Vulcan’s side.
“Heart’s beating.”
Mike fell in beside him, and then Kim climbed back over the side and attached the other boat’s painter to a cleat on the rail. “You okay, Captain?”
“No. But I will be.”
Kirk turned his attention to his log, realized he had nothing to add, and went aft in search of his partner. He found Spock at his desk, requesting the position of Atlantic “A” pod’s forward group. /Nice shiner/ he sent, and watched Spock’s eyebrow climb. He laughed and lifted Spock’s face to inspect the terrible bruise that covered most of one cheek. /I wish I could take it away./
“I was deeply concerned about the boys.” The bold statement brought Kirk up short. “They are not your crew. We should have sent them ashore during the storm.”
“They didn’t even throw up! Besides, I didn’t want them to be afraid of a little wind,” Kirk responded. “You know that I would have had us all beamed out if it had gotten worse. I had already made the decision when the storm began to abate.”
Spock didn’t reply, and there was nothing coming down the bond between them. He’d shut himself off. It made Kirk feel lonely. “You’re really angry about this, aren’t you?” Kirk asked.
“I am.”
“Shit.” Kirk let go of Spock and paced into their bedroom. He took in the soaked mattress, leaning up against the wall to dry, the aft windows that had shattered despite being tightly shuttered, the various watery reminders of Yvonne. Their bedding and clothes were being run through the sonic by one of the crew, he assumed. Well, life on a sailing ship meant the occasional soaking, but how to tell Spock this was only to be expected? After eight years there were, perhaps, too many assumptions on both sides. /We need to meld, Spock. The bond is obviously not communicating our different takes on this. Or at least talk to me./
Silence met him. He walked back to where Spock was working and put one hand on the Vulcan’s shoulder. “Please. I hate to see you upset and to know it’s my fault.
Spock sighed, then rose and gestured toward the bedroom. Kirk followed him and sat down beside him on the barren bedspring. He relaxed as the hot fingers found their familiar perches on his face.
****
Moments later the hand fell, and both men were looking rather chagrined. /I hadn’t realized, / Kirk began, at the same time that Spock sent /I did not understand./ They gazed at one another, then Kirk smiled. “Okay. You’re right. In a storm like that it’s hard to know where the line is. Like on the Enterprise. There aren’t any rules; you just have to do the job. During the storm, I just couldn’t say ‘die’; I love this ship too much. Next time we send the boys ashore when it rises over fifty, but we don’t tell them why. A nice quiet visit with their pal Raven’s family, or up to visit Mike and Ambar in Vancouver.”
“Agreed. I apologize for my anger. I was hoping to master it before I confronted you.”
“Never mind. I look forward to your help next time. You’ll be a great helmsman when it blows that hard, and I miss you as my ‘first.’ North’s good but she’s not you.” Jim leaned over and kissed his mate’s hot lips, stroking the silky black and grey hair with one hand. Spock had let it grow, and it fell well between his shoulder blades now.
Reluctantly Kirk stood up. “I wonder if our bed will be dry by nightfall? Or should I just order a new one?”
“Order a new one,” Spock replied, rising as well, “and send this one in for recycling. I did not want to waste fresh water by rinsing it, as the desalination plant is operating at minimal efficiency due to salt water in the transtators. I think we are due for a new mattress.”
“Your wish is my command,” Kirk replied, and swept a bow to the taller man. “Where’s the pod, by the way?”
“Approximately fifteen nautical miles ahead. They passed us during the storm. We’llcatch up in six point five hours, present speed, although I think our course may diverge from theirs somewhat sooner. The younger females are swimming fast to their first mating, and there is no point in being present for that. You know they will have no time for us, and the bulls will be extremely aggressive.” Humpback males were kind of like Vulcans, mating. Blind to anything else, and dangerous as hell if interrupted. Kirk smiled.
“Yeah. Ready to eat? Raven’s been cooking up a storm…sorry. Cooking since he got back aboard. I’m starved.”
Spock smiled softly and nodded. “I would like to share a meal with you. And order our new mattress.”
“Mmmmm, and tonight we can break it in.”
“I look forward to it.”