SciMusant

This must be what it feels like to be drugged, he thought, or agreeably drunk, a painless ease of mind and body in which both floated weightless in a delightful, enveloping warmth. He was aware that he was in bed and that somehow, for once, there was no alarm waiting to awaken him, no need to be anywhere else but here in this cradle, his skin absorbing the heat reflected back at him by its downy covers, his brain beneath his skull fat and placid and glowing with drowsy satisfaction.

And then a few irritations began to make their presence known: about his left shoulder, the bulk of a wrapping of some sort that insulated that part of him from the surrounding warmth. A dense, unmoving weight on his right thigh. And beneath the fingers of his right hand, a bristly annoyance.

He reluctantly opened one eye and almost snapped it closed against the intrusion of early light from a window. He waited a few moments before opening it again, then the other one, to examine what lay under his hand: a dark patch of hair that moved in time with its owner’s breathing, if the stuttering, wet snore that emanated from him could be called breathing. Mitch, sitting on a stool next to the bed with his head pillowed on Jim’s leg, his mouth relaxed in a slumber deep enough to excuse the thin line of drool that issued from it onto the bedclothes.

His hand dreamed of seizing the scruff of hair and tugging playfully on it to wake its owner, but both the motion and the mirth stalled, trapped into swimming lazy circles within his own head. He blinked himself further awake and focused harder, this time managing a twitch of one finger on the top of Mitchell’s left ear, his effort rewarded with a start and a stare of sleepy incomprehension at the smile he felt pulling at his mouth.

“Mih.”

The grin deepened at the comical expression of shock on Mitchell’s face. He swallowed dry air and tried again.

“Mitch.”

Mitchell straightened abruptly on the stool, fully awake now, one hand grasping blindly for Jim’s as he stared at his face. “Yeah, it’s me, I mean, I’m here.”

A weak twitch of his biceps signaled Mitchell to lean in, close enough for him to see the swollen capillaries in the wide brown eyes, the unshaven growth of beard.

“I have to…tell you…”

The dark head bobbed loosely on its neck, a wordless invitation to continue.

“B…Barnett.”

The name had come out as Parnett but Mitch nodded again and squeezed his hand in encouragement. “What is it, man? What about him?”

“His first name…it’s Dick.”

The whispery chuckle that followed floated between them in the silence of the hospital room as Mitchell goggled at him for a few long seconds, then dropped Jim's hand to press his knuckles against his eyes. On Jim’s left, a cautious movement: Nyota, uncurling her legs from where they had been tucked beneath her on the daybed, to turn and watch them.

“Oh my God. You asshole,” Mitchell said from behind his fingers. “You gaping, jail-raped asshole.” He moved his hands from his own face to place them on either side of Jim’s now helplessly giggling head, locking it against the pillow and pulling at his hair in a reflexive tug-of-war. “Don’t go back to sleep, do you hear me, fuckwad? Do not go back to sleep. I’m getting the sawbones.”

He gave Jim’s head one last shake before releasing it to bolt for the door, the now empty stool rolling backward across the room. Nyota rose and stopped it with her foot, then pushed it before her to seat herself across the bed from the spot Mitchell had just vacated.

The laughter died in Jim’s throat as he rolled his head on the pillow to look up at her. “You know, you are so damn pretty.”

It would be some time before he regained enough control over his thoughts to keep them from leaking out unbidden. But she didn’t seem to mind as she leaned carefully over him, her weight hovering above the bandaged shoulder, ignoring what felt like a million years’ worth of morning breath to kiss his mouth with her own.

***

“Checkmate.”

Pike frowned at the arrangement of the pieces that had just pinned his king on the rearmost rank of the third level. “Huh. Guess this will take some getting used to. Two out of three.” He cleared the pieces from the board while Jim reached for the handwritten note to scanned its careful, looping script again.

It is my hope that you will find this to be of some amusement during your convalescence.

There had been nothing else in the box aside from the graceful arcs of the three-dimensional chess board and a very brief set of instructions on its use. Pike’s dark brows knitted together as he read them over a third time.

“Can't seem to wrap my mind around these rules. Maybe this is Spock’s way of cheering you up, giving you a way to beat your superiors.”

“It was nice of him to send this.” Jim shifted against the pillows to find a more comfortable position, the ache of his mending collarbone chastising him for his refusal of McCoy’s pain medication. “I wonder why he didn’t bring it himself.”

Pike looked up from the instructions in time to catch the slight blush that crept up Jim’s neck at his own transparency. He gave a reassuring smile in return; Spock’s current whereabouts were of peculiar interest to him as well. And Barnett.

“Don’t know. No one’s seen him since…” Pike let the statement trail off, his own thoughts returning to the Finnegans’ cabin and the sight of Spock crouching before the unresponsive cadet, long fingers skating over the preternatural smoothness of the blank expression before him. Pike had felt himself mirror them both, his own body freezing into immobility while his heart fragmented under the growing conviction that they had lost him. But then Jim, his face still in Spock’s hands, had blinked twice, his first movements since they had stormed the cabin, then rolled his eyes to focus on the anxious ones before him.

“I didn’t tell them. I…I don’t think I did.”

He had watched Spock shake his head no before his eyes finally closed in exhaustion, his neck relaxing to drop his head forward into the hands enfolding it, its damp weight resting on Spock’s forehead. It wasn’t until the medical team approached them that Spock finally pulled his fingers away and stood to watch them release Jim from the chair; he had then turned his head blindly in Pike’s direction, his expression one of mild surprise as he folded at the knees, flowing like water to the floor in a dead faint of his own.

“He was admitted the same time you were. McCoy managed to keep him here all of about an hour before he took off.”

“Is he in trouble?” Jim answered Pike’s opening move, his eyes carefully trained on the board. “Is that why he didn’t come see me?”

Pike shook his head. “He’s not in any trouble. In fact, he was the one who convinced me to lead the recovery team once we got your communicator signal.”

“I didn’t send any signal. I didn’t even have my communicator on me.”

“Must have been Ben or his father, then.”

It is the king who is false

Jim’s lips tightened. “It wasn’t his father.”

“We can’t be sure about that. The attachments on Ben’s messages haven’t been decrypted yet; so far, there’s no direct evidence that the commodore was working with the Klingons.”

“Then why…” Another shift to push himself higher on the bed. “Why did Mr. Spock kill him?”

“He didn’t. Forensics ID’d the shot that killed Pat Finnegan as originating from a Klingon disruptor, so Spock’s off the hook for that. The commodore was dead before he got inside.” He frowned as he advanced a pawn. “Though he did seem to have some trouble obeying a superior officer. Not that I take it personally.”

“But isn’t that insubordination?”

“You could call it that, but the security team backed up his contention that Ben’s directive to fire indicated a probable threat. The only issue really under investigation is whether Ben…whether what happened to him, if it could have been avoided.” Pike shifted his eyes away from the lateral move of Jim’s rook to the eyes that wouldn’t meet his. “I’m sorry you didn’t make it to the memorial service.”

The undamaged shoulder rose in a slight shrug. “I guess I was still kind of out of it. Gaila told me it was nice. She said she cried, a lot.”

Jim’s rook had forked his queen and her knight; if there were any brain damage from the Klingon’s device, Pike thought, it didn’t show up here. He tried to catch the gaze that stubbornly avoided his and failed.

“Jim,” he began gently, “it’s all right to talk about it.”

“We are talking about it.”

“Not really.” He cautiously prodded a bishop across the level with his finger. “I know you and Ben were close.”

Jim promptly took the bishop with his knight, his face unreadable. “Look, I just don’t really want to think about it, okay?”

Pike would have pressed him further if not for the shadow that fell over the bright sheets and the accompanying rap of knuckles at the open door.

“Am I interrupting?”

Jim looked up toward the newcomer, the fleet admiral he had seen in the library reading room who now advanced toward the bed, his hand extended, a compact smile on his face. Pike pushed back from the side of the bed and stood, his eyebrows raised slightly at the unexpected visit.

“I guess you haven’t been officially introduced. Admiral Hachi Nogura, this Cadet Fourth Class James Kirk.”

“Pleasure to officially meet you, son. Just came by to extend my best wishes for a speedy recovery.” His handshake was firm and dry. “How’s that shoulder?”

“Better, sir, thank you.”

“Glad to hear it. I won't keep you now; we’ll have plenty of time to talk again when you’re back to your old self.” To Pike: “Commander. Walk with me back to Admin?”

Pike nodded at the thinly veiled order and rolled the bedside table against the wall, carefully so as not to dislodge the pieces. “Jim, I’ll stop by tomorrow. You can finish me off then.”

***

Outside, the officers pulled their collars up against the smattering of snowflakes that blew down from the rooftop of Medical at them. Nogura set off toward the campus at a brisk pace, Pike falling into step at his side.

“Sorry to pull you away from our young friend, but I have a few things of interest to tell you.”

It wasn’t too much of a surprise, Pike reflected, that the information conduit now apparently bypassed Barnett. He waited.

“We have biotech staff dissecting that thing they used on the cadet,” the admiral continued. “Appears to be a mind control sort of apparatus. We might be able to use that technology ourselves.”

“No.”

The force of his response surprised him, and apparently Nogura too as he halted abruptly and turned to Pike, his face an open question.

“That machine is evil,” he continued resolutely. “It needs to be destroyed.”

“You need a long view, Chris. With modifications and refinements, it could be used for therapeutic purposes. The colony on Tantalus V has already expressed interest in the technology.” He placed his hand on Pike’s shoulder to steer him back on course toward Admin. “Don’t worry; it would be for rehabilitation only. You know the Federation doesn’t torture.”

They walked on in silence for a moment before Pike broke it. “What else, sir? You said you had a few things of interest.”

“Mm hmm. Yesterday a patrol found a small ship adrift in our side of the Neutral Zone. Two occupants.”

“Klingon?”

“The bodies, yes; the ship, no. It’s an Earth ship, registered to Pat Finnegan. Sublight capability only, clearly a private vehicle. We think that’s how the men that Spock described made their escape from the cabin.”

His stumbling across the snowy yard, Spock’s head tilting upward toward the stairs, his search of the second floor a few seconds later already yielding nothing. It made sense if they’d beamed out to Finnegan’s ship. Except that a vessel of that type would likely have no transporter.

His thoughts stuttered in confusion for a moment before returning to something else Nogura had mentioned. “You said ‘bodies’…?”

“That’s right, an officer and either a civilian or a subordinate. Both were dead when we found the ship.”

“Dead from what?”

“From the stills it looks like they killed themselves. Probably realized they weren’t going to make it back to their side of the Neutral Zone and carried out some sort of ritualistic disembowelment. Sliced their own guts out as neat as you please.”

A chill fluttered up Pike’s spine. “Oh my God.”

“I suppose they wanted to avoid capture. Hell of a way to do it; shooting themselves would have been easier. Both men were armed but neither one had drawn his weapon." His chuckle at Pike's strained expression was humorless. "And there's something else. Only one knife was recovered from that ship. So they either killed themselves in turn, or the officer gutted the other guy before killing himself. Damnedest thing I ever saw.” Nogura shook his head. “These Klingons must have balls of iron.”

Pike’s silence much was much longer this time; they did not speak again until they reached the stairs of the Admin building, shook hands, and parted.

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Had Spock predicted that Admiral Barnett’s own professed affection for his little country mouse would gain Pike and himself immediate approval of their plan, he would have been disappointed. Barnett had instead fixed him with a fretful scowl from across the broad surface of his desk.

“Authorize a ship and security forces for…what? Breaking up a romantic weekend?” Barnett wagged his finger at Spock, the normally jovial gesture colored with annoyance. “You saw as clearly as I did what they were up to the other night. As long as the off-campus authorization is legitimate, I say, let them have their fun. I see no reason for us to interfere.”

“Sir, if I may.” Pike stepped forward to draw Barnett’s gaze away from the slight flush that crept upward from the black collar of Spock’s uniform. “The interference may be unnecessary, but we have no way of knowing whether this is really just a weekend visit. Someone sympathetic to the Klingons would be pretty interested in what Jim overheard in our meeting yesterday.”

“‘Someone’ meaning Pat Finnegan. Are the two of you crazed? Do you have any other proof, other than this message attachment theory?”

Pike shook his head reluctantly as he glanced at Spock, expecting the same response but seeing only a fixed stare instead as he responded to Barnett's irritation with a touch of his own. “Am I to understand that you will authorize neither the use of a fleet jump ship nor of two security personnel in this effort?”

A snort from Barnett was the only reply. “Spock, I don’t know what bug’s got up your behind, and I don’t care. Unless you have something else for me, I’m not sending an armed guard to the home of a career Starfleet officer to go chasing after a cadet with a valid off-campus pass.” He rose from his desk and signaled to his patiently hovering yeoman. “Comm ahead to Bambinelli’s; tell them I’ll have the chicken and waffles.”

“The cadets are not at the Finnegan home. Neither is the commodore.”

Two faces swiveled simultaneously toward Spock; Pike spoke first. “How do you know that?”

“I contacted the concierge at the Presidio, who confirmed that no one has entered or exited the commodore’s residence since he departed from those premises last evening. Alone.”

Barnett pursed his lips, one arm already in the sleeve of his overcoat. “What time was that?”

“19:42. Twenty-one minutes after Cadet Finnegan sent him a message requesting that he make up a bed for an unnamed guest.”

“You really have been snooping, haven’t you?” At Spock’s silence Barnett chuckled humorlessly and fastened his collar. “So our young man overhears intel about our fleet deployment, and an hour or so later is whisked away to some secret location by a family of spies. Is that your story?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“So where do you think these covert operations are being carried out?”

Spock ignored the sarcasm. “Unknown at this time. I have searched the database for other properties owned by the commodore and have found none. I have also attempted to trace Cadet Kirk’s communicator signal, but it does not appear to be operational. I am maintaining surveillance.” He reached below his coat to pull out his PADD, swiped at its screen, and frowned. “I stand corrected. The cadet's communicator was activated at 11:14 this morning. A series of pings. And another, identical signal at 11:15.”

