ST Fanfic - Where men can't walk (Pt2)

[anruiukimi]

The next week passed quickly for Jim. He spoke with Chris twice more, and John again near the end of the week. He even spoke with his mother once, but it was as awkward a talk as it ever was; Jim had gone out for another long flight after that. Classes went just fine, even if Jim still didn't know what he would ever need half of this stuff for.

The food supply at the house finally reached critical levels about two and a half weeks before Chris was scheduled to be back, and Jim reluctantly got ready for a field trip to Mojave. Tightening his wing harness as far as it would go and ignoring the straining ache of his wing bones, Jim put on a pair of scuffed jeans and an oversized leather jacket, then headed out to the side of the house. He pulled the tarp off a large lump, revealing a slightly dusty motorcycle that looked almost as old as the car he had crashed years ago. Chris had informed him the first time he had been allowed to ride it that if he tried to reenact that stunt, he would be locked in a room and forced to watch old episodes of an old child's vid series called Barney and Friends until he went insane.

Jim had laughed until he had looked up what the show was. Then he realized how sadistic his Dad could be. When he asked him why he had picked that show, Chris's ears and nape had gone a rather amusing shade of burgundy, and he muttered something about a bet with George and Robert going horribly wrong before making a swift exit from the room. Jim never got anything else out of him about it, although he was positive that 'George' was his father. He liked thinking of his father as a prankster; it kept the omnipresent looming shadow of his father the Famous Dead Hero at bay.

Straddling the bike, Jim gave it a few jumps on the starter before the thing came to life, immediately surrounding him with a cloud of fine dust. He took off down the mountain, eyeing the locations of the concealed proximity sensors as he went past. Chris had set them up far beyond the range of his actual property for Jim's sake, even if it wasn't exactly legal, and it was always good to make sure they were operating normally. He reached the turn onto the main road, which had been paved so long ago that the desert winds had turned most of the asphalt to broken gravel. In an outdoorsy mood one day, he had taken some PADDs of study material and flown up to a nice shady niche he had found previously in the mountain that faced the road. Only three vehicles had passed by for the almost ten hours he was up there. Definitely not a high-traffic area, which is why it was ideal for your average bird-boy to hide away from the world. Jim smiled as he looked back up the dirt path to the house, then made sure his appearance was in order before taking off down towards Mojave.

Thirty minutes later found him cruising down the main drag of the strange town. The modern town of Mojave had been created as an early test of terraforming out of an area with a name that sounds as alien now as it did then, leaving the area resembling the farmlands of the Central Valley. It was a jarring transition, and Jim never got used to it. One minute he was speeding along brush-lined roads, the next he was surrounded by green grass and ranch land, making him look like a slob with the desert clinging to him. Chris had told him that the only thing he really missed from Mojave was the ability to keep horses, but his mother still maintained the ranch on the outskirts of the oasis town. Mrs. Pike-Thornton knew Jim was at Chris's house, but Jim had no intention of visiting. The woman was polite enough, but she had taken their cover story and drawn the entirely wrong conclusions. She had taken one look at him and had declared that he looked nothing like Chris, which was completely true; but after hearing their cover story of his mother dropping him off and vanishing, she had argued with Chris about how the woman was taking advantage of him, dumping a crippled child she had with another man on his doorstep and claiming it was his. Which Jim clearly wasn't, and are you trying to ruin your career, Christopher?

Jim wasn't supposed to have heard that discussion. They had visited right before they had left to return to San Francisco back before he had gone on the Yorktown for the first time, and there was a reason they had only stopped by once since. Chris had argued right back, and had taken great exception in her calling Jim ‘crippled’, much to Jim's relief. It had really driven home his worry over Chris's position, however, and he had sworn to himself that day that he would not get Chris in trouble by being an idiot. He had managed to keep that promise. Mostly.

There were two major grocery stores in town, and Jim chose the one the furthest away from the Pike homestead. Saved on awkward meetings in the middle of the bread aisle. Pulling into the parking lot, he brought the bike to a halt, hit the kickstand, and dismounted. A small girl about three parking spots down was staring at him, but her mother quickly pulled her into their car. Jim closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath, then walked into the store, ignoring everyone else around him. Grabbing a shopping cart, he pushed the hovering contraption over to the produce department and got to work.

