Seascape Part 1 (R ? for language) Star Trek Bigbang
It had started when Dr. Boyce had died in their last firefight, killed instantly by a bullet through the back of his neck, severing the spinal chord. Jim had never been able to convince the man to stay below and wait it out before he started caring for the wounded, that it was dangerous on deck and a dead doctor doesn’t do anyone any good. They’d argued the issue in circles and Jim had never won until now. The loss still angered him. At least the opposing crew had been pirates-Jim had slaughtered them without guilt.
From there things just got worse. A hurricane had pushed them off course and damaged their maps. They had been forced to chart a course through unknown waters with a battered Enterprise, making their way basically in the dark, eventually ending up in Northern Africa of all places, where half the crew had been captured and sold into slavery and only a third had been retrievable. That had not been an enjoyable experience and they had said farewell to that port as fast as they possibly could, just not fast enough to prevent Chekov from contracting some sort of disease. Now, without a doctor they couldn’t help him, didn’t know if it was communicable and, frankly, they were all damn tired. They had been about ready to give up, not that anyone wanted to see Chekov die but there was nothing they could have done, when a smaller Navy brigantine had been spotted off the port aft. There was the slightest of possibilities that they had a surgeon on board, very, very slight, but it wasn’t an opportunity they were willing to abandon so they were giving chase.
The little brigantine was fast, but the wind was behind the Enterprise and apparently the brigantine’s captain was either unwilling to change course or too stupid to know that with the wind at her back, the Enterprise was faster. Either way, Jim thanked God for small mercies; Chekov didn’t have much time left. As it was they be too late already. Jim refused to dwell on this.
They were making good headway; if they were lucky, a word Jim now almost winced to use, they would be coming up beside the brigantine within three hours.
He half hoped they would put up a fight even though they were clearly outclassed and outgunned. Not that he wanted to put his crew in any more unnecessary danger or, with their luck, accidentally kill the brigantine’s doctor if they had one. No, Captain James T. Kirk was simply in the mood for destruction.
Jim sighed and knocked back a glass of bourbon. “Am I doing the right thing here? I mean of course we must try to save Chekov, but the odds of a Navy brigantine having its own medic…with a crew that small the Navy would never assign them one of their precious doctors. There’s hardly any chance at all…am I really making a sensible decision or am I just basing my decision on false hope?”
“We are desperate men, Captain, and as such we can not afford to overlook any possible solutions.” His first mate replied smoothly. Jim turned and attempted to read his expression, but as always his face gave off as much emotion as a clump of seaweed.
“Yes, Spock, but is it wrong to give the crew such false hope. I feel like I’m leading them on.” He mused out loud, strong calloused fingers absentmindedly circling the rim of his glass.
“The crew know the odds and understand and we shall all miss him.”
Jim’s hands clenched around the glass and his jaw twitched and realigned itself.
“Don’t talk about him” Jim said quietly, the words forcing their way through his chest and our his mouth, “As if he were already dead.”
“Yes, sir.” Spock replied, slipping out of Jim’s cabin, his voice expressing the barest hint of sorrow, perhaps an apology and…had it been pity?
So now he knew. Spock had already given up hope. He thought that Chekov was as good as dead already. Jim drew one arm back, the glass tight in his fist and only barely restrained himself from launching it at the cabin door. He opted instead to take a few calming breaths, straighten his vest and scarf and having arranged himself satisfactorily, he strode out onto the deck.
“Uhura.” He yelled over the roar of the waves and wind.
She gave him a snappy salute, “Yessir?”
“Find the flags and raise the ‘medical assistance’ flag. In fact, get them all out. I’d like this to go as smoothly as possible.”
“Yessir.” She replied, “Shall I lower our usual colors, Captain?”
He glanced up at the black flag with the white symbol that looked almost like an upside down and lopsided shield. It was their signature.
“No,” he replied after a moment of contemplation, “I want them to know we’re being sincere, not trying to hide anything.”
“Yes sir.” She said and headed off.
Jim wandered over to the rail and leaned out watching the small silhouette of the brigantine grow slowly larger. He stroked the gracefully curved wood under his hands and transferred a kiss from his palm to the beam as he pushed himself away from the railing.
Enterprise would take care of them.
The sky was a vivid shade of blue- the kind that poets and songs are always lauding. The crew of the Farragut was in fine spirits, whistling and singing raunchy songs as they worked. The few passengers there were had all emerged from below deck to enjoy the sunshine and fresh air.