“Signal?” Pike craned his neck to peer at Spock’s PADD. “Are you sure?

“A discernible pattern is reproduced several times.”

“Can you trace its location?”

“I will need the admiral’s station to do so.”

Barnett sighed and stood aside to allow Spock access to his desktop. “Be my guest.” He squinted down toward where Spock’s PADD now rested on the desk as he pulled on a pair of fleece-lined leather gloves. “This pattern. A series of pings, short, then long, repeated four times.” Some of the annoyance gave way to thoughtfulness. “And again.”

“Old-style telegraph code. AAAA.” Pike’s eyes widened; he seized Spock’s forearm. “Get those coordinates. Sir, we need that ship right now.”

“Why?” The disquiet that Spock had expected from Barnett was finally beginning to surface. “Does it mean something?”

Pike nodded once, his answer directed at Spock. “AAAA is an old naval distress signal. He’s under attack.”

***

The interior of the public shuttle car had been dimmed to allow an unobstructed view of the scenery outside, the unforgiving flatness of the Great Plains that would shortly give way to the rolling folds of Minnesota. Through the semi-darkness Jim could make out Finn’s sleeping form, his limbs splayed carelessly about as he reclined on the bench, the exhaustion on his face mirroring what Jim felt on his own. And in the moment before sleep claimed him again, Jim unfolded his own body to creep closer to Finn, to put one arm around him and rest his head on his chest and sink back into a welcome security. But his sleep was uneasy, the temperature in the car dropping as they moved over the frozen lakes below, the warmth of the body beside him insufficient to ward off the growing chill; he could feel the skin beneath his cheek goosepimpling as Finn shifted uneasily in his sleep, the cold becoming uncomfortable to him as well. And as hard as he tried to go back to sleep, he found himself only growing more aware and increasingly colder until he had no choice, the shivers that racked his limbs rousing him by force.

He dragged unwilling eyes open to see the kindly face of Cameron. “Are you awake at last, Human cub?”

The Klingon was standing before him as he lay on the sofa in the cabin’s main room, a crewelwork pillow propped under his left arm, his once sodden shirt now only slightly damp. He must have been unconscious long enough for the warmth radiating from the fireplace to dry it, although an impenetrable layer of cold seemed to remain; he clamped his jaw closed against the chattering of his teeth and stared back upward in silence. Beside him on the matching easy chair, the soldier whose leg he had injured inclined his head toward him and gave him a familiar, almost approving, nod over his braced knee. Beyond, he saw his erstwhile avenue for escape now blocked, the door barred on the inside by the hulking presence of the other two guards. Of Finn or his father, there was no sign.

He tried to push himself up to sitting and couldn’t help the cry that escaped him at the attempt, not at the ache on the side of his head but at the creaking pain that sliced through his shoulder. Cameron shook his head in regret.

“You have damaged yourself. Sadly we have nothing with us that will either heal the bone or ease its discomfort.” He chuckled as he drew up one of the ladder-backed chairs to seat himself next to Jim. “Your species has such a soft exterior, it is difficult to imagine how any of you can survive even one day without incurring such injury.”

“We do all right, thanks.”

The dry gasp lacked the confidence he would have hoped for. Cameron spoke in Klingon to the soldier behind him and received an answering grunt of laughter in return. “I translated your response for him. He is pleased with your courage, as am I. But James,” he added, leaning in closer, “it is as I have already said. You have been brave enough. Look at the result of your attempt to escape us. My comrade is injured, you are even more so, and neither of us have gained anything. There is no sense in avoiding my query any longer.”

“Maybe not. But at least I won’t hate myself for being a traitor.”

“Your loyalty is misplaced. Your Starfleet will crumble before us, not because of inferior might but because of a lack of objective.” Cameron stood and turned to nod at the soldiers standing by the door. “Help our young friend to stand.”

The world greyed out as Jim, supported by the pair of guards, pushed himself to his feet; he swayed between their combined bulk for a moment until the weakness passed, then followed Cameron back to the square kitchen table to seat himself, swallowing the groan of distress at the sound of his collarbone grinding against itself. They had been busy, he saw; the table had been cleared of the breakfast dishes and repopulated with a confusing array of wires all linked to a central, blinking box.

“It is a sort of mind scanner,” Cameron explained as the guards began to tie Jim’s ankles to the chair legs. “A portable prototype of a much larger device we have developed. It identifies neural pathways that contain information of interest and extracts that information, regardless of the will of the subject. I need only ask you what it is I want to know, and the scanner will examine each pathway in turn until the ones that contain the relevant data are found.” His expression regained some of its former sorrow. “It is somewhat disingenuous of me to refer to it as a ‘scanner.’ Truly, it is more of a sifter, in that it only preserves the desired neural links. Those that are irrelevant are, I regret to say, discarded.”

He waited while Jim digested that information, then bent to lean in closer. “James, listen to me. You understand what this will mean, do you not? Your mind will be destroyed, little by little, and the harder you fight to keep the information from me, the more of your mind will be irretrievably lost. And it is all for nothing, because we will eventually find what it is we want to know. Is it not better to simply tell me, before any permanent damage is done, what it is you know about Starfleet’s planned aggression in the Neutral Zone?”

His throat felt choked with dust, all steadiness gone as the words came out in a quivering whisper. “Go to hell.”

The injured guard across the room chortled and slapped his thigh; the other soldiers paused in the middle of strapping down Jim’s wrists to grin in response. Cameron did not smile at the exchange.

"Of course he is afraid, you imbeciles. There is no glory in taking a path one does not fear to walk." He knelt down to check the tightness of the ankle bindings for himself, then paused, one hand on Jim's knee. “We do not have such a thing in our mythology, this concept of eternal punishment. But I will be pleased to meet you again in the afterlife, should we be so destined." He stood and nodded at one of the guards to begin the process of attaching the innumerable wires to Jim’s scalp; the other retreated back to his post by the door.

the harder you fight to keep the information from me

So it was possible to resist the mind sifter, if only temporarily. Jim closed his eyes against the sight of heavy fingers affixing electrodes to his frontal skull and played with the illusion that he could hold the machine off, at least give it a plenitude of other thoughts to waste its efforts on, to gain enough time for someone to figure out where he was and what was happening. But his secrecy had been effective, his brief note to Mitchell insufficient information for anyone to locate him even if they suspected a reason to do so. The utter hopelessness of his situation suddenly yawned open before him.

how can I fight it how do i do that what can i

spock

A bedroom door creaked above his head, and he opened his eyes to see the commodore and Finn descending the curved staircase. Finn’s eyes met Jim’s, then turned away quickly toward his father as if for assurance.

“Gentlemen, welcome.” Cameron smiled at them and gestured toward the sofa as they reached the first floor. Finnegan patted his son on the shoulder before taking a seat; Finn moved toward Jim and looked down at him, unreadable eyes the color of water.

“My dad told me that Barnett asked you to spy for him. Is that true?”

“Yeah, to find the source of a security leak, which happens to be your dad.”

Finn sank to one knee, his eyes level with Jim’s. “You’ve got it wrong. The real traitor is Barnett; he’s the one that’s leaked intelligence to the Klingons, not my dad. He’s the one that brought them here to interrogate us.” He looked over to his father. “They got to Dad last night before we arrived, told him they’d kill us unless he cooperated. You need to do the same. That’s the only way we all get out of this.”

Despite the agony in his shoulder, Jim managed a sardonic smile. “You really think we’re all getting out of this?”

“They’re letting us go, you too if you tell them what you overheard. They promised.” He gazed up at Cameron, who nodded in agreement.

“Your friend is correct. Once you tell us what is is we want to know, you will no longer be of any use to us. Naturally we would then release you.”

“Naturally.” The smile was tinged with derision. “You can believe that if you want.”

“I want you not to get hurt any more. Jim, please.” He leaned forward to place his hands on Jim’s forearm, his face suddenly grey with grief. “You can’t want this, for them to ruin your mind just for one piece of information that they’re going to get anyway. All your hard work, everything you’ve already accomplished and everything you’ll do in the future, it’s all going to be destroyed for this one meaningless thing. Please.”

spock i am here

The tangle of wires made it difficult to shake his head, but he did so, slowly. “Nothing is meaningless. I’m doing what I have to.”

Finn stared at him a few moments longer, then rose slowly to his feet. “All right. Then you’ll forgive me for doing what I have to do, too.” He stepped back and turned to face the commodore. “Dad, I’ll be outside. If that’s okay,” he added with a questioning glance at Cameron.

An order was barked out; the soldier with the injured leg heaved himself out of the easy chair to approach Finn and systematically pat him down the front while his comrade, his handiwork completed, checked the back.

“I have instructed my men to accompany you. They are, of course, armed. I trust you will not do anything foolish.”

“No, just going for a smoke.”

The guard’s gloved hands had already found the pack of cigarettes; they held it to their noses and sniffed at it warily before handing it back to Finn and pushing him in front of them toward the door. The cavern of hopelessness again opened wide as Jim waited for the backward glance but received none, the door closing behind them before Cameron turned to look down at Jim with a mournful smile.

“It is always thus with the courageous, is it not, James? Abandoned to our lonely struggles.” He moved toward the table to place his hand on the small, twinkling box and the tiny switch on its side. “This is your last opportunity to change your mind, my friend. Will you not consider telling me the truth, now, before I am forced to take it from you?”

He had no answers left and could only shake his head again. Cameron nodded in resignation.

"You do great honor to your house this day, little man. Your name will be remembered."

spock i am here come find me

And flipped the switch.

***

The relative aridity and sparseness of vegetation on his home world made Spock’s occasional childhood visits to Earth a delight of the senses, and were it not for his most illogical foreboding on this occasion, the sight of the Finnegans’ cabin nestled among the dense, snow-dusted trees would have brought some of that youthful enthusiasm back. But as it was, the thrum of anxiety that had begun with his discovery of Jim’s absence from class that morning had deepened to a sensation too intense to allow the appreciation of the natural beauty surrounding him.

He wedged himself on the low fork of an ironwood tree and trained the sight of his phaser rifle at the cabin’s door. There had been no sign, as they had approached the cabin on foot, of any unusual disturbance on the property; the Rover, its own dusting of snow lighter on the hood, had clearly been driven up the night before, the tracks of its tires now only subtle parallel grooves in the snowy road below. The footprints leading to and from the cabin door were fresher than the tire tracks, consistent with the morning’s exploration he knew the cadet would have enjoyed. The number of prints, though, seemed excessive for only two people, at most three if the commodore had come here when he vacated the Presidio the night before. And one set of footprints seemed to stagger drunkenly off the side of the cabin’s porch. Curious.

His finger lay motionless on the trigger as he listened to the nearby sounds of Pike and the two security guards Barnett had granted them. It was a strange concept for him, the fact that Humans had ever managed to become the dominant predator species on this planet; their footfalls were so loud, the rustle of their restless, squirming limbs so obvious that it was difficult to envisage how their prey could ever fail to be aware of their presence. It would have been more logical, he thought, for Humans to be the species that evolved as vegetarians.

He silently checked his communicator.

pikecr: No activity but keep them forward

It had been the correct decision to request Pike’s assistance. He nodded inwardly with something like satisfaction and refocused on the cabin door. Nothing for several minutes, then an unexpected swing inward. Spock felt the breath seize in his throat, his index finger contracting minutely on the trigger, and waited.

A tall, pale Human appeared in the open doorway — Finn, wearing only in a long-sleeved shirt and pants against the cold and holding a small package in one hand. He was followed closely by two darker individuals, both wearing winter jackets and knit caps pulled low over their foreheads, the bulges beneath their coat flaps possible indications of weaponry. One of them appeared to have sustained some sort of leg injury, perhaps sports-related.

He watched Finn for any signs of distress as he pulled a book of matches from where it lay wedged in the box, bent over his cupped hands to light his cigarette, then leaned back to inhale the smoke. He saw none.

pikecr: Who the hell

spockst: Unknown

Silence for several moments before Finn spoke between exhaled puffs of blue-grey smoke.

“Any of you guys know Standard?”

“Some,” the slighter of the two responded. “They, no.”

“Mm hmm.” He lifted the pack of cigarettes toward them. “Want to try one?”

Eager nods indicated that his companions were not strangers to tobacco. They each tore off a glove to accept the proffered cigarettes; Finn dropped the butt of his own to the porch deck and ground it out with the toe of his boot before taking another for himself.

“Here, guys. Get in close. I only have one match left so we’re going to have to share.”

He struck the match and held it to the first stranger’s cigarette, his tone conversational. “This is bad luck, you know. Old wartime superstition. Breathe in.” His companion inhaled as the match touched his cigarette and smiled as the coal brightened. “Because the enemy can spot you on the first light. Second one — “ He paused to light the other man’s cigarette, receiving a nod of appreciation as it glowed in turn. “ — gives them a chance to draw a bead on you. And the third one.” He lit his own cigarette and raised his eyes directly to Spock’s rifle, his pupils through its sight constricted to pinpoints as he shook the match dead.

“Fire.”

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The bedside chronometer, styled to resemble an old-fashioned clock, read 10:36.

holy crap overslept got to get up got to

wait

Sleep started to fall away as his brain recognized the unfamiliarity of a large and comfortable bed, its warmth provided by a flannel comforter above and a thermal foam mattress beneath. One glance at the sunshine leaking through the crocheted window covering over his head confirmed the chronometer’s accusation: for the first time in as long as he could remember, Jim had slept well past daybreak.

He resisted the urge to spring out of bed and instead burrowed deeper into the bedding to enjoy the languid return of the previous night’s events. They had left the lab together, stopping first by Watson for Jim to pack his duffel with the few necessities for a weekend away while Finn waited outside the door, pleasant but firm in his refusal to enter Jim’s room. The books and toiletries were automatic additions, the clothes less so; he had hesitated at his closet door, mulling over the option of bringing some of Mitchell’s instead of his own, but the shimmer of the green shirt on its hanger brought a rush of resolution, and he reached instead for the old flannel shirt and barn jacket, cleaned but otherwise neglected since his first day at the Academy, and stuffed them in his bag.