After thirty minutes of receiving the usual combination of polite greetings, stares, and even a hostile glare or two as he shopped, he was approached by a teen-aged boy with dark slicked back hair and a nasty sneer on his face. Jim threw several boxes of pasta into the cart just as the boy pushed it to the side. Jim sighed. "What do you want, Falco?" He said, as Falco stopped well into his personal space, sneer twisting into a look of disgust as he gave Jim a once-over.

"Thought I told you that you weren't welcome here, Pike," Falco said, stabbing a finger into Jim's clavicle. Jim gave him a flat look, and held his ground.

"I think I told you last time that your orders mean nothing to me, Falco. You really need new material, man. The whole "you aren't welcome" bit was old in the twentieth century," Jim said, as he reached over the boy's head and grabbed some pasta sauce, putting it into his cart. Falco's face contorted into an ugly expression, and he moved to block Jim from moving further; now so close that their chests were touching. Jim snorted. "You aren't my type, Falco."

"Who the hell would ever want to fuck you, you freak!" Falco gave Jim a hard shove, knocking him into the dry pasta display and sending a collection of packages to the ground. Jim kept his footing, but stayed back.

"What the fuck is your problem! I wasn't bothering you!" Jim growled through clenched teeth, ignoring the protests that had arisen from his back and wings. The taller boy lunged forward and shoved him again, causing the entire shelving unit to wobble ominously. Jim heard a shout from the next aisle over, and closed his eyes in frustration. Ten more minutes and he would have been out of here, but this moron had to cause trouble again.

"What the world is going on here?" A gravel-voiced store clerk Jim didn't recognize appeared at the end of the aisle, and after a quick glance at the mess and the two of them, turned her glare on him. Figures. Falco smirked and stepped away from him as the middle-aged woman walked up to his abandoned cart, looking between him and the overflowing container. "What do you think you are doing, young man? Going to fill this up and ditch it? Think it's funny to make us work, don't you? Well, I'm having none of that! I'm calling the police and having you taken in for causing a public disturbance." The woman spoke at a million kilometers an hour; Jim realized belatedly that he probably looked like an idiot with his mouth hanging open. Falco was trying not to laugh, and Jim shot him a dirty look before turning his attention to the clerk.

"Ma'am, I'm shopping, I only come into town every other month for groceries, that's why the cart is so full-" Jim started, but the woman cut him off.

"Where do you live that you only 'come into town' occasionally? You are only what, seventeen? Don't give me that. I'm not an idiot; I'll not have you speaking to me like one." The clerk's hand was actually hovering near the side of his head, and Jim realized with a bemused horror that she appeared to be thinking of grabbing his ear. The hand moved in; Jim closed his eyes involuntarily. But after a moment of no contact, Jim let them open again, to see a hand wrapped around the woman's wrist.

"You know, Bonnie, if you had actually let Mr. Pike speak, and had noticed that Falco was clearly up to his old tricks again, you wouldn't be sounding like...something right now." Jim looked up to see the face of Mr. Isley, the store owner, and felt the tension that had sprung to life in his shoulders seep away. He glanced over at Falco, who muttered a denial before making himself scarce, and looked back at Bonnie the clerk, whose face had gone a peculiar shade of purple.

"Mr. Isley! This boy is clearly pulling pranks and causing problems! Look at the mess, and his cart! There's no way that is his real shopping!" The woman babbled, and Jim watched Mr. Isley roll his eyes.

"Bonnie, Mr. Pike comes in about every other month to purchase groceries. I charge the bill to his father's account, and I deliver the order. It has been like that for almost eight months now. And almost every time, Falco or one of his cronies tries to start trouble with him, and I have to kick them out of the store. Have you not been here for any of these occasions?" Mr. Isley looked at his employee, who had stopped talking and was so red that Jim was a tiny bit afraid that she was going to stroke on the spot. When the older man winked at him over the clerk's head, he barely held back a smile.

"Pike? As in Captain Pike? That fellow the local news always talks about?" Bonnie was looking at Jim now as if she could drill into him to find out what she wanted, and being incredibly unsubtle about gawking at his 'hump'. Her total obviousness was almost refreshing. Almost. Jim leaned over and began picking up the fallen pasta packages, putting them back on their shelves; Mr. Isley started doing the same.