Leonard H. McCoy took a swig from his flask and glared at the glistening vista of water. He hated the sea. He hated ships. He hated the fact that his flask wasn’t near big enough to get him stinking drunk. His only consolation was that he isn’t prone to seasickness.
He didn’t even really know what he was doing here. He must’ve lost his mind. Somehow it had seemed like a good idea at the time. After the whole scandal with his wife-dammit, he slammed his flask down on the railing (and now his hand hurt too)-ex-wife and the judge, he couldn’t get away from the stares and the whispers fast enough. He had been unable and unwilling to resist the urge that told him to runrunrun.
So here he was on a ship of Her Majesties’ Navy with all of his worldly possessions (not many, since after the divorce) on his way to the bloody colonies of all places with not even enough whiskey to get him blind, stinking drunk.
A dolphin threw itself out of the water, flipping artfully and sinking back into the water by the ship’s bow.
He cursed it. The sailors near him grinned at each other. Apparently his enthusiastic attitude and cheery disposition had become an often-tapped source of entertainment for the crew. He hadn’t been sure if he should be flattered or indignant, but when they offered him a share of the grog (disgusting, but alcoholic and he would happily take what he could get) he had settled for simply grateful.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flurry of muted movements, contained, but tense and quick. He turned. There was a group of two sailors, which quickly grew to four having an intense conversation, which involved equal parts gesturing and frustration. And wasn’t that the… he shot a glance at the crows’ nest, which was currently empty which even McCoy knew wasn’t supposed to happen, ever, which meant that something had gone so wrong that the watchmen was willing to risk sever punishment for leaving his post just to keep the knowledge contained and damn it all if he hadn’t known this trip would be the death of him. Sea travel was dangerous.
He wondered if they would notice him sidling towards their conversation or if a direct approach would be better received. Considering the threatening flare the boatswain had just shot at him for simply looking, he was willing to assume that no approach would be better received.
He frowned when the boatswain led the man who had been on watch in the crows’ nest down to below deck. Something had clearly spooked the watchman, which McCoy was inclined to take as a bad sign. As far as he knew, which granted wasn’t very much about sea travel, a reaction like that could only mean one of two things (or hell, it occurred to McCoy, maybe both and wouldn’t that be just his luck); a storm big enough to present a danger or pirates. He wasn’t really even sure which would be worse.
McCoy leaned out over the railing took a swig from his flask and scanned the horizon. Nothing.
It was maybe ten minutes later that the passengers were bundled off below deck. McCoy just sighed and wondered if God was laughing at him. He was one of the last to be escorted down because he had been standing away from the rest of the passengers, who had remained loosely clumped around the bulkhead that led below.
A sailor with whom he had previously played cards walked over to him.
“We’re going below deck?” he asked the man, looking past him to see the Captain arguing with the boatswain.
The sailor mumbled something about how having the passengers on deck was a distraction to the sailors and…and the Captain and the boatswain were having their conversation right next to the bulkhead.
“Yeah,” McCoy said absently, “I was getting kind of sick of the fresh air anyway.” He said, sidestepping the sailor and approaching the bulkhead and the arguers in what he hoped was an unassuming manner.
He slowed as he approached them attempting to look casual. He caught a few words of the conversation but the wind blew many of their words away.
“can’t…passengers…panic”
“crew…Enterprise…heard things…medical…catch us”
“but…find out…don’t…aid…if…they want”
“going to catch…either…fight…never…let…what they want”
Well that sounded goddamned apocalyptic and he still didn’t have enough whiskey.
So a pirate ship called Enterprise was after them and, apparently, they were bad news, but what was that thing about medical-medical aid? If a fight broke out, yes, they would surely need medical attention, but it sounded like they were going to be captives of pirates by that point anyway. It almost sounded like the pirates wanted medical attention.
McCoy snorted. Did pirates even do that? They’d probably happily slit a crewmate’s throat and take his belongings or position and if he was sick, that just made it easier. Maybe there was an epidemic on board, but that didn’t make sense either. They’d probably just throw an ill person overboard to keep the disease from spreading, though it probably wouldn’t work if they took all their belonging’s, and God knew even non-criminal sailors were totally and unfortunately ignorant of hygiene.
Well there was nothing he could do about the pirates catching them. He was a doctor, not a sailor. Fortunately, no one else on board knew that and hell if he was going to intentionally deliver himself into the hands of a bunch of diseased, bloodthirsty pirates. Maybe if they threatened someone he would give in, but they couldn’t possibly think that a ship this size would merit its own doctor. Chances were that they didn’t need medical aid at all, that they were more interested in your typical pillage and plunder type thing. He sat on his bunk politely ignoring his roommate who, in turn, ignored him; they had an understanding.
