Crash and Burn: Part 1
Smoke
The acrid smell of phaser residue and singed hair suffused Jim, along with the electric thrill of a very near miss. He watched Giotto pat Ensign Landon’s blonde bun until it was merely smoking and weighed their options.
They were supposed to be a diversion for the rest of the infiltration team, but they were pinned down on all sides and couldn’t exactly redirect the unwelcome attention. Commodore Bryant might have gone rogue, but the man still knew the value of a good security team.
If it weren’t for the big, ugly fellow up on the catwalk, Scott and McCoy would have a clear path from their hiding spot behind some rubble to a ventilation duct. Ten seconds of colorless, odorless, anesthetic gas would drop everyone in this godforsaken asteroid base except Spock, who lacked the sweat glands that guaranteed absorption.
Yet said ugly fellow was about two stories above them, and pacing at his post. Hidden by scaffolding or natural rock features every other second. Attacking him would expose any would-be marksman to three other guards on the ground floor, all of whom were utterly focused on the shipping container that stood between them and Jim’s team. Jim knew they couldn’t let this go on much longer, or the mission would slip from ridiculous to dangerous.
Behind him, Spock and Giotto were debating four or five different plans, weighing the pros and cons of each, but they faded into the background. Jim fixed his awareness entirely on the distant guard. He started counting out footsteps. He adjusted his grip on the phaser. He took a deep breath and let it go, along with all the tension in his shoulders. Then he flung himself forward, planted his elbows on a storage box, aimed down the sight, and squeezed the trigger.
The guard dropped.
Three pairs of hands on his ankles yanked him backwards as the whine of phasers deafened him, and heat blasted his skin. His chin knocked against the box on the way down, jarring his teeth together. The bolts in the floor scraped through his uniform.
The moment he was safely behind cover again, he shook off his crewmates and got to his hands and knees. He glanced up at the catwalk and saw no sign of Scott or McCoy at their former hiding place.
“They made it,” Giotto told him. “I don’t think anyone noticed.” Sure enough, the duct door was ajar, and the tightness in Jim’s chest vanished beneath a fresh buzz of adrenaline.
“Nice aim, sir,” Landon murmured.
“Captain,” Spock said, tearing Jim’s attention away from the catwalk. His eyes were wide, and his brows hiked to his hairline. “The statistical likelihood of successfully executing that shot was eight hundred sixty-seven to one.”
The odds were meaningless to Jim, but the expression on Spock’s face was not. “Are you sure, Mr. Spock?” He flashed a nonchalant grin. “You’re leaving out a vital part of the equation.”
“What, precisely?”
“I really wanted to make that shot.”
Then a chemical daze smacked him clear across the face, churning his stomach and lining his body with lead, and he knew Scotty and Bones were successful. He fell in slow motion, supported by strong arms. The faint vibration of his crewmates and the guards hitting the floor around him pulsed through his back. Spock hovered over him, and a strange, muddled warmth bloomed in Jim’s throat at the sight of his first officer’s eyes, softened in unmistakable affection and amusement.
“See you soon,” he chuckled, clumsily patting Spock’s hand.
“I believe the human expression is ‘sweet dreams,’” Spock said.
Jim’s laughter carried him into the darkness on a rolling wave.
***
“Think you can stand it for a few more days?”
Ambassador Celia Brighton rested one hand on the doorway, but made no move to step inside. Jim had walked her to her cabin after sharing the new orders over dinner. They were currently diverted to pick up supplies on the way to her home planet, and she was still visibly put out by the delay.
“I think I’ll manage.” Celia turned to face him, her chandelier earrings glinting in the dim hall light. “You never know when duty calls, I suppose.”
“Some of those calls are more pleasant than others,” he said.
She fooled with a strand of her short blonde hair, and her gaze tugged over her shoulder, but stopped halfway. “It is a bit confining here, though. Especially in the evenings.”
Jim knew exactly what she was doing. He had been waiting for it all day, in fact. “Take a stroll with me?” he said, offering his elbow.
“Gladly.” She tucked her hand in the crook of his arm with a coy grin.
He led her to the arboretum, recently turned into one of Sulu’s pet projects and made all the better for the attention. Some kind of short, delicate tree was blooming, purple blossoms set into lacy dark leaves. The lighting was in night mode, so all the plants’ shadows were cast onto a background of rich blues and violets. Celia murmured her compliments, which Jim promised to pass on.
They walked at a leisurely pace for a while, talking about nothing in particular; Celia’s eagerness to go home, the success of her mission, the quality of the Enterprise’s food as compared to less prestigious ships. She was beautiful in a generic sort of way, but with a hint of mischief in her demeanor that intrigued him. Intelligent too, and most importantly, responsive to his every flirtatious remark.
He needed this badly. He had been afflicted by a strange languor over the past few weeks, a fundamental dissatisfaction that he couldn’t pin on any one thing. Maybe it was the rumors he faced a promotion the second he set foot on Earth. Maybe just the dull routine of a starship gearing down for the last leg of her journey, six months dwindling faster than what should have been possible.