"How is your father doing, Jim? The blurbs on the local news vids are usually pretty vague, so we don't hear much. Last I heard he was finishing up a diplomatic mission on the Tellerite home world?" Mr. Isley said, and Jim noted with amusement that Bonnie the clerk had stayed to listen to them talk.

Jim nodded. "That's actually all done. He's doing a short trip to Andoria for a bit, then he'll be back. He was delayed longer than he thought he would be." Putting the last bag of pasta back on the shelf, Jim straightened and adjusted his clothes.

"How goes the desert? I still think the Captain was crazy to build a house in the middle of nowhere in the Bristols, but hey, whatever works for him, right?" Mr. Isley said. Jim laughed in response.

"It's good, like always."

Mr. Isley nodded, motioning to Jim's shopping cart. "Good to hear, Jim. Let's get you finished up before anyone else tries to interrupt you." With the owner by his side, Jim finished up his shopping quickly, and picked out the items he wanted to carry back with him from the rest. Mr. Isley took the rest, and promised him it would be at his door by tomorrow afternoon. As they were walking out of the store, Mr. Isley gave Jim a quick clap on the shoulder. "Sorry about Bonnie, Jim. She's only lived in town for about a year now, and she's not exactly the shiniest hull plating on the shuttle, if you get my drift. I'm not fond of her habit of jumping to badly thought-out conclusions, but she does her job. You won't have to deal with her again like that, though; the woman never forgets a face. If you bring the Captain with you next time, you'll probably be helping him peel her off his leg," Mr Isley said quietly, chuckling at the end.

Jim grimaced at the mental image. "That's gross, Mr. Isley. I didn't need that in my head." They reached Jim's motorcycle in the parking lot, only to notice that Falco was resting against a car across from the bike, and Mr. Isley frowned.

"Falco, get out of here before I have you taken in for loitering, and leave Mr. Pike alone. He's never done anything to you," Mr. Isley said, and Falco spit on the ground in reply.

"You just coddle him because of who his Dad is, Isley. You think he's a freak like the rest of us, you just won't admit it." Falco spat one more time in Jim's direction before swaggering off. Mr. Isley shook his head and looked at Jim, a sigh escaping his lips.

"Unless a miracle happens, the only place Falco is ever going to go is the inside of a prison cell. I hope you don't listen to him, Jim. I respect your father very much, but you have shown yourself to be a fine young man. The Captain would have never let you stay there in that house alone if he didn't think so," Mr. Isley said, and Jim gave the man a thin smile. "Well now, have a good trip home, Mr. Pike. Be sure to bring the Captain with you next time!" Jim gave the man a half-wave as he settled on his bike, and with a final nod, set off.

Luckily, Falco appeared to have given up for now, and Jim left town without any more issues. Mr. Isley was nice enough, if a little clingy. According to Chris, he had been a few years behind him in high school, had had a serious hero crush on him after he got accepted into Starfleet Academy, and it had only gone downhill ever since he became Captain of a starship. If it helped him get his shopping done without getting framed for public disturbances, though, Jim didn't care. Parking the bike in its normal spot, Jim went inside, put away the groceries he had brought back with him, and shucked the harness. He had a small bruise at the top of his left wing from earlier.

Stupid people. Jim went up to his bedroom and turned on some music; blasting it so loud that he couldn't hear himself think. He would only be able to do this for another two weeks or so, might as well enjoy it.

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A week and a half before Chris's return, Jim was increasingly unable to keep still. He still managed to complete his class work without issue, and kept the house in reasonably clean condition, but if he wasn't doing chores or talking with Chris or John, he was out flying with the raptors. Chris had signed off with him the day before; he wouldn't be able to call again until a few days before he returned, so Jim had a lot of time to kill. The signal on the proximity sensors only reached about thirty-five hundred meters, which had been discovered through careful testing, or, in other words, Chris setting them off trying to get Jim's attention, so he usually topped out with the vultures at around three-thousand meters to play it safe.

The world was a very different place from so high up, Jim had realized the first time he had managed to get himself to get himself over two-thousand meters. The air was thinner and there was less company, as many birds rarely go that high.  But most importantly, it was so quiet. Jim closed his eyes and let his body drift on the currents, listening to the distant growls of the vultures and the shrieks of the eagles as his breath evened out.