McCoy drew a hand wearily through his hair and heaved a sigh.
His flask was empty.
They were coming up fast on the brigantine, which had submitted to allowing them to board. They had had a fierce debate over the matter via the flag codes which had gone something like this:
E: in need of medical attention
B: in need of medical attention, my ass
E: You know we’re going to catch up with you anyway
B: we don’t have medical aid. Go away
E: Ha ha- No. Prepare to be boarded
B:…fine, but no funny business.
All in all Jim was rather pleased as they had succeeded in not only waylaying the vessel but also cutting down on both the time and effort they would have had to expend otherwise. This was just so much more convenient. Underlying this smug satisfaction, however, was a creeping feeling of apprehension. As soon as they found out whether or not the ship had a medic they would simultaneously learn the outcome of Chekov’s fate. Jim brooded.
Meanwhile Spock took care of most of the preparations, coordinating with the brigantine, which had now been identified as the Farragut. It was a well-kept ship, which was to be expected of almost any Navy ship, but it was nothing special. It didn’t have the graceful sweeping lines of the Enterprise. It had no aesthetic value. It was purely functional, which had its own allure and beauty in some ways. It was nothing near the Enterprise, but Jim could see it was a good ship.
He watched the Navy crew working, lashing the boats together, working on the sails. They were clearly tense, which was understandable seeing as how pirates had waylaid them, but they were good sailors. They were probably less than fair soldiers. It was uncommon for a brigantine of this size to be attacked. There was little of value on them, mostly they carried messages and scouted. That was why the crews typically leaned more towards the sailing end of the Navy rather than focusing on the fighting. They certainly made a tidy little crew and they functioned as a team clearly familiar with each other. Jim tried to muster up some approval, but was not really in the mood for being approving.
“The men are ready to board, Captain. Everything is prepared.” Spock said, flowing silently to his side. Jim turned towards the gangplank. He could see the Farragut’s Captain standing with something of a welcoming party, although Jim wasn’t inclined to think that there would be anything welcoming about them. They bore swords, but forbore firearms as far as Jim could tell, which was encouraging.
“Well we had better not keep them waiting.” Jim replied giving Spock a hearty back slap and striding over to the gangplank.
“Indeed Captain.” Spock replied, quirking an eyebrow and almost smiling.
Part 2
From there things just got worse. A hurricane had pushed them off course and damaged their maps. They had been forced to chart a course through unknown waters with a battered Enterprise, making their way basically in the dark, eventually ending up in Northern Africa of all places, where half the crew had been captured and sold into slavery and only a third had been retrievable. That had not been an enjoyable experience and they had said farewell to that port as fast as they possibly could, just not fast enough to prevent Chekov from contracting some sort of disease. Now, without a doctor they couldn’t help him, didn’t know if it was communicable and, frankly, they were all damn tired. They had been about ready to give up, not that anyone wanted to see Chekov die but there was nothing they could have done, when a smaller Navy brigantine had been spotted off the port aft. There was the slightest of possibilities that they had a surgeon on board, very, very slight, but it wasn’t an opportunity they were willing to abandon so they were giving chase.
The little brigantine was fast, but the wind was behind the Enterprise and apparently the brigantine’s captain was either unwilling to change course or too stupid to know that with the wind at her back, the Enterprise was faster. Either way, Jim thanked God for small mercies; Chekov didn’t have much time left. As it was they be too late already. Jim refused to dwell on this.
They were making good headway; if they were lucky, a word Jim now almost winced to use, they would be coming up beside the brigantine within three hours.
He half hoped they would put up a fight even though they were clearly outclassed and outgunned. Not that he wanted to put his crew in any more unnecessary danger or, with their luck, accidentally kill the brigantine’s doctor if they had one. No, Captain James T. Kirk was simply in the mood for destruction.
Jim sighed and knocked back a glass of bourbon. “Am I doing the right thing here? I mean of course we must try to save Chekov, but the odds of a Navy brigantine having its own medic…with a crew that small the Navy would never assign them one of their precious doctors. There’s hardly any chance at all…am I really making a sensible decision or am I just basing my decision on false hope?”
“We are desperate men, Captain, and as such we can not afford to overlook any possible solutions.” His first mate replied smoothly. Jim turned and attempted to read his expression, but as always his face gave off as much emotion as a clump of seaweed.
