COLORS: Achromatic - Part One
COLORS: Achromatic: Part One
ATROUS:
Black
The box is black.
“Well, what is it?” Kirk is hovering, eyeing the object on the central dais like a little kid contemplating a new toy in the store window. “What’s it do?”
How the hell is he supposed to know? Scotty frowns at the innocuous item and runs an energy reader over it again. Low level output. Something there all right, but what? No openings that he can see. No controls. Just flat, featureless metal. He makes a face and scratches his head. “I’ve no got a scooby.”
Kirk gives him an aggrieved look. “You’re the engineer.”
Scotty makes a quelling gesture. “Dinnae fash yourself, now.” His forehead crinkles in thought, then clears as the answer comes to him. He gestures at the device with a flourish. “It’s a black box.”
Kirk purses his lips in that grumpy expression that means he is less than pleased. Or constipated. One or the other. Maybe both. “A black box?”
“Aye, sir. Definitely a black box. Or a box, which is black. Whichever you prefer.” Scotty tries to sound knowledgeable.
Apparently not knowledgeable enough as Kirk keeps nipping. “Mister Scott, I can see it’s a black box! What else it is? What does it do? What is its function? Why are there about… a gazillion of them here?” Kirk gestures at the endless rows of black boxes arranged in tidy pigeon holes disappearing into the shadowy distance of the facility.
Commander Spock steps closer, inserting himself smoothly into the discussion. “ ‘A gazillion’ is not an accurate quantitative descriptor, Captain. It is a fictional exaggeration which is neither accurate nor precise, the use of which suggests a disregard for scientific and mathematical exactitude.”
“Oh really,” Kirk shoots back, and Scot can’t quite reign in the smile that twitches his lips. Watching these two take the piss out of each other is more fun than Hunting the Gowk. Reminds him of his nan and granda - old married couple bickering about everything, but devoted through and through.
Kirk folds his arms in challenge. “Then just how many boxes would you say there are, Commander?”
Scott rolls his eyes heavenward. Surely the lad has learned by now…
“Approximately two billion, five hundred ninety-nine million, six hundred fifty-nine thousand, thirty-six,” Spock rattles off in his unflappable monotone. “Based upon my calculations that each row contains one hundred sixty-five thousand, seven hundred fifty boxes, multiplied by the number of vertical columns which increase exponentially as one progresses deeper into the facility, and assuming the facility covers an area of approximately four hundred ninety-four thousand, three hundred fifty-two square meters.”
Kirk looks pained, but recovers quickly. Scotty has to give him that. “Right. Okay. But what are they doing here?”
“That I am unable to determine at this time. I lack the necessary data to make a full analysis of this facility.”
Kirk beams, apparently pleased to once again have the upper hand. “Then that, gentlemen, is what we need to find out.”
He reaches towards the black box, and Scotty reacts without thinking, slapping his hand away. “Are y’ daft, man? Dinnea touch it!”
“Hey!” Kirk snatches his hand back, looking wounded. “Wha…Why not?”
“Well,” Scotty points out, feeling a bit put out that his expertise would be questioned. “It might be dangerous.”
“For crying out loud, Jim!” Doctor McCoy stalks towards them from where he’s been examining a set of translucent, tubular chambers aligned along the nearest curved wall of the dome. “What have we told you about touching everything? What is it with you? It’s like a damn compulsion or something!”
Kirk looks to Scott for support. “But you said you didn’t know what it does.”
Scott likes Kirk, he really does, but sometimes the lad can be a bit of a numpty. “Nae, I don’t, but that doesn’t mean it canna nip ye in the arse.”
“You see?” McCoy crows, vindicated, waving his arm around as though indicating the universe in general. “Like the man said…” he leans in, getting up in Kirk’s face, “…dangerous.”
Kirk gives McCoy an annoyed scowl and addresses Scotty. “You mean they could be weapons? Like bombs?”
“Unlikely,” Spock speculates, his tricorder whirring. “The energy signature suggests a less volatile function.” His head cocks, thoughtfully. “More likely storage devices of some kind.”
“Aye, he’s dead right about that,” Scotty confirms, consulting his own readings once more. “The boxes contain low level energy fields, but nothing like you’d see with energetic plasma.” As he adjusts the reader, he notes a strange shiver and jump in the energy output aura. He’s seen it before, when they first arrived on the planet. “It’s back, Mister Spock! That flux-pattern. The one I told ye about.” He holds out his reader to the Vulcan and taps on the screen. “There! You see?”
Spock frowns, and glances down at his tricorder screen. “Indeed. That could be significant.”
“What?” Kirk is suddenly peering over their shoulders. “What could be significant?”
“There’s something else here. Some power source, and it has an energy signature that’s totally dodgy.” Scotty shakes his head and whistles low. “It’s nae something I’ve seen before.”
Spock nods thoughtfully. “It appears to be emanating from this location.”
Kirk watches the strange spiked activity on the energy reader with interest. “You think that… that energy output… whatever it is… you think that is what you picked up on the ship?”
“Most likely,” Spock confirms. “The other devices do not generate sufficient power to have created electromagnetic fluctuations in the Tarrill grid.”
Kirk gazes around, and Scott can tell from his narrowed eyes and guarded movements, that he has shifted to alert status. “Then what did?
***
They’d detected signs of long abandoned settlements on some of the outer moons of the nearby solar system, but the small planetoid itself likely would not have garnered even a passing glance had Scotty not picked up on some unusual fluctuations in the Tarrill grid. Nothing major - hardly noteworthy actually - but Scotty clearly remembered the last time he’d dismissed something as “hardly noteworthy.” It had taken weeks of practically living in the Jefferies tubes to get the nano-infestation out of the wiring. Determined that a similar occurrence was so not happening again on his watch, Scotty contacted the bridge, and Commander Spock confirmed his findings that there was indeed something, “awfy big puttin’ out a butt-load of power down there, Cap’n,” though Spock didn’t exactly put it in those words during the briefing.
So they beamed down, because descriptions like “awfy big” and “a butt-load of power” apparently got Spock and his highly efficient science department all bammed up.
And the landing party - consisting of Captain Kirk, Commander Spock, Doctor McCoy, two security guards, Scott himself, and a petite, redheaded science tech named Tessie O’Sullivan that Scott would like to get to know better - found themselves in the center of what appeared to be a city, or what was left of a city. There was a general air of neglect about the place. Not a soul in sight - just lots of multi-story structures falling into disrepair. The sky was a dull, leaden grey, and the ground not much more appealing. There was little plant life, and what did grow appeared stunted and spindly. Ahead of them, a single structure sood out amongst the others, an immense dome rising above the cityscape, glowing from within like a giant, pearlescent bubble; it was the only source of power they could detect on their instruments.
“There,” Kirk said, indicating the dome. “We check it out.”
They trooped in that direction, Kirk jogging ahead to peer into darkened doorways while the security team scuttled after him in a doomed effort to keep him contained. Spock and O’Sullivan with their noses glued to their tricorder screens. Scott with his energy reader firmly in hand, and McCoy grousing about anything and everything that came to mind.
The good Doctor is one of the little gems that keeps life aboard the Enterprise a daily treat for Scott. He’s a bit of a crabbit, hates transporters, has little interest in exploring new worlds, is aviophobic, acrophobic, a touch xenophobic and possibly misanthropic, and yet he horns in on landing parties on a regular basis. If Kirk goes, he goes. It’s sweet really, and a bit daft, in Scott’s opinion, but the man certainly makes what could be a dull away mission much more colorful.
O’Sullivan and Spock had apparently found something that twisted their panties in a bunch. The leaned over their tricorders blethering excitedly - well, Lieutenant O’Sullivan was blethering in her delightful brogue. Spock was just being Spock. McCoy wandered over to join their little clump of blue uniforms and they stood around chattering in science speak like a bevy of Blue Tits.
“Captain,” Spock finally intoned, trotting after Kirk. “We are reading high concentrations of diversified environmental toxins in the air and soil of this planet. This level of environmental contamination would render this planet inhospitable to most life as we know it.”
Kirk glanced around at the low, heavy sky and dreary landscape. “Are we in any danger?”
“No, Jim,” McCoy speculated. “Not for the short duration of an exploratory mission. But we’ll have to go through a good decon when we get aboard, and if we plan on staying any longer that a few hours, we should probably get suited up in EVs.”
Kirk shook his head. “No, just a short look around right now. Depending upon what we find, we might come back with a more specialized team, but for now we just take a quick peek.”
Scott was listening, but his attention was on the energy reader in his hand. He was getting some strange blip in the output aura, a vacillating pattern unlike anything he’d seen before. He tapped on the ER screen to make sure it wasn’t malfunctioning somehow. The strange oscillations remained. Something was putting out an arse-load of power. “Well, I’ll be jiggered. Mister Spock,” he observed, “I’m pickin’ up some strange energy readings.” He peered at the reader, then nodded to indicate the dome ahead. “They appear to be coming from that pretty bauble.”
Spock stepped closer, and held out a hand. “May I?”
Scotty handed over the ER and watched while Spock consulted the output data. His head cocked curiously - like a bird, thought Scott - like a super intelligent, sharp-eyed bird with pointed ears. “I do not detect any readings other than the low level emanations we have been tracking since our arrival, Mister Scott.”
Scotty blinked. “Aye? Tha’ canna be right.” He retrieved the ER and studied the screen, but Spock was correct. There was no trace of the flux-pattern that had caught his interest. “I dinnae understand. It was here a moment ago. I’d swear it on me granda’s grave, I would.”
Kirk squinted at Spock and chewed a bit on his lower lip. “O’Sullivan, did you pick up anything?”
With an apologetic glance at Scotty, she shook her head. Her copper curls bobbed in agitation. “No sir. I’m sorry. I was monitoring the environmental data.”