A freezing gust of wind smashed into Jim, causing him to fall out of the current he was riding and plummet for several heart-stopping seconds until he recovered enough to stabilize himself. He hung in the air gasping, scrubbing at his eyes with both palms. He had fallen asleep. He’d never done that before. Looking blearily at the sky around him, he realized that he had slept the afternoon away; the warmth of the sun was fading fast, and Jim felt the rapidly cooling air biting at his skin. He couldn't stay up here any longer, he wasn't dressed for it. Twisting his body sharply, he flew towards the surface, his eyes scanning the desert floor. It was only when he was about to descend into the mountains below when Jim realized that these weren't his mountains.

"Oh, shit." Flapping his wings furiously, Jim got himself back above the peaks, his head spinning around as he tried to figure out his location. Where the hell was he? There were almost no lights on the ground, so he hadn't drifted over to Barstow and the Ords, these weren't the Cadys, and there was no way he had flown all the way up to Death Valley. He had drifted east, then. The Providence Mountains were a bit higher than the Bristols, and were a much longer range; if he went the wrong way, he could be lost for hours. Jim examined the emerging stars until he oriented himself, then headed west at a fast clip. The remaining sunlight was almost gone, which means it must be at least eighteen-hundred hours-

"Mom. Mom's supposed to call around nineteen-hundred hours. Shit shit shit!" Jim yelled into the wind as he sped up as fast as he could handle, the only thing to his advantage is that the wind direction had shifted, easing his flight. He was high enough to see the lights of Mojave to the north as he flew past, the sight calming him down immensely. Chris would kill him if he ever found out about this. Which is why Jim had no intention of telling him. Turning south, the sight of his mountains made him smile. As soon as he cleared the outer perimeter, he began to descend, the mountain walls rushing by. He slowed himself down enough to keep his ankles from shattering on impact, but he felt his landing in two very sharp spikes of pain that caused him to stumble and crash face-first into the dirt.

"Ow. Fuck, that hurt." Jim moaned as he got to his feet gingerly, brushing the dirt off his front and ignoring the blood that was seeping into his mouth from his nose. He limped the hundred meters or so back to the house, remembering the proximity alarm as he climbed the front steps. With a panicked scramble, he pulled out the alert device and checked the last six hours. When the response was negative, Jim gave a strained chuckle, brushed at his clothing, and entered the house.

After several minutes of washing his face in the bathroom, Jim realized that the noise in the distance wasn't his head throbbing, and he staggered away from the sink and into the family room, where the console was alerting him to an incoming call from a Commander Winona Kirk. He hit the audio-receive button as he used his shirt to dry his face.

"Jimmy? Jimmy, are you there?"

Jim nodded automatically, then smacked his forehead. "Uh, yeah. Hi Mom!" Jim said, pulling tissue out of his nose to see if it had stopped bleeding.

"Where in the world have you been? I tried calling about twenty minutes ago, and got no answer." Winona's voice was more curious than worried, and Jim flopped into the chair by the console.

"Sorry. I was outside, and I lost track of time," Jim said, putting the dirty tissue on the table by the console.

Winona made a 'hmm' noise. "Turn on the vid screen, Jimmy. Let me see you." Jim hesitated, then hit the button. He tried to ignore her immediate gasp. "Good grief! What happened to you, Jimmy? You didn't just lose track of time, did you?" Her eyes scanned his torso, and Jim flinched.

"I got a little lost, that's all," Jim said, scratching at a scratch on his cheek.

Winona pursed her lips and stared for a moment, obviously examining the rest of him. "Just how lost did you get? Las Vegas lost?"

Jim snorted, and waved a hand in denial. "About seventy kilometers. I was able to find my bearings, though. Obviously."

"Jim, they still sometimes do military testing down at Twenty-nine Palms. You can't just be fluttering around without knowing where you are!" Winona exclaimed, her face torn between concern and anger. Jim scowled, poking his finger through a new hole in his pants. "Jimmy, listen to me!"

Jim glared at the screen, trying to keep his voice even. "Is that concern because I might get hurt, or are you afraid I'll get seen?" Winona flinched, but kept her eyes on Jim.

"Jim...Jim. I admit that it's a bit the second one, but it's for your own concern, not mine. I thought you were worried about Chris, yes? I don't know if they are doing ballistics testing anymore in California, but I don't want to hear about you getting shot out of the sky because you weren't paying attention." Winona's eyes softened, and Jim felt the stirrings of anger in his gut calm.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Jim said, and Winona gave a slight smile.

