Celebrate the Earth and Sky (7/20)
Soar with the Wind II
Jim’s search had hit a dead end. Spock’s - sorry, ET_X553697’s - prison profile listed many things, including his height, weight, eye color, and date of incarceration. What it did not list however, was his location. Or at least, any location that Jim could use. Spock was apparently being held at Facility 66AZ, but that didn’t tell Jim anything. Was it near Highway 66 in Arizona or something? Probably not.
Jim looked at the clock, noticing that it was almost time for him to check out of the hotel. He scanned Spock’s profile again in frustration. 66AZ? What did that even mean? Was he supposed to be able to find it on a map or something?
Ugh, this was fucking useless. He read the whole profile again word by word, hoping to find something he’d missed. Preferably something obvious, like a map or directions from southbound on I-5, but subtle was acceptable.
He really didn’t want to try and hack into the upper levels of the Bureau’s database just for a stupid map. What he was doing was risky enough as it was. As soon as someone noticed two people using Myers’ info, he’d be locked out.
Jim cocked his head, a line of text catching his eye.
Supervising Inquisitor: GBI ID#3329600 - A. Samuel
Supervising Medic: GBI ID#6790200 - L. H. McCoy, MD
Hmm, interesting. He traced the name L. H. McCoy. He wasn’t about to go toe-to-toe with a supervising inquisitor from the Bureau - that was a recipe for getting his ass stuck in a cell next to Spock’s - but a doctor? He or she couldn’t be too hard to find, and they probably wouldn’t be expecting anything either.
He typed in a new search on the ‘net for a Dr. L. H. McCoy, and was gratified that at least one person by that name actually existed. Jim clicked on the information, and his eyebrows rose. Apparently Dr. McCoy was from the Georgia region, and he had had a private practice in Savannah until just last year. Jim read further. According to a gossipy little local news channel in Savannah, Dr. McCoy had left his practice following a divorce from his wife. The official cause for divorce was listed as irreconcilable differences but the gossipy news channel had also gone on extensively about what simply a tragedy it was for the McCoys, for their marriage to disintegrate so soon after the disappearance of their only child. Apparently the fact that the most famous surgeon in Savannah would be leaving, justified this rather blasé invasion of privacy.
And . . . the article did not mention where McCoy had gone. Nor did further searches turn up McCoy as registered at any hospitals or clinics. Fuck. Jim resisted the urge to bang his head against the wall.
After a moment or two of squeezing and un-squeezing his hands around a pillow, which he was imagining to be Jason Myer’s neck, and also the article writer’s, he sobered.
God, what he was doing was really crazy. Was he really going to try and break out a high security prisoner just because . . . just because? He didn’t know what he was getting into. Spock could be a psychotic mass murderer for all he knew. This was stupid. He didn’t need a doctor, he needed a lawyer. No, what he needed was a whole army of lawyers, who could take his cause to the top.
Yeah, a whole army of state approved lawyers. Great idea, Jim. He buried his head in his arms. Then he froze.
Lawyers. The article had said that McCoy’s ex-wife was a lawyer. She still lived in Savannah. Fuck.
Jim typed a query into his data pad, memorized the number that popped up, and reached for his communicator.
Someone answered on the third ring.
“Hello?” The voice was young, male, and disinterested. “Harper’s law firm, how may I direct your call?”
“Hello?” Jim said. “Hi, yeah. I would like to speak to a Ms. Jocelyn McCoy? If it’s not too much trouble?”
“We don’t have anyone here by that name,” the receptionist informed him. “Sorry.”
“No, wait!” said Jim. “Uh, she used to be married to a doctor-”
“May I ask what this is in regards to?” the receptionist demanded.
“My um, my name’s Sam,” Jim said. “I went to medical school with her ex-husband and I-”
“Just one moment please,” the receptionist said. Jim could practically hear the eye rolling on the other line. “I’ll see if Jocelyn is available. She might be on another call.”
“Of course,” said Jim. Then he was put on hold.
He counted one minute of elevator music. Then two. Then three. Finally-
“This is Jocelyn.”
“Hi,” Jim said, “am I speaking to Jocelyn McCoy?”
There was a pause, “I go by Hatfield now,” the woman’s voice said eventually. “What can I help you with?”
“Yes, my apologies, Ms. Hatfield,” said Jim. “My name is Sam, and I’m a former colleague of your ex-husband’s. I’ve been trying to look him up-”
Jocelyn’s voice got noticeably colder. “I don’t know where Leonard is,” she said shortly. “All I know is that he moved out west somewhere.”
“I’m sorry,” Jim said, “You wouldn’t happen to know where, would you? I wouldn’t be calling you like this if it wasn’t a-”
“I told you, no,” she interrupted. “If that’s all?”
“I-” said Jim.
“Thank you for your call,” said Jocelyn Hatfield, and hung up.
Jim stared at the communicator for a few seconds. “Well, fuck you too,” he grumbled to it. Man, he was never going to find this dude. Maybe he’d have better luck searching for A. Samuels.
No, wait. That was stupid. There had to be some way to find this guy. Jim bit his lip. Dr. Leonard McCoy . . . well. If he was a doctor, then he had to be registered with the province he was in, right? Otherwise he wouldn’t have a license to practice.
A buzzer sounded in his room. A communication from downstairs. He pressed accept, and the hotel receptionist’s haggard face appeared.
“Sir, do you wish to reserve another night?”
“Um,” said Jim. He tapped his finger next to his thigh. Was it better to keep moving?
“Your checkout was at eleven AM, sir,” said the receptionist. “It is now eleven thirty. If you’re not going to reserve another night, there is a late fee for overstaying.”
“Yeah,” sighed Jim. “Okay, I’ll take another night.”
“Pleasure doing business with you sir.”
The communication screen turned off. Jim stuck his tongue out at it, then put his chin in his hands and stared at the wall.
Okay, a list. He needed a to-do list. First thing, he had to figure out where McCoy worked. Then, he had to figure out where he lived. After that he had to . . . what, kidnap the good doctor and demand to be taken to Spock?
Jim shook his head in disgust. That was a horrible idea if he’d ever had one. He exhaled, and leaned back against the thin mattress and flat pillows. No, he thought, he was going about this backwards. If he could find out where McCoy lived, then he could see where he worked. After that, Jim could do some good old-fashioned observation (the irony that he was using his military training for something decidedly the opposite of what he was supposed to be using it for, did not escape him), figure out how to get in without turning himself into a target, and rescue Spock. Piece of cake.
Jim heaved a pillow over his eyes. He was definitely going to die.
Well, the good doctor wasn’t going to find himself. Jim sat up, adjusted his data pad on his lap, and set to work.
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“So, can I call you Spock?” McCoy asked. He rummaged through a drawer, and pulled out a long, thin piece of material.
Spock eyed it.
“It’s a measuring tape,” McCoy said. “They’ve given me permission to,” he grimaced, his back towards the cameras, “study you. I’m sure it won’t be humiliating at all.”
Spock sensed that McCoy was employing human sarcasm in this statement. It was most peculiar, he thought, to say one thing and to mean something else entirely. Not quite the same as a lie, whose purpose was to mask a truth, but similar enough in that-
“No, seriously,” said McCoy. “I can’t just go around calling you ‘test subject x’ or something. That’s just,” his mouth quirked, “that’s just inhuman.”
Spock suspected he had missed some sort of humorous moment, but he was not too concerned.
“Well, the kid whose life you saved, he said your name was ‘Spock Grayson,’” McCoy announced, measuring the width of his ankles, and marking something on his data pad.
Jim.
“So that’s what I’ll call you, until you say different.”
Had Jim turned him in? Was his incarceration Jim’s fault? No, Spock thought. He had thought this through before. Jim had likely been questioned by the authorities. Not suspecting anything odd- Spock sighed internally, and amended his statement - not suspecting anything too odd in regards to Spock, he probably had given the authorities any information they wished.
And why should he not? Spock questioned. Jim was not beholden to Spock, not at all.