“Bones?”
“Same here, Jim. I was busy computing toxin levels.”
“And you did not see anything, Spock?”
“Negative.” Spock twiddled with the controls on his own tricorder, looking perturbed, or at least as perturbed as a Vulcan could look. “I was also engaged in analyzing the ecological datastream. It is unfortunate I cannot confirm Mister Scott’s findings.” He glanced at Scott with unfathomable dark eyes. “However, I do not doubt the veracity of his claims. He has proven reliable, if somewhat unconventional, in his position as Chief Engineer.”
Bless Mister Spock. That was as close to a Vulcan compliment as one was likely to get, and Scotty was well chuffed. The Vulcan would have made a damn fine engineer. Too bad he was wasted in science and command.
“Whatever it was, it’s gone now.” Kirk glances towards the dome. “You said it came from there?”
“It looked like it, yes sir.”
Kirk grinned, easily. “Well, since that’s where we’re headed anyway, guess we can kill two birds with one stone!”
Spock glanced speculatively at the captain. “Why would we wish to extirpate avian life forms?”
Kirk just laughed and slapped the Vulcan on the back as they headed towards the dome.
McCoy, for his part, muttered, “I wish you wouldn’t use phrases like that. Couldn’t you pick something…? I don’t know… a little less violent?”
***
Scotty waves his portable x-ray generator over the black device and swears. Nothing. It sits there, on the central pedestal, in inscrutable silence, and mocks him. “Maybe if we run it through the onboard radiograph scan we can get a better idea of the internal structure. I’m getting nothing on this boggin piece of space garbage.” He bangs on the side of his scanner in disgust.
“Perhaps the metal casing is impervious to our instrumentation,” speculates Spock, crouching down to eye level with the box. “Or it could have a form of energy shielding with which we are unfamiliar.” He fiddles with the controls on his tricorder. He does that a lot, and Scotty has a brief, uncharitable thought that maybe the Vulcan isn’t actually doing anything productive, but simply plays with the dials in order to look industrious.
Sighing, Scott scratches the top of his head in hopes of stimulating thought. “It’s a bawbuster, all right. I’d like to get it aboard and see what the lads and lassies can make of it.”
Spock glances towards Kirk, McCoy, and O’Sullivan. The three are busy inspecting the arrangement of large, cylindrical cubicles under the watchful eye of security. “The captain is uncertain of the wisdom of beaming this object aboard without first ascertaining its function.”
“He’s still thinkin’ it might go… BOOM?” Scott proclaims with anomalous cheer, throwing his arms out to illustrate an explosion.
This earns him a bland look from the Vulcan. “If by that fatuous spectacle, you mean to suggest he has concerns that the object may pose a risk to the Enterprise, then yes.”
Scotty grins, reassuringly. “Ah, he needn’t worry. We’ll take bonny good care of it, just like a wee bairn in a cradle.”
Spock straightens, his brows drawing together just a touch in the center. “I believe that you made similar assurances concerning the spherical object we located on Tau-Omikron. The one which, as I recall, exploded while being transported, resulting in damages which…”
“All right! All right!” Scotty interrupts, throwing up his hands in surrender. “Wheesht, will ye! That was an unfortunate accident.”
“And the recent incident with the nano-tech?”
“Not strictly my fault. T’was the cap’n who was all geed up about installing that new modification.”
“The one which I believe you encouraged him to procure through a distributor of somewhat questionable credentials and ethics?”
“Well now, Mister Spock,” Scotty informs the Vulcan sagaciously, “ye canna just order something like that out of a catalogue.”
The commander’s lips flatten in disapproval. “With good reason, Mister Scott.”
Scott doesn’t have an answer for that. Besides, experience has established that arguing with a Vulcan is pointless. Instead, he kneels down to examine the base of the pedestal, hoping to find someway to gain access to the box from there.
He’s in the middle of trying to slip the tip of his redi-tool into a near invisible seam in the apparatus, when his energy reader beeps at him. He’s got it programmed to notify him if the unusual energy fluctuations should return, as they have yet to identify the source. “Mister Spock! Tha’ energy pulse! It’s back!” He glances at the screen and sees the telltale jiggling of the output aura. This time is seems even more pronounced than before. “Whatever it is, it’s go’n like the clappers. My reader’s off the scale!”
“Mister Scott. I suggest you take a look at this.” There is just a hint of heightened inflection in Spock’s tone, but seeing as he is Vulcan, that slight inflection is enough to send Scotty scrambling to his feet.
The black box is no longer sitting in inscrutable silence. It is beginning to glow with a strange inner light. The once opaque flat faces have turned nebulous, and are swirling with a spectrum of color. It is both alarming and beautiful.
Scott gawps at the changes. “Well now, that’s fan-dabby-dozy. Do you suppose that’s the source of the energy oscillations?”
“Possibly. Although my tricorder is reading a secondary source…”
A sudden babble of raised voices attracts their attention, and they turn as one to see McCoy throw himself at the translucent walls of one of the tubular chambers. “Jim!”
One of the cylindrical cells is now sealed shut, and is also flickering with a rainbow of colors. Scotty can barely see the indistinct outline of someone dressed in command gold inside the capsule with their hands pressed up against the walls. “Oh shite,” he notes as Spock takes off across the vast space.
Tossing his diagnostic tools back in his kit, Scotty pelts after the Vulcan.
They arrive to find McCoy and security officer Jackson desperately trying to locate an opening to the chamber. Beyond the semi-opaque walls, Scotty can see Kirk banging ineffectively against the barrier. He is also shouting, but his voice sounds far away and muffled, his words swallowed. The patterns of color in the exterior appear to be shifting at an increasing speed, and there is an accompanying whine that is rising in pitch proportionately.
Spock begins running his fingers over the surface of the cell, seeking entrance. Scotty joins him, digging a sonar compass out of his kit, and playing it over the shell of the cubical. He reaches out to brace himself against the barrier, and draws back in surprise. The surface feels strange; it is slick and oily but leaves no residue on his skin. The wall gives slightly under his touch, like a thick membrane rather than a solid surface. He can detect no signs of the previous opening on his compass.
“He entered the chamber?” Spock directs the question at Doctor McCoy.
“Of course he entered the chamber!” McCoy snarls, his own concern expressing itself as acrimony. “Jesus H. Christ! What do you think? We threw him in there?”
“Sirs?” The burly, mahogany skinned Jackson is holding up his phaser. His broad, round face is grave. “Should I try burning through?”
“Negative, Lieutenant,” Spock replies. “We do not know what affect that may have upon the chamber or the captain.”
Tessie O’Sullivan and the second security officer, Ensign Tevyal, an Andorian female, are busy trying to operate an instrument panel set in a wall along side the series of tubes.
“Mister Scott,” O’Sullivan calls, her brown eyes wide with excitement as she waves the engineer to her side. “We think this controls the chambers, but we can’t quite figure it out.”
Scott scurries to join them, figuring his aptitude is better fitted to fiddling with the console anyway. They have the front of the panel torn open, the circuitry exposed. The wiring does not look too foreign, although it is constructed of some unfamiliar materials. Schematics are flashing on the flat screen above the control board. He can’t make heads or tails of the script flowing across the screen - looks like worms doing a jig - but he can follow the diagrams fairly well. The display indicates that one of the chambers and one of the black boxes are engaged in some kind of wireless data transfer. At least that is what he thinks it shows.
The high frequency whistle is reaching a pitch which is painful to the ear, and Scott sees Spock wince and duck his head slightly. He recalls the superior Vulcan hearing with sympathy. The exterior of the capsule is now flashing so fast it is difficult to discern individual colors; it is becoming a blur of milky white.
Something is happening inside the chamber, and it doesn’t look favorable for the captain. Kirk is no longer shouting or struggling to get out. Instead, he has slumped against the wall, sliding to the floor of the booth, and curling in on himself. McCoy is consulting the readings on his tricorder in alarm. “Spock! We’ve got to get him out of there! That thing is killing him!”
Spock abandons his efforts to locate an opening, and slams his shoulder into the translucent barrier in hopes of cracking it open. The wall gives slightly, then bounces back, throwing him clear. He lands lightly on his feet. “Doctor,” he commands, voice somewhat harsh with the strain of keeping his emotions in check. “A scalpel, please.”
Scotty fingers fly over the alien instrumentation as he watches the sequence of graphics skitter across the screen. An uneasy feeling begins building in his stomach.
Oh, they are bollocksed for sure.
Over his shoulder, O’Sullivan lets out a soft gasp and Ensign Tevyal makes a soft growling sound in her throat, muttering something harsh in Andorian. Apparently, they too have drawn the same conclusion from the flashing set of schematics. Scott fiddles frantically with the controls, figuring they really have very little to loose at this point. “Mister Spock,” he calls, voice rising in trepidation. “You best get the cap’n out’ta there right now!”
Spock has taken a scalpel from McCoy and plunged the sharp point into the exterior membrane of the booth, slashing downward in a swift stroke. The shell parts momentarily in the wake of the blade, but reseals almost immediately, leaving no trace of the cut. His attempt to open a small hole and insert his fingers meets with an equal lack of success.
Kirk is now lying motionless on the floor of the capsule. Individual colors are no longer visible in the walls. The booth glows with bright, pulsing, white lighting.
Scotty almost hears the ping of a timer go off in his head. ‘Time’s up!’ it seems to gloat.
“Spock!” McCoy shouts, genuine fear in his voice.
Tevyal pulls her phaser, shoving O’Sullivan and Scott aside. She aims at the control panel and shoots a despairing glance at Mister Scott.
“Do it, lass!” he shouts, praying to any gods that might exist that he’s right about this.
Tevyal fingers the trigger and the distinctive trill of phaser fire cuts through the chaos of the moment. Sparks fly from the console and the smell of ozone and burned circuitry is strong.