"Oh yes, Jimmy? Being lost does not usually mean that you look like you've been through a bar brawl. Explain," Winona said, and Jim slumped in his seat with a groan.

"I may have landed a little hard," Jim muttered, wincing as he rubbed at a sore spot on his chest.

Winona sighed, putting a hand over her eyes. "I think you try to do too much with those things, Jimmy. People weren't meant to fly under their own power. What if you get really lost? Or if a shuttle hits you? You could fly too high and get altitude sickness, Jim. How high were you flying today?" Jim looked away, and Winona spoke again. "How high were you flying, Jim?"

"Does it really matter? I know how high I can go without problems. My lungs and blood vessels are much bigger than normal, so I have more range than an average person," Jim said, looking back at his mother. Winona's eyes drifted from his, and Jim suddenly felt incredibly tired. "I've been wanting to ask you for awhile, Mom; could I...come and visit sometime? I-I haven't seen you this side of a vid screen since everything happened."

Winona tensed, a muscle in her cheek twitching, but did not look Jim in the eye when she replied. "Jimmy, I...don't think that would be the best idea. There's nothing out here for you. You wouldn't be able to fly, or really do anything."

Jim's eyes narrowed. "I understand the flying, but why wouldn't I be able to do anything?"

"Jimmy, everyone thinks you've been in a boarding school off-planet this whole time. They know nothing about your physical...differences." Winona paused, her expression impossible for Jim to read. "Chris is more than well-known enough around here for someone to make the connection if they see you here, and if a news vid mentions his son Jim Pike. The whole story would collapse within days." Winona met Jim's eyes, but the look on her face made something inside Jim tear a bit, and he dropped his head to his chest, his eyes clenched tightly closed.

Without looking up, Jim opened his mouth and spoke, "If that won't work, could we maybe meet somewhere? I mean, you could even come here for a bit." Jim looked up, his eyes red with unshed tears; guilt flashed across Winona's face, and she looked down at her hands. Jim blinked rapidly and bit his lip, trying to keep from crying. "But that's just it, isn't it? You won't come here. I'm less of a reality if we talk over a comm link like this, right? Seeing me in person would bring it all back into focus for you," Jim finished, and looked defiantly at Winona, who met his gaze after what seemed like a lifetime to him.

"What do you want me to say, Jim? That I still don't know what to think of this whole wing business?" Winona waved her right hand in the air as she spoke, and Jim watched it without meaning to. "That I don't know how Chris can handle all of this so calmly? Jimmy- Jimmy, I love you; but I don't understand what you've become. I don't know if I ever will." Winona's eyes, sad and loving and frightened all at the same time looked into Jim's. Jim took a shaking breath and clenched his fists under the table, his fingernails digging into his palms; silence stretched between them for minutes, but neither of them cried. Jim was unwillingly reminded of their last encounter.

Jim unclenched his fingers, and looked up at his mother. "Thank you for being honest, Mom. I won't ask again." Jim's voice wasn't shaking, but he felt like his stomach was being carved out with a spoon. He swallowed the nauseous feeling that was crawling up his spine as Winona shook her head.

"I don't mean- I'm not saying forever, Jimmy. Just let me have some more time to think about things. Maybe after this mission, all right? That's all I can give you right now, sweetie. I'm sorry."

Jim barely remembered ending the call a minute or so later. He sat in the chair by the console for what felt like forever, torn between throwing up, kicking the shit out of something, and crying like a baby. He chose none of those. He got to his feet and walked out the door of the house, ignoring the twinges in his legs from earlier. The wind had increased ten-fold in intensity, and Jim was aloft as soon as he unfurled his wings. The only light was from the house below, the stars above, and the beautiful full moon, and Jim was grateful for it. The cold air reminded him that he hadn't put on a jacket, but that just made him fly faster. His muscles screamed as he climbed and dove in graceful patterns, the white and gold tones of his wings glowing in the brilliant moonlight. The hiss of a vulture near his head made him jump, and he growled at the bird as he continued his aerobatics. Vultures were everywhere, growling and diving. He didn't hear the voices from below until it was far too late.