“You should leave a note,” Finn remarked as Jim joined him outside. “Wouldn’t want anyone to think I kidnapped you.”

Jim had dashed back inside to scribble a few words on his PADD and lay it on his desk for Mitchell to find, then it was off to the airtram stop for the short ride to the public shuttle station off campus. Despite his best efforts to stay awake during the leisurely trip to Charlevoix, Jim had nodded off, his book finally falling off his lap to hit the floor as he snored, unaware, until the polite beeping of the shuttle’s computer alerted them that it was time to disembark.

The disorientation on Finn’s face as he swiped at his eyes confirmed that he’d slept as well. “Everybody out,” he said, managing a tired smile. “We go by boat from here.”

The tourist boat ride Winona had taken her sons on during a vacation to Niagara Falls did nothing to prepare him for the choppy ink of Lake Michigan at night, nor for the size of the small skimmer that Finn, laughing at Jim’s doubtful expression, tossed their bags onto at the dock. “Don’t worry. The ride is smoother than you’d think. And there are plenty of barf bags in the cabin.”

He had ridden in the cockpit instead, pressed against Finn’s side for warmth, the fresh chill of the night wind preferable to the cramped interior of the tiny cabin. Both were wide-awake now, the cold spray wetting their overcoats as the skimmer bounced across the lake surface. Finn, his voice almost carried away by the stiff breeze, had leaned down to speak directly in Jim’s ear. “You sure you don’t want to go below?”

“No, it’s wonderful!” he had laughed back, delighted at the wind and the spray, the dark around them and the amazement of stars overhead. Finn had smiled down at him in return and, for the first time that evening, had seemed to relax, removing one hand from the controls to wrap his arm around Jim’s shoulders and pull him closer while piloting the small craft with the other. Jim was almost sorry when the boat’s engine finally slowed, the flat blackness that rose before them signaling the approaching shore. Finn guided the skimmer into a small wooden dock and tossed the mooring line over before extinguishing the onboard lights, the murkiness of the night now broken only by the wash of stars in the night sky.

“It’s so dark,” Jim noted as Finn handed him his duffel and extended his hand to guide him off the boat. He wasn’t sure, but he thought Finn nodded in the blackness.

“The island is uninhabited except for a few vacation cabins like ours. No shuttle stop and only a few roads. Perfect for hiking or hunting, although there’s not much to hunt out here.” He pulled at Jim’s hand. “The car is this way.”

After the bumpiness of the water, the unpaved road felt almost indulgently smooth. Jim’s eyes widened at the occasional patch of white revealed by the Rover’s headlights. “Is that snow?”

“Welcome to the great lakes. We don’t get as much snow here as the mainland, but we do all right.”

A sudden vision of roaming the solitude of the woods, his footprints behind him the only marks in the unbroken snow, bloomed in Jim’s mind. “You must love coming here. If I lived here, I’d never leave.”

“It can get kind of lonely, but if that’s what I’m in the mood for, then yeah, it’s pretty nice.”

Jim flinched inwardly at the unwelcome reminder that he was the reason Finn had wanted solitude in the first place. “Is it all right that I’m here?”

This time he saw the nod as the lights of the cabin ahead welcomed them. Finn waited to answer until after he had parked the Rover and killed the headlights, then paused, his hands still on the wheel. “I want you to know that you have nothing to worry about. It’s like I said earlier, I’m always going to want you, but you’re perfectly safe with me. You’ve got your own room, you can lock the door, I won’t be sneaking in to bother you. So if you’re all right being here, I’m all right with you being here. I’m actually really happy to share this with you.”

“This” turned out to be quite a bit larger than the rustic one-room cabin Jim had imagined; a large stone fireplace, its warmth already permeating the night’s chill, dominated the great room downstairs, a curving stairwell next to a tidy kitchen leading to the bedrooms upstairs. Finn had opened the door to the first room off the stairs and gestured for Jim to enter. “Towels are in the hutch in the corner and the bathroom’s down the hall. I’ll be in the room opposite yours. Wake me up if you get up before me so I can get breakfast started.”

Jim had expected he would do just that, but the muffled clanging of a frying pan and the smell of bacon that wafted up into his room confirmed what the chronometer had already told him; the morning had, uncharacteristically, begun without him. Finally driven by the twisting ache of hunger in his stomach, he rolled out of bed, pulling the comforter around him as a defense against the chill, and set off for the bathroom.

***

She wasn’t sure if it was a deliberately theatrical move on Spock’s part to arrive in the lecture hall exactly one minute before the start of class, but it occurred frequently enough for Nyota to recognize it as his habit and, that morning, to be startled at the sight of Spock already standing at the lectern as they filed in, his face immediately turning toward them as the three of them headed for their customary table. She tried to keep her expression neutral as she nodded politely in greeting, but when she saw her own apprehension mirrored in his eyes, her surprise turned to alarm. She could feel her own pulse quicken at his approach.

“Cadets. I notice that Mr. Kirk is not with you this morning.”

“Sir, he has the flu.” She frowned at Mitchell’s incongruous cheer at delivering the news. “I’m pretty sure the clinic, uh, informed his instructors.”

“Indeed. But it was my understanding that he was only excused from yesterday’s classes.”

The confusion on Mitchell’s face at Spock’s reply quickly gave way to wariness. He attempted a casual shrug. “I don’t know, he was feeling pretty bad. Probably needs today off too.”

“What was his status when you left him this morning?”

The question was sharp and urgent, two things that never, to the best of her recollection, characterized Spock’s speech. Her hand rose to Mitchell’s forearm, to squeeze it nervously. “Was he all right?”

“I…uh…” Mitchell rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “I didn’t exactly see him this morning. He must have left before I got up; he’s a real early bird.” His shamefaced admission quickly gave way to dismay. “I actually haven’t seen him since yesterday morning.”

“Accompany me to his room at once.”

The normal morning chatter of the eager cadets died at the sight of their instructor, abruptly and with no explanation or instructions, striding out of the lecture hall with three of their colleagues in tow. A quick glance at Gaila’s wide eyes validated the stab of fear that now turned Nyota’s legs to rubber as they struggled to keep up with Spock, finally jogging behind him to cross the campus green toward the old dorms.

She saw Mitchell’s fingers stutter on the keypad as he typed in the code to open the door, then stood aside to let them enter. Spock preceded them to stand by Jim’s bunk, his expression unreadable as he gazed for a moment at the neatly made bed, then raised his eyes to sweep them around the room. They finally came to rest on Mitchell, still standing by the door but springing to Spock’s side at the silent summons.

“Determine if anything is missing or out of place.”

Three heads nodded briskly; Gaila moved to search the desk, Nyota to the small bathroom, and Mitchell to Jim’s closet. He called out a moment later over his shoulder. “His duffel bag is missing. So are his hillbilly clothes.”

“Only one toothbrush and razor in the bathroom. Yours, I’m guessing.” The discovery lessened Nyota’s trepidation somewhat. “Shouldn’t he be in the infirmary anyway if he has the flu? Couldn’t he just have gone there for an overnight stay?”

“Unlikely.”

Something passed between Spock and Mitchell that she didn’t understand before Spock turned away to accept the PADD that Gaila held out to him. “This was on the desk,” she said, her voice a little breathless. “It’s Jim’s.”

He accepted it from her hand and passed it to Mitchell. “Kindly check for any messages he may have left.”

Mitchell swiped at the screen, frowning as it came to life. “Yeah, there’s something on here, but it’s sh…giberrish. Can’t make any sense out of it.”

“Reverse the image.”

He complied, brown eyes widening in surprise as he read the result aloud.

gone for the weekend i’ll be fine don’t worry see you sunday

“Gone?” Gaila was incredulous. “But underclassmen don’t get unauthorized off-campus privileges. Except for holidays.”

“Someone must have signed him out.” Spock extended his hand to reach for the PADD. “If you will allow me.”

The minute or two it took Spock to gain remote access to the Academy logbook felt much longer than that to the three friends. Finally a thoughtful tilt of his head signaled success. “Mr. Kirk was signed out last evening at 20:04 by Commodore Patrick Finnegan, Fleet Operations.”

“Patrick Finnegan?” Nyota drew her brows together. “Any relation to Finn?”

“I must leave at once.”

Spock had already moved toward the door before they could react; she managed to grasp his arm just as he reached the threshold, the returning dread eclipsed by resolve.

“We’re coming with you.”

He paused and looked at her, then at the others in turn, noting the matching expressions of determination, then lifted Nyota’s hand off his arm and held it between his own for a moment. She knew then what his answer would be.

“He has chosen his friends wisely. But I cannot allow you to endanger yourselves as well. Nor would he wish you to do so for his sake.” He let her hand fall as he turned toward the door again. “Kindly return to the lecture hall to inform the rest of the students that class is postponed indefinitely.”

“Sir, you can’t go alone.”

He caught Mitchell’s eye with a backward glance over his shoulder and nodded his agreement. “I assure you, I shall not.”

***

There was a shower in the bathroom, but no running water. A small card by the sink explained that piped water had been shut off since the first of September, a precaution against freezing; the bucket of snowmelt next to the toilet was apparently the only water available. Jim was glad for the the towels that Finn had indicated, not so much for drying off but for washing in the first place, the plush terrycloth making the icy bath a little less torturous. He was fully awake by the time he passed the chilled washcloth over his face and hair, the chattering of his teeth coming between snickers of laughter at his own weakness. Funny, he thought, how just a few weeks at the Academy had softened him.

He pulled on the flannel shirt and jeans and slid his feet into his old work boots with a grateful sigh. Already he felt the misery of the previous day crumbling and drifting away, to be replaced with the promise of the crisp air outside and the wide patches of unbroken snow he noticed with delight as he peered out the bedroom window. From the flush of pleasure on Finn’s uplifted face as he bounded down the stairs toward the kitchen, he couldn’t help but feel he’d made the right decision to come.

“You look great. Recovered.”

Jim had opened his mouth to reply when he stopped short at the realization that Finn was not alone. Seated at the small square table with a cup of coffee in hand was a man whose startling resemblance to Finn, albeit a head shorter and several years older, proclaimed him to be closely related. Finn confirmed it a moment later as Jim reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Jim, this is my dad, Pat. Dad, this is Jim Kirk.”

“So this is Jim.” The handshake was firm to the point of discomfort. “Ben’s told me a lot about you.”

“He has?”

The surprise in Jim’s voice was met with a light chuckle as Finn’s blush deepened to scarlet. “Indeed he has. Please, sit down. Have something to eat.”

Finn slid bacon and pancakes onto both their plates. “It’s not like I went on and on,” he explained apologetically. “Just a few things, like what I was tutoring you in, what you’re studying, that sort of thing.”

“You told me quite a bit more than that,” the elder Finnegan smiled, turning toward Jim as he sat. “I’m just glad to finally meet the paragon of intellect and virtue Ben makes you out to be.”

The tone was light and teasing, but Jim felt the heat of embarrassment climbing the back of his neck. “I’m sure he exaggerated.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. Nothing I wouldn’t expect from the son of a hero.”

“I…” Something more uncomfortable threaded through the embarrassment. “I don’t think I said I was.” He tried to catch Finn’s eye, his own glance a question, and received a sheepish smile in return.

“Don’t blame Ben. Someone as important to him as you are, I’m bound to do a little snooping. One of the advantages to working in ops. Coffee?”

“Please.” Jim watched in silence as the dark liquid streamed into his mug and struggled to find a way to divert the conversation away from himself. “Do you come out here often? To the cabin, I mean.”

“Only when I need to these days. This was really more Ginny’s place than mine. A real country girl, my late wife.” Finnegan’s tone warmed as he wrapped his hands around his mug. “She loved to come out here any chance she could get. Chopping wood, back-country skiing, curling up in front of that fireplace to knit all those goddamn socks. She loved all of it. Wanted to move here permanently once Ben was born, and I probably would have done it, too, for her. Myself, I’m more of a city slicker.” His eyes focused on something beneath the surface of his coffee, then looked up; Jim noticed they were not the deep grey of Finn’s eyes but a sparkling, crystalline blue. “But I liked being here when she was here. And I brought Ben here as much as I could when he was younger, to keep a part of her living on in him, so he wouldn’t forget her.”

Winona had done the best she could, but Jim wasn’t certain he had any part of George Kirk living on in him. He looked up at Finn as he seated himself across from his father. “I’m glad you let me come,” he said with a grateful smile. “I think it’s great here.”

“It is a great place, to rest and recharge. Especially after all that excitement at the Academy, eh?”

The forkful of pancake that Finn had lifted toward his mouth halted in mid-air, then drifted back down toward his plate. “Dad,” he said, a warning tone in his voice, “please.”

“Jim knows I’m just making conversation, right?” At Jim’s cautious nod, Finnegan continued. “Now Ben didn’t give me all the details, but he did comm me last night to tell me you were coming and to get a second bed made up. When I asked why, he said you needed a break, that it had been a hard day.” He sipped his coffee, his eyes on Jim’s over the rim of his mug. “Anything to do with that meeting in the library?”

For a second Jim froze, his gaze taking in nothing but the two fair faces before him, nearly identical in coloring but for the golden cornsilk of the one having yielded years ago to pure silver in the other, two pairs of inquisitive eyes both turned toward him, one soft as morning mist and the other like glittering ice.

The queen is always true to her own color

It is the king who is false

A quick strike of anger gave way to calm; his answering smile was easy as he cut into the stack of pancakes before him. “Oh, you heard about that. I guess you would, being in ops.” At Finnegan’s nod, he continued. “Nothing to tell there, really. I went there to read a book and fell asleep. Woke up when they found me and dumped me out of my chair.” He nodded his thanks at Finn as he chewed thoughtfully and swallowed before continuing. “I can tell you, I’ll be taking my naps in my own dorm room from now on.”