The piercing whine stutters and dies. The light of the cell flickers and goes out, leaving the interior dim.
For a moment, there is stunned silence; then Spock turns to them, expression demanding. Ensign Tevyal, to her credit, stands firm in the face of his stern authority, though her blue skin blanches a shade paler, and her antennae stiffen with tension. “Ssssir. I felt the captain’sssss life was in eminent danger. I took actionsss I deemed necessary.”
Scott is perhaps no less intimidated by the austere Vulcan, but he does have rank on his side. “She was following my orders, Commander.” He nods towards the now quiescent chamber. “That thing was executing a procedural program with a set algorithm. The final step was incineration. The cap’n would’a taken the one way transport for sure!”
That sends a Vulcan eyebrow flying.
“He’s right, sir,” pipes up O’Sullivan, looking flustered as she tries to pat down her wayward curls. “The data indicated a sequential program terminating in a flash-thermal treatment command. We didn’t have time to edit the source code.”
Anything further they might say in their behalf is interrupted by a wet peeling sound as the capsule wall suddenly melts away, leaving a wide opening.
“Spock!” McCoy is scrambling to climb through the aperture almost as soon as it appears. He progress is halted by Jackson, who blocks the orifice with his bulk, and hold’s McCoy back with a firm hand to his chest. “Sorry, Doc. Let me check it out first.” He turns and ducks through the opening, phaser at the ready.
McCoy swears and fidgets. “I’m a doctor, for God’s sake. How am I supposed to help if you won’t let me see the patient! The captain is hurt and I’m his CMO. Starfleet’s invested a lot in training me, so you might want to let me do my damn job!” His tone is shifting from annoyed to outright incensed, and Scotty figures he is working himself up to a truly epic kerfluffle when a call from Jackson cuts him short.
“It’s okay, Doc. Come on in.”
“It’s about time!” McCoy grouses, pushing past Jackson with a less than sincere, “Much obliged.”
Though his presence wasn’t requested, Commander Spock is directly on the doctor’s heels.
Nonplussed, Scotty exchanges awkward looks with Tevyal and O’Sullivan as they listen to the muffled conversation drifting from inside the chamber.
“…Doctor… the captain’s condition…?”
“…stable…but I don’t…”
“…not optimal…”
“…these readings… ”
“…do you require… notify ship?”
“… what in creation…?”
Then finally, McCoy’s voice, loud and clear, “Oh hell, I can’t see a thing in here! Spock! Jackson! Help me get him into the light.”
There is the sound of shuffling, and Jackson emerges followed by Spock, with Kirk strung limply between them in a fore-and-aft carry. Medical tricorder whirring, McCoy flutters around them like a frustrated mother hen. “Okay. Ease him down. Gently now.”
Spock and Jackson lower Kirk to the floor, and Spock takes a position at his head, hands on Kirk’s shoulders.
As far as Scott can see, there is no sign of injury, but Kirk is lookin’ mighty peely-wally in his opinion. Ghastly pale, mouth slack, blue eyes open and glassy, he stares sightlessly upward; he appears lifeless.
O’Sullivan inhales sharply, and shoves a knuckle into her mouth. perhaps to keep from whimpering. Tevyal mutters again in her native Andorian, and although Scott can’t understand a word, judging by the bitter tone he’s pretty sure he’d agree with the sentiment.
“Doctor. Something is wrong.” Spock’s face is grim, and Scott can clearly hear the strain behind his words. If he is being that obvious, the Vulcan must truly be unsettled. “The captain has a highly dynamic mind. At this proximity I should be able to discern his… mental signature.” The long fingers tighten on Kirk’s shoulders. “I detect… nothing.”
McCoy crouches at Kirk’s side, and his expression does little to alleviate Scotty’s anxiety. “I don’t know. It’s not a coma. I’m not sure what it is.” He checks the readings on his reader tube. “His brain stem functions are intact. Respiration, heart rate, blood pressure all within normal range, but I am not detecting any electrical activity in the limbic system or neocortex.” He glances at the screen of his tricorder and shakes his head in puzzlement. “His BCP is nearly flat! That makes no sense.” He taps the reader tube against his palm absently, forehead furrowed in thought. “Maybe a cortical stimulator…” He tapers off, chewing on his lower lip.
“A toxin of some type?” Spock inquires. The Vulcan has taken Kirk’s head between his hands, cradling it gently. Kirk’s blank blue eyes are giving Scotty the creeps. Unnatural, is what it is.
McCoy signs and double checks the tube reader again. “No. At least nothing I can detect.”
Scotty decides to ante up. It can’t hurt. “When the lasses and I were tinkering with the chamber console, it was displaying a series of program graphics.” He waves a hand towards the now dead cubical. “It seemed like there was some type of data transfer going on, between this here chamber and the wee box over there.” He points across the vast space towards the pedestal.
“Data transfer?” McCoy is frowning at him “What are you talking about? What data transfer?”
Scott shrugs. “I don’t rightly ken, but that’s what it looked like, all right.”
Spock cocks his head at O’Sullivan. “Do you concur?”
She startles, then smoothes her skirt with one hand. “Yes, sir. That certainly appeared to be what was indicated by the diagrams.”
“And you could not ascertain the nature of the transfer?”
She shakes her head, ginger curls bouncing. “Negative. Perhaps some form of energy. Without being able to transliterate the symbols, I am unable to draw an authoritative conclusion.”
Did all scientists expound like that, Scotty wonders, or is the Enterprise science division particularly subject to the disciplined influence of its Vulcan head of department?
Lips pressing together in consideration, Spock turns back to study the captain for a moment, then addresses McCoy. “If you are certain the captain’s vital are stable, I have a hypothesis I would like to pursue before beaming aboard.”
McCoy raises a skeptical eyebrow. “A hypothesis? What kind of hypothesis?”
“If I am in error, then the hypothesis is of no consequence, and it would be profitless for me to explain. However, if I am correct, then I may be able to offer insight into the captain’s condition.”
McCoy does not look pleased. “How long will it take? I want to get him back to sickbay as soon as possible.”
Spock bends forward, kneeling protectively over Kirk. “It should only take a few minutes, Doctor. If at any point the captain’s condition begins to decline, then certainly I will cease my activities and relinquish him to your care.”
The tip of McCoy’s tongue flicks out, wetting his lips. “Just what are you planning?”
“The kash-nohv. A mindmeld, Doctor. I propose to create a telepathic link between our minds in order to ascertain the extent of the damage the captain has suffered and perhaps identify a cause.”
A mindmeld? Scotty’s heard about such things. Some kind of Vulcan telepathic mysticism. Scotty exchanges glances with the rest of the landing party gathered in a loose circle around the prone figure of their captain. Like him, they are deeply engrossed in the ongoing conversation between the CMO and First Officer.
The doctor’s hand scanner drones as he runs it once more over Kirk’s body. He eyes the readings critically then clenches the device in his fist. “Is there a risk?”
Spock lays one hand gently on the crown of Kirk’s head. “There is always a risk, as a mind-touch can result in physical or psychological injury. The necessary pressure changes in the brain could prove debilitating. Our minds may become inexorable linked and either one of us could lose our sense of personal identity. Improperly executed, a mind-meld can lead to insanity, even death.”
McCoy is beginning to look a bit ill.
Spock glances at the doctor, head tilted, and Scotty swears he sees a smirk tug at those lips. “I am, however, rated highly proficient in the use of melding techniques. My teachers considered me… exceptionally gifted.”
“Well, isn’t that special.” McCoy grouses, and some of the tension seems to melt from his frame as he regains the familiar territory of bickering with the commander. He gestures in permission. “Go ahead and do whatever you need to do. I reckon we can wait a few minutes, but make it quick.” As the Vulcan leans over Kirk, McCoy reaches out and touches him softly on the arm. Spock freezes. “Make no mistake, Spock. The second Jim’s vitals start doing anything unusual, I’m pulling you out of there, if I have to do it by your pointy ears.”
The two exchange a knowing glance. “Understood.”
For a moment, Scotty envies them this easy percipience. It’s not affection exactly. But it is something… something special, and watching the three of them interact, Kirk, Spock and McCoy, is like being privilege to some secret club. It makes him exceedingly grateful to be aboard Enterprise and serving with these men.
Spock’s fingers slide into position against Jim’s temple.
His eyes flutter shut.
And they wait.
CINERIOUS:
Grey
Kirk’s mind is a tabula rasa of grey nihility.
Spock prepares himself for the kash-nohv, his fingers pressing lightly against Kirk’s clammy skin. He draws in a deep breath, then slowly exhales, allowing himself to sink into the meld. He takes a moment to adjust to the unfamiliar mental landscape, then cautiously reaches out. He slides through layers of nebulous static, seeking the mental voice that is James Kirk.
He finds nothing.
Unacceptable. There must be something. Some trace. How could a mind so vibrant, so charismatic, simply… vanish?
Spock plummets deeper, casting about - growing desperate - sending his mind questing in a thousand different directions…
But there is nothing.
Just a grey void of aching emptiness.
Jim Kirk, everything that made him who he was, that unique, compelling personality, is gone, swallowed up in a desolate landscape of non-existence. Spock reels with the loss of something he has only just discovered he wants.
He finds himself abruptly tumbling back into his own mind, dazed and scattered. He gasps and draws a series of quick ragged breaths. His vision is blurred by unshed tears. Vulcans do not have the physiologic ability to produce tears, but he is not pure Vulcan.
“Spock,” McCoy’s growl is soft in his ear. There is pressure against his deltoid muscle, a cautious shake. He blinks and turns to find the doctor gazing at him, eyes filled with concern. The pressure is McCoy’s hand pressing upon his shoulder. The fingers tighten and squeeze. “Are you all right?” Then, seeming to notice his grip upon Spock’s arm, McCoy withdraws, disconcerted. “You seemed… um… “He waves a hand in a vague gesture and trails into silence.