Oh yes he is, came the menacing thought from that deep, rather more Vulcan part of himself. He owes you a life debt.
Spock shuddered, pushing down the invading thoughts. Life debts were an antiquity of ancient Vulcan, before Surak. Jim Kirk did not owe Spock anything.
Spock raised his head at the feeling of something cold slithering up his leg.
“Don’t mind me,” said McCoy, brandishing the measuring tape. “I’m just cataloguing everything about your body.”
Spock raised an eyebrow, then lay his head back down again. The restraints were as strong as ever. How had mere humans managed to conceive of restraints strong enough to hold a Vulcan? Why had they even known there was a need? He supposed his denser bone and muscle structure might hint at a higher mean strength for his species, but they would have had to study him in depth to ascertain that information. And so far, the study that McCoy was currently undergoing was the first such one.
Most intriguing.
Upon Spock’s removal back to his cell, he noted how the captors who handled him directly all wore a strange protective gear that covered their upper backs to their chins. Spock’s eyes narrowed. Any Vulcan who found himself in a dangerous situation would first attempt to neutralize his opponents in the very area that Spock’s guards had their strongest protection.
But who could have told the humans about a Vulcan neck pinch? It was impossible.
No, Spock thought as his jailors shoved him into his cell and slammed the door shut. The restraints loosened on their own. Spock flexed his wrists and rose from his rolling prison to pace around his cell. Not impossible, improbable.
There was no food that day.
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Jim was both perturbed and alarmed to discover, after an hour of work, that Dr. Leonard McCoy’s residence was currently listed as San Francisco. In fact, Jim saw as he gave the address a closer look and switched to satellite imaging, McCoy lived in a small apartment above a . . . was that a nightclub? In the Castro district?
Well, that was kind of unexpected. Jim perused the address again, noting the name of the club as Vega 7. Jim turned off his data pad and stood, stretching his legs. If he was going to go and stalk a prominent member of the medical community who lived above a club in one of San Francisco’s most notorious neighborhoods, he might as well be dressed for it.
He spent the rest of the day finding cheap yet suitable clothing for a night out on the town. He ditched his worn, dirty jeans and old T-shirt for a nicer, green shirt and tighter jeans. The leather jacket however, remained the same.
Jim considered the entrance to the club from a narrow ally about twenty feet away. It was risky, he thought, to go into such a populated place. His face hadn’t been plastered all over the newsfeed, but that didn’t mean no one was looking for him. He should’ve cut his hair or grown a mustache or something. This was stupid.
“Hey, you.”
Jim turned.
“Yeah, you.” A police officer. He approached Jim, feet wide in a casual stance.
“Yes, Officer?” Jim said.
“What are you doing back here? You know the law against loitering.”
Jim in fact did not know the law. It must be a local one.
“Oh,” he said. “Sorry, sir. I was just waiting for my friend. I can go wait in the club though.”
The officer looked at him appraisingly. Jim attempted to look as inoffensive as possible.
“Let me see your I.D,” the officer said.
Internally, Jim groaned. He still had Tam’s brother’s ID chip, but for all he knew it had been reported as stolen already. He’d been paying for everything with cash for the past few days. “Um,” he said, hoping to stall the cop until he could make a break for it. “Sorry, Officer, I- um, see the thing is-”
The police officer took another step towards him, reaching for something at his side. Jim’s blood started to run very cold. “Speak up, boy,” said the officer. “I don’t have patience for people who waste my time.”
Jim moved back a little, conscious that if he went too far he’d hit the brick wall behind him. “I-” he said, not sure where he was going with that sentence.
“Let me see your goddamn identification or so help me I will bust your ass to jail for selling gold dirt,” the cop snarled. And yes, now he was definitely holding a gun.
Jim eyed it. Most guns didn’t shoot bullets anymore, but he knew as well as anyone in the military that a laser could be just as damaging. His own sidearm had been in his house when it had exploded, and he hadn’t regretted its non-presence until now. Of course, Jim thought, playing the innocence card would have been a lot more difficult when carrying a weapon banned for civilians.
Jim put his hand up, trying to look as cooperative as possible. God he hated cops. There were bad eggs and good ones of course, and his military ID used to convince all eggs to leave him alone real quick. Except now, apparently that wasn’t going to fly. Especially since he was masquerading as Tam’s younger brother, Milo, who was, oh god, a painter. Jim did not think that particular career would endear him to the police.
“Look, sir,” Jim said, trying to sound more like a reasonable and loyal civilian and less like someone who had spent the past week hacking secure government databases and was now intent on spying on a member of the medical community. “I’m really sorry. I just moved here and I wasn’t looking for trouble, I swear. And I don’t do drugs.”
“Your ID,” said the cop, not impressed at all by Jim’s plea.
“Okay,” Jim said. “Okay, I’m just going to lower my right hand and reach into my pocket for my-”
“Tim!” came a shriek from the other end of the alleyway. “Timothy Jones! You idiot, you forgot your ID!”
Jim and the cop both turned to stare at the newcomer, the cop’s gun lowering and Jim’s jaw dropping in utter what-the-fuck.
A young woman strode toward them, her hands swinging at her sides. She wore her black hair in a series of braids all gathered at a bun at the back of her head. Her skin was a deep brown, and her eyes darker still. She wore a flowing red and orange dress, gathered at the waist and cut off a bit below the knee. She also carried an ID chip, which she shoved at the stunned officer before turning to Jim and continuing to berate him.
Jim was certain that he had never seen her before in his entire life.
“Honestly, Timmy,” she said, scowling. Her long red earrings dangled close to her shoulders, and the little bells on them twinkled as she shifted to stand between Jim and the cop.
Timmy? Jim thought blearily, but didn’t interrupt on account of still being totally baffled.
“I’ve told you like ten times - San Francisco isn’t like Georgia. You don’t carry your ID, you’re gonna get arrested.” She crossed her arms and glared down at him. She made a good showing of it too, considering that her high heels brought her to at least an inch taller than Jim. He cowered a little.
“Oh, yeah,” he managed. “Um, sorry.”
She turned toward the cop, expression suddenly sorrowful. “I am so sorry, Officer,” she gushed. (Privately, Jim thought she was overdoing it just a tad). “My friend here,” she gave Jim’s sleeve a yank and Jim stumbled forward, “he’s kind of a space case.” She smiled at the cop, showing teeth, then lowered her voice, giving the cop a sort of meaningful look. “And I mean, really a space case, if you know what I mean.”
Jim wondered if he ought to be offended by this. He settled for crossing his own arms and attempting to yank away from the woman’s hold. But man, her fingers must be like steel she had a grasp on him so tight.
“And you are?” the cop huffed, attempting to get his tough-as-nails groove back.
She smiled at him again, the sort of sweet smile intended to mask the one thousand and one horrible things that might happen if you ignored it. “I’m Tabatha Chong,” she said, holding out her own ID chip.
Scowling, the cop took it and examined it closely, running it under a scanner. He then ran the first chip she had handed him, identifying Jim as Timothy Jones. He grunted when the scanner blinked green.
Jim held his breath. The cop might have continued to give Jim trouble even if his borrowed ID had passed, but with someone else here, the difficulty of getting away with it rose a bit. In addition, Tabatha Chong’s screeching had attracted a small crowd of onlookers, gawping at the entrance of the alley.
“Well,” the cop said finally, giving Jim the stink eye and Tabatha a slightly more respectful nod. “Everything seems to be in order.” He grudgingly handed the ID chips back
“As it should be,” Tabatha nodded, but there was a sharper edge to her voice that had not been there before. She smiled for a third time, but this one was more of a grimace. “Now if you don’t mind, Officer,” she said, giving Jim a look. “My friends and I are going to have a sit-down with Tim. And maybe tattoo his ID chip to his face.”
The cop let out a startled little chuckle, but by the look in his eyes it was clear he wasn’t sure if she was joking or not. He holstered his gun, and let them pass out of the alleyway.
Tabatha clamped her hand down on Jim’s shoulder and steered him towards the club below McCoy’s apartment.