“Yes, Spock, but is it wrong to give the crew such false hope. I feel like I’m leading them on.” He mused out loud, strong calloused fingers absentmindedly circling the rim of his glass.
“The crew know the odds and understand and we shall all miss him.”
Jim’s hands clenched around the glass and his jaw twitched and realigned itself.
“Don’t talk about him” Jim said quietly, the words forcing their way through his chest and our his mouth, “As if he were already dead.”
“Yes, sir.” Spock replied, slipping out of Jim’s cabin, his voice expressing the barest hint of sorrow, perhaps an apology and…had it been pity?
So now he knew. Spock had already given up hope. He thought that Chekov was as good as dead already. Jim drew one arm back, the glass tight in his fist and only barely restrained himself from launching it at the cabin door. He opted instead to take a few calming breaths, straighten his vest and scarf and having arranged himself satisfactorily, he strode out onto the deck.
“Uhura.” He yelled over the roar of the waves and wind.
She gave him a snappy salute, “Yessir?”
“Find the flags and raise the ‘medical assistance’ flag. In fact, get them all out. I’d like this to go as smoothly as possible.”
“Yessir.” She replied, “Shall I lower our usual colors, Captain?”
He glanced up at the black flag with the white symbol that looked almost like an upside down and lopsided shield. It was their signature.
“No,” he replied after a moment of contemplation, “I want them to know we’re being sincere, not trying to hide anything.”
“Yes sir.” She said and headed off.
Jim wandered over to the rail and leaned out watching the small silhouette of the brigantine grow slowly larger. He stroked the gracefully curved wood under his hands and transferred a kiss from his palm to the beam as he pushed himself away from the railing.
Enterprise would take care of them.
The sky was a vivid shade of blue- the kind that poets and songs are always lauding. The crew of the Farragut was in fine spirits, whistling and singing raunchy songs as they worked. The few passengers there were had all emerged from below deck to enjoy the sunshine and fresh air.
Leonard H. McCoy took a swig from his flask and glared at the glistening vista of water. He hated the sea. He hated ships. He hated the fact that his flask wasn’t near big enough to get him stinking drunk. His only consolation was that he isn’t prone to seasickness.
He didn’t even really know what he was doing here. He must’ve lost his mind. Somehow it had seemed like a good idea at the time. After the whole scandal with his wife-dammit, he slammed his flask down on the railing (and now his hand hurt too)-ex-wife and the judge, he couldn’t get away from the stares and the whispers fast enough. He had been unable and unwilling to resist the urge that told him to runrunrun.
So here he was on a ship of Her Majesties’ Navy with all of his worldly possessions (not many, since after the divorce) on his way to the bloody colonies of all places with not even enough whiskey to get him blind, stinking drunk.
A dolphin threw itself out of the water, flipping artfully and sinking back into the water by the ship’s bow.
He cursed it. The sailors near him grinned at each other. Apparently his enthusiastic attitude and cheery disposition had become an often-tapped source of entertainment for the crew. He hadn’t been sure if he should be flattered or indignant, but when they offered him a share of the grog (disgusting, but alcoholic and he would happily take what he could get) he had settled for simply grateful.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flurry of muted movements, contained, but tense and quick. He turned. There was a group of two sailors, which quickly grew to four having an intense conversation, which involved equal parts gesturing and frustration. And wasn’t that the… he shot a glance at the crows’ nest, which was currently empty which even McCoy knew wasn’t supposed to happen, ever, which meant that something had gone so wrong that the watchmen was willing to risk sever punishment for leaving his post just to keep the knowledge contained and damn it all if he hadn’t known this trip would be the death of him. Sea travel was dangerous.
He wondered if they would notice him sidling towards their conversation or if a direct approach would be better received. Considering the threatening flare the boatswain had just shot at him for simply looking, he was willing to assume that no approach would be better received.
He frowned when the boatswain led the man who had been on watch in the crows’ nest down to below deck. Something had clearly spooked the watchman, which McCoy was inclined to take as a bad sign. As far as he knew, which granted wasn’t very much about sea travel, a reaction like that could only mean one of two things (or hell, it occurred to McCoy, maybe both and wouldn’t that be just his luck); a storm big enough to present a danger or pirates. He wasn’t really even sure which would be worse.
McCoy leaned out over the railing took a swig from his flask and scanned the horizon. Nothing.