Spock considers the appropriate response. He chooses veracity. “No, Doctor. I am not ‘all right.’ I am, however, functional.”
“What happened? Did you learn anything? How’s Jim?”
Spock glances down at the vacant eyes of James Kirk. His fingers ghost lightly over the high forehead. “I learned that he…” He pauses. His voice is a rasp. Too rough. Too emotional. He swallows heavily and tries again. “He is gone, Doctor. There is no mind. All that he was is lost to us.”
The shock in McCoy’s muddy brown eyes reflects his own horror.
When he had heard McCoy’s shout of alarm as the chamber initially closed upon Jim Kirk, Spock’s first thought had been that he should have foreseen said event.
“What have we told you about touching everything? What is it with you? It’s like a damn compulsion or something!”
Indeed.
Foreseen, and taken preventative measures.
With ripples of irritation and apprehension disturbing his usual placidity, Spock had hurried to assist. Cognizant of the fact that Jim Kirk was highly intelligent for a Human, Spock, once again, had reassured himself that, eventually, the captain would learn to temper his impulsive nature and innate curiosity.
If he survived long enough to do so.
Gazing down at Jim Kirk’s still form, Spock struggles to assimilate the knowledge that the captain’s continued survival may no longer be an issue.
He hears McCoy’s yelp of protest over his dire pronouncement of Kirk’s condition, the rising clamor of other voices, demands for answers, sharp questions. All of it gibberish. Only Jim’s eyes - endless and forsaken blue - hold meaning.
He hadn’t anticipated this…
this…
feeling?
He’d established the meld with definitive goals in mind, to test his hypothesis and to gather empirical data concerning the captain’s condition.
Or so he had thought.
However, recent events have forced Spock to admit that he is very good at hiding, even from himself. His ingrained sense of integrity compels him to examine his motives more deeply. Had there not also been a sense of longing… of desire? An expectancy? There is no doubt that he wishes to discover the extent of the damage to James Kirk’s mind, but was that his only motivation?
Ever since his mysterious other self had spoken cryptically of “a friendship that will define you both in ways you cannot yet imagine,” he has been troubled.
Vulcans do not have “friendships” as Humans define the term. They have acquaintances. Colleagues. Collaborators. Those with whom they share a common interest or goal. But outside of familial relationships, connections formed purely for interpersonal, social, and emotional reasons are… illogical. To hear his elder self speak so brazenly of something so improbable had been… disturbing.
And yet…
intriguing.
It had been his growing emotive attachment to Nyota Uhura which had first prompted him to give further consideration to the Human ideology of friendship, and to admit that the concept had merit.
Prior to her influence, he had not considered that he could establish such bonds outside of family. It had been a revelation - an awakening of sorts - which impelled him to rethink many of his prior relationships. Previously, he had merely classified them as, “professional acquaintances.” Was that all they had been? Had his regard for Admiral Pike perhaps been more than professional respect? For the first time, Spock had given careful consideration to the possibility that he was capable of friendship.
His relationship and subsequent sexual congress with Nyota had been deeply satisfying, but like a Vulcan child who gets a first taste of pu’lah, he discovered he wanted more. Something had shifted deep within his psyche, and he became plagued with a sense of something… missing - a need for something he could not yet formalize.
He wanted…
And came to know that what he wanted was that “friendship” his elder self had dangled like a promise.
And so he allowed himself to be open to the possibility. He joined Jim Kirk for meals in the mess hall. He accepted offers to play chess. The two of them set up a sparring schedule, and he taught the captain Vulcan hand-to-hand techniques in exchange for lessons in how to “fight dirty.” Occasionally, he even agreed to accompany the captain on shore leave, partaking in a variety of interesting, if somewhat illogical and potentially dangerous, distractions.
He had studied James Tiberius Kirk thoroughly, researching him with the same exactness he would afford a unique specimen in a laboratory. Slowly he had gathered and consolidated information about the man, expanding his knowledge base. However, true understanding continued to elude him. In defiance of statistical inference, Kirk remained unpredictable. Despite observable, empirical, and measurable evidence, he defined mastery. Humans were complex, and James Kirk was the Riemann Hypothesis of Humans.
Still Spock persisted, because as he spent more time aboard the Enterprise, he abandoned his initial objective of deciphering James Kirk in favor of the far more fascinating experience of simply learning about James Kirk.
And found that while he had been intently busy trying to dissect the concept of “friendship,” he had begun to live it. Somewhere along the journey, Jim Kirk had become his friend.
Yet, he remained restless and unsatisfied.
It wasn’t till he had reached out for Jim Kirk through the meld that he had truly understood. What he hungered for ran deeper than the Human concept of friendship. What he craved was… t’hy’la - a Vulcan concept dating back to ancient times. A lifelong companion. A chosen one. A cherished soulmate. He had yearned to bask in the glow of the shining, spirited energy that was James T. Kirk - to surround and embrace his soul…
But there had been nothing to embrace.
Bereft, Spock brushes strands of russet hair off Kirk’s forehead and reflects on the nature of a universe that would steal away something he had only just discovered was so precious to him.
Recalling a planet torn apart by the tidal forces of a blossoming black hole, and his mother’s final scream, he concludes that perhaps the universe, this one at least, is inherently cruel.
“Spock!” He can no longer dismiss the outside intrusion. McCoy is gripping him by the upper arms. “We’ve got to get him aboard!”
Spock lifts his eyes to McCoy, and whatever is reflected in them causes the doctor to draw back, shaken. “I mean, there’s nothing else we can do for him here. Is there?”
Spock blinks, his mind slipping out of stasis. Is there something they can do? His hypothesis has yet to be fully tested.
“Perhaps, Doctor, there is.” With one last tender touch to Kirk’s shoulder he rises. “I can no longer detect the captain’s mental presence. I believe his mind has been stripped. It longer resides within him.”
“You’re saying his personality is just… wiped clean?”
“More than his personality, Doctor.” Spock moves to the damaged control console and tugs at some of the burned wiring. “A personality is imprinted upon a functioning mind. Essentially, the captain has no mind.”
McCoy throws up his arms in frustration. “How the hell am I supposed to fix something like that?”
“You said his mind no longer resides within his body,” Lieutenant O’Sullivan observes in her soft lilt. “Then where did it go, Mister Spock?”
Spock glances across the open area to where the black box still sits atop the pedestal.
Where indeed?
“Mister Scott.” Spock abandons the scorched control panel, wiping his hands together in an attempt to remove some of the carbon blackening his fingers. “I require access to this facility’s mainframe. Since Ensign Tevyal has rendered this particular access portal inoperative, perhaps you could locate and activate an alternate port of entry?”
Scott bobs his head eagerly, and starts eyeing the vast complex. “Aye. I’ll get right on it, Commander.”
McCoy is busy monitoring the captain, but it doesn’t stop him from scowling at Spock. “Just what are you planning?”
“I am gathering data, Doctor.” He watches McCoy run his medical scanner over Jim’s prone form. “What is the captain’s condition? Has it deteriorated?”
McCoy shakes his head, expression crestfallen. “No. Still the same. I can’t do any more for him here. I’d like to transport him to Sickbay. Do a more thorough brain mapping. Try cortical stimulation. We’ve got the latest in medical technology on board, surely something will help.”
“That is unlikely,” Spock offers in an analytical tone, then hesitates when he sees the emotional reaction his words have had upon McCoy and the others. Vulcans value directness and clarity of concepts when exchanging information. Humans, he is learning, do not always appreciate such candor. “I am… sorry…” he offers, seeking to bridge the miscommunication with a gesture he likely would not have perceived as advantageous prior to his recent revelation. “I have no doubt that you will employ your considerable medical expertise to the situation. However, I am not certain this can be classified as a medical matter.”
“Not a medical matter?” McCoy sputters. “Then what the hell would you call it, Spock?”
“That I have yet to fully ascertain. Thus, I must ask… an indulgence of you.”
The doctor is watching him with a speculative expression. “And what is that?”
“Allow the captain to remain on the planet until I am able to fully conclude my inquiries. It should not take long. If I am correct in my assumptions about the function of this facility, it will make assisting the captain far easier if his physical body is present.”
“I thought you said there was nothing we could do. That his mind is gone.”
“His mind is gone, Doctor. That does not necessarily mean we are without recourse.”
Something very like hope lights McCoy’s eyes. “You have an idea!”
“I have…” Spock pauses, considering his phrasing, “... a conjecture.”
“Mister Spock!” O’Sullivan interrupts from some distance away. “We found what we believe is an access terminal. Mister Scott is powering it up now.”
Spock acknowledges her with a nod, then turns to McCoy. “Doctor?”
McCoy waves a hand dismissively. “Go ahead. Do whatever it is you need to do. Just find a way to help Jim.”
“That is my intention.”
Leaving McCoy and the captain under Jackson’s close supervision, Spock hurries across the open floor towards the remaining members of their party. They are gathered in a huddle around a curious piece of equipment that resembles a large, taupe colored toadstool.
As he jogs towards them, Spock adjusts the imaging function on his tricorder to record mode. If he is able to access the information he is seeking, he will want a visual record - if being the operative word. If he manages to establish a connection to the facility’s mainframe. If he is able to locate the relevant information. If he can decipher the text and related graphics. If the data, in fact, confirms his hypothesis. And finally, if any of it is at all helpful to Jim.
The word, if, by definition is conditional, and denotes a level of uncertainly Spock finds disconcerting. However, Spock reminds himself firmly, if also implies the potential for success, and it is that aspect he will focus upon in his efforts to save the captain.