“Um,” Jim said as they walked out of the cop’s earshot. “Thanks for doing that, but I really-”
“Not a word out of you,” she said, digging her fingers into his shoulder. They passed by three bouncers, who gave his rescuer a nod and Jim a look over, before gesturing them inside.
“What, no entrance fee?” Jim said, “Must not be a very good clu- ow!” He glared as she shoved him though a throng of fashionably (and not so fashionably) attired young people.
“So, since you rescued me, does that mean you’re going to buy me a drink?” Jim asked as they walked straight past the bar. They stopped at a staircase with a chain link in front of it and a small sign proclaiming “Employees Only, Rest Rooms At the Other End of The Bar.”
“I’ll take that as a no,” Jim said as Tabatha stepped over the link. Unable to avoid doing the same without causing a major scene (lord, was he ever done with major scenes tonight), he followed.
She turned to him, gaze about ten times less friendly than it had been when talking to the upstanding member of the law enforcement. “Do the words no talking mean anything to you?” she said, heading down the stairs.
“Well, sure they have meaning,” Jim said. He inexplicably thought of another person who had rescued his ass in a big way. Spock had always taken everything Jim had said so literally. It had kind of been stupid, but funny, in that endearing way only friends and family could be. Towards the end, Jim had started to wonder if Spock wasn’t doing it on purpose, just to irritate him.
And there he went, thinking about the guy who had ruined his life by saving it. Wasn’t there therapy or something for this sort of thing?
Tabatha might have rolled her eyes, but in the dim light of the stairwell it was hard to tell. She pointed at a door at the bottom of the steps.
“In there,” she said. “Come on.” She jumped down the last few steps, opened the door, and went inside. Hesitantly, giving the door a suspicious look and noting that no, there weren’t any emergency exits down here, Jim pressed on the door, swinging it open. He also stepped inside.
He caught a glimpse of fairly bright light, a number of people sitting on couches or in chairs, and a kitchenette off to the corner, before someone grabbed him from behind and a bag was shoved down over his face.
“What the fuck!” he shouted, the confining fabric of the burlap making it hard to breath. He kicked back and heard a groan of pain before the arms around him tightened even further.
“Don’t struggle,” growled a voice in his ear as busy hands tied something around his legs and wrists. Jim ignored it, wriggling frantically, then bashing his head backward into the other guy’s face. There was an outraged howl and the hands holding him loosened. Jim took a frantic step, going he had no idea where, before he realizing his legs had been tied together. Unfortunately, Jim’s realization of this difficulty came a bit too late to prevent his crashing face-first to the floor.
He lay there, dazed, until various hands picked him up and settled him in a chair.
“I dink I broke by dose,” he said, coughing. The inside of the bag was stifling, and his face hurt like a bitch. He could feel sticky blood dripping over his lip, into his mouth, and down his chin. It tasted foul and tangy.
There was a cacophony of voices. Jim shook his head, trying to clear the ringing from his ears, and felt woozy. One voice rose over the rest.
“For god’s sake,” it said, coming closer to him. It was a man’s voice, a bit lower than a tenor, smooth with a faint accent like honey. People west of the Mississippi didn’t talk like that, Jim knew. “You didn’t have to bag the man. Take it off him.”
“We need to make sure he is who we think he is,” came Tabatha’s voice. “We can’t take any chances.”
“Well you sure took a hell of a chance when you gave him a fake ID in front of a cop!” the first voice snarled back. The owner of the voice dropped down in front of Jim. “Hey, kid,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Wazzit do you?” Jesus, he was going to choke on his own blood and suffocate in this bag. “I can’d breathe,” he added.
“It’s kind of important,” said the first voice.
“According to Tabitha ober der it’s Timmy,” said Jim, jerking his chin in the direction he thought Tabatha might be standing.
He heard a snicker. “Tabatha?” said a new voice. “You still using that one?”
“It was what I had on me,” not-actually-Tabatha-apparently replied.
“Come on, kid,” said the voice in front of him. “What’s your name?”
“Done of your business.”
“Yeah, it kind of is. Your name.”
“You’re like a dog with a bode with dat,” said Jim, now feeling really light headed. “You gonna arrest be?”
“A . . . bode?”
“Bode!” snapped Jim. “Arm bode, leg bode. Fuck by dose hurts.”
“I’ll set it for you if you tell me your name,” said the man.
Jim scowled. Under the cover of the burlap bag, it was less than effective. “I could jus’ tell you duh wrong one.”
“We need you to say it,” said the man, “so the fancy voice recognition software my friend borrowed for me can confirm if you’re who we think you are.”
“You stole dat from feds?”
“Well, I didn’t, but Tabby over here,” said the man, “might have had something to do with it.”
“I told you not to call me that,” said Tabatha.
Jim considered his options, then his shoulders slumped. “Fide,” he said. “By dame’s Jib Kirk. Happy?”
There was a negative sounding beep and a computerized, “That name and voice are an incorrect match.”
“Huh,” said the man. “Guess I’ll have to fix your nose first. Close your eyes.”
“Really?” Jim whined.
“Did I stutter?”
“Okay, Dog-wid-a-bode.” Jim shut his eyes.
The bag was removed none too gently, and something slipped over his still closed eyes instead. Jim gasped at the cool, fresh air as it caressed the heated skin of his face.
“Hold still,” said a voice. Two hands gripped the sides of his face. “I’m going to count to three. One . . .”
“Ow! Motherfucker!” Jim exclaimed as his nose was wrenched back into place.
“Two, three,” finished his tormentor.
“I don’t know you,” Jim said, feeling someone wipe around his nose with a tissue. He spat blood onto the floor. Was that a loose tooth? “But I can sense you’re a sadist, Mr. Dog-With-A-Bone.”
“You’ll live,” said the voice. “Now, state your name for the nice, government approved software, and if you’re not lying, we’ll take the blindfold off.”
“Fine,” Jim said. At least he could breathe more normally now, and didn’t sound like a moron. “My name’s Jim Kirk.”
“That name and voice are an incorrect match.”
“What the fuck? That’s my name!”
“Your full name,” the man sighed.
“James T. Kirk,” Jim growled.
“That name and voice are an incorrect match.”
“Your entire, full name,” said the man, and Jim swore he could hear a micron of amusement there.
Jim made a face. “James Tiberius Kirk,” he said.
“Correct match,” said the computerized voice.
“Oh good, you caught the right fish,” said a new voice. “Well, take his blindfold off him, Doctor. Dead men can’t go tattling on our little group.”
“Yessir,” said the man who had fixed Jim’s nose. He lifted the blindfold.
Jim blinked furiously, his eyes watering at the sudden light. Vision returning to him bit by bit, he attempted to study the form in front of him. Suddenly his eyes cleared.
“Hey, I know you,” Jim blurted out, “You’re Leonard McCoy.” He cocked his head, “Isn’t your apartment supposed to be above the club, not under it?”
McCoy took a startled step back, searching Jim’s face. “You know me?”
“Um,” said Jim. “It’s not really important.” He leaned back in his chair as best he could. “Let’s talk about why I’m here instead,” he suggested.
“Wait a damn minute, how do you know my name?” McCoy said.
“I said, not important.” Yeah, Jim figured. Probably better not to mention to the guy in front of you that you had intended to spend the majority of the next twenty-four hours following him around like a deranged and slightly creepy shadow.
“You work for the Bureau,” Jim said. “What the hell is this?”
“Don’t change the subject,” said McCoy.
“Man, you are like a dog with a bone with this,” Jim said. “Can I call you that instead?”
“No,” said McCoy, a flash of irritation showing in his eyes.
“Just ‘Bone’ for short?”
“I can inject you with smallpox,” McCoy threatened.
“What? No you can’t, Bonesy,” said Jim. “That shit was eradicated three hundred years ago.”
“I’m a Doctor,” McCoy said, hand inching toward what Jim assumed must be his medical bag. “We’re gifted like that.”
“Wow, you really are kind of a sadist, Bones,” said Jim.