“Hmm.” Finnegan tapped the rim of his mug. “So you didn’t hear anything of what was said? Nothing about the latest Federation starship deployment in the neutral zone, for instance?”

Jim forced his eyebrows upward as he reached for his coffee and sipped it before answering, his hand unwavering, his voice surprising him with its steadiness. “Is that what they were talking about? Like I said, I was asleep the whole time.”

“Really. My source says you awakened during the conversation.”

Finn’s eyes darted from one to the other. “Dad, come on. You’re making Jim uncomfortable.”

“It’s okay, Finn, I don’t mind.” He reached for a slice of bacon, speaking casually around the remains of his last mouthful of coffee. “Sir, your source is wrong. I don’t know anything about any neutral zone deployment. Sounds like a pretty bad idea to me anyway.”

“It may be.” Finnegan’s eyes remained, unblinking, on Jim’s face as he pressed a single button on the communicator at his hip. “But why don’t we find out for sure.”

He watched Finn’s cheeks pale to the color of cottage cheese, felt the rush of cold air as the door to the cabin opened behind him, and knew without turning around that the newcomers, for there were more than one pair of feet stamping snow off their boots, would not be so easily put off by his denials. Finnegan nodded at them, a genial smile pulling at his mouth.

“Pe’el.”

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The Plebe, Chapter 13
Sick Day

    "We must go for walks out of doors, so that the mind can be strengthened and invigorated by a clear sky and plenty of fresh air."

The leaden sky outside was not what Jim would have called clear, but the passage bolstered his uneasy urge to leave the confines of his dorm room despite Mitchell’s advice to stay put. “You look like shit, man,” Mitchell had said as he handed Jim his fourth pill of the day. “Seriously. Stay in bed.” But sleep, the luxury of which had eluded Jim all night long, was a much different thing from staying in bed, where there was no comfort to be found; if he sat up, his stomach lurched sickeningly, and if he reclined, his head pounded with pain, so that all of the morning was spent alternating between the two positions, neither of which afforded him any rest. The pills didn’t seem to help, but he swallowed them anyway to belay Mitchell’s frequent references to the likelihood that Chapel would, if she detected any noncompliance with her directives, skin their balls.

At least he had his books. He had tried to read in bed, propping the volume Mitchell had abandoned the previous evening on a pillow to accommodate his aching eyes’ unwillingness to focus, until the constant shifting from lying to sitting frustrated him into rising at mid-afternoon to shower. He caught a glimpse of himself in the closet mirror as he undressed, his hair mussed in every possible direction, the petechiae that peppered his eyes and face easily discernible against the unhealthy wanness of his skin.

    "Occasionally we should even come to the point of intoxication, sinking into drink but not being totally flooded by it; for it does wash away cares, and stirs the mind to its depths, and heals sorrow just as it heals certain diseases."

He turned from the mirror with a bitter snort; Seneca might have some good advice about taking a walk, but he didn’t know shit about hangovers.

He set out half an hour later into the blustery coolness of the afternoon, the book tucked under one arm. Mindful that he was theoretically quarantined with the flu, he kept his other hand raised to shield his face with the collar of his jacket. He was especially careful to avert his gaze from the library annex as he passed it on his way to the main library building.

Thou sufficeth

The lift to the top floor of the library was, he noted thankfully, empty, the fireplace reading room it opened into nearly so. He kept his head down as he stepped across the old-fashioned carpeting, passing the few cadets and instructors nodding sleepily over their PADDs to reach a vacant wing chair by the glass wall at the opposite end of the room. It turned easily to face away both from the warmth of the gently lit room and from any curious eyes, and Jim stifled a sigh of relief as he curled up in it, drawing his legs into his chest. Below him, a few straggling students dodged the blowing fall leaves, their color muted in the sunless afternoon, as they hurried across the green toward the lecture halls. The quick twist of guilt at missing his own classes that day only added to the cramping misery in his gut.

He hunched forward to rest his aching forehead on his knees, finally releasing the hold in his mind that had kept the most wretched of his thoughts at bay until now. For while his physical symptoms were made bearable by the promise of their temporary nature, there was no such assurance for the thoughts that had taken hold earlier that morning, their circling persistence driving him from the comfort of Mitch’s light snoring against the back of his neck to squirm out of bed and find his PADD, his eyes exploding at the fresh torture of its too-bright screen, his cheeks burning with humiliation as he read the definition of single malt. He had already inspected the overturned stack of clothes, knocked to the floor when Mitch made up his bunk, and lifted the underwear and jeans and iridescent green shirt to his nose in turn, the brief tremor of relief at their clean scent quickly supplanted by the realization that Mitch must have undressed him, pulled him out of clothing dirtied either with vomit or piss or, God help him, shit, the evidence tactfully washed away before it could confront him, his mind filling in the blanks anyway as a brain creates the phantom pain of a lost limb. He had shied from confirming the worst of his suspicions and had only asked Mitchell how he had gotten back to the dorm, cringing inside at the revelation that Spock had carried him home, unconscious, perhaps already soaked in whatever bodily fluid his system had helplessly evacuated when he’d passed out into Spock’s arms. He had been too horrified at the mental picture to ask Mitchell if that had been the case; from his overly cheerful demeanor, Jim surmised that Mitch probably would have lied to him anyway.

The chime of the old clock tower across campus drove his mind in a new but no less awful direction, the very real possibility of his being dismissed from the Academy. He had, as Mitchell slept, also looked up the penalties for underaged drinking, estimated how many patrons would have witnessed his descent over the course of the evening, and calculated how many of them were either already aware of the transgression or shortly to be made so — first Spock, now Mitchell and Chapel, possibly Finn next, then his friends, the circle widening like a stain until it reached someone with enough authority to dig deeper, to unearth the records be had begged Pike to conceal, among them the exemption Pike had signed to allow him to enter the Academy as a minor child. Pike, to whom he had sworn he would comport himself adequately, honorably even, whose doubts about his capability he had, with the absolute certainty only the foolish possess, assured him were misplaced before proving himself so completely wrong.

    "No condition is so bitter that a stable mind cannot find some consolation in it."

There was no consolation in the thoughts that wheeled like vultures over a heart that ached with shame; he watched them for a moment with his mind’s eye before unleashing the worst of them, predators that tore that tender flesh to pieces for the circling scavengers to feast upon, so loathsome that he physically recoiled to press his back against the arm of the chair with a groan. For he had surely destroyed if not a friendship with Spock at least a cordial working relationship, the angry words he had spoken returning again and again to his own ear, each time sounding more childish and petulant, crushing in an instant what he had worked so hard to gain — the respect of his instructor, an acknowledgment that, despite his youth and rawness, he had within him the foundation of an officer and a gentleman. And he had shown himself, in the span of a few short seconds, to be neither.

And worse, even had he controlled his temper, there still remained the indisputable confirmation of his own depravity, the hardened flesh that Spock could not help but notice as it pressed against his own. The astonishment in those dark eyes was an accusation against which he had no defense; the only question that remained was who the object of that lust was, either Spock himself or Finn, and of the two possibilities, Jim was unsure which Spock would find less offensive.

Which led him, at last, to Finn. He was painfully aware that the same unworthy conduct he had openly denounced Spock for was what he himself would willingly have been guilty of had he not been intercepted: a thoughtless, loveless yielding to the physical desires of another. Jim couldn’t tell if Barnett’s attachment to Spock went much further than that simple urge, but he knew, and admitted to himself that he had known all along, that it was more than that for Finn.

The guy's crazy about you and everyone knows it but you

His own disingenuous denials echoed in his head, bringing with them a fresh, hot flood of guilt. Mitch had been more generous than he deserved, but Spock had not been fooled. The bitter knowledge that he would have given himself to Finn merely out of obligation and a vague curiosity, fully cognizant that he was making a mockery of his friend’s affection, was the hardest of all these things to bear.

Figure out if you like him back and either make it official or cut him loose

He rested his cheek on one knee and shifted his contemplation to the grey afternoon sky outside, watching as it gradually deepened into the color of Finn’s eyes.

Grieve not, beloved

Thou sufficeth in every regard

kirkjt: can i come see you

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“Was he pissed?”

Jim studied the wall in front of his face, as much as he could without focusing his eyes, an activity that had already proven itself to be its own peculiar form of agony. The pre-dawn dimness of their dorm room helped a little.

“I thought he was, at first. But he didn’t act like it.”

“Of course he didn’t act like it — “ The sentence concluded abruptly without one of Mitchell’s customary pejoratives, unspoken out of deference to Jim’s current condition, but he heard it anyway in the hollow, aching chamber of his skull. Dumbass.

As if to negate the tacit slur, Mitchell tightened his arm to pull him closer. “He’s a Vulcan. They feel on the inside, they don’t show their weakness.”

“How do you know they feel?”

“Doesn’t take a fucking genius. No offense.” Mitchell stifled a yawn, his breath warm in Jim’s hair, the rasp of his beard stubble against the fresh pillowcase a deafening torment. “What did he say? When he found you at Bam’s?”

Jim squeezed his eyes shut and burrowed his face into the sheets to block out the growing light. “I really don’t remember.”

It seemed that lying to his friends was becoming his new hobby.

***

For the span of a few blissful seconds, Jim thought that Spock had mistaken him for someone else in the murky back hallway of Bambinelli’s; the sudden upshot of one slanted eyebrow relayed a brief but perceptible start as he rotated Jim to face him, the strained expression mellowing into a composure that he seemed unprepared to display. He dropped his hand from Jim’s shoulder and moved it to enfold its mate beneath the long black robe.

“Cadet. You should remove yourself from these premises straightaway. I will escort you to your dormitory.”

Jim shrank away from the prospect of being shepherded back across campus like a wayward calf. “That’s all right, I’m…we’re heading out now.”

"It would be a singularly unwise action on your part to depart with Mr. Finnegan. I must insist that I accompany you back to your room."

The words were spoken with a deliberate calm that, had the circumstances been different, Jim might have found disarming. But he knew what he’d seen in the grim line of Spock’s mouth and felt his back stiffen at the obvious disapproval.

“I’m fine. I don’t need your help.”

It was not the cool dismissal Jim would have preferred, the words wheezing from the strange slackness of his mouth without the conviction he was aiming for. Annoyed at himself, he pushed past Spock to stumble toward the door at the end of the shadowed hallway. Spock pivoted smoothly to let him let him pass and watched as Jim halted again, nonplussed at a brightly painted D on the rest room door.

"There is no need to take offense," he said to Jim’s back. "I merely remind you that it would be best for you to restrict your interactions with Mr. Finnegan to those of a professional nature. To reject his request for your companionship this evening, for instance."

Stunned, Jim spun to face Spock, indignation deepening the already high color of his cheeks.

"Wait...you've been spying on us?”

“Espionage was unnecessary.” Spock’s gaze was level. “The two of you were hardly discreet in your exhibition of sexual foreplay."

The neutral tone did nothing to mitigate the reproach of his words, made infuriatingly self-righteousness by the persistent vision of Barnett’s fingers stroking his hip. “You have," Jim said tightly, "absolutely no right to judge me."

"I do not judge. I merely observe and, when it is warranted, advise.”

“I don’t need your advice. I think I'm capable of choosing my own friends."

The raised eyebrow and the maddening uplift of one corner of Spock's mouth mocked his defensive reply. “Then you would do well to develop some degree of circumspection with respect to your friendships.”

“Circumspection?!” That word didn’t come out right, his mouth refusing to form correctly around it, but Jim didn’t care; the condescension had reached an intolerable level. “I’m not the one who’s sleeping with the commandant!”

It was hotly satisfying to feel his own self-control crack and even more so to see Spock’s lips tighten again in response. “My interactions with Admiral Barnett are none of your concern.”

“Oh, but it’s all right for us to be your concern? That’s not fair.”

“Fairness is not the issue. As a new recruit, you are ignorant of much of what transpires at the Academy. It is my responsibility as your instructor and superior officer to advise you as to the wisest course of action in any given situation. Devoting the remainder of your evening to Mr. Finnegan’s company is not advisable.”

“Well let me tell you, I don't give a…a fuck about your advice.” His hands had balled into fists at his sides; somewhere in his head, Mitchell roared with approving laughter at the adoption of his playbook. "I’m tired of you acting like you know better about everything and interfering with everything I want to do. So butt the fuck out and go mind your own business!"

Spock's eyes narrowed at Jim's rudeness. "Your personal affairs are indeed none of my concern, and I would prefer to know little, if anything, of them. But it becomes my business when the welfare of one of my students is endangered. I would not interfere unless that were the case."

"You haven’t got the right! My welfare isn't in any danger."

"Indeed it is. You plan to offer yourself to a person who would exploit your youth and inexperience, presumably for the express purpose of satisfying his own physical urges."

Jim’s mind stumbled at the bland but jarring statement, then recovered enough to deliver the counterpoint that had been simmering under his skin for too long to ignore anymore. “But you’re over there…” Jim jerked his head in what he hoped was the right direction, “…doing the exact same thing with Barnett! He’s like a hundred years older than you. And he’s your boss.”

“I have already warned you not to invoke my relationship with the Admiral, of which you know nothing.”

“Like you know everything?!” It was oddly euphoric, the sensation of his restraint shattering into pieces too small to gather back together. “Finn’s been a good friend to me and really helpful, he doesn’t exploit me, and he’s not going to exploit me, whatever you think. And he even defends you, he’s never said a mean word about you, he sticks up for you and your fucked-up grading and your fucked-up relationship, and he’s never asked for anything from me, he’s just helped me out of kindness. But I guess you wouldn’t understand that, you don’t get that, that people aren’t always calculating and selfish, that they can be nice to someone else without expecting payment.”

"On the contrary," Spock replied evenly. "He does expect payment, which you intend to remit tonight, in his rooms, after you leave here with him."