COLORS:Achromatic - Part Two
ATROUS:
Black
The box is black.
“Well, what is it?” Kirk is hovering, eyeing the object on the central dais like a little kid contemplating a new toy in the store window. “What’s it do?”
How the hell is he supposed to know? Scotty frowns at the innocuous item and runs an energy reader over it again. Low level output. Something there all right, but what? No openings that he can see. No controls. Just flat, featureless metal. He makes a face and scratches his head. “I’ve no got a scooby.”
Kirk gives him an aggrieved look. “You’re the engineer.”
Scotty makes a quelling gesture. “Dinnae fash yourself, now.” His forehead crinkles in thought, then clears as the answer comes to him. He gestures at the device with a flourish. “It’s a black box.”
Kirk purses his lips in that grumpy expression that means he is less than pleased. Or constipated. One or the other. Maybe both. “A black box?”
“Aye, sir. Definitely a black box. Or a box, which is black. Whichever you prefer.” Scotty tries to sound knowledgeable.
Apparently not knowledgeable enough as Kirk keeps nipping. “Mister Scott, I can see it’s a black box! What else it is? What does it do? What is its function? Why are there about… a gazillion of them here?” Kirk gestures at the endless rows of black boxes arranged in tidy pigeon holes disappearing into the shadowy distance of the facility.
Commander Spock steps closer, inserting himself smoothly into the discussion. “ ‘A gazillion’ is not an accurate quantitative descriptor, Captain. It is a fictional exaggeration which is neither accurate nor precise, the use of which suggests a disregard for scientific and mathematical exactitude.”
“Oh really,” Kirk shoots back, and Scot can’t quite reign in the smile that twitches his lips. Watching these two take the piss out of each other is more fun than Hunting the Gowk. Reminds him of his nan and granda - old married couple bickering about everything, but devoted through and through.
Kirk folds his arms in challenge. “Then just how many boxes would you say there are, Commander?”
Scott rolls his eyes heavenward. Surely the lad has learned by now…
“Approximately two billion, five hundred ninety-nine million, six hundred fifty-nine thousand, thirty-six,” Spock rattles off in his unflappable monotone. “Based upon my calculations that each row contains one hundred sixty-five thousand, seven hundred fifty boxes, multiplied by the number of vertical columns which increase exponentially as one progresses deeper into the facility, and assuming the facility covers an area of approximately four hundred ninety-four thousand, three hundred fifty-two square meters.”
Kirk looks pained, but recovers quickly. Scotty has to give him that. “Right. Okay. But what are they doing here?”
“That I am unable to determine at this time. I lack the necessary data to make a full analysis of this facility.”
Kirk beams, apparently pleased to once again have the upper hand. “Then that, gentlemen, is what we need to find out.”
He reaches towards the black box, and Scotty reacts without thinking, slapping his hand away. “Are y’ daft, man? Dinnea touch it!”
“Hey!” Kirk snatches his hand back, looking wounded. “Wha…Why not?”
“Well,” Scotty points out, feeling a bit put out that his expertise would be questioned. “It might be dangerous.”
“For crying out loud, Jim!” Doctor McCoy stalks towards them from where he’s been examining a set of translucent, tubular chambers aligned along the nearest curved wall of the dome. “What have we told you about touching everything? What is it with you? It’s like a damn compulsion or something!”
Kirk looks to Scott for support. “But you said you didn’t know what it does.”
Scott likes Kirk, he really does, but sometimes the lad can be a bit of a numpty. “Nae, I don’t, but that doesn’t mean it canna nip ye in the arse.”
“You see?” McCoy crows, vindicated, waving his arm around as though indicating the universe in general. “Like the man said…” he leans in, getting up in Kirk’s face, “…dangerous.”
Kirk gives McCoy an annoyed scowl and addresses Scotty. “You mean they could be weapons? Like bombs?”
“Unlikely,” Spock speculates, his tricorder whirring. “The energy signature suggests a less volatile function.” His head cocks, thoughtfully. “More likely storage devices of some kind.”
“Aye, he’s dead right about that,” Scotty confirms, consulting his own readings once more. “The boxes contain low level energy fields, but nothing like you’d see with energetic plasma.” As he adjusts the reader, he notes a strange shiver and jump in the energy output aura. He’s seen it before, when they first arrived on the planet. “It’s back, Mister Spock! That flux-pattern. The one I told ye about.” He holds out his reader to the Vulcan and taps on the screen. “There! You see?”
Spock frowns, and glances down at his tricorder screen. “Indeed. That could be significant.”
“What?” Kirk is suddenly peering over their shoulders. “What could be significant?”
“There’s something else here. Some power source, and it has an energy signature that’s totally dodgy.” Scotty shakes his head and whistles low. “It’s nae something I’ve seen before.”
Spock nods thoughtfully. “It appears to be emanating from this location.”
Kirk watches the strange spiked activity on the energy reader with interest. “You think that… that energy output… whatever it is… you think that is what you picked up on the ship?”
“Most likely,” Spock confirms. “The other devices do not generate sufficient power to have created electromagnetic fluctuations in the Tarrill grid.”
Kirk gazes around, and Scott can tell from his narrowed eyes and guarded movements, that he has shifted to alert status. “Then what did?
***
They’d detected signs of long abandoned settlements on some of the outer moons of the nearby solar system, but the small planetoid itself likely would not have garnered even a passing glance had Scotty not picked up on some unusual fluctuations in the Tarrill grid. Nothing major - hardly noteworthy actually - but Scotty clearly remembered the last time he’d dismissed something as “hardly noteworthy.” It had taken weeks of practically living in the Jefferies tubes to get the nano-infestation out of the wiring. Determined that a similar occurrence was so not happening again on his watch, Scotty contacted the bridge, and Commander Spock confirmed his findings that there was indeed something, “awfy big puttin’ out a butt-load of power down there, Cap’n,” though Spock didn’t exactly put it in those words during the briefing.
So they beamed down, because descriptions like “awfy big” and “a butt-load of power” apparently got Spock and his highly efficient science department all bammed up.
And the landing party - consisting of Captain Kirk, Commander Spock, Doctor McCoy, two security guards, Scott himself, and a petite, redheaded science tech named Tessie O’Sullivan that Scott would like to get to know better - found themselves in the center of what appeared to be a city, or what was left of a city. There was a general air of neglect about the place. Not a soul in sight - just lots of multi-story structures falling into disrepair. The sky was a dull, leaden grey, and the ground not much more appealing. There was little plant life, and what did grow appeared stunted and spindly. Ahead of them, a single structure sood out amongst the others, an immense dome rising above the cityscape, glowing from within like a giant, pearlescent bubble; it was the only source of power they could detect on their instruments.
“There,” Kirk said, indicating the dome. “We check it out.”
They trooped in that direction, Kirk jogging ahead to peer into darkened doorways while the security team scuttled after him in a doomed effort to keep him contained. Spock and O’Sullivan with their noses glued to their tricorder screens. Scott with his energy reader firmly in hand, and McCoy grousing about anything and everything that came to mind.
The good Doctor is one of the little gems that keeps life aboard the Enterprise a daily treat for Scott. He’s a bit of a crabbit, hates transporters, has little interest in exploring new worlds, is aviophobic, acrophobic, a touch xenophobic and possibly misanthropic, and yet he horns in on landing parties on a regular basis. If Kirk goes, he goes. It’s sweet really, and a bit daft, in Scott’s opinion, but the man certainly makes what could be a dull away mission much more colorful.
O’Sullivan and Spock had apparently found something that twisted their panties in a bunch. The leaned over their tricorders blethering excitedly - well, Lieutenant O’Sullivan was blethering in her delightful brogue. Spock was just being Spock. McCoy wandered over to join their little clump of blue uniforms and they stood around chattering in science speak like a bevy of Blue Tits.
“Captain,” Spock finally intoned, trotting after Kirk. “We are reading high concentrations of diversified environmental toxins in the air and soil of this planet. This level of environmental contamination would render this planet inhospitable to most life as we know it.”
Kirk glanced around at the low, heavy sky and dreary landscape. “Are we in any danger?”
“No, Jim,” McCoy speculated. “Not for the short duration of an exploratory mission. But we’ll have to go through a good decon when we get aboard, and if we plan on staying any longer that a few hours, we should probably get suited up in EVs.”
Kirk shook his head. “No, just a short look around right now. Depending upon what we find, we might come back with a more specialized team, but for now we just take a quick peek.”
Scott was listening, but his attention was on the energy reader in his hand. He was getting some strange blip in the output aura, a vacillating pattern unlike anything he’d seen before. He tapped on the ER screen to make sure it wasn’t malfunctioning somehow. The strange oscillations remained. Something was putting out an arse-load of power. “Well, I’ll be jiggered. Mister Spock,” he observed, “I’m pickin’ up some strange energy readings.” He peered at the reader, then nodded to indicate the dome ahead. “They appear to be coming from that pretty bauble.”
Spock stepped closer, and held out a hand. “May I?”
Scotty handed over the ER and watched while Spock consulted the output data. His head cocked curiously - like a bird, thought Scott - like a super intelligent, sharp-eyed bird with pointed ears. “I do not detect any readings other than the low level emanations we have been tracking since our arrival, Mister Scott.”
Scotty blinked. “Aye? Tha’ canna be right.” He retrieved the ER and studied the screen, but Spock was correct. There was no trace of the flux-pattern that had caught his interest. “I dinnae understand. It was here a moment ago. I’d swear it on me granda’s grave, I would.”
Kirk squinted at Spock and chewed a bit on his lower lip. “O’Sullivan, did you pick up anything?”
With an apologetic glance at Scotty, she shook her head. Her copper curls bobbed in agitation. “No sir. I’m sorry. I was monitoring the environmental data.”