McCoy dropped his hand in disgust, and brought it up to his forehead. “No wonder the Bureau hates you,” he said. “You are as irritating as all get out.”
Jim smiled. McCoy’s gaze hardened. “But I hope you understand that if you don’t tell me how you got my name, you could be endangering every person in this room.”
Jim’s smile turned into a considerate frown. He looked around the room. There appeared to be a crowd of about twenty people, but it was kind of hard for Jim to tell, since some were gathered in corners and other spots, away from his sight.
“This has got to be the worst-concealed drug den I’ve ever seen.”
McCoy looked heavenward. “We’re not a drug gang.”
Jim cracked a smile. “Oh, right. Well if you’re not feds and you’re not smuggling gold dirt, then clearly you’re like, a secret network of spies, or the Resistance or something.”
McCoy’s lips thinned.
Jim’s smile slowly vanished. He looked around again. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” he said. “Really?”
Someone in the back started a slow clap. “Well reasoned, Kirk,” said the voice that had ordered Jim’s blindfold removed. “Not bad at all. I always heard you were quick.”
Jim craned his neck as a man appearing to be in his late forties moved out in front of him.
“And who are you?” Jim asked boldly. If his legs had not been tied together, he would have crossed them.
The man moved closer. His face was cragged and scarred, but he could have been handsome in his youth. His jaw was square and his hair a graying brown.
“I’m kind of hurt,” the man said, “you don’t recognize me at all?”
“Nope,” said Jim. “Sorry.”
The man sighed. “And here I thought we had a bond ever since I changed your diapers.” He tilted his head. “Kids these days.”
“Ookay,” Jim said slowly. “Kind of creepy, but no. Still don’t know you.”
“It’s Chris Pike, you idiot!” snapped McCoy in exasperation. “Seriously, you sure you were in the military?”
Jim’s mouth dropped open.
“Yep,” Pike observed, wheeling his chair the rest of the way in front of him and giving Jim a sort of fatherly, disproving look. It sat strangely on his scarred face. “Definitely George’s boy.” He yawned, stretching out his legs. “Smart,” he specified, “and yet somehow, still incredibly dumb.” As the light fell on the rest of Pike’s form, Jim could see that his left leg was actually made of metal up to the knee, and his right was bionic entire.
“Christopher Pike?” Jim repeated, incredulous.
“Yes.”
“Admiral Christopher Pike?”
“The very same.”
“Impossible.” Jim sat back, looking at first Pike, and then McCoy, accusingly. “You’re dead.”
“So are you,” Pike replied quietly.
“I don’t remember you,” Jim insisted.
“I’ll bet you don't remember a lot of things since you were a kid.”
Jim glared at him, knew what he was trying to say. “Don’t say it,” he warned.
Pike shrugged. “If you want,” he said.
“I want you to get me out of this chair and I want you to explain what the fuck I’m doing here.”
Pike’s mouth closed. He looked . . . fuck all, he looked disappointed. “Sure, Jim,” he said. He nodded, and the guy standing behind him began to work on the ropes tying his wrists and legs together. Pike looked at McCoy. “Take it away,” he said.
McCoy, who had been slouched against the wall arms crossed, straightened.
“I’m in charge of your special friend,” he said, tone abrupt. “Spock.”
Jim’s mouth went dry. He felt for a moment as though it were difficult to breathe. “Yeah, I know,” he said after a moment. McCoy raised both eyebrows at him. “I um, kind of hacked into Spock’s file, trying to find where they were keeping him,” explained Jim, a bit shamefaced.
“Da, we know.” A new form shouldered his way up to the front, brown eyes lively and curious. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kirk,” he said. “You might not realize, but we have met before. I am Rusky_rulz41, but my real name is Pavel Andreyevich Chekov. And you are James Kirk, but also FinalCruisor1732, yes? Your hacking job was very good.”
“I-” said Jim, taken aback. “You’re the reason I had cold showers for a week?” he tried.
Pavel Andreyevich Chekov beamed.
“Kid, we’re kind of in the middle of a conversation here,” McCoy said, giving Chekov a very pointed look.
“Oh yes,” Chekov said, not at all apologetic. “Very sorry, Doctor.” He bowed.
McCoy aimed a swat at his head. “No you’re not, you little liar,” he said. “Scat.”
Chekov shrugged, and melted back into the crowd again.
“Was I just accosted by a Russian child?” Jim asked warily.
“Yeah,” McCoy deadpanned. “He’s here illegally. Don’t tell any feds.”
“Got it,” said Jim.
“Anyway,” said McCoy. “We here have decided that it’s probably in everyone’s better interest if we get Spock out of the Bureau’s hands.”
“So, you know who he’s working for?”
McCoy gave him a strange look. “No,” he said. “But that’s not really the point, is it? The point is that whoever he answers to probably isn’t going to be looking too favorably down on us after our government kidnaps and tortures him. That sort of thing can kind of give a guy a grudge, you know?”
“I guess that makes sense,” Jim said, but his tone was still doubtful.
McCoy barreled on. “We figured the Bureau would come after you since you spent so much time with him.”
“He saved my life,” Jim interjected. “We didn’t have long conversations under the stars about the meaning of life or anything.”
(Actually, they kind of had, but Jim wasn’t about to admit that).
“Okay, whatever,” McCoy said. “The point is, he knows you and he probably trusts you a hell of a lot more than he trusts me - if he trusts anybody at all at this point.”
Jim quieted. “They’ve been hurting him?”
McCoy put his hand on Jim’s shoulder. “For what it’s worth, he’s been taking it like a champ.”
“That’s not very comforting,” Jim informed him.
McCoy shrugged. “I’m a surgeon, not a psychologist,” he said. “Life sucks. Deal.”
“What’ve they been doing to him?”
“Torture,” McCoy said bluntly. Jim flinched a bit. “What, did you think they were making daisy chains or something?”
“I just,” Jim looked down at his hands. “No.”
“Look, the specifics don't really matter. The point is-”
“I get what you’re asking,” Jim said. He gestured to the other people in the room, most of whom, now that Jim had been untied and seemed to pose no threat, were involved in small, tense conversations of their own. “You want me to come help rescue Spock. Why can’t any of these people do it? What did you have to go to the trouble of tracking me down for?”
It was Pike who answered him. “Because,” he said. “Aside from myself and you, most everyone else here is considered a loyal citizen. We’re already risking a lot getting McCoy involved in this. He’s probably going to go underground afterward.”
“Like I care,” McCoy muttered. “Fucking bastards at the Bureau. Taking Spock away from them might not make things square between us, but it is a huge step in the right direction.”
Jim considered this. “I’m really supposed to be dead?”
“Yeah,” Pike said gravely. “Apparently you died in a freak accident - your house exploded. Such a tragedy after you barely escaped death in the desert, too. God must have had it out for you.”
“Oh,” said Jim, kind of shocked but not really. “Did they give me a fancy funeral?”
“All the trappings,” said Pike. He looked into Jim’s eyes, his own blazing with intent. “We can’t make you do this,” he said.
“Yes, we can,” said McCoy.
“But what have you got to lose?” continued Pike. “That’s why you came to San Francisco in the first place, right?”
Jim swallowed, and examined the floor. For a moment he was back in Death Valley with Spock. The heat was excruciating, yet he could feel the warmth of Spock’s body sleeping beside his in that infernal tent and it did not bother him. Here was someone who he had met only a few days ago, but still he knew, without a doubt, that Spock would do anything in his power to get Jim out of the desert alive. That was a powerful feeling.
Jim looked up. “When we were in the desert and I was about to die,” he started, “Spock told me that he wasn’t going to leave me behind. He said something like, ‘By saving your life once, I have assumed responsibility for it. I cannot leave you here.’” Jim shrugged. “And then he - and I swear to god this is true - he picked me up and literally carried me to safety. So I guess,” he coughed a bit awkwardly. “I guess if I’m Spock’s responsibility, then he’s mine too, is what I’m saying.”
“So . . .” said McCoy after a pause, “are you saying you’re in?”