"...what are we doing here, Derko? It's fucking freezing out here!"

"Thought you might want to try the game we've got going right now, nephew. Here."

"Holy fuck, Derko! Where did you get this?"

"I have my sources, kid. Let's see what we can do. Nighttime makes it harder, ya see? None of this pansy shooting in the daytime."

"This is a fucking laser rifle! What the hell are we gonna- it's you guys! You and Misar! Yer the ones shooting the animals!"

"Gotta live sometime, kid. Are you gonna man up and try it?"

"Yeah- yeah, sounds fun. But what are we gonna find out here in the Bristols? Wouldn't the Providence Mountains have been better?"

"The vultures like it here, and I haven't bagged one of them yet."

"Vultures? Holy shit, I see what you mean! Wait-"

"What, kid?"

"That's a big fucking vulture. And it's white, too. Maybe it's an al-beeno?"

"You mean albino, you dumb shit. What the hell are you looking at?"

"It's right there, see?"

"Holy- Holy shit is a fucking understatement, kid. That beast is mine!"

Jim stopped circling as he realized what he was hearing, the blood rushing from his face. "Oh fuck."

The vultures suddenly scattered as a bright red light shot into the sky, barely missing Jim's left side; he immediately turned and dove for the cliffs.

"Let me try, Derko!"

"I told you it's mine, you dipshit!"

Jim scanned the cliff sides in a panic, looking for a place to hide. The niches were all on the other side of the mountain, Jim realized in dawning horror. Another shot flew over his right wing, and he backpedaled. The house was just over the ridge; if he could get there, he could hide in the storage tanks until the poachers left. Flapping his wings violently, Jim fled towards the ridge, his heart straining against his chest. He reached the edge of the ridge and looked down, the house was right below him-

The pain shot through Jim's right shoulder and wing like nothing he had ever felt before, and he was halfway to the ground before he managed to open his eyes. The nausea from earlier returned to the surface with a bang, he spat involuntarily. The pain was too much, and tears were gathering in his eyes. He had to slow down. Forcing his injured wing to move, he managed to slow himself enough to aim for a landing spot, and he crashed into the creosote bushes by the side of the house. Moaning in pain, only adrenaline got Jim to his feet and into the house, where he activated the security system and collapsed in the bathroom to hide. The forgotten proximity alerter sat flashing on the counter. The voices from outside were faint through the walls, but Jim could still make them out.

"Where the hell is it? Falco, you fuckhead, I told you not to shoot!"

"It's not my fault, Derko! Yer the one who hit it anyway!"

"There's a house here. Why is there a house here in the middle of fucking nowhere? Shit! Kid, do you see it?"

"There's nothin'."

"Shit! Then we need to go, last thing I need is to be caught carrying; I've already got weapons convictions on my sheet."

"Derk, I think I know whose house this is!"

"I don't give a shit whose house this is, you fucking idiot! We need to leave!"

Jim heard a cry of pain from Falco, followed by the sounds of running; he didn't breathe until he could no longer hear them. Jim lifted his left arm onto the counter, grabbed the edge of the sink, and tried to pull himself up. When his head and shoulders cleared the counter top, he froze. He could see through the wound in his wing, and his shoulder was starting to swell; but strangely, they didn't really hurt. The smell of burning flesh finally registered in Jim's mind, and it was all suddenly too much. His grip on the sink failed, and he sagged to the floor unconscious.

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Jim awoke about six hours later, his entire body feeling like he had fallen into a lit fireplace. It took him almost fifteen minutes to get himself into the living room, where the medical kit was stored; he could walk, but any movement of his upper-right side caused the nausea to come back full force. He was going to have a hell of a mess to clean up once he got himself fixed up. Pulling out the kit with his left arm, he opened it and grabbed the first pain-relieving hypospray he got to, stabbing it into his neck, followed by a general antibiotic. As the medicine ran through his system, Jim stared at his options. The kit had a dermal regenerator and dermaline gel. He would have to make it work. Opening the dermaline gel jar with his teeth, he used his left hand to work it into the outside radius of his shoulder burn, sobbing with pain as the gel tried to work. Jim used the dermal regenerator on the more serious parts of the wound, but it was obvious it wasn't going to be enough. It had to be enough, as going to the hospital was out of the question. Jim worked on and off on his injuries, stopping only when the pain threatened to make him pass out. After hours of gel and the regenerator, his wing was no longer see-through, and his shoulder looked somewhat better. He would just have to keep working on it.