“Bones?”
“Same here, Jim. I was busy computing toxin levels.”
“And you did not see anything, Spock?”
“Negative.” Spock twiddled with the controls on his own tricorder, looking perturbed, or at least as perturbed as a Vulcan could look. “I was also engaged in analyzing the ecological datastream. It is unfortunate I cannot confirm Mister Scott’s findings.” He glanced at Scott with unfathomable dark eyes. “However, I do not doubt the veracity of his claims. He has proven reliable, if somewhat unconventional, in his position as Chief Engineer.”
Bless Mister Spock. That was as close to a Vulcan compliment as one was likely to get, and Scotty was well chuffed. The Vulcan would have made a damn fine engineer. Too bad he was wasted in science and command.
“Whatever it was, it’s gone now.” Kirk glances towards the dome. “You said it came from there?”
“It looked like it, yes sir.”
Kirk grinned, easily. “Well, since that’s where we’re headed anyway, guess we can kill two birds with one stone!”
Spock glanced speculatively at the captain. “Why would we wish to extirpate avian life forms?”
Kirk just laughed and slapped the Vulcan on the back as they headed towards the dome.
McCoy, for his part, muttered, “I wish you wouldn’t use phrases like that. Couldn’t you pick something…? I don’t know… a little less violent?”
***
Scotty waves his portable x-ray generator over the black device and swears. Nothing. It sits there, on the central pedestal, in inscrutable silence, and mocks him. “Maybe if we run it through the onboard radiograph scan we can get a better idea of the internal structure. I’m getting nothing on this boggin piece of space garbage.” He bangs on the side of his scanner in disgust.
“Perhaps the metal casing is impervious to our instrumentation,” speculates Spock, crouching down to eye level with the box. “Or it could have a form of energy shielding with which we are unfamiliar.” He fiddles with the controls on his tricorder. He does that a lot, and Scotty has a brief, uncharitable thought that maybe the Vulcan isn’t actually doing anything productive, but simply plays with the dials in order to look industrious.
Sighing, Scott scratches the top of his head in hopes of stimulating thought. “It’s a bawbuster, all right. I’d like to get it aboard and see what the lads and lassies can make of it.”
Spock glances towards Kirk, McCoy, and O’Sullivan. The three are busy inspecting the arrangement of large, cylindrical cubicles under the watchful eye of security. “The captain is uncertain of the wisdom of beaming this object aboard without first ascertaining its function.”
“He’s still thinkin’ it might go… BOOM?” Scott proclaims with anomalous cheer, throwing his arms out to illustrate an explosion.
This earns him a bland look from the Vulcan. “If by that fatuous spectacle, you mean to suggest he has concerns that the object may pose a risk to the Enterprise, then yes.”
Scotty grins, reassuringly. “Ah, he needn’t worry. We’ll take bonny good care of it, just like a wee bairn in a cradle.”
Spock straightens, his brows drawing together just a touch in the center. “I believe that you made similar assurances concerning the spherical object we located on Tau-Omikron. The one which, as I recall, exploded while being transported, resulting in damages which…”
“All right! All right!” Scotty interrupts, throwing up his hands in surrender. “Wheesht, will ye! That was an unfortunate accident.”
“And the recent incident with the nano-tech?”
“Not strictly my fault. T’was the cap’n who was all geed up about installing that new modification.”
“The one which I believe you encouraged him to procure through a distributor of somewhat questionable credentials and ethics?”
“Well now, Mister Spock,” Scotty informs the Vulcan sagaciously, “ye canna just order something like that out of a catalogue.”
The commander’s lips flatten in disapproval. “With good reason, Mister Scott.”
Scott doesn’t have an answer for that. Besides, experience has established that arguing with a Vulcan is pointless. Instead, he kneels down to examine the base of the pedestal, hoping to find someway to gain access to the box from there.
He’s in the middle of trying to slip the tip of his redi-tool into a near invisible seam in the apparatus, when his energy reader beeps at him. He’s got it programmed to notify him if the unusual energy fluctuations should return, as they have yet to identify the source. “Mister Spock! Tha’ energy pulse! It’s back!” He glances at the screen and sees the telltale jiggling of the output aura. This time is seems even more pronounced than before. “Whatever it is, it’s go’n like the clappers. My reader’s off the scale!”
“Mister Scott. I suggest you take a look at this.” There is just a hint of heightened inflection in Spock’s tone, but seeing as he is Vulcan, that slight inflection is enough to send Scotty scrambling to his feet.
The black box is no longer sitting in inscrutable silence. It is beginning to glow with a strange inner light. The once opaque flat faces have turned nebulous, and are swirling with a spectrum of color. It is both alarming and beautiful.
Scott gawps at the changes. “Well now, that’s fan-dabby-dozy. Do you suppose that’s the source of the energy oscillations?”
“Possibly. Although my tricorder is reading a secondary source…”
A sudden babble of raised voices attracts their attention, and they turn as one to see McCoy throw himself at the translucent walls of one of the tubular chambers. “Jim!”
One of the cylindrical cells is now sealed shut, and is also flickering with a rainbow of colors. Scotty can barely see the indistinct outline of someone dressed in command gold inside the capsule with their hands pressed up against the walls. “Oh shite,” he notes as Spock takes off across the vast space.
Tossing his diagnostic tools back in his kit, Scotty pelts after the Vulcan.
They arrive to find McCoy and security officer Jackson desperately trying to locate an opening to the chamber. Beyond the semi-opaque walls, Scotty can see Kirk banging ineffectively against the barrier. He is also shouting, but his voice sounds far away and muffled, his words swallowed. The patterns of color in the exterior appear to be shifting at an increasing speed, and there is an accompanying whine that is rising in pitch proportionately.
Spock begins running his fingers over the surface of the cell, seeking entrance. Scotty joins him, digging a sonar compass out of his kit, and playing it over the shell of the cubical. He reaches out to brace himself against the barrier, and draws back in surprise. The surface feels strange; it is slick and oily but leaves no residue on his skin. The wall gives slightly under his touch, like a thick membrane rather than a solid surface. He can detect no signs of the previous opening on his compass.
“He entered the chamber?” Spock directs the question at Doctor McCoy.
“Of course he entered the chamber!” McCoy snarls, his own concern expressing itself as acrimony. “Jesus H. Christ! What do you think? We threw him in there?”
“Sirs?” The burly, mahogany skinned Jackson is holding up his phaser. His broad, round face is grave. “Should I try burning through?”
“Negative, Lieutenant,” Spock replies. “We do not know what affect that may have upon the chamber or the captain.”
Tessie O’Sullivan and the second security officer, Ensign Tevyal, an Andorian female, are busy trying to operate an instrument panel set in a wall along side the series of tubes.
“Mister Scott,” O’Sullivan calls, her brown eyes wide with excitement as she waves the engineer to her side. “We think this controls the chambers, but we can’t quite figure it out.”
Scott scurries to join them, figuring his aptitude is better fitted to fiddling with the console anyway. They have the front of the panel torn open, the circuitry exposed. The wiring does not look too foreign, although it is constructed of some unfamiliar materials. Schematics are flashing on the flat screen above the control board. He can’t make heads or tails of the script flowing across the screen - looks like worms doing a jig - but he can follow the diagrams fairly well. The display indicates that one of the chambers and one of the black boxes are engaged in some kind of wireless data transfer. At least that is what he thinks it shows.
The high frequency whistle is reaching a pitch which is painful to the ear, and Scott sees Spock wince and duck his head slightly. He recalls the superior Vulcan hearing with sympathy. The exterior of the capsule is now flashing so fast it is difficult to discern individual colors; it is becoming a blur of milky white.
Something is happening inside the chamber, and it doesn’t look favorable for the captain. Kirk is no longer shouting or struggling to get out. Instead, he has slumped against the wall, sliding to the floor of the booth, and curling in on himself. McCoy is consulting the readings on his tricorder in alarm. “Spock! We’ve got to get him out of there! That thing is killing him!”
Spock abandons his efforts to locate an opening, and slams his shoulder into the translucent barrier in hopes of cracking it open. The wall gives slightly, then bounces back, throwing him clear. He lands lightly on his feet. “Doctor,” he commands, voice somewhat harsh with the strain of keeping his emotions in check. “A scalpel, please.”
Scotty fingers fly over the alien instrumentation as he watches the sequence of graphics skitter across the screen. An uneasy feeling begins building in his stomach.
Oh, they are bollocksed for sure.
Over his shoulder, O’Sullivan lets out a soft gasp and Ensign Tevyal makes a soft growling sound in her throat, muttering something harsh in Andorian. Apparently, they too have drawn the same conclusion from the flashing set of schematics. Scott fiddles frantically with the controls, figuring they really have very little to loose at this point. “Mister Spock,” he calls, voice rising in trepidation. “You best get the cap’n out’ta there right now!”
Spock has taken a scalpel from McCoy and plunged the sharp point into the exterior membrane of the booth, slashing downward in a swift stroke. The shell parts momentarily in the wake of the blade, but reseals almost immediately, leaving no trace of the cut. His attempt to open a small hole and insert his fingers meets with an equal lack of success.
Kirk is now lying motionless on the floor of the capsule. Individual colors are no longer visible in the walls. The booth glows with bright, pulsing, white lighting.
Scotty almost hears the ping of a timer go off in his head. ‘Time’s up!’ it seems to gloat.
“Spock!” McCoy shouts, genuine fear in his voice.
Tevyal pulls her phaser, shoving O’Sullivan and Scott aside. She aims at the control panel and shoots a despairing glance at Mister Scott.
“Do it, lass!” he shouts, praying to any gods that might exist that he’s right about this.
Tevyal fingers the trigger and the distinctive trill of phaser fire cuts through the chaos of the moment. Sparks fly from the console and the smell of ozone and burned circuitry is strong.