Jim’s eyes gleamed. “I’m in.”
Previous Next
Jim’s search had hit a dead end. Spock’s - sorry, ET_X553697’s - prison profile listed many things, including his height, weight, eye color, and date of incarceration. What it did not list however, was his location. Or at least, any location that Jim could use. Spock was apparently being held at Facility 66AZ, but that didn’t tell Jim anything. Was it near Highway 66 in Arizona or something? Probably not.
Jim looked at the clock, noticing that it was almost time for him to check out of the hotel. He scanned Spock’s profile again in frustration. 66AZ? What did that even mean? Was he supposed to be able to find it on a map or something?
Ugh, this was fucking useless. He read the whole profile again word by word, hoping to find something he’d missed. Preferably something obvious, like a map or directions from southbound on I-5, but subtle was acceptable.
He really didn’t want to try and hack into the upper levels of the Bureau’s database just for a stupid map. What he was doing was risky enough as it was. As soon as someone noticed two people using Myers’ info, he’d be locked out.
Jim cocked his head, a line of text catching his eye.
Supervising Inquisitor: GBI ID#3329600 - A. Samuel
Supervising Medic: GBI ID#6790200 - L. H. McCoy, MD
Hmm, interesting. He traced the name L. H. McCoy. He wasn’t about to go toe-to-toe with a supervising inquisitor from the Bureau - that was a recipe for getting his ass stuck in a cell next to Spock’s - but a doctor? He or she couldn’t be too hard to find, and they probably wouldn’t be expecting anything either.
He typed in a new search on the ‘net for a Dr. L. H. McCoy, and was gratified that at least one person by that name actually existed. Jim clicked on the information, and his eyebrows rose. Apparently Dr. McCoy was from the Georgia region, and he had had a private practice in Savannah until just last year. Jim read further. According to a gossipy little local news channel in Savannah, Dr. McCoy had left his practice following a divorce from his wife. The official cause for divorce was listed as irreconcilable differences but the gossipy news channel had also gone on extensively about what simply a tragedy it was for the McCoys, for their marriage to disintegrate so soon after the disappearance of their only child. Apparently the fact that the most famous surgeon in Savannah would be leaving, justified this rather blasé invasion of privacy.
And . . . the article did not mention where McCoy had gone. Nor did further searches turn up McCoy as registered at any hospitals or clinics. Fuck. Jim resisted the urge to bang his head against the wall.
After a moment or two of squeezing and un-squeezing his hands around a pillow, which he was imagining to be Jason Myer’s neck, and also the article writer’s, he sobered.
God, what he was doing was really crazy. Was he really going to try and break out a high security prisoner just because . . . just because? He didn’t know what he was getting into. Spock could be a psychotic mass murderer for all he knew. This was stupid. He didn’t need a doctor, he needed a lawyer. No, what he needed was a whole army of lawyers, who could take his cause to the top.
Yeah, a whole army of state approved lawyers. Great idea, Jim. He buried his head in his arms. Then he froze.
Lawyers. The article had said that McCoy’s ex-wife was a lawyer. She still lived in Savannah. Fuck.
Jim typed a query into his data pad, memorized the number that popped up, and reached for his communicator.
Someone answered on the third ring.
“Hello?” The voice was young, male, and disinterested. “Harper’s law firm, how may I direct your call?”
“Hello?” Jim said. “Hi, yeah. I would like to speak to a Ms. Jocelyn McCoy? If it’s not too much trouble?”
“We don’t have anyone here by that name,” the receptionist informed him. “Sorry.”
“No, wait!” said Jim. “Uh, she used to be married to a doctor-”
“May I ask what this is in regards to?” the receptionist demanded.
“My um, my name’s Sam,” Jim said. “I went to medical school with her ex-husband and I-”
“Just one moment please,” the receptionist said. Jim could practically hear the eye rolling on the other line. “I’ll see if Jocelyn is available. She might be on another call.”
“Of course,” said Jim. Then he was put on hold.
He counted one minute of elevator music. Then two. Then three. Finally-
“This is Jocelyn.”
“Hi,” Jim said, “am I speaking to Jocelyn McCoy?”
There was a pause, “I go by Hatfield now,” the woman’s voice said eventually. “What can I help you with?”
“Yes, my apologies, Ms. Hatfield,” said Jim. “My name is Sam, and I’m a former colleague of your ex-husband’s. I’ve been trying to look him up-”
Jocelyn’s voice got noticeably colder. “I don’t know where Leonard is,” she said shortly. “All I know is that he moved out west somewhere.”
“I’m sorry,” Jim said, “You wouldn’t happen to know where, would you? I wouldn’t be calling you like this if it wasn’t a-”
“I told you, no,” she interrupted. “If that’s all?”
“I-” said Jim.
“Thank you for your call,” said Jocelyn Hatfield, and hung up.
Jim stared at the communicator for a few seconds. “Well, fuck you too,” he grumbled to it. Man, he was never going to find this dude. Maybe he’d have better luck searching for A. Samuels.
No, wait. That was stupid. There had to be some way to find this guy. Jim bit his lip. Dr. Leonard McCoy . . . well. If he was a doctor, then he had to be registered with the province he was in, right? Otherwise he wouldn’t have a license to practice.
A buzzer sounded in his room. A communication from downstairs. He pressed accept, and the hotel receptionist’s haggard face appeared.
“Sir, do you wish to reserve another night?”
“Um,” said Jim. He tapped his finger next to his thigh. Was it better to keep moving?
“Your checkout was at eleven AM, sir,” said the receptionist. “It is now eleven thirty. If you’re not going to reserve another night, there is a late fee for overstaying.”
“Yeah,” sighed Jim. “Okay, I’ll take another night.”
“Pleasure doing business with you sir.”
The communication screen turned off. Jim stuck his tongue out at it, then put his chin in his hands and stared at the wall.
Okay, a list. He needed a to-do list. First thing, he had to figure out where McCoy worked. Then, he had to figure out where he lived. After that he had to . . . what, kidnap the good doctor and demand to be taken to Spock?
Jim shook his head in disgust. That was a horrible idea if he’d ever had one. He exhaled, and leaned back against the thin mattress and flat pillows. No, he thought, he was going about this backwards. If he could find out where McCoy lived, then he could see where he worked. After that, Jim could do some good old-fashioned observation (the irony that he was using his military training for something decidedly the opposite of what he was supposed to be using it for, did not escape him), figure out how to get in without turning himself into a target, and rescue Spock. Piece of cake.
Jim heaved a pillow over his eyes. He was definitely going to die.
Well, the good doctor wasn’t going to find himself. Jim sat up, adjusted his data pad on his lap, and set to work.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“So, can I call you Spock?” McCoy asked. He rummaged through a drawer, and pulled out a long, thin piece of material.
Spock eyed it.
“It’s a measuring tape,” McCoy said. “They’ve given me permission to,” he grimaced, his back towards the cameras, “study you. I’m sure it won’t be humiliating at all.”
Spock sensed that McCoy was employing human sarcasm in this statement. It was most peculiar, he thought, to say one thing and to mean something else entirely. Not quite the same as a lie, whose purpose was to mask a truth, but similar enough in that-
“No, seriously,” said McCoy. “I can’t just go around calling you ‘test subject x’ or something. That’s just,” his mouth quirked, “that’s just inhuman.”
Spock suspected he had missed some sort of humorous moment, but he was not too concerned.
“Well, the kid whose life you saved, he said your name was ‘Spock Grayson,’” McCoy announced, measuring the width of his ankles, and marking something on his data pad.
Jim.
“So that’s what I’ll call you, until you say different.”
Had Jim turned him in? Was his incarceration Jim’s fault? No, Spock thought. He had thought this through before. Jim had likely been questioned by the authorities. Not suspecting anything odd- Spock sighed internally, and amended his statement - not suspecting anything too odd in regards to Spock, he probably had given the authorities any information they wished.
And why should he not? Spock questioned. Jim was not beholden to Spock, not at all.
Oh yes he is, came the menacing thought from that deep, rather more Vulcan part of himself. He owes you a life debt.