He pulled his arm back then, but the swing he aimed toward Spock's chin was defused by a quick seize of his wrist and a deft turn, his body spun by its own momentum to trap his right arm behind his back, his left arm grasped by the wrist as well and neatly pinned to his right collarbone. One firm push backward and he was against the wall, grimacing at the sudden pressure on his twisted arm and the imprisonment of his lower body by a well-placed foot and knee. He glared at Spock, panting, his flush of whiskey-fueled fury met by dark eyes so suddenly grave that his own eyes widened in surprise.

"Listen well," Spock said, his face mere inches from Jim's, his voice low. "If you are to bestow yourself on another, be certain it is truly your wish to do so. And that it is to one who accepts you not merely as compensation for services rendered, but as the gift that you are."

Jim found the one tiny shard of discretion that remained and bit back the protest that rose to his lips at Spock's words — no, that's not how it is, he's not like that. And as he dropped his gaze from the sternness of Spock's eyes to his tight-lipped frown, his breath rattling in his throat,

Are you to bestow yourself on another

he found a bit of stability in his careening mind, a still, dark slick of oil on the roiling waves of his thoughts, and he fastened on the recent memory, himself on the bar stool and Finn pushing between his knees, arms around him to keep him from toppling backward, his mouth icy cool and delicious as it explored Jim's, the bitter tang of the bourbon on his tongue masked by the sweetness of sugar and cream. And Jim watched himself for his own reaction, for some indication that the contact excited him as much as it did Finn, whose hands now roamed up Jim's back with undisguised eagerness to clutch and pull at the thin fabric of his shirt and whose groin, heavy and hard with need, now leaned urgently into his own.

Be certain that it is truly your wish to do so

And he could find no sign that it did, only a flicker of interest at the novelty of another man's mouth and hands on him and a gnawing guilt that he could only partially reciprocate Finn's affection.

no that's not how it is

no

As if he felt Jim's sudden regret, Finn pulled back slightly, his hands releasing their hold on his shirt to slide down to his waist and rest there lightly, his lips still on Jim's but his tongue retreating from its assault in mute apology. And as they rested there something changed, almost imperceptibly at first, just a slight warming of Finn's hands on his hips, the touch feather-light but steady. Then his lips softened, more pliant now and lush under Jim's, his kiss transforming from urgent demand to soft persuasion, until he pulled his mouth away at last to rest their foreheads together, their breaths puffing between them.

Be certain

And he felt his body become a conduit for the heat of Finn's hands, their warmth drifting upward from his hips to slow his breath and soothe the frantic thumping of his heart until it moved to envelope him completely, the bar stool beneath him dissolving as the rest of his surroundings quieted at last, the music and chatter fading into harmonious silence around him, the bothersome spinning of the room finally ceasing as it too melted away to leave him, his body now weightless and free, floating in the warm sea of his mind’s tranquility. And in that ocean of peace grew a joy at the unfamiliar feeling of complete acceptance, the assurance of a devotion that did not judge nor want anything in return, the utter absence of a desire for him to do anything other than continue to be who he already was. And that acceptance was almost unbearable, the buoyant ecstasy of being completely loved without the expectation of more than what was already being given.

Desire slammed into him then, the unexpected rush of blood and heat bringing a gasp of surprise as he felt himself swell, the physical response a reflection of what he had trained himself to conceal over the years of his short life, the tender parts of him that craved the affinity he now enjoyed in unlimited abundance.

Do you bestow yourself

And in the depths of the fluid heat surrounding him, something moved, great and slow as if unused to movement, twisting as it arose from the depths below to approach him as he floated and drift in lazy circles around him,

Do you bestow yourself

its heavy, dark body almost brushing his as it swam by, faster now, its tongue flicking out to scent him through the water, each contact a tiny jolt of electric delight.

Be certain it is your wish

He spread his arms and legs wide in the salty warmth that supported him, inviting the being to taste more of him

yes

and felt the creature rejoice, its desire penetrating the calm surrounding him, his own need surging as well until every cell in his body sang with elation. He could feel the heat of its body exciting his own skin into unbearable anticipation as it swam closer, his flesh growing harder than he thought could ever be possible, an unimaginable climax approaching to sweep over him. He arched his neck to open it in surrender, laughing as his head dropped backward…

…and struck the hard wall of the hallway behind him with a painful crack.

Startled by the sudden blow to his skull, Jim snapped his eyes open to find himself still trapped against the dank, grimy wall, his arms pinned against his body by Spock's hands on his wrists, the restaurant’s cacophony ringing in a head that shrank in pain from the abrupt return of noise and vertigo. He searched the face before him, noting the frown on Spock’s forehead, even deeper than before as his eyebrows nearly met across the bridge of his nose, his lips no longer set in a hard line but parted slightly as he stared back at Jim in shock.

A moment later, he understood the reason for Spock’s astonishment: like evaporating seawater, the hallucination had left behind a remnant, the unmistakeable evidence of his arousal, still eager and hard and pressed up now against the knee that pinned him to the wall.

no

oh NO

“It is well, child. Do not fear.”

The hand on his left wrist moved slightly, the fingers pressing gently on the juncture between his neck and shoulder, and he felt himself falling forward into Spock’s arms, his senses deadening, his last thought one of dismay at the retribution he knew would accompany his awakening.

The Plebe, Chapter 9
Debriefing -- A Game of Chess -- Mitch Reads a Book

“How was your weekend, boys?”

The innocent question from Gaila was met with a smirk and a toss of Mitchell's dark head. “Fucking awesome, if you like buying old shit nobody wants anymore.”

She put her bag down and settled into her seat, her sidelong glance at once teasing and mildly wounded. “You went shopping? And you didn’t ask me to come along?”

“He went shopping. For antique crap. Baby girl, you should be thanking me that you weren't there. It was awful.”

Jim forced a smile through the familiar flush of defensiveness; Saturday’s pleasure of digging through the endless stacks of old books with Finn had been tempered by Mitchell’s hovering over them like some dour duenna. “You didn’t have to come," he said in what he hoped was an even tone. "I told you you wouldn’t like it.”

"Ah, hell no. Wouldn't have missed it for the world." He reached into his own bag and pulled out a battered, old-style paperback book. "How else would I have found this gem?"

Gaila plucked the book from Mitchell's hand, a moue of distaste on her face at its stale odor. "Jungle King Tar-chan. Really, Mitch?" she accused as she squinted at the cover. "An old cartoon book?"

"Yeah, but check out the middle. My man is getting head from a fucking chimp." He cackled with delight as Gaila flipped through its pages to inspect the bawdy centerfold for a moment before tossing the book onto the table with mild contempt. "Speaking of old shit nobody wants anymore," she sniffed as she took her seat, "you could at least have found something a little less tasteless. And smelly."

"Describes him perfectly." Nyota had come up behind Mitchell who now twisted in his seat to greet her with an awkward hug, his face burrowing happily into the side of her right breast. She smiled at Jim over the top of Mitchell's head and nodded at the bag that rested on the table next to him, its sides bulging more than usual. "Did you have better luck?"

"Oh yeah," Mitchell interrupted, his voice muffled by the soft flesh. "He got lucky all right."

She disentangled herself from Mitchell's embrace to seat herself next to Jim, her voice playful as she pulled out her PADD. "Really? Do tell!"

"He's just being a jerk." He tried to ignore Mitchell's poorly suppressed snicker. "Nothing happened."

Across the table, Gaila stared at him with guileless interest. "Nothing happened with who?"

"Whom," Nyota responded automatically, but her eyes were on Jim. "Nothing happened with whom? Tella?"

"No, God no. We just got a few books, that's all. It doesn't mean anything."

"'We...?!'"

The single word hung in the air between them, its unison utterance matched by the eager inquiry on both female faces. Mitchell leaned back in his chair, arms folded, and watched Jim's silent struggle with an almost ferocious glee before answering for him.

"Our boy," he announced, "has reeled in the biggest fish in our little pond." He paused to ensure that every eye at the table was fixed on him before continuing. "Mr. Finnegan himself, Cadet First Class. Got him trailing around like a bitch in heat."

"You mean, Finn? But he..." The look on Gaila's face as she stared at Jim was now one of mild shock.

Nyota nodded at her in understanding before turning back toward Jim, concern evident in the eyes that now inspected his flushed countenance. "Is that true? Finn's interested in you?"

Their own level of interest was beyond uncomfortable; Jim dropped his gaze to his hands and folded them together to keep from nervously picking at the callus on his palm. "No. He's just my tutor. We went out looking for books, that's all."

"My ass." Mitchell heaved forward to reach for Jim's bag and upend it. "Look at all this shit he bought him."

Jim gritted his teeth as several volumes spilled out onto the table, the clatter of the slide rule jarring in the sudden silence as it fell with them. The shock deepened on Gaila's face. "There must be...this must have cost a lot," she said at last, the eyes that she raised to Jim's wide with disbelief.

"Especially this." Nyota's slender fingers plucked the slide rule out of the jumble of books; she handed it back to Jim, her expression gentle but steady in its questioning as she swiveled in her chair to face him. "He must think a lot of you."

Gaila's chair rattled as she began to bounce with excitement, her hand gripping Mitchell's forearm. "Oh my God, Jim" she breathed, her blue eyes even wider, "you are so lucky."

"Luck has nothing to do with it," Mitchell pronounced as he leaned back again, his glib cheer grating in Jim's ear. "He bats those pretty eyes and Finn rolls over. It's fucking brilliant."

Nyota frowned at his needling. "Don't be an ass," she snapped at him over her shoulder, her eyes not leaving Jim's face. "You need to be careful," she said, her tone intense despite its softness. "Finn's not..."

"Please excuse the interruption."

The women started as Mitchell rocked forward abruptly to straighten in his seat; none of them had sensed Spock's approach. Jim's fingers tightened on the slide rule.

"Cadet Kirk. Perhaps you will be so kind as to accompany me to my office immediately following today's class."

It occurred to Jim that the worst thing about having an emotionless Vulcan for an instructor was the utter lack of concern about embarrassing him in front of his classmates. The best thing was that he didn’t appear, from the smooth serenity of his tone, to hold a grudge over the acrimony of their last meeting. He managed a smile and nodded up at Spock, ignoring the curious eyes that had all swiveled to goggle at him and their instructor.

“Sure, no problem.”

***

“I have a prior engagement after class on Wednesday. I trust it does not inconvenience you unduly to meet today instead.”

It must have been the cooler fall weather, Jim thought, or perhaps the required compulsory physical conditioning unit that Mitchell, in moments of sarcastic exhaustion, referred to as Phys Dead. Whatever the reason, it was noticeably easier to keep up with Spock's efficient strides as they proceeded across the campus toward the library annex after class. He was pleased that he could answer without panting.

"No, it's fine."

It was indeed no inconvenience; Jim had already made plans to meet up with Finn Wednesday afternoon to celebrate what they predicted would be solid success on that day's exam. A twinge of guilt accompanied the silent acknowledgment that he would prefer, having made no further progress toward identifying any persons of interest as potential Klingon operatives, not to spend the hour beforehand in uncomfortable silence in Spock's tiny office merely to keep up the appearance of a weekly tutorial.

That Spock too might find their time together tedious had never occurred to him until Spock opened his office door, gesturing for Jim to enter in front of him. The room was so spare that it was easy to recognize the smallest change to its decor, in this case the fact that Spock's computer had been pushed to one side of his narrow desk to accommodate the central placement of a familiar object.

"A chess board!"

"Indeed." Spock motioned for Jim to take the side chair as he poured him a cup of coffee from the freshly brewed pot, placing it by the ranks of white pieces before attending to his own cup of tea. He took his seat across the desk and watched Jim examine the figures for a moment before continuing.

"The board itself is 21st century Earth, crafted in the Italian region of Old Europe. It was my mother's; she had a fondness for vintage items such as this. The matching pieces were lost, so my father commissioned a new set that represents figures from Vulcan history." One thin finger brushed lightly over a pawn, a fierce-looking male warrior brandishing a shovel-like weapon. "Do you play?"

He could see the motes of hay dust swirling lazily in the slanting beams of sunlight that breached the high shuttered windows to escape, as they had, from the heat of the afternoon outside, could feel the trickle of sweat down the front of his neck as he frowned at the yellowed synthetic pieces perched on the edge of Sam's side of the board, a carefully arranged taunt. Come on, dumbass, Sam had muttered, eager to finish him off, move already. He shook his head.

"No, not really. I mean, I know the goal and how the pieces are supposed to move, but I never learned any real strategy."

"I daresay you will find that experience is the best teacher." Spock unclasped one hand from his tea cup to gesture at Jim's side of the board. "Please."

Jim hesitated briefly -- Pawn's first move, one or two-ve, Sam laughed -- before moving his queen's shovel-wielding pawn two spaces forward to begin the game. Spock's unhurried counter with the exact same move, one that allowed the easy capture of the black pawn, planted a seed of bewilderment in Jim's mind that bloomed a few moves later into the unsatisfying certainty that Spock was setting him up to win.

Maybe he's never actually played. Or he thinks I haven't. Jim's bemusement grew as Spock either ignored or failed to recognize his pawn's dogged march down the board in favor of maneuvering his own rook to take Jim's queen. But Jim had already calculated that the king would fall to him unless Spock changed tack to defend it. Which he did not.

There was no response to the threat of his untouched pawn as it finally reached Spock's second rank to rest directly in front of his king's bishop, nor to his tentative murmur of "Check," other than the advance of the queen's rook to the open file, a move that caused Jim to chew the inside of one cheek in consternation. He leaned back and gestured at the largely undisturbed ranks of pieces.

"I can just take your king now, so I win. Right?"

He expected a raised eyebrow of surprise, perhaps a grudging acknowledgment of defeat. But Spock's response was coolly placid.

“Indeed, not. Your last move has in fact ceded the game to me.”

"Why?" More argumentative than he intended, he realized too late, but Spock was unruffled.

"You see with your eyes, but you do not perceive with your mind. Look carefully."

There wasn't much to look at. "I'm sorry, but I don't see that I've missed anything."