It was maybe ten minutes later that the passengers were bundled off below deck. McCoy just sighed and wondered if God was laughing at him. He was one of the last to be escorted down because he had been standing away from the rest of the passengers, who had remained loosely clumped around the bulkhead that led below.
A sailor with whom he had previously played cards walked over to him.
“We’re going below deck?” he asked the man, looking past him to see the Captain arguing with the boatswain.
The sailor mumbled something about how having the passengers on deck was a distraction to the sailors and…and the Captain and the boatswain were having their conversation right next to the bulkhead.
“Yeah,” McCoy said absently, “I was getting kind of sick of the fresh air anyway.” He said, sidestepping the sailor and approaching the bulkhead and the arguers in what he hoped was an unassuming manner.
He slowed as he approached them attempting to look casual. He caught a few words of the conversation but the wind blew many of their words away.
“can’t…passengers…panic”
“crew…Enterprise…heard things…medical…catch us”
“but…find out…don’t…aid…if…they want”
“going to catch…either…fight…never…let…what they want”
Well that sounded goddamned apocalyptic and he still didn’t have enough whiskey.
So a pirate ship called Enterprise was after them and, apparently, they were bad news, but what was that thing about medical-medical aid? If a fight broke out, yes, they would surely need medical attention, but it sounded like they were going to be captives of pirates by that point anyway. It almost sounded like the pirates wanted medical attention.
McCoy snorted. Did pirates even do that? They’d probably happily slit a crewmate’s throat and take his belongings or position and if he was sick, that just made it easier. Maybe there was an epidemic on board, but that didn’t make sense either. They’d probably just throw an ill person overboard to keep the disease from spreading, though it probably wouldn’t work if they took all their belonging’s, and God knew even non-criminal sailors were totally and unfortunately ignorant of hygiene.
Well there was nothing he could do about the pirates catching them. He was a doctor, not a sailor. Fortunately, no one else on board knew that and hell if he was going to intentionally deliver himself into the hands of a bunch of diseased, bloodthirsty pirates. Maybe if they threatened someone he would give in, but they couldn’t possibly think that a ship this size would merit its own doctor. Chances were that they didn’t need medical aid at all, that they were more interested in your typical pillage and plunder type thing. He sat on his bunk politely ignoring his roommate who, in turn, ignored him; they had an understanding.
McCoy drew a hand wearily through his hair and heaved a sigh.
His flask was empty.
They were coming up fast on the brigantine, which had submitted to allowing them to board. They had had a fierce debate over the matter via the flag codes which had gone something like this:
E: in need of medical attention
B: in need of medical attention, my ass
E: You know we’re going to catch up with you anyway
B: we don’t have medical aid. Go away
E: Ha ha- No. Prepare to be boarded
B:…fine, but no funny business.
All in all Jim was rather pleased as they had succeeded in not only waylaying the vessel but also cutting down on both the time and effort they would have had to expend otherwise. This was just so much more convenient. Underlying this smug satisfaction, however, was a creeping feeling of apprehension. As soon as they found out whether or not the ship had a medic they would simultaneously learn the outcome of Chekov’s fate. Jim brooded.
Meanwhile Spock took care of most of the preparations, coordinating with the brigantine, which had now been identified as the Farragut. It was a well-kept ship, which was to be expected of almost any Navy ship, but it was nothing special. It didn’t have the graceful sweeping lines of the Enterprise. It had no aesthetic value. It was purely functional, which had its own allure and beauty in some ways. It was nothing near the Enterprise, but Jim could see it was a good ship.
He watched the Navy crew working, lashing the boats together, working on the sails. They were clearly tense, which was understandable seeing as how pirates had waylaid them, but they were good sailors. They were probably less than fair soldiers. It was uncommon for a brigantine of this size to be attacked. There was little of value on them, mostly they carried messages and scouted. That was why the crews typically leaned more towards the sailing end of the Navy rather than focusing on the fighting. They certainly made a tidy little crew and they functioned as a team clearly familiar with each other. Jim tried to muster up some approval, but was not really in the mood for being approving.
“The men are ready to board, Captain. Everything is prepared.” Spock said, flowing silently to his side. Jim turned towards the gangplank. He could see the Farragut’s Captain standing with something of a welcoming party, although Jim wasn’t inclined to think that there would be anything welcoming about them. They bore swords, but forbore firearms as far as Jim could tell, which was encouraging.
“Well we had better not keep them waiting.” Jim replied giving Spock a hearty back slap and striding over to the gangplank.
“Indeed Captain.” Spock replied, quirking an eyebrow and almost smiling.
Part 2