Spock shuddered, pushing down the invading thoughts. Life debts were an antiquity of ancient Vulcan, before Surak. Jim Kirk did not owe Spock anything.
Spock raised his head at the feeling of something cold slithering up his leg.
“Don’t mind me,” said McCoy, brandishing the measuring tape. “I’m just cataloguing everything about your body.”
Spock raised an eyebrow, then lay his head back down again. The restraints were as strong as ever. How had mere humans managed to conceive of restraints strong enough to hold a Vulcan? Why had they even known there was a need? He supposed his denser bone and muscle structure might hint at a higher mean strength for his species, but they would have had to study him in depth to ascertain that information. And so far, the study that McCoy was currently undergoing was the first such one.
Most intriguing.
Upon Spock’s removal back to his cell, he noted how the captors who handled him directly all wore a strange protective gear that covered their upper backs to their chins. Spock’s eyes narrowed. Any Vulcan who found himself in a dangerous situation would first attempt to neutralize his opponents in the very area that Spock’s guards had their strongest protection.
But who could have told the humans about a Vulcan neck pinch? It was impossible.
No, Spock thought as his jailors shoved him into his cell and slammed the door shut. The restraints loosened on their own. Spock flexed his wrists and rose from his rolling prison to pace around his cell. Not impossible, improbable.
There was no food that day.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jim was both perturbed and alarmed to discover, after an hour of work, that Dr. Leonard McCoy’s residence was currently listed as San Francisco. In fact, Jim saw as he gave the address a closer look and switched to satellite imaging, McCoy lived in a small apartment above a . . . was that a nightclub? In the Castro district?
Well, that was kind of unexpected. Jim perused the address again, noting the name of the club as Vega 7. Jim turned off his data pad and stood, stretching his legs. If he was going to go and stalk a prominent member of the medical community who lived above a club in one of San Francisco’s most notorious neighborhoods, he might as well be dressed for it.
He spent the rest of the day finding cheap yet suitable clothing for a night out on the town. He ditched his worn, dirty jeans and old T-shirt for a nicer, green shirt and tighter jeans. The leather jacket however, remained the same.
Jim considered the entrance to the club from a narrow ally about twenty feet away. It was risky, he thought, to go into such a populated place. His face hadn’t been plastered all over the newsfeed, but that didn’t mean no one was looking for him. He should’ve cut his hair or grown a mustache or something. This was stupid.
“Hey, you.”
Jim turned.
“Yeah, you.” A police officer. He approached Jim, feet wide in a casual stance.
“Yes, Officer?” Jim said.
“What are you doing back here? You know the law against loitering.”
Jim in fact did not know the law. It must be a local one.
“Oh,” he said. “Sorry, sir. I was just waiting for my friend. I can go wait in the club though.”
The officer looked at him appraisingly. Jim attempted to look as inoffensive as possible.
“Let me see your I.D,” the officer said.
Internally, Jim groaned. He still had Tam’s brother’s ID chip, but for all he knew it had been reported as stolen already. He’d been paying for everything with cash for the past few days. “Um,” he said, hoping to stall the cop until he could make a break for it. “Sorry, Officer, I- um, see the thing is-”
The police officer took another step towards him, reaching for something at his side. Jim’s blood started to run very cold. “Speak up, boy,” said the officer. “I don’t have patience for people who waste my time.”
Jim moved back a little, conscious that if he went too far he’d hit the brick wall behind him. “I-” he said, not sure where he was going with that sentence.
“Let me see your goddamn identification or so help me I will bust your ass to jail for selling gold dirt,” the cop snarled. And yes, now he was definitely holding a gun.
Jim eyed it. Most guns didn’t shoot bullets anymore, but he knew as well as anyone in the military that a laser could be just as damaging. His own sidearm had been in his house when it had exploded, and he hadn’t regretted its non-presence until now. Of course, Jim thought, playing the innocence card would have been a lot more difficult when carrying a weapon banned for civilians.
Jim put his hand up, trying to look as cooperative as possible. God he hated cops. There were bad eggs and good ones of course, and his military ID used to convince all eggs to leave him alone real quick. Except now, apparently that wasn’t going to fly. Especially since he was masquerading as Tam’s younger brother, Milo, who was, oh god, a painter. Jim did not think that particular career would endear him to the police.
“Look, sir,” Jim said, trying to sound more like a reasonable and loyal civilian and less like someone who had spent the past week hacking secure government databases and was now intent on spying on a member of the medical community. “I’m really sorry. I just moved here and I wasn’t looking for trouble, I swear. And I don’t do drugs.”
“Your ID,” said the cop, not impressed at all by Jim’s plea.
“Okay,” Jim said. “Okay, I’m just going to lower my right hand and reach into my pocket for my-”
“Tim!” came a shriek from the other end of the alleyway. “Timothy Jones! You idiot, you forgot your ID!”
Jim and the cop both turned to stare at the newcomer, the cop’s gun lowering and Jim’s jaw dropping in utter what-the-fuck.
A young woman strode toward them, her hands swinging at her sides. She wore her black hair in a series of braids all gathered at a bun at the back of her head. Her skin was a deep brown, and her eyes darker still. She wore a flowing red and orange dress, gathered at the waist and cut off a bit below the knee. She also carried an ID chip, which she shoved at the stunned officer before turning to Jim and continuing to berate him.
Jim was certain that he had never seen her before in his entire life.
“Honestly, Timmy,” she said, scowling. Her long red earrings dangled close to her shoulders, and the little bells on them twinkled as she shifted to stand between Jim and the cop.
Timmy? Jim thought blearily, but didn’t interrupt on account of still being totally baffled.
“I’ve told you like ten times - San Francisco isn’t like Georgia. You don’t carry your ID, you’re gonna get arrested.” She crossed her arms and glared down at him. She made a good showing of it too, considering that her high heels brought her to at least an inch taller than Jim. He cowered a little.
“Oh, yeah,” he managed. “Um, sorry.”
She turned toward the cop, expression suddenly sorrowful. “I am so sorry, Officer,” she gushed. (Privately, Jim thought she was overdoing it just a tad). “My friend here,” she gave Jim’s sleeve a yank and Jim stumbled forward, “he’s kind of a space case.” She smiled at the cop, showing teeth, then lowered her voice, giving the cop a sort of meaningful look. “And I mean, really a space case, if you know what I mean.”
Jim wondered if he ought to be offended by this. He settled for crossing his own arms and attempting to yank away from the woman’s hold. But man, her fingers must be like steel she had a grasp on him so tight.
“And you are?” the cop huffed, attempting to get his tough-as-nails groove back.
She smiled at him again, the sort of sweet smile intended to mask the one thousand and one horrible things that might happen if you ignored it. “I’m Tabatha Chong,” she said, holding out her own ID chip.
Scowling, the cop took it and examined it closely, running it under a scanner. He then ran the first chip she had handed him, identifying Jim as Timothy Jones. He grunted when the scanner blinked green.
Jim held his breath. The cop might have continued to give Jim trouble even if his borrowed ID had passed, but with someone else here, the difficulty of getting away with it rose a bit. In addition, Tabatha Chong’s screeching had attracted a small crowd of onlookers, gawping at the entrance of the alley.
“Well,” the cop said finally, giving Jim the stink eye and Tabatha a slightly more respectful nod. “Everything seems to be in order.” He grudgingly handed the ID chips back
“As it should be,” Tabatha nodded, but there was a sharper edge to her voice that had not been there before. She smiled for a third time, but this one was more of a grimace. “Now if you don’t mind, Officer,” she said, giving Jim a look. “My friends and I are going to have a sit-down with Tim. And maybe tattoo his ID chip to his face.”
The cop let out a startled little chuckle, but by the look in his eyes it was clear he wasn’t sure if she was joking or not. He holstered his gun, and let them pass out of the alleyway.
Tabatha clamped her hand down on Jim’s shoulder and steered him towards the club below McCoy’s apartment.