Spock clasped both hands around his tea cup and leaned back in his chair. “You have made three errors. The first of these is that you were single-minded in your pursuit of my king to the extent that you did not attend to the protection of your own. Observe my next move." He swept his rook down the board and captured the white queen, enfolding it deftly in his fingers as he released the rook to replace it. "Chess requires a certain amount of four-dimensional thinking, the anticipation of myriad possibilities that unfold with the movement of each piece. One cannot merely attack without considering the outcome of one's failure to defend."

"But I'm only sacrificing one piece," Jim protested. "If you didn't move your king, I'd take it on the next move and win, so losing my queen doesn't matter."

"On the contrary, it matters immensely. That is your second error. By opening his rank, you have just lost your king, not your queen." He released the white piece to his side of the board but kept one finger lightly resting upon its base. "And the quarry that you have been so relentlessly pursuing throughout this game is in fact my queen."

Surely he couldn't have been mistaken about such a simple identification. Jim felt the prickle of anxious perspiration on his scalp as he peered closely at the pieces. The figure that Spock's finger now rested upon bore neither weaponry nor ferocity but rather an ornate scroll and a placid, almost contemplative, expression on a face crowned with an elaborately coiffed head of hair.

"But...I mean, I'm not an expert on Vulcan dress and whatnot, but this looks very much like a woman to me."

"It is. Vulcan society has a strong matriarchal tradition; the metalsmith who crafted these pieces honored that tradition by making the king female. A feminine figure, true, but fulfilling the king's role nonetheless."

A spike of familiar resentment at Spock's condescension pierced the confusion. "Well, I don't know how I was supposed to know that," he replied truculently,  "You could have told me."

Spock took a sip of his tea, his eyes on Jim's over the rim of the cup. "You could have divined that fact for yourself," he remarked. "Look at your own pieces. On what color did your king reside?"

He shifted his eyes away from Spock's hand to the square his rook now rested upon. "Black."

"And your queen?"

"White."

"Just so. My rank is the opposite. My queen begins the game on a black square." Spock leaned back, his hands with the half-empty cup between them lowering to his lap. "You can see that the king's identity was plainly before you, had you taken care to examine the board at the start. The queen is always true to her own color. It is the king who is false."

The inside of his cheek was a salty pulp. "What was the third mistake?"

The dark head inclined toward him, eyes lowered, in a gesture that resembled an apology before he raised his eyes once again to Jim's. "You were aware, were you not, that the contest appeared too elementary. You were correct on that score but did not attend to your own misgivings.  Your third error was in not examining your own suspicions more carefully; had you done so, you doubtless would have discovered the existence of the first two."
 

***

Sleep usually came easily to Jim, the deep, unguarded slumber of the young reinforced by years of rising before dawn. But it eluded him that night as his thoughts refused to settle, flooding his mind instead with visions of the chess games they had played over the course of nearly two hours in Spock's office, each of the three games that followed the initial failure presenting itself to him again for an unprompted analysis. The last of these had ended, as had the three before it, with his own king in checkmate, but not until each side had been decimated by the other, the field of play barren, the desktop beside it littered with captured pieces of both colors. Spock had, finally, raised that eyebrow.

"Had I known that you would be such an apt pupil, I should never have engaged you in play," he had said as he began to remove the pieces to the safety of their box. "I fear the next encounter would result in my defeat and must therefore devise some other enterprise for our next meeting."

Jim smiled at the recollection of the tiny quirk of the corner of Spock's mouth that had accompanied his unexpected glint of humor, his version of laughter now aimed at himself. It wasn't just the memories of that afternoon that now prevented him from sleeping, he realized; it was also a surprising urge to spring out of bed, activate the selfishly sleeping computer terminal on the small desk opposite, and research technique and strategy, maybe even play against the computer. But a live opponent on which to practice would be preferable.

He rolled over onto his stomach, his face half-buried in the pillow as he looked across the darkness of their narrow room to where Mitchell lay, his body disdaining its habitual sprawl to huddle beneath the blankets, his normally even snoring now an odd stutter. It took Jim a few minutes to recognize that sound as suppressed laughter; the occasional flash of light that penetrated the fabric of his sheets confirmed that, for the first time that semester, and perhaps ever, his roommate was reading in bed.

"Mitch, do you play chess?"

The covers were flung back to reveal Mitchell, the third of six volumes of the redoubtable Jungle King Tar-Chan in one hand, the gentle glow of his open communicator in the other.  He fixed Jim with a glare that pierced the dark.

"Fuck no, I'm not into that longhair shit. Go ask your boyfriend. And don't tell me he's not," he went on, sensing Jim's unspoken protest, "because he sure as fuck thinks he is, whatever you say."

Jim fought back the urge to sigh. "What about what I say?"

"God, you're an idiot. The guy's crazy about you and everyone knows it but you. Figure out if you like him back and either make it official or cut him loose." Mitchell flipped onto his back and aimed the communicator back at his book to illuminate the pages, the conversation plainly over in his mind.

The images of prancing chess pieces were replaced by a pair of smoke-grey eyes and a wide grin of triumph as Finn held up the volume of Seneca he had found among the stacks of ancient books. Here, he had said, pressing the book into Jim's hand, I think this is something you'd like.

"What did they mean, the girls, when they were talking about him in class today? Nyota said I had to be careful, but she didn't say why."

A snort of exasperation accompanied the sound of the book and communicator hitting the bed as Mitch tossed them aside to roll over and peer at Jim across the space that separated their bunks. "I don't know, dumbfuck, I don't have any goddamned ESP. All I know is what everyone knows about Finn. Model citizen and all that. Beats me why he's into you, but he is, and you're gonna have to deal with that sooner or later, because I can't be shadowing you on every date to make sure you don't get raped in the ass."

Jim was glad of the darkness that hid his flush of anger. "I didn't ask you to shadow me. And they're not dates."

"You just don't get it, do you?" Mitchell's tone surprised him with its own temper. "Look, maybe he's a good guy and maybe he's not, but either way, you're playing him for a sucker. As far as he knows, you do have a date on Wednesday, and you're gonna have to set him straight if that's not what you think too. Now go the fuck to sleep and let me read." He rolled away from Jim, his back a rounded barricade against the light that shone again under the blankets he pulled firmly back over his head.

The pleasure of seeing Finn again in a few days was mitigated by his own uncertainty at Mitchell's directive. Jim pressed his entire face into his pillow, blocking out the bluish glow of Mitchell's communicator as he forced himself to envision the two of them on a date, Finn's hand reaching for his in affection, his arm reaching down to wrap itself around Jim's waist. But the image refused to form as the tall pale figure blurred and split into two dark ones, Barnett's arm now around Spock's waist, his hand first resting on Spock's hip, then dropping lower to the upper thigh before slowly sweeping back to brush one buttock over the black robes that covered it.

You see with your eyes, but you do not perceive with your mind.

The queen remains true to her color. It is the king who is false.

Attend to your own misgivings.

It came to him then, his eyes snapping open against the warmth of the pillowcase, his waking gasp of realization eliciting an irritated grunt from across the narrow room.

"Easy there, Master Bator. Settle down."

"Just dreaming. Sorry." He turned onto his side to face the wall and forced his breathing to slow.

He's known all along he's been trying to tell me it's the king who is false the king

It's Barnett



 

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“Goddamned fucking waste of time,” he muttered. “They should have just given us the day off. Fucking asswit parade.”

Jim muffled his snort of laughter with one hand and squinted at the speaker now on the podium several meters ahead, a gangly dark woman with impeccably styled hair. “What does a provost do, anyway?”

“Fuck if I know.” Mitchell shifted again to cross his legs, ankle to knee, and nodded at the officers seated under the commandant’s tent. “Probably get paid to suck Barnett’s dick, same as the rest of those slappies.”

The tone of the ceremony thus far was indeed self-congratulatory, Barnett’s opening speech in particular exuding a preening quality that Jim found faintly embarrassing. But he still felt a pique of defensiveness at Mitchell’s words as his gaze traveled down the row of speakers to where Pike was sitting patiently at the end. “They don’t all do that,” he whispered.

“Keep your panties on,” Mitchell shot back. “It’s just a joke. Far as I know, Spock’s got that job all to himself.”

“What job?”

“Don’t you know? He’s Barnett’s chicken. That’s the rumor, anyway.”

“Oh.”

The beauty of the fall morning dimmed. Jim digested the information in silence, unsure if he felt surprise at the news; it certainly seemed plausible, he thought as he recalled each time he’d seen Barnett and Spock together. He watched Barnett, seated in the shaded comfort of his tent and beaming fatuously as he applauded the end of the provost’s speech, and wondered why it should even matter to him. It took Mitchell’s elbow in his side to jolt him from his brooding.

“Look, man. Your boyfriend’s gonna speak.”

Even at this distance, it was easy to spot the pale blond ponytail beneath the cap that Finn now removed to lay it on the lectern as he began his speech. Jim watched for a few moments before remembering to protest Mitchell’s assessment of their relationship.

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“No? Well, for a guy who’s not your boyfriend, he sure as fuck is keeping you out late.”

“No he’s…what?” Jim shifted his gaze from Finn to search Mitchell’s face, startled at the grim scrutiny he found there; an uncomfortable flush followed a few seconds later as he realized not only that he had not explained the recent spate of evenings away from their dorm room, it had never even occurred to him that Mitch would notice. “I haven’t been with Finn,” he protested. “This is the first time I’ve even seen him in a week.”

“Yeah?” Mitchell’s face closed into a mask. “So he’s not the one who rearranged your face?”

The flush deepened. “No, I told you, I fell.” His dismay worsened at the defensiveness he heard in his own voice. “Why would you think Finn hurt me? He wouldn’t do that.”

Mitchell leaned toward Jim to tick each sentence off with his fingers, his hushed voice intense. “A string of late nights, you sneaking in just before curfew, zero explanation. Then one night you stagger in all beat to hell, marks all over you, very down-low, no one saying shit except for some weak as fuck excuses. After that, boom, no more sneaking out, you’re back to your farmboy hours, in bed by 2100 and up by 0400 like nothing ever happened. So unless you’ve been turning tricks behind the mess hall, my money says you two were hooking up, things got out of hand, he roughed you up, and now you’re laying low.”

It made sense. Jim was discomfited into silence by what he had to admit, given his own secrecy in the matter, was a logical deduction on his roommate’s part. He watched Finn speak for a few unseeing moments longer before turning back to meet Mitchell’s tense gaze.

“Mitch, I swear to you. I wasn’t seeing Finn those nights. All I was doing was working, on a…project. And now it’s over; I’d finished it up the same night that I tripped and fell on my way back here. Finn had nothing to do with it.” It was a good story, he thought, and essentially true, but something in him broke at not being completely honest with his friend. “He’s my tutor, that’s all.”

“Whatever. But you’re meeting up tonight, right?”

On the podium ahead, Finn was recounting a self-deprecating tale of an early misadventure as a fourth-class cadet; Jim waited for the gentle laughter from the audience before responding. “Yeah. In the library.”

“Ooh, very romantic. Just you and him and a bunch of moldy books.” The familiar bantering was tempered by Mitchell’s expression, still hard even as his body seemed to relax, his arms folding easily as he uncrossed and recrossed his legs to wag one foot at Jim. “Are you gonna tell Gaila?”

The irritation of Mitchell’s innuendo was preferable to the glum guilt of his own thoughts; he gladly rose to the bait. “Don’t be weird. There’s nothing to tell.”

“You keep bullshitting yourself and it’s gonna backfire on you. Just wait.”

“I’m not…”

A quick glance at Mitchell’s face showed him that the teasing was only superficial; the protest died on Jim’s lips at the sight of the normally warm brown eyes now stony with suspicion and hurt. Jim retreated back into silence, the only sound between them the ceaseless chuk-chuk-chuk of Mitchell’s impatiently jiggling boot, and forced himself to focus on the ceremony. Finn’s address had been a welcome change from the smugness of the speakers before him, refreshingly candid in the gentle fun he poked at the Academy and its leadership; the applause that now followed from cadets and officers alike was genuine rather than perfunctory, and even Barnett, the butt of some of the most daringly pointed anecdotes, laughed and clapped enthusiastically as he rose to slap Finn’s back and shake his hand. Nyota’s remarks followed, her contribution flawless and polished without being stiff, and Jim felt his spirits rise further with each successive speaker. By the time Pike had completed the closing remarks to officially conclude the ceremony, Jim was able to offer an unfeigned smile at Mitchell’s rousing shove.

“Thank God that’s over.” Mitchell yawned ostentatiously as he stood and stretched, his own mood apparently lightened as well. “Let’s get the fuck out of here, get some lunch, and hit the gym before your big date.”

“It’s not a…oh, no.” The smile quickly dissolved as Jim stood too and immediately spotted the unmistakable figure of Tella Kottke striding toward them through the dispersing crowd, Gaila and Nyota just ahead of her.

“What is it?”

“A girl I don’t want to talk to,” Jim answered miserably. Caught between the truth he couldn’t tell and Gaila’s creative lie, he waited numbly as they approached, searching the smoothness of Nyota’s face for some hint as to what was to come but finding none. He hoped that was a good sign but acknowledged to himself, as the unwanted image of Tella’s bare back and rolling hips flitted again through his mind, that he was pretty likely screwed.

He braced himself for the jibe to come, but beside him, Mitchell was unexpectedly, blessedly silent as Gaila reached his side to enfold him in a hug. “Wasn’t her speech the best?” She kissed Mitchell’s cheek and released him to take Jim’s arm. “She practiced all night long.”

Nyota’s stifled yawn confirmed Gaila’s statement. “Not all night, but most of it. I’m ready for a long nap.” She gestured toward Tella and pulled her forward. “Tella, you remember Jim,” she said with no trace of archness. “This is his roommate. Mitch, this is Tella Kottke.”

The hand that Tella offered Mitch was firm to the point of rigidity, but her expression softened when she turned to Jim with an uncertain smile.

“Jim. I’m so…” She paused briefly before reaching out unexpectedly to brush Jim’s fingers with her own. “I hope you’re doing all right.”