Then something Celia said made his brain trip back into the present. “I’m sorry, I might have misheard you,” he said.
“I told them it’s a wonder the Earth government can function at all when it’s run by such an irrational species.” Celia laughed. “You learn to be self-deprecating as an ambassador.”
“Ah. So my ears weren’t playing tricks.”
“I do hope I haven’t offended you, Jim.”
“No, it’s just… that’s an opinion I’m well acquainted with,” he murmured, hit with a sudden, pensive mood that lacked any real focus.
“In rhetoric more than deed, I hope.” She took it upon herself to switch topics, no doubt sensing his discomfort with the current one. Her voice quieted, and she peered at him through her eyelashes. “I’ve wondered, is it ever lonely, being the captain? You all have such nomadic lifestyles.”
“It can be, at times,” Jim said, but inside he cringed. He was sick to death of having this conversation. It happened with every romantic partner he encountered on the ship, sometimes word for word, and it broke the spell he was trying to cast over them and himself. Fortunately he had become an expert at cutting it short. “But I don’t feel very lonely right now.”
He stopped them both mid-stride and waited until her eyes locked with his. Then he kissed her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, just like he knew she would.
***
Jim forced a grin as he shook hands with the Troskir high elder for the third time so Lieutenant Uhura could take pictures. Nogura had been on his case about publicity lately, and Uhura was the one who suggested press releases composed by the Enterprise crew instead of some grounded bureaucrat. While Jim wasn’t thrilled about the idea - his people had enough on their plates without going through a regular song and dance routine - it was impossible to say no to the lieutenant when she flashed that honey-sweet smile his way.
Finally Uhura gave a thumbs up, and everyone on both delegations visibly relaxed. Their chatter resumed as they began to disperse from the ceremonial platform. Jim descended the ramp with the crowd, wiping his hand discreetly on the side of his pants. The Troskir were semi-aquatic and produced a thin layer of protective slime on their skin. He had nothing against amphibioids, but some traditions just weren’t intended for interspecies contact.
He made a beeline for the same exit he was fairly sure Spock had fled through. The blue mosaic archway promised a few moments’ peace and quiet, and hopefully some much-needed reflection time with his first officer. But the Troskir hall was too spacious for a quick crossing, and he was intercepted by Ensign Gresh, one of Uhura’s enlistees for the press release project.
“Captain, may I trouble you for a few words?” His snout quivered anxiously. By all accounts he was a brilliant writer, which Jim took on the opinion of others because free flow Tellarite prose was not to his personal taste. But the kid was as timid in real life as he was bold in print, the literal runt of a litter, and Jim figured some encouragement was in order.
“Go ahead, Ensign.”
“Three separate delegations failed to secure mining rights with the Troskir in the past. What was different about this one?”
“Well, we had the finest crew in the Fleet at our disposal,” he said. A few of said crew stopped to listen on their way to the buffet tables. The only part of any diplomatic gathering that was worth the fuss, the saying went. “And we learned a lot from the mistakes of those who came before us. Leisure first, ceremonial gifts, that sort of thing.”
“Yes, but how did you ultimately convince them to sign?”
Jim hesitated. He didn’t want to discuss the details, mainly because he broke protocol to get them. “They would have signed from the very beginning. I just stumbled upon the right way to ask.”
“I… see,” Gresh tapped on his PADD, face crinkled by the awareness that Jim was withholding a piece of the puzzle. “So to what, exactly, do you attribute to your success?”
“Luck was on my side, I suppose.”
“He’s being modest,” a familiar voice teased over his shoulder. “You can’t trust a word that comes out of his mouth post-victory.”
“Doctor, how fortunate!” Gresh rounded on the interloper. “Surely you’d like to say a few words.”
Put on the spot, McCoy’s devilish grin subdued itself into something more calculating. “Why yes, as a matter of fact I would. Congratulations, Captain, from the bottom of my heart. Mighty fine work.” His eyes drifted to the high canvas ceiling. “You know, it reminds me of the time my grandfather said to me-” He slapped Jim on the arm and began dragging him away from Gresh and the others. Jim offered them an apologetic but helpless shrug.
The moment they were out of earshot, McCoy dropped the ruse like a ton of bricks. “‘-Leonard,’ he says, ‘you can do better than that Jezebel you call a wife.’ All right then. What do you say to a celebratory drink?”
“Thanks, Bones,” Jim said, and added in a conspiratorial tone, “as long as you make mine a double.”
“Amen to that.”
They picked their way to the refreshments table and settled on some stools at the far end, near where Ensign Chekov was introducing a few young Troskir to vodka. The Troskir were rubbing it into their skin with tremendous enthusiasm. Jim eyed the group warily, then Bones, who seemed unconcerned.
“Cheers.” McCoy pushed a glass of something amber-colored into his hand, and Jim took a cautious whiff. Definitely alcohol, but an alien variety he didn’t recognize. He waited for his friend to take the plunge first.