The next few days passed quickly, if only because Jim was asleep or unconscious for much of it. He had managed to keep down a little bit of food at the beginning, but by the morning of the fourth day after the attack, he could no longer get anything but water to stay put. He had camped out on the family room floor on the second day, as he was no longer able to get himself up the stairs; he was in the same pants he had been in on the night of the attack. He had been unable to completely close the wound on his shoulder; it had turned into a disgusting mass of blackened dead flesh, which smelled horrible and would not stop weeping. The wound on his wing was in better shape, but it was excruciatingly painful to move, and also appeared to be infected. To make matters worse, the infections had triggered a nasty fever, which made him shake uncontrollably. His sides were beginning to ache ominously, and a short inquiry on the computer had told him that he was in danger of renal failure. He couldn't go on anymore without help.

Jim shivered under a thin blanket and weighed his options. Chris was only a week away, but he would probably be dead before he returned at this rate. John was about an hour away by shuttle. Or he could just call the hospital and deal with the fallout. There was no choice there. John was the easily the better of the two remaining options. Jim just hoped that John could wait until Chris got back before he reported the mess to Starfleet.

Biting back a moan as he pushed himself into a sitting position, Jim sat on the floor gasping in pain for several minutes until he gathered the will to haul himself into the chair by the console. Falling as gently as he could into the seat, he fidgeted until he got himself into a stable position. His body felt like a wet noodle, his legs shaking with the effort of keeping him from falling out of the chair. After taking one last hypospray for the pain, Jim raised a shaking hand to the console, making sure the video was off before placing the call. He tried to get his body to stop shuddering, but the fever was making it harder and harder to achieve.

"Admiral Archer's office. May I help you?"

Taking a deep breath and blinking back tears as it pulled at his shoulder wound, Jim opened his mouth. "Hi, Ms. Nakashima. I-it's Jim Pike. Is-is the Admiral available?"

Continued in Or freely talk soon!

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This is now the longest thing I've written in years. :o The next in line will probably be shorter, though. This may be a good thing.

A few notes on the setting, as fellow SoCal hombres and Imperials are going to probably notice:

I moved the town of Mojave. Because of the description given in the TOS pilot, one of a green paradise in the middle of the desert, I figured that something extreme (terraforming test?) has to have happened for this to reasonably and sustainably work, and for that, I thought they would try a mostly uninhabited area to test. So the "modern" Mojave in the story is on an area of land in San Bernardino County, set around the current location of the area of Zzyzx, touching the town of Baker. You can say that the original Mojave (located in Kern County, about 200km away) reverted to using the old spelling, if it makes you feel better (Mohave.) ^_~

Small settlements such as the ones that dot Interstates 15 and 40 come and go, so it wouldn't be out of the question that some have vanished or changed in the next 200 years. Chris & Jim's house is closest to the currently existing "town" of Ludlow (and its approximately 10 residents,) but I've gotten rid of it in the future. As sad as it makes me, I think in this universe of light-speed transport and alien worlds, things such as Route 66 (which runs up 40 for awhile) will have fallen even more on the wayside than they already have, which would have killed many of the settlements on the way; making their house more isolated than it would be now.

Regarding the turkey vultures: I don't know if they hang around the Bristol Mountains specially. They are however moderately common to the Mojave Desert. :)

Regarding the "San Berdoo (San Bernardino) Kangaroo Rats:" These adorable little rodents have been a hot topic regarding the rights of land use and critical habitat in the Island Empire for over 10 years now. They are also an endangered species. In the story, I've had them recover enough that their habitat has expanded to at least the Barstow area, (which is about 90km west of Jim) with pockets beyond.

This is a quickie map I made up using the magic of Google Earth. :)

There were...7 musical references in this, including the title. See if you spotted them all! :D

I did a color sketch over a very special photograph for this chapter: A Mojave Sunset

Here were the musical references from Under an atomic sky, excepting the title:

1. Admiral Lehrer is based on the singer-satirist Tom Lehrer.
2. Commodore Newton is based on the singer Juice Newton.
3. The song Chris sings is "How Blue Can You Get?" by B.B. King.

Thanks for reading!