It was not the greeting he expected. He let her take his hand, mystified as she pressed it warmly between both of hers, the gesture intimate, almost fond. Mitchell gawked openly, his gaze flicking back and forth between Jim’s face and Tella’s as she frowned with regret at the bruise beneath his eye, its blackness fading to an ugly green.

“I wanted to say…I’m sorry, you know, about the other night.” She punctuated her apology with another squeeze of her hands on his. “And to let you know that…” She hesitated as she searched for words, then seemed to give up, the rest coming in a rush. “Look, I’m choosing to be with Bruce right now, but if things change, I’ll let you know. I’d like to, I mean, I’d be more than happy to get to know you better.” She clung to his hand, eyes downcast, flustered into silence.

Jim couldn’t help but respond to Tella’s obvious discomfort despite his own growing confusion. “Thank you, uh, for that. I guess I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to…I mean, I wasn’t trying to…you know…”

“It’s all right.” She looked up and smiled again, then dropped his hand, stepping back to where Nyota was waiting to take her arm. “We’re headed over to mess if you, both of you, would care to join us.”

He knew he owed her a yes. “Definitely. We’ll, uh, definitely be there.”

“Most definitely. Ladies.” The delight in Mitchell’s voice was plain as the women turned to go; he barely contained himself until the pair was out of earshot before turning to Jim in jubilant accusation. “What the fuck was that all about?”

“I don’t…I don’t know, honestly.” Unsure if he really wanted enlightenment, he looked down questioningly at Gaila, still clinging to his biceps. She smiled slightly and raised her lips to his ear confidingly.

“Nyota told her that you were asking about her, that day on the green when she got hit with that disc. We put two and two together after you showed up outside her window at Shen the other night.”

“Two and two…” A horrible suspicion flared in Jim’s gut. “Wait, you can’t mean…you don’t think…”

“Mm hmm. But I forgive you.”

“You told her I liked her?”

Beside him, Mitchell guffawed at the crimson evidence of his mortification. Gaila pointedly ignored the mocking laugh as she nipped at Jim’s earlobe, the touch sending an unexpected shiver of pleasure forking down his spine.

“It’s the only logical explanation. But don’t forget,” she warned as she tapped his sternum with one finger. “When you’re over your little crush on her, you’ll be coming back to me.”

She pulled away from him, her expression one of feigned severity as she moved away from him to follow her friends. He turned to find Mitchell staring at him with the lingering derision he expected mingled with a disappointment he did not.

“So the other night, when you fell while working on your project,” he drawled, “whose fist did your face hit on the way down?”

Jim didn’t have the will to lie any longer. “Her — Tella’s — boyfriend. More like big-man-friend, really.”

“You know they’ll kick your ass out of here for that shit.”

“I didn’t fight him. He got the one punch in and it was pretty much over.”

Mitchell shook his head, his expression unusually serious. “I gotta tell you, I’m pissed at you. Gaila’s a good girl. You don’t need to do her like that.”

“I’m not doing her. I mean, I’m not doing anything to anyone. I don’t even like Tella.”

“But you’re following her around campus? Getting your ass whupped by the jealous boyfriend?” Mitchell’s voice telegraphed all the disbelief Jim knew he deserved. “Doesn’t add up, brah.”

“I’m not…” Jim blew out a breath, weary of skirting the truth. “It was a total misunderstanding. I swear to you, I don’t like her.”

Mitchell raised his eyebrows and gestured with a tilt of his chin at a point behind Jim, his expression still skeptical. “Here comes someone else who’ll be happy to hear that.”

“Jim!”

He turned at the sound of his name to see Finn striding eagerly toward them, cap in hand, the open smile fading into bewilderment as his eyes darted over Jim’s face, dove grey hardening into a metallic glitter as they came to rest at last on his left cheekbone. His neck prickled at the sight of Finn’s gaze shifting deliberately from his face to Mitchell’s in silent accusation.

Mitchell shrugged with casual defiance. “Down, boy. It wasn’t me.” His own eyes were darkly flat as they looked Finn up and down. “Good thing it wasn’t you either.”

Jim shifted uncomfortably as Finn reached for Mitchell’s hand, the motion smooth and reflexive from years of Academy protocol training, the silvery eyes never leaving his face. “I apologize; that was rude of me. I’m Ben Finnegan, Jim’s tutor. You must be Mitch.”

“Yeah.” The greeting was brief to the point of rudeness, Mitchell dropping the proffered hand almost immediately to fold his arms across his chest. “About that. You making any progress? ‘Cause I’m not crazy about my boy throwing his money down the shitter to get 50’s on Spock’s tests.”

A touch of pink washed across Finn’s cheeks. “He’s not paying me,” he replied, his voice stiff at the affront. “I offered to help. That’s all I want to do.”

“Help, huh. Mm hmm.” Mitchell was impassive. “You usually help people on Friday nights?”

“If I can." Finn raised his chin. "I work after class at Medical, so I don’t have a lot of free time in the evenings except for Fridays.”

“And a player like you has nothing better to do? How the fuck does that happen?”

Jim’s chest contracted in distress at Mitchell’s insolence, but Finn just smiled tightly. “I don’t have much of a social life. If I have free time, I spend it either working on my capstone project or tinkering with a few side projects. I’m trying to develop algorithms for holographic combat and tactics.”

“Holographic combat…?” Mitchell frowned. “What are you, some kind of jacked-up gamer?”

The taut smile widened into a wolfish grin. “All day long. Hard core.”

Mitchell’s barking laugh was as loud as it was unexpected, the coordinated blow to Jim’s back carefully placed between the shoulder blades to avoid the still-tender scrape.

“There you go. Fucking told you so.”

***

Jim scanned his final answer for errors, then looked up expectantly at Finn, who nodded and tapped the chronometer.

“That’s twenty-two minutes, from start to finish. How does your hand feel?”

“Good. It feels good.” He dropped the stylus and rubbed his left wrist experimentally. “I don’t even feel anything. Like I could go on for another couple of hours.”

“Let me see.”

Jim passed the PADD across the library table and watched as Finn scanned it, the grey eyes now calmed as they darted from side to side. “Huh,” he breathed after a minute. “It’s perfect. Even all the units. And you’ve got lots of time to spare.” He slid the PADD toward Jim and leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “You’re ready for that test, and the exam, and anything else Spock has up his sleeve. So I guess you don’t need me anymore.” One white-gold eyebrow arched with irony. “You can stop throwing your money down the shitter.”

It was the first reference Finn had made that evening to the earlier encounter with Mitchell, and Jim was glad for the chance to smooth over the incident.”Look, about Mitch…”

“Don’t worry about it.” Finn dismissed Jim’s worry with a wave of his hand as he reached for his shoulder bag. “Your roommate doesn’t like me much, and I’m okay with that. Can’t please everyone.”

“Sure he does, he’s just kind of…rough around the edges, I guess. I don’t know.”

“I do. He’s protective. And that’s a good thing, because you’re worth protecting.” Finn smiled ruefully at the bruising around Jim’s eye. “And you have to admit he has a point. Looks like you could have used someone to stick up for you. No, that’s all right,” he added quickly as Jim opened his mouth to answer, “you don’t have to tell me what happened. Just promise me you’ll be more careful. The Academy can be a rough place.”

Jim nodded in relief, the weight of another falsehood removed before it had even settled on his heart. “I will. Thanks.”

“Good.” Finn reached into his bag. “Here, I brought something for you.”

The flat, rectangular object Finn pulled out and handed over was completely unfamiliar; Jim peered closely at it as he ran his fingers over its smooth surface. “What is it?”

“It’s called a slide rule. Found it in an antique shop the other day.”

“All these numbers…what does it do? Is it a computer?”

“Yeah, analog. Sort of like an abacus, but for higher order calculations.” Finn’s face broke into a sheepish grin. “I didn’t know that when I found it; I thought it was some weird kind of ruler. The guy at the store had to tell me what it was.”

Jim was too engrossed in his exploration of the device to notice the crinkle of pleasure around Finn’s eyes as he watched his fingers push the slide back and forth. “This is pretty fun. How does it work?”

“You line up the numbers you want to enter by moving the sliding parts and reading the answer off the scale.” His smile widened at Jim’s growing delight. “I knew you’d like it. It made me think of you, the way your brain works, you know, the push out and the pull back, when you do your mental iterations. This kind of does the same thing.”

“Yeah, it does! Show me how to use it.”

“All right, think of a math statement.”

“Uh, one plus one.”

“Has to be harder than that; it doesn’t add and subtract. Time was, people were expected to do that for themselves. Try something else.”

“E 20.”

Finn laughed. “Okay, too hard for me. I’m just learning too. I had to dig up a manual on the net just to figure out how to use it. Something easier.”

“Two times three.”

“Good. Now push on that middle piece, the one that slides…push it over to where the one on that C scale is over the two on the D scale…no, not the second one, the first one.”

Jim frowned at the cluster of numerals and tick marks. “What do the C and D mean? And why are there two ones?”

“To answer your first question, I honestly don’t know, but we could ask the guy I bought it from. The two ones are because it’s logarithmic. Just look at the C scale, C1, it’s the one on the bottom of the slide…oh, here.” Finn rose and moved around Jim to lean over him from behind. “Let me show you. I can’t read it upside down.” He aligned their arms, reaching forward to cover Jim’s hands with his own, his chest grazing his shoulder blades as his breath stirred the little hairs on the back of Jim’s neck. His fingers on Jim’s were a steady, cool pressure. “Push the slide over until this first one is over the two down here...Now slide this little piece until the hairline is over the three on the C scale, and you follow that line down to read the answer off the D scale.”

Jim felt his own eyes widen in disbelief as they tracked up the hairline to find it resting on one of the numerous 6’s on the scale. “It worked!”

“Yeah, it’s pretty neat. It’s not as precise as you; best it can do is one or two significant figures. It’s amazing humans went into space using these little things to do their calculations for them.”

Jim’s eyes were shining as he twisted his neck to look at Finn behind him. “I love it, I really do.”

“I’m glad. I…” Finn looked as though he were going to say something else, then changed his mind. “I was thinking that you could use it in class, to help speed you up. For the team exercises.” He removed his hands and straightened to move back to the other side of the table and take his seat. “Mr. Spock wants to see your work, but you don’t use the terminal’s calculator like everyone else, so he can’t track your process. Maybe if he saw that you were using a different computer, he’d give you credit, even if you can’t log the keystrokes. At least maybe you wouldn’t have to write every single thing down.”

The vision of himself expertly utilizing the ancient tool under Spock’s approving gaze dissolved as Jim turned it over in his hands, noting the cracks and discolorations in its yellowing polymer. “I don’t know,” he hedged, trying to dampen his own enthusiasm. “I’d hate to break it by using it. It’s got to be really expensive, as old as it is.” He pushed the slide back to nestle between the fixed rules and offered it to Finn, who held his hands up in refusal.

“No, it’s yours. I think whoever made it would be happy if you’d use it.” His eyes dropped for a moment, veiled behind the dense white lashes, before flicking back upward to meet Jim’s. “I thought of you the second I saw it. You like old things, don’t you?”

Jim struggled to recall when he had revealed that detail about himself. “How did you know that?”

The sheepish smile returned. “I used my mad psych skills to analyze you. That, and I saw the books.” Finn nodded at the volumes visible through the opening of Jim’s shoulder bag. “Come antiquing with me this weekend and we’ll find you some more.”

“I’d like that.” Jim felt his own face warm with the pleasure of anticipation and tried to force it down. “But I don’t think I can afford it. I don’t have much to last me through the rest of the semester, and I can’t blow it all on books.”

“It’ll be my treat. No, listen,” Finn continued over the objection he saw blooming on Jim’s face, “let me do this. I don’t need any mad psych skills to know you’ve been taking care of yourself for a long time, but you can relax and let someone else take care of you now and then, right? It’s just a couple of books.”

The combined appeal of those pleading grey eyes with the prospect of adding to his small collection was irresistible; despite the niggle of guilt at his own selfishness, he heard himself agree. “All right. But only a couple.”

Finn beamed triumphantly as he rose and pulled his bag onto his shoulder. “Excellent. It’s a date. And bring your roommate too.”

Jim had bent down to stuff the PADD into his own bag but froze at Finn’s words to look up at him in confusion. “Mitch?” he frowned, shrinking from the prospect of an afternoon filled with confrontation. “But you…I mean…I don’t think he’s the kind of guy who uses ‘antique’ as a verb,” he finished lamely.

Finn’s voice was serious through the benign smile. “Agreed. But he’ll mistrust me until he thinks he doesn’t have to anymore. And the sooner we get to that point, the better off we’ll be. All of us.”

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The Plebe, Chapter 6
Back from the Brink -- Finn's Stroke of Insight

The figurative ink of Dr. McCoy’s signature was still wet on Gary Mitchell’s discharge order from Medical when he bounded triumphantly into the astrophysics classroom the following Friday, only to pull up short at a most interesting tableau: Jim digging a small bundle of what looked like feminine clothing out of his shoulder bag and handing it to Gaila, who promptly squealed and threw her arms around his neck in an energetic hug while Nyota sat facing slightly away from them, her lips pressed together as she packed up her own bag.

Gaila shrieked again, and louder, when she caught sight of him. “Mitch!” She disengaged from Jim as he approached their table and reached out to pull him into her embrace, her fingers lightly exploring the back of his head as she pressed into him. “Still feels kind of lumpy. They let you go anyway?”

“They couldn't keep me in.” He kept one arm around Gaila as he swung his bag onto the table and grinned at Jim. “Had to see how my two besties made out without me.”

He snickered at the deliberate double entendre as Gaila slapped his chest with her palm in mock annoyance while Jim shook his hand warmly, apparently oblivious to the joke. Uhura shot him a look of pure poison that he chose to ignore.

“My man!” He slid his arm out from around Gaila’s waist as he pulled Jim toward him by the hand to bump his shoulder. “How did everything go on Wednesday?”