No such luck. McCoy must have been in a talkative mood, because he seemed content to postpone the revelry for now. “Honestly Jim, I’m surprised you pulled this one off,” he said. “I just can’t wait to see the look on Nogura’s face when he acknowledges your report.”
“Neither can I,” Jim said, although the prospect of more praise didn’t thrill him, especially if it came from a pinch-faced admiral. What he did really wasn’t that hard. Once he got a good read on someone, persuasion came easy.
The Troskir, for instance, were wishy-washy at first glance. An entire species that seemed afraid of commitment. They wouldn’t have budged if the Federation pledged three dozen planets in exchange for an ounce of dilithium per year. Conversely, if the treaty had demanded the immediate surrender of all the Troskir held dear, they wouldn’t have given Jim a straight refusal.
So Jim left the areas set aside for the delegation, without permission. He observed the Troskir and their families as they lounged in the shade and basked in the ocean. And he noticed that every time a decision had to be made, one person expressed what sounded like a demand, and the other person would either refuse or comply. Anything less than an outright order, any phrasing that could be taken as a question, meant uncertainty to them. Talk for talk’s sake, aimless and frivolous.
What Jim realized was that he had to boss them around. Tell them to sign the damn treaty already, although not using those exact words, and since they had found it acceptable all along, they listened. What he did could be taken as rude or even coercive by someone on the outside, but this was a case where ‘do you find this agreeable’ or ‘are you willing to sign’ never would have cut it.
“Captain Kirk.” Jim rolled his eyes at the gruff croak, but couldn’t completely banish his smile. Lorlorsa was an elder among the Troskir elders, and had more energy than tadpoles a fraction of her age. She loped beside his stool and tugged on his sleeve. “Swim with us.”
“No, Lorlorsa,” he said firmly. “Get me some rokra fruit. Then I’ll swim.”
She pondered the request, eyes alternately bugging out and submerging into her head as McCoy looked on with a foolish grin. “Yes,” she said, and waddled off. No drama, no subterfuge, no roundabout negotiation. The distinction between idle talk and action was crystal clear.
Jim could get used to this species.
***
The day before his breakthrough with the Troskir, Jim ran into his first officer on the low porch that connected their rooms. Jim was leaning on the stone railing at the time, blanking his mind with the steady sea breeze and the cool night air in the hopes that a clean slate would lend him new insight. Or at the very least, relieve his frustration. Before he even heard or saw Spock, Jim sensed his presence like barely-heard music, or the scent of woodsmoke on a cold winter night.
“Can’t sleep either?” he said, without turning around.
A pause, then the quiet scuff of footsteps approaching him. “I decided to forego sleep in favor of reviewing the Troskir behavioral analysis once more.”
“For the third time?”
“Fifth,” Spock said.
“I appreciate your dedication, but I’m not sure it will do us any good at this point,” Jim said. “They’re too caught up in some kind of evasive diplomat mode.”
“Perhaps.” Spock came up beside him and rested his hands on the railing. His face was pale in the blue light from the bay, where the Troskir hatcheries glowed under water like frozen jellyfish. “Are you also awake of your own volition, or suffering from insomnia?”
“I’m not sure. The beds here are terrible either way.”
“Evidently our hosts cannot grasp the concept of sleeping on land,” he said. “I suspect that cultural disconnect is to blame for their curious interpretation of what constitutes a mattress.”
Jim snickered, and they stood together in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The sound of the waves unwound some of the tension from his shoulders and released the half-dozen minor aches across his back and neck. The stars were fading on the horizon, overtaken by a faint but growing stain of light. He glanced over at Spock to see if the ambiance was having any effect on his friend, and was barreled over by what could only be described as details.
Spock was wearing loose, gray Vulcan robes instead of regulation sleepwear, and his feet were bare. His hair was faintly tousled, whether from the wind or a casual sweep of his hand while deep in thought. The angles of his face were softened by a very human-looking calm as he stared out over the vista. Heat curled into Jim’s chest like a living thing, quivering and thrumming with restless energy. A familiar companion with a decidedly unfamiliar focus.
It occurred to Jim that if he opened his mouth now, he didn’t know what would come out. Business, he told himself in his sternest internal voice. He should talk about the mission and redirect his train of thought before it went careening off the tracks. Especially given that Spock had just noticed his bizarre fixation and was returning his stare.
“Are you well, Captain?”
“Just tired.” Jim tore his gaze away. He sighed and drummed his fingers on the railing, shaping the mundane into a shield. “I know this isn’t some critical mission. But damn if Nogura comming us yesterday didn’t light a fire under me,” he said. “He thinks we can’t do it.”
“He said nothing of the sort.”
“He didn’t have to.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Spock lift a brow in a specific way that meant he conceded the point. “Nonetheless, your assessment of the situation’s importance is accurate.”
“I can’t stop caring, though.” The marine breeze that teased Jim’s scalp shifted directions, blowing from the inland hills. An especially cool gust caught him, carrying the dirt-and-dew scent of vegetation and the faintest hint of something else, piquant and alien. “I want it now,” he said, suppressing a shudder. “I don’t have a choice.”
Part 2 >