“Um,” Jim said as they walked out of the cop’s earshot. “Thanks for doing that, but I really-”
“Not a word out of you,” she said, digging her fingers into his shoulder. They passed by three bouncers, who gave his rescuer a nod and Jim a look over, before gesturing them inside.
“What, no entrance fee?” Jim said, “Must not be a very good clu- ow!” He glared as she shoved him though a throng of fashionably (and not so fashionably) attired young people.
“So, since you rescued me, does that mean you’re going to buy me a drink?” Jim asked as they walked straight past the bar. They stopped at a staircase with a chain link in front of it and a small sign proclaiming “Employees Only, Rest Rooms At the Other End of The Bar.”
“I’ll take that as a no,” Jim said as Tabatha stepped over the link. Unable to avoid doing the same without causing a major scene (lord, was he ever done with major scenes tonight), he followed.
She turned to him, gaze about ten times less friendly than it had been when talking to the upstanding member of the law enforcement. “Do the words no talking mean anything to you?” she said, heading down the stairs.
“Well, sure they have meaning,” Jim said. He inexplicably thought of another person who had rescued his ass in a big way. Spock had always taken everything Jim had said so literally. It had kind of been stupid, but funny, in that endearing way only friends and family could be. Towards the end, Jim had started to wonder if Spock wasn’t doing it on purpose, just to irritate him.
And there he went, thinking about the guy who had ruined his life by saving it. Wasn’t there therapy or something for this sort of thing?
Tabatha might have rolled her eyes, but in the dim light of the stairwell it was hard to tell. She pointed at a door at the bottom of the steps.
“In there,” she said. “Come on.” She jumped down the last few steps, opened the door, and went inside. Hesitantly, giving the door a suspicious look and noting that no, there weren’t any emergency exits down here, Jim pressed on the door, swinging it open. He also stepped inside.
He caught a glimpse of fairly bright light, a number of people sitting on couches or in chairs, and a kitchenette off to the corner, before someone grabbed him from behind and a bag was shoved down over his face.
“What the fuck!” he shouted, the confining fabric of the burlap making it hard to breath. He kicked back and heard a groan of pain before the arms around him tightened even further.
“Don’t struggle,” growled a voice in his ear as busy hands tied something around his legs and wrists. Jim ignored it, wriggling frantically, then bashing his head backward into the other guy’s face. There was an outraged howl and the hands holding him loosened. Jim took a frantic step, going he had no idea where, before he realizing his legs had been tied together. Unfortunately, Jim’s realization of this difficulty came a bit too late to prevent his crashing face-first to the floor.
He lay there, dazed, until various hands picked him up and settled him in a chair.
“I dink I broke by dose,” he said, coughing. The inside of the bag was stifling, and his face hurt like a bitch. He could feel sticky blood dripping over his lip, into his mouth, and down his chin. It tasted foul and tangy.
There was a cacophony of voices. Jim shook his head, trying to clear the ringing from his ears, and felt woozy. One voice rose over the rest.
“For god’s sake,” it said, coming closer to him. It was a man’s voice, a bit lower than a tenor, smooth with a faint accent like honey. People west of the Mississippi didn’t talk like that, Jim knew. “You didn’t have to bag the man. Take it off him.”
“We need to make sure he is who we think he is,” came Tabatha’s voice. “We can’t take any chances.”
“Well you sure took a hell of a chance when you gave him a fake ID in front of a cop!” the first voice snarled back. The owner of the voice dropped down in front of Jim. “Hey, kid,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Wazzit do you?” Jesus, he was going to choke on his own blood and suffocate in this bag. “I can’d breathe,” he added.
“It’s kind of important,” said the first voice.
“According to Tabitha ober der it’s Timmy,” said Jim, jerking his chin in the direction he thought Tabatha might be standing.
He heard a snicker. “Tabatha?” said a new voice. “You still using that one?”
“It was what I had on me,” not-actually-Tabatha-apparently replied.
“Come on, kid,” said the voice in front of him. “What’s your name?”
“Done of your business.”
“Yeah, it kind of is. Your name.”
“You’re like a dog with a bode with dat,” said Jim, now feeling really light headed. “You gonna arrest be?”
“A . . . bode?”
“Bode!” snapped Jim. “Arm bode, leg bode. Fuck by dose hurts.”
“I’ll set it for you if you tell me your name,” said the man.
Jim scowled. Under the cover of the burlap bag, it was less than effective. “I could jus’ tell you duh wrong one.”
“We need you to say it,” said the man, “so the fancy voice recognition software my friend borrowed for me can confirm if you’re who we think you are.”
“You stole dat from feds?”
“Well, I didn’t, but Tabby over here,” said the man, “might have had something to do with it.”
“I told you not to call me that,” said Tabatha.
Jim considered his options, then his shoulders slumped. “Fide,” he said. “By dame’s Jib Kirk. Happy?”
There was a negative sounding beep and a computerized, “That name and voice are an incorrect match.”
“Huh,” said the man. “Guess I’ll have to fix your nose first. Close your eyes.”
“Really?” Jim whined.
“Did I stutter?”
“Okay, Dog-wid-a-bode.” Jim shut his eyes.
The bag was removed none too gently, and something slipped over his still closed eyes instead. Jim gasped at the cool, fresh air as it caressed the heated skin of his face.
“Hold still,” said a voice. Two hands gripped the sides of his face. “I’m going to count to three. One . . .”
“Ow! Motherfucker!” Jim exclaimed as his nose was wrenched back into place.
“Two, three,” finished his tormentor.
“I don’t know you,” Jim said, feeling someone wipe around his nose with a tissue. He spat blood onto the floor. Was that a loose tooth? “But I can sense you’re a sadist, Mr. Dog-With-A-Bone.”
“You’ll live,” said the voice. “Now, state your name for the nice, government approved software, and if you’re not lying, we’ll take the blindfold off.”
“Fine,” Jim said. At least he could breathe more normally now, and didn’t sound like a moron. “My name’s Jim Kirk.”
“That name and voice are an incorrect match.”
“What the fuck? That’s my name!”
“Your full name,” the man sighed.
“James T. Kirk,” Jim growled.
“That name and voice are an incorrect match.”
“Your entire, full name,” said the man, and Jim swore he could hear a micron of amusement there.
Jim made a face. “James Tiberius Kirk,” he said.
“Correct match,” said the computerized voice.
“Oh good, you caught the right fish,” said a new voice. “Well, take his blindfold off him, Doctor. Dead men can’t go tattling on our little group.”
“Yessir,” said the man who had fixed Jim’s nose. He lifted the blindfold.
Jim blinked furiously, his eyes watering at the sudden light. Vision returning to him bit by bit, he attempted to study the form in front of him. Suddenly his eyes cleared.
“Hey, I know you,” Jim blurted out, “You’re Leonard McCoy.” He cocked his head, “Isn’t your apartment supposed to be above the club, not under it?”
McCoy took a startled step back, searching Jim’s face. “You know me?”
“Um,” said Jim. “It’s not really important.” He leaned back in his chair as best he could. “Let’s talk about why I’m here instead,” he suggested.
“Wait a damn minute, how do you know my name?” McCoy said.
“I said, not important.” Yeah, Jim figured. Probably better not to mention to the guy in front of you that you had intended to spend the majority of the next twenty-four hours following him around like a deranged and slightly creepy shadow.
“You work for the Bureau,” Jim said. “What the hell is this?”
“Don’t change the subject,” said McCoy.
“Man, you are like a dog with a bone with this,” Jim said. “Can I call you that instead?”
“No,” said McCoy, a flash of irritation showing in his eyes.
“Just ‘Bone’ for short?”
“I can inject you with smallpox,” McCoy threatened.
“What? No you can’t, Bonesy,” said Jim. “That shit was eradicated three hundred years ago.”
“I’m a Doctor,” McCoy said, hand inching toward what Jim assumed must be his medical bag. “We’re gifted like that.”
“Wow, you really are kind of a sadist, Bones,” said Jim.