The piercing whine stutters and dies. The light of the cell flickers and goes out, leaving the interior dim.
For a moment, there is stunned silence; then Spock turns to them, expression demanding. Ensign Tevyal, to her credit, stands firm in the face of his stern authority, though her blue skin blanches a shade paler, and her antennae stiffen with tension. “Ssssir. I felt the captain’sssss life was in eminent danger. I took actionsss I deemed necessary.”
Scott is perhaps no less intimidated by the austere Vulcan, but he does have rank on his side. “She was following my orders, Commander.” He nods towards the now quiescent chamber. “That thing was executing a procedural program with a set algorithm. The final step was incineration. The cap’n would’a taken the one way transport for sure!”
That sends a Vulcan eyebrow flying.
“He’s right, sir,” pipes up O’Sullivan, looking flustered as she tries to pat down her wayward curls. “The data indicated a sequential program terminating in a flash-thermal treatment command. We didn’t have time to edit the source code.”
Anything further they might say in their behalf is interrupted by a wet peeling sound as the capsule wall suddenly melts away, leaving a wide opening.
“Spock!” McCoy is scrambling to climb through the aperture almost as soon as it appears. He progress is halted by Jackson, who blocks the orifice with his bulk, and hold’s McCoy back with a firm hand to his chest. “Sorry, Doc. Let me check it out first.” He turns and ducks through the opening, phaser at the ready.
McCoy swears and fidgets. “I’m a doctor, for God’s sake. How am I supposed to help if you won’t let me see the patient! The captain is hurt and I’m his CMO. Starfleet’s invested a lot in training me, so you might want to let me do my damn job!” His tone is shifting from annoyed to outright incensed, and Scotty figures he is working himself up to a truly epic kerfluffle when a call from Jackson cuts him short.
“It’s okay, Doc. Come on in.”
“It’s about time!” McCoy grouses, pushing past Jackson with a less than sincere, “Much obliged.”
Though his presence wasn’t requested, Commander Spock is directly on the doctor’s heels.
Nonplussed, Scotty exchanges awkward looks with Tevyal and O’Sullivan as they listen to the muffled conversation drifting from inside the chamber.
“…Doctor… the captain’s condition…?”
“…stable…but I don’t…”
“…not optimal…”
“…these readings… ”
“…do you require… notify ship?”
“… what in creation…?”
Then finally, McCoy’s voice, loud and clear, “Oh hell, I can’t see a thing in here! Spock! Jackson! Help me get him into the light.”
There is the sound of shuffling, and Jackson emerges followed by Spock, with Kirk strung limply between them in a fore-and-aft carry. Medical tricorder whirring, McCoy flutters around them like a frustrated mother hen. “Okay. Ease him down. Gently now.”
Spock and Jackson lower Kirk to the floor, and Spock takes a position at his head, hands on Kirk’s shoulders.
As far as Scott can see, there is no sign of injury, but Kirk is lookin’ mighty peely-wally in his opinion. Ghastly pale, mouth slack, blue eyes open and glassy, he stares sightlessly upward; he appears lifeless.
O’Sullivan inhales sharply, and shoves a knuckle into her mouth. perhaps to keep from whimpering. Tevyal mutters again in her native Andorian, and although Scott can’t understand a word, judging by the bitter tone he’s pretty sure he’d agree with the sentiment.
“Doctor. Something is wrong.” Spock’s face is grim, and Scott can clearly hear the strain behind his words. If he is being that obvious, the Vulcan must truly be unsettled. “The captain has a highly dynamic mind. At this proximity I should be able to discern his… mental signature.” The long fingers tighten on Kirk’s shoulders. “I detect… nothing.”
McCoy crouches at Kirk’s side, and his expression does little to alleviate Scotty’s anxiety. “I don’t know. It’s not a coma. I’m not sure what it is.” He checks the readings on his reader tube. “His brain stem functions are intact. Respiration, heart rate, blood pressure all within normal range, but I am not detecting any electrical activity in the limbic system or neocortex.” He glances at the screen of his tricorder and shakes his head in puzzlement. “His BCP is nearly flat! That makes no sense.” He taps the reader tube against his palm absently, forehead furrowed in thought. “Maybe a cortical stimulator…” He tapers off, chewing on his lower lip.
“A toxin of some type?” Spock inquires. The Vulcan has taken Kirk’s head between his hands, cradling it gently. Kirk’s blank blue eyes are giving Scotty the creeps. Unnatural, is what it is.
McCoy signs and double checks the tube reader again. “No. At least nothing I can detect.”
Scotty decides to ante up. It can’t hurt. “When the lasses and I were tinkering with the chamber console, it was displaying a series of program graphics.” He waves a hand towards the now dead cubical. “It seemed like there was some type of data transfer going on, between this here chamber and the wee box over there.” He points across the vast space towards the pedestal.
“Data transfer?” McCoy is frowning at him “What are you talking about? What data transfer?”
Scott shrugs. “I don’t rightly ken, but that’s what it looked like, all right.”
Spock cocks his head at O’Sullivan. “Do you concur?”
She startles, then smoothes her skirt with one hand. “Yes, sir. That certainly appeared to be what was indicated by the diagrams.”
“And you could not ascertain the nature of the transfer?”
She shakes her head, ginger curls bouncing. “Negative. Perhaps some form of energy. Without being able to transliterate the symbols, I am unable to draw an authoritative conclusion.”
Did all scientists expound like that, Scotty wonders, or is the Enterprise science division particularly subject to the disciplined influence of its Vulcan head of department?
Lips pressing together in consideration, Spock turns back to study the captain for a moment, then addresses McCoy. “If you are certain the captain’s vital are stable, I have a hypothesis I would like to pursue before beaming aboard.”
McCoy raises a skeptical eyebrow. “A hypothesis? What kind of hypothesis?”
“If I am in error, then the hypothesis is of no consequence, and it would be profitless for me to explain. However, if I am correct, then I may be able to offer insight into the captain’s condition.”
McCoy does not look pleased. “How long will it take? I want to get him back to sickbay as soon as possible.”
Spock bends forward, kneeling protectively over Kirk. “It should only take a few minutes, Doctor. If at any point the captain’s condition begins to decline, then certainly I will cease my activities and relinquish him to your care.”
The tip of McCoy’s tongue flicks out, wetting his lips. “Just what are you planning?”
“The kash-nohv. A mindmeld, Doctor. I propose to create a telepathic link between our minds in order to ascertain the extent of the damage the captain has suffered and perhaps identify a cause.”
A mindmeld? Scotty’s heard about such things. Some kind of Vulcan telepathic mysticism. Scotty exchanges glances with the rest of the landing party gathered in a loose circle around the prone figure of their captain. Like him, they are deeply engrossed in the ongoing conversation between the CMO and First Officer.
The doctor’s hand scanner drones as he runs it once more over Kirk’s body. He eyes the readings critically then clenches the device in his fist. “Is there a risk?”
Spock lays one hand gently on the crown of Kirk’s head. “There is always a risk, as a mind-touch can result in physical or psychological injury. The necessary pressure changes in the brain could prove debilitating. Our minds may become inexorable linked and either one of us could lose our sense of personal identity. Improperly executed, a mind-meld can lead to insanity, even death.”
McCoy is beginning to look a bit ill.
Spock glances at the doctor, head tilted, and Scotty swears he sees a smirk tug at those lips. “I am, however, rated highly proficient in the use of melding techniques. My teachers considered me… exceptionally gifted.”
“Well, isn’t that special.” McCoy grouses, and some of the tension seems to melt from his frame as he regains the familiar territory of bickering with the commander. He gestures in permission. “Go ahead and do whatever you need to do. I reckon we can wait a few minutes, but make it quick.” As the Vulcan leans over Kirk, McCoy reaches out and touches him softly on the arm. Spock freezes. “Make no mistake, Spock. The second Jim’s vitals start doing anything unusual, I’m pulling you out of there, if I have to do it by your pointy ears.”
The two exchange a knowing glance. “Understood.”
For a moment, Scotty envies them this easy percipience. It’s not affection exactly. But it is something… something special, and watching the three of them interact, Kirk, Spock and McCoy, is like being privilege to some secret club. It makes him exceedingly grateful to be aboard Enterprise and serving with these men.
Spock’s fingers slide into position against Jim’s temple.
His eyes flutter shut.
And they wait.
CINERIOUS:
Grey
Kirk’s mind is a tabula rasa of grey nihility.
Spock prepares himself for the kash-nohv, his fingers pressing lightly against Kirk’s clammy skin. He draws in a deep breath, then slowly exhales, allowing himself to sink into the meld. He takes a moment to adjust to the unfamiliar mental landscape, then cautiously reaches out. He slides through layers of nebulous static, seeking the mental voice that is James Kirk.
He finds nothing.
Unacceptable. There must be something. Some trace. How could a mind so vibrant, so charismatic, simply… vanish?
Spock plummets deeper, casting about - growing desperate - sending his mind questing in a thousand different directions…
But there is nothing.
Just a grey void of aching emptiness.
Jim Kirk, everything that made him who he was, that unique, compelling personality, is gone, swallowed up in a desolate landscape of non-existence. Spock reels with the loss of something he has only just discovered he wants.
He finds himself abruptly tumbling back into his own mind, dazed and scattered. He gasps and draws a series of quick ragged breaths. His vision is blurred by unshed tears. Vulcans do not have the physiologic ability to produce tears, but he is not pure Vulcan.
“Spock,” McCoy’s growl is soft in his ear. There is pressure against his deltoid muscle, a cautious shake. He blinks and turns to find the doctor gazing at him, eyes filled with concern. The pressure is McCoy’s hand pressing upon his shoulder. The fingers tighten and squeeze. “Are you all right?” Then, seeming to notice his grip upon Spock’s arm, McCoy withdraws, disconcerted. “You seemed… um… “He waves a hand in a vague gesture and trails into silence.