McCoy dropped his hand in disgust, and brought it up to his forehead. “No wonder the Bureau hates you,” he said. “You are as irritating as all get out.”
Jim smiled. McCoy’s gaze hardened. “But I hope you understand that if you don’t tell me how you got my name, you could be endangering every person in this room.”
Jim’s smile turned into a considerate frown. He looked around the room. There appeared to be a crowd of about twenty people, but it was kind of hard for Jim to tell, since some were gathered in corners and other spots, away from his sight.
“This has got to be the worst-concealed drug den I’ve ever seen.”
McCoy looked heavenward. “We’re not a drug gang.”
Jim cracked a smile. “Oh, right. Well if you’re not feds and you’re not smuggling gold dirt, then clearly you’re like, a secret network of spies, or the Resistance or something.”
McCoy’s lips thinned.
Jim’s smile slowly vanished. He looked around again. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” he said. “Really?”
Someone in the back started a slow clap. “Well reasoned, Kirk,” said the voice that had ordered Jim’s blindfold removed. “Not bad at all. I always heard you were quick.”
Jim craned his neck as a man appearing to be in his late forties moved out in front of him.
“And who are you?” Jim asked boldly. If his legs had not been tied together, he would have crossed them.
The man moved closer. His face was cragged and scarred, but he could have been handsome in his youth. His jaw was square and his hair a graying brown.
“I’m kind of hurt,” the man said, “you don’t recognize me at all?”
“Nope,” said Jim. “Sorry.”
The man sighed. “And here I thought we had a bond ever since I changed your diapers.” He tilted his head. “Kids these days.”
“Ookay,” Jim said slowly. “Kind of creepy, but no. Still don’t know you.”
“It’s Chris Pike, you idiot!” snapped McCoy in exasperation. “Seriously, you sure you were in the military?”
Jim’s mouth dropped open.
“Yep,” Pike observed, wheeling his chair the rest of the way in front of him and giving Jim a sort of fatherly, disproving look. It sat strangely on his scarred face. “Definitely George’s boy.” He yawned, stretching out his legs. “Smart,” he specified, “and yet somehow, still incredibly dumb.” As the light fell on the rest of Pike’s form, Jim could see that his left leg was actually made of metal up to the knee, and his right was bionic entire.
“Christopher Pike?” Jim repeated, incredulous.
“Yes.”
“Admiral Christopher Pike?”
“The very same.”
“Impossible.” Jim sat back, looking at first Pike, and then McCoy, accusingly. “You’re dead.”
“So are you,” Pike replied quietly.
“I don’t remember you,” Jim insisted.
“I’ll bet you don't remember a lot of things since you were a kid.”
Jim glared at him, knew what he was trying to say. “Don’t say it,” he warned.
Pike shrugged. “If you want,” he said.
“I want you to get me out of this chair and I want you to explain what the fuck I’m doing here.”
Pike’s mouth closed. He looked . . . fuck all, he looked disappointed. “Sure, Jim,” he said. He nodded, and the guy standing behind him began to work on the ropes tying his wrists and legs together. Pike looked at McCoy. “Take it away,” he said.
McCoy, who had been slouched against the wall arms crossed, straightened.
“I’m in charge of your special friend,” he said, tone abrupt. “Spock.”
Jim’s mouth went dry. He felt for a moment as though it were difficult to breathe. “Yeah, I know,” he said after a moment. McCoy raised both eyebrows at him. “I um, kind of hacked into Spock’s file, trying to find where they were keeping him,” explained Jim, a bit shamefaced.
“Da, we know.” A new form shouldered his way up to the front, brown eyes lively and curious. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kirk,” he said. “You might not realize, but we have met before. I am Rusky_rulz41, but my real name is Pavel Andreyevich Chekov. And you are James Kirk, but also FinalCruisor1732, yes? Your hacking job was very good.”
“I-” said Jim, taken aback. “You’re the reason I had cold showers for a week?” he tried.
Pavel Andreyevich Chekov beamed.
“Kid, we’re kind of in the middle of a conversation here,” McCoy said, giving Chekov a very pointed look.
“Oh yes,” Chekov said, not at all apologetic. “Very sorry, Doctor.” He bowed.
McCoy aimed a swat at his head. “No you’re not, you little liar,” he said. “Scat.”
Chekov shrugged, and melted back into the crowd again.
“Was I just accosted by a Russian child?” Jim asked warily.
“Yeah,” McCoy deadpanned. “He’s here illegally. Don’t tell any feds.”
“Got it,” said Jim.
“Anyway,” said McCoy. “We here have decided that it’s probably in everyone’s better interest if we get Spock out of the Bureau’s hands.”
“So, you know who he’s working for?”
McCoy gave him a strange look. “No,” he said. “But that’s not really the point, is it? The point is that whoever he answers to probably isn’t going to be looking too favorably down on us after our government kidnaps and tortures him. That sort of thing can kind of give a guy a grudge, you know?”
“I guess that makes sense,” Jim said, but his tone was still doubtful.
McCoy barreled on. “We figured the Bureau would come after you since you spent so much time with him.”
“He saved my life,” Jim interjected. “We didn’t have long conversations under the stars about the meaning of life or anything.”
(Actually, they kind of had, but Jim wasn’t about to admit that).
“Okay, whatever,” McCoy said. “The point is, he knows you and he probably trusts you a hell of a lot more than he trusts me - if he trusts anybody at all at this point.”
Jim quieted. “They’ve been hurting him?”
McCoy put his hand on Jim’s shoulder. “For what it’s worth, he’s been taking it like a champ.”
“That’s not very comforting,” Jim informed him.
McCoy shrugged. “I’m a surgeon, not a psychologist,” he said. “Life sucks. Deal.”
“What’ve they been doing to him?”
“Torture,” McCoy said bluntly. Jim flinched a bit. “What, did you think they were making daisy chains or something?”
“I just,” Jim looked down at his hands. “No.”
“Look, the specifics don't really matter. The point is-”
“I get what you’re asking,” Jim said. He gestured to the other people in the room, most of whom, now that Jim had been untied and seemed to pose no threat, were involved in small, tense conversations of their own. “You want me to come help rescue Spock. Why can’t any of these people do it? What did you have to go to the trouble of tracking me down for?”
It was Pike who answered him. “Because,” he said. “Aside from myself and you, most everyone else here is considered a loyal citizen. We’re already risking a lot getting McCoy involved in this. He’s probably going to go underground afterward.”
“Like I care,” McCoy muttered. “Fucking bastards at the Bureau. Taking Spock away from them might not make things square between us, but it is a huge step in the right direction.”
Jim considered this. “I’m really supposed to be dead?”
“Yeah,” Pike said gravely. “Apparently you died in a freak accident - your house exploded. Such a tragedy after you barely escaped death in the desert, too. God must have had it out for you.”
“Oh,” said Jim, kind of shocked but not really. “Did they give me a fancy funeral?”
“All the trappings,” said Pike. He looked into Jim’s eyes, his own blazing with intent. “We can’t make you do this,” he said.
“Yes, we can,” said McCoy.
“But what have you got to lose?” continued Pike. “That’s why you came to San Francisco in the first place, right?”
Jim swallowed, and examined the floor. For a moment he was back in Death Valley with Spock. The heat was excruciating, yet he could feel the warmth of Spock’s body sleeping beside his in that infernal tent and it did not bother him. Here was someone who he had met only a few days ago, but still he knew, without a doubt, that Spock would do anything in his power to get Jim out of the desert alive. That was a powerful feeling.
Jim looked up. “When we were in the desert and I was about to die,” he started, “Spock told me that he wasn’t going to leave me behind. He said something like, ‘By saving your life once, I have assumed responsibility for it. I cannot leave you here.’” Jim shrugged. “And then he - and I swear to god this is true - he picked me up and literally carried me to safety. So I guess,” he coughed a bit awkwardly. “I guess if I’m Spock’s responsibility, then he’s mine too, is what I’m saying.”
“So . . .” said McCoy after a pause, “are you saying you’re in?”
Jim’s eyes gleamed. “I’m in.”
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