Spock considers the appropriate response. He chooses veracity. “No, Doctor. I am not ‘all right.’ I am, however, functional.”
“What happened? Did you learn anything? How’s Jim?”
Spock glances down at the vacant eyes of James Kirk. His fingers ghost lightly over the high forehead. “I learned that he…” He pauses. His voice is a rasp. Too rough. Too emotional. He swallows heavily and tries again. “He is gone, Doctor. There is no mind. All that he was is lost to us.”
The shock in McCoy’s muddy brown eyes reflects his own horror.
When he had heard McCoy’s shout of alarm as the chamber initially closed upon Jim Kirk, Spock’s first thought had been that he should have foreseen said event.
“What have we told you about touching everything? What is it with you? It’s like a damn compulsion or something!”
Indeed.
Foreseen, and taken preventative measures.
With ripples of irritation and apprehension disturbing his usual placidity, Spock had hurried to assist. Cognizant of the fact that Jim Kirk was highly intelligent for a Human, Spock, once again, had reassured himself that, eventually, the captain would learn to temper his impulsive nature and innate curiosity.
If he survived long enough to do so.
Gazing down at Jim Kirk’s still form, Spock struggles to assimilate the knowledge that the captain’s continued survival may no longer be an issue.
He hears McCoy’s yelp of protest over his dire pronouncement of Kirk’s condition, the rising clamor of other voices, demands for answers, sharp questions. All of it gibberish. Only Jim’s eyes - endless and forsaken blue - hold meaning.
He hadn’t anticipated this…
this…
feeling?
He’d established the meld with definitive goals in mind, to test his hypothesis and to gather empirical data concerning the captain’s condition.
Or so he had thought.
However, recent events have forced Spock to admit that he is very good at hiding, even from himself. His ingrained sense of integrity compels him to examine his motives more deeply. Had there not also been a sense of longing… of desire? An expectancy? There is no doubt that he wishes to discover the extent of the damage to James Kirk’s mind, but was that his only motivation?
Ever since his mysterious other self had spoken cryptically of “a friendship that will define you both in ways you cannot yet imagine,” he has been troubled.
Vulcans do not have “friendships” as Humans define the term. They have acquaintances. Colleagues. Collaborators. Those with whom they share a common interest or goal. But outside of familial relationships, connections formed purely for interpersonal, social, and emotional reasons are… illogical. To hear his elder self speak so brazenly of something so improbable had been… disturbing.
And yet…
intriguing.
It had been his growing emotive attachment to Nyota Uhura which had first prompted him to give further consideration to the Human ideology of friendship, and to admit that the concept had merit.
Prior to her influence, he had not considered that he could establish such bonds outside of family. It had been a revelation - an awakening of sorts - which impelled him to rethink many of his prior relationships. Previously, he had merely classified them as, “professional acquaintances.” Was that all they had been? Had his regard for Admiral Pike perhaps been more than professional respect? For the first time, Spock had given careful consideration to the possibility that he was capable of friendship.
His relationship and subsequent sexual congress with Nyota had been deeply satisfying, but like a Vulcan child who gets a first taste of pu’lah, he discovered he wanted more. Something had shifted deep within his psyche, and he became plagued with a sense of something… missing - a need for something he could not yet formalize.
He wanted…
And came to know that what he wanted was that “friendship” his elder self had dangled like a promise.
And so he allowed himself to be open to the possibility. He joined Jim Kirk for meals in the mess hall. He accepted offers to play chess. The two of them set up a sparring schedule, and he taught the captain Vulcan hand-to-hand techniques in exchange for lessons in how to “fight dirty.” Occasionally, he even agreed to accompany the captain on shore leave, partaking in a variety of interesting, if somewhat illogical and potentially dangerous, distractions.
He had studied James Tiberius Kirk thoroughly, researching him with the same exactness he would afford a unique specimen in a laboratory. Slowly he had gathered and consolidated information about the man, expanding his knowledge base. However, true understanding continued to elude him. In defiance of statistical inference, Kirk remained unpredictable. Despite observable, empirical, and measurable evidence, he defined mastery. Humans were complex, and James Kirk was the Riemann Hypothesis of Humans.
Still Spock persisted, because as he spent more time aboard the Enterprise, he abandoned his initial objective of deciphering James Kirk in favor of the far more fascinating experience of simply learning about James Kirk.
And found that while he had been intently busy trying to dissect the concept of “friendship,” he had begun to live it. Somewhere along the journey, Jim Kirk had become his friend.
Yet, he remained restless and unsatisfied.
It wasn’t till he had reached out for Jim Kirk through the meld that he had truly understood. What he hungered for ran deeper than the Human concept of friendship. What he craved was… t’hy’la - a Vulcan concept dating back to ancient times. A lifelong companion. A chosen one. A cherished soulmate. He had yearned to bask in the glow of the shining, spirited energy that was James T. Kirk - to surround and embrace his soul…
But there had been nothing to embrace.
Bereft, Spock brushes strands of russet hair off Kirk’s forehead and reflects on the nature of a universe that would steal away something he had only just discovered was so precious to him.
Recalling a planet torn apart by the tidal forces of a blossoming black hole, and his mother’s final scream, he concludes that perhaps the universe, this one at least, is inherently cruel.
“Spock!” He can no longer dismiss the outside intrusion. McCoy is gripping him by the upper arms. “We’ve got to get him aboard!”
Spock lifts his eyes to McCoy, and whatever is reflected in them causes the doctor to draw back, shaken. “I mean, there’s nothing else we can do for him here. Is there?”
Spock blinks, his mind slipping out of stasis. Is there something they can do? His hypothesis has yet to be fully tested.
“Perhaps, Doctor, there is.” With one last tender touch to Kirk’s shoulder he rises. “I can no longer detect the captain’s mental presence. I believe his mind has been stripped. It longer resides within him.”
“You’re saying his personality is just… wiped clean?”
“More than his personality, Doctor.” Spock moves to the damaged control console and tugs at some of the burned wiring. “A personality is imprinted upon a functioning mind. Essentially, the captain has no mind.”
McCoy throws up his arms in frustration. “How the hell am I supposed to fix something like that?”
“You said his mind no longer resides within his body,” Lieutenant O’Sullivan observes in her soft lilt. “Then where did it go, Mister Spock?”
Spock glances across the open area to where the black box still sits atop the pedestal.
Where indeed?
“Mister Scott.” Spock abandons the scorched control panel, wiping his hands together in an attempt to remove some of the carbon blackening his fingers. “I require access to this facility’s mainframe. Since Ensign Tevyal has rendered this particular access portal inoperative, perhaps you could locate and activate an alternate port of entry?”
Scott bobs his head eagerly, and starts eyeing the vast complex. “Aye. I’ll get right on it, Commander.”
McCoy is busy monitoring the captain, but it doesn’t stop him from scowling at Spock. “Just what are you planning?”
“I am gathering data, Doctor.” He watches McCoy run his medical scanner over Jim’s prone form. “What is the captain’s condition? Has it deteriorated?”
McCoy shakes his head, expression crestfallen. “No. Still the same. I can’t do any more for him here. I’d like to transport him to Sickbay. Do a more thorough brain mapping. Try cortical stimulation. We’ve got the latest in medical technology on board, surely something will help.”
“That is unlikely,” Spock offers in an analytical tone, then hesitates when he sees the emotional reaction his words have had upon McCoy and the others. Vulcans value directness and clarity of concepts when exchanging information. Humans, he is learning, do not always appreciate such candor. “I am… sorry…” he offers, seeking to bridge the miscommunication with a gesture he likely would not have perceived as advantageous prior to his recent revelation. “I have no doubt that you will employ your considerable medical expertise to the situation. However, I am not certain this can be classified as a medical matter.”
“Not a medical matter?” McCoy sputters. “Then what the hell would you call it, Spock?”
“That I have yet to fully ascertain. Thus, I must ask… an indulgence of you.”
The doctor is watching him with a speculative expression. “And what is that?”
“Allow the captain to remain on the planet until I am able to fully conclude my inquiries. It should not take long. If I am correct in my assumptions about the function of this facility, it will make assisting the captain far easier if his physical body is present.”
“I thought you said there was nothing we could do. That his mind is gone.”
“His mind is gone, Doctor. That does not necessarily mean we are without recourse.”
Something very like hope lights McCoy’s eyes. “You have an idea!”
“I have…” Spock pauses, considering his phrasing, “... a conjecture.”
“Mister Spock!” O’Sullivan interrupts from some distance away. “We found what we believe is an access terminal. Mister Scott is powering it up now.”
Spock acknowledges her with a nod, then turns to McCoy. “Doctor?”
McCoy waves a hand dismissively. “Go ahead. Do whatever it is you need to do. Just find a way to help Jim.”
“That is my intention.”
Leaving McCoy and the captain under Jackson’s close supervision, Spock hurries across the open floor towards the remaining members of their party. They are gathered in a huddle around a curious piece of equipment that resembles a large, taupe colored toadstool.
As he jogs towards them, Spock adjusts the imaging function on his tricorder to record mode. If he is able to access the information he is seeking, he will want a visual record - if being the operative word. If he manages to establish a connection to the facility’s mainframe. If he is able to locate the relevant information. If he can decipher the text and related graphics. If the data, in fact, confirms his hypothesis. And finally, if any of it is at all helpful to Jim.
The word, if, by definition is conditional, and denotes a level of uncertainly Spock finds disconcerting. However, Spock reminds himself firmly, if also implies the potential for success, and it is that aspect he will focus upon in his efforts to save the captain.
COLORS:Achromatic - Part Two