Stunned that Mitchell somehow knew about the meeting with Barnett, Jim hesitated uncertainly before recognizing, from Gaila’s answering giggle, that he was referring to that night’s adventure in their dorm room. He fumbled for words, suddenly conscious of the three pairs of eyes that had all swiveled in his direction in anticipation.

“It, uh…it went fine. It was good.”

“Better than good.” Gaila took his arm and leaned into his shoulder. “But Jim doesn't kiss and tell; he’s a gentleman. Even returned my clothes.” She raised the bundle with her free hand and waggled it at Mitchell, snuggling warmly into Jim’s biceps as he blushed to the roots of his hair.

Mitchell was delighted. “Excellent, kids, that’s fucking excellent. You’re welcome.” He picked up his bag and scanned the front of the room. “Give me a minute while I talk to Mr. Spock. Then I need to get some lunch, badly. They don’t feed you shit at Medical.”

Jim nodded and picked up his own bag, the awkwardness of Gaila’s persistent weight on his arm a perfect excuse not to look down to where Spock stood watching Mitchell’s approach. During class, it had been easy to avoid the disapproval he knew he would see in those black eyes, were he to look; Mitchell’s absence left enough empty space at their table that Jim could sit facing the back of the room, his eyes fixed on his own terminal as he worked the day’s problems, his back chafing under the censure he could feel radiating toward him from the lectern.

A tug on his arm made him look down at Gaila to find the playfulness in her blue eyes dimmed. “You didn't answer any of my comms,” she whispered. “I wanted to tell you I was sorry.”

He smiled down at her ruefully, reflecting with a little pang of self-reproach that he had not behaved as he would have liked to the day before; he had spent nearly the entire day holed up in his room, the door locked, busying himself with an Earth history paper that wasn't due until the following week while comm after comm from Gaila went unanswered. There had been one from Nyota as well, a gentle but probing inquiry, and that one he had answered to assure her that he was fine.

From Spock, there had been nothing. He wasn't sure if he expected, or even wanted, anything from him anyway.

Gaila pulled insistently on his arm until he lowered his ear to her lips. “Next time,” she whispered, “I’ll wait until you give me the code.”

She gave his arm one last squeeze before detaching and aiming a pointed look at Nyota, who appeared at least slightly mollified in return. He caught her eye as Gaila turned away to collect her own belongings.

“You’re coming with us to mess, right?”

“I don’t think you need me to,” she said, tilting her head toward Gaila, “but, yeah” she added as she hauled her bag up onto her shoulder. “Just in case.”

The late morning was sunny but crisp, the promise of cooler weather in the air, and from the mass of bodies either hurrying along or basking on the grounds, it seemed that the entire Academy population was taking full advantage of the weekend’s perfect fall weather. As he scanned the sheer volume of cadets and instructors crossing the green, Jim began to think that Pike was right; Barnett’s plan was hare-brained. The idea that anyone, least of all himself, could detect any kind of illicit communication among this giddy throng was, indeed, bullshit. He mentally shrugged off the disappointment he felt at the thought that he wouldn't be much use to the admiral after all.

At least Pike will be happy that I won’t get myself killed.

He slowed at the sound of pounding footfalls behind them, letting the women move ahead, and braced himself for the blow he knew was coming. Mitchell did not disappoint, the backhanded slap landing squarely on the lateral deltoid that Gaila had relinquished a few minutes earlier.

“Good to be back among the living!” he crowed as he draped his free arm around Jim’s shoulders. “I’m going to make up that astro test tonight, so you’ll have the room to yourself. Again. For a little while, anyway.”

Jim smiled, thankful to have an honest excuse to decline Mitchell’s generosity. “Thanks, but I won’t be there. I've got plans."

The grin on Jim’s face broadened at the look of open astonishment on Mitchell’s. “Wait, plans? You have plans? Dude!” The hand on Jim’s shoulder tightened, then shook him soundly as Mitchell laughed out loud. “I’m proud of you, man! Hey, wait…” His expression grew suspicious. “Do these ‘plans’ involve books, in any way, shape, or form?”

It was Jim’s turn to laugh; Mitch knew him too well already. “Yeah, kind of. I’m meeting with my astrophysics tutor.”

“A tutor. On a Friday night.” Mitchell’s hand left Jim’s shoulder to slap the back of his head so hard that Jim almost tripped on the walkway. “You’re going to fucking tutoring on a Friday night? Christ, for a minute there, I thought you were fucking bomb-ass, you loser.”

Jim silently cataloged “bomb-ass” alongside “rad-balls” in his lexicon of Mitchell’s anatomically inspired phrases as his friend sputtered on. “And who’s lame enough to study on a Friday night, anyway? Besides you, I mean. No offense,” he backtracked as Jim frowned. “But seriously, brah, think this over. You’re gonna be hooking up tonight with some perv with no life? That’s wack.”

“I’m not hooking up, and Finn’s not a perv.” Jim surprised himself by flushing with mild annoyance at his friend. “He’s really nice, and he’s helped me a lot already. He’s the reason I got any credit at all on that test.”

“Finn.” Mitchell slowed for a moment, musing. “Tall firstie, white hair?”

“Yeah, that’s him. Do you know him?”

“I know of him. BMOC, big-time. Guy’s on like a million committees, lifetime member of the honor roll, that kind of thing. Plays a mean game of ultimate, too. How’d you get him to be your tutor?”

“I met him when we were at Medical the other day. He works there, part-time. He asked me if he could help.”

“He asked you.” Mitchell sounded slightly baffled, his expression growing thoughtful as he shifted his gaze toward the mess hall ahead. “That’s cool.”

His annoyance deepened; Mitch only said things were “cool” when they weren't. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, man, nothing.” He picked up his pace as Gaila turned her head around to look at them enquiringly, the suddenly serious tone of the conversation behind her catching her attention.

“Everything all right, boys?”

“Everything’s good back here, baby girl. No worries.” Mitchell called, then lowered his voice. “Am I gonna meet this guy?”

“What are you, my mom? He’s just my tutor!”

“Yeah, right, and I’m the fucking queen of England. Just be sure you’re back by curfew.” The order was punctuated with a painful elbow to Jim’s kidney, his startled grunt muffled by a woman’s nearby cry.

“Hu-tegh!”

They all halted and looked over to where two black-clad instructors had been hurrying across the quad toward the mess hall, one of them now bent over in pain and rubbing her shin. Her companion exclaimed at the stark welt already darkening to purple just below her knee. “Oh my God, are you all right?”

She nodded with a grimace as a coatless cadet rushed up to retrieve the disc that had struck her leg. “Sorry, ma’am,” he apologized, but the fierce glare he received in return was not one of conciliation, and he hurriedly backed away without waiting for an answer.

“Nyota, who’s that woman?” Jim asked softly, hoping his voice didn't carry. “The one over there, that just got hit?”

She nodded at the pair. “That’s Tella Kottke. She’s the RA for our floor. Teaches history, I think, or maybe anthro, I don’t know. Something like that. The other one’s her roommate. Why?”

“Just curious.” He tried to sound nonchalant as they resumed their walk. “She said something just now, like a curse, but in some other language. Did you recognize it?”

Another nod, this one accompanied by an eye-roll. “First thing you learn in any language are the swear words. That one was Klingon.”

***

As he scanned the rows of glass-walled study rooms in the library annex later that evening, Jim had to admit that Mitchell had been largely correct: very few of them were occupied, and those that were hosted lone cadets who apparently preferred the sterile safety of the library study rooms to more social surroundings.

Right now, I do, too.

Finn, already seated in one of the study rooms, saw him first and waved him in, then held out his hand to shake Jim’s in greeting. They were both still in uniform, but where Jim felt rumpled and more than a little sweaty after the long day, Finn seemed as fresh as Monday morning, neatly combed and shaved, his dress crisp. Jim suddenly wished he’d taken the time to shower.

“You look worried.”

The concern in Finn’s voice startled Jim out of his thoughts. “No, just…uh, preoccupied,” he hedged, smiling in apology as he fished for his PADD and pulled it out of his shoulder bag. “It’s been an interesting week.”

Finn leaned back slightly on the library stool, his head to one side. “Tell me.”

The gentle encouragement brought a flush of gratitude to Jim’s face. “Thanks for asking, but I can’t.” He hated to be secretive; confiding in Finn would help him sort out the events of the past few days, but he could think of nothing he could share with him that wouldn't cause harm to someone else. “Not everything, anyway. There’s other people involved.”

“I respect that.” Far from being disappointed at his reticence, Finn seemed pleased. “Gossip’s pretty useless. Let me know when it’s all about you and I’ll be all ears.” He leaned forward and placed his hands on the table between them, palms down. “Now let’s take a look at that test.”

He scanned the PADD that Jim passed to him, one finger pressed against his lower lip, for a few moments before looking back up at Jim approvingly. “Huh. That’s really good. You crushed the first half. The second, not so much. Run out of time?”

Jim nodded.

“What did he give you?”

“Pretty much what he said he would. Full credit for the ones I showed my work on, zero for the ones I just answered, even if they were right. It’s a 55 in the gradebook.” Jim felt a childish resentment streak through him as he spoke and hoped it didn't show in his tone.

“The next test will be a lot better. When is it, do you know?”

“A week from Wednesday, then the final exam a week after that.”

Finn nodded and handed back the PADD. “That sounds about right. He only gives three tests plus the final.”

“And I already missed the first test, from starting late.” Confusion wrinkled Jim’s forehead. “I don’t get how his class can be over in two weeks; it’s not even midterm yet.”

“It’s not over, it’s just that Spock doesn't teach the whole semester. Astro’s a team-taught course, so he tags out at midterm. Someone else will take over for the theory portion of the class, probably Bailey. Or Sinha, if you’re lucky.”

“What does Mr. Spock do for the rest of the semester, if he’s not teaching?”

“Research,” Finn answered. “Instructors here are a dime a dozen, but there’s no one on campus with Spock’s programming skills. He really likes to tinker around in a lab, and the brass is happy to have him overseeing their tech jobs for them. Win-win.”

“He told me you’re working with him on a project.” Jim regretted the words the moment they left his mouth; it annoyed him that he felt unable to contain his curiosity where Spock was concerned, especially when Finn had just expressed his own opinion on gossip. And Finn might resent that his name came up for discussion. “I told him you were helping me,” he added hastily, flushing again at the memory of Spock’s earlier admonition.

But Finn nodded enthusiastically, seeming glad to answer Jim’s questions. “Yeah, we’ve been designing a capstone test for firsts, to judge their strategic capability in an enemy encounter. He has the technical aspects of the scenario covered but has no idea what to do with emotional responses — panic, anger, that sort of thing. That’s where I come in.”

“Because you’re a psych major?”

“That’s right. I’m designing the subroutines that kick in when the cadet responds in any number of ways that are predictable for Humans but too illogical for Vulcans to understand. It’s my own capstone project.”

“So…you’re graduating at the end of this semester?” Jim felt an odd sinking in his chest at the thought of losing his new friend so soon, and it worsened at Finn’s wordless nod. “So you’ll be leaving.”

“That was my plan. Up until now.”

“Until now?”

Pink flooded Finn’s pale cheeks, but he didn't look away, his gray eyes darkening as they met Jim’s questioning gaze. “Yeah. Now I’m thinking, maybe I’ll stick around.”

The sinking feeling lightened in what should have been an uncomfortable silence but wasn't. Jim felt his smile of relief dim a little with selfish disappointment when Finn finally reached across the table to retrieve his PADD.

“Let’s see what we can do together tonight,” he smiled back. “To speed up your writing, I mean.” He paged to the last question on the test that Jim had answered fully, his eyes now serious, darting back and forth from the left side of the page to the flipped mirror image on the right as he read over the question and its response. A few moments later, he looked up at Jim’s apprehensive face and nodded encouragingly.

“I think you can really compress what you've got here. Now that Spock knows how you compute, you might be able to leave out all the verbal descriptions of how you do that, like the words ‘push’ and ‘pull.’ Maybe you can just go for the numerals, as long as it’s still clear what you’re doing.” He passed the PADD back to Jim. “Try the problems after that, the one about the single visible and the invisible binaries. I’ll time you.”

Jim could feel his spirits droop again as his left hand cramped around the stylus to write out his answers. By the time he set it down, he felt as sullen as his hand looked. Finn checked the chronometer.

“All right, that took you about twelve minutes to write it out, and the problems were worth ten points. At that rate, you’d finish a 100-point test in two hours. We need to cut that down to one.”

Jim’s mood sank lower. “I don’t think I can write any faster than that. My hand’s already killing me.”

“Then taking a few of the words out won’t be enough.” Finn searched the PADD, struggling to read its contents upside-down and backwards. “Why don’t you try shortening the iteration, too. Like, don’t write down every number, just a few checkpoints so that he knows where your numerical answers are coming from. Try the next one.”

He could tell it wasn't much better, although it was an improvement; Finn verified his opinion after checking the chronometer. “Okay, that helped shave another minute off of it. But you still need to go faster for a passing grade.”

“I don’t see how I can.” Jim hated that his voice sounded sulky but felt helpless to correct it. “My hand is dead. Even my brain aches.”

“Here.” Finn held out his own hand, and after a moment, Jim laid his palm on the invitingly cool skin and gasped at the sudden pressure of Finn’s thumb on the webbing between his index and middle fingers. “You need to let your mind’s energy flow through your hand, not resist it. Let your hand do what your brain wants it to do, and they’ll both stop aching.”

Jim coughed out a startled laugh as the pressure switched to the space between his middle and ring fingers. “Hey, that hurts!”

“It hurts because you’re making it hurt. Let me do this without any resistance from you. Focus on releasing the block in your hand.”

“I can’t…”

“Shh.” Finn pressed harder, forcing Jim to look up in protest from his hand to Finn’s steady gaze. His breath stopped in his throat as he watched the pupils constrict, lightening them from stormy to calm as his own heartbeat slowed, the pain in his hand fading. He barely noticed when Finn moved to pinch the skin between his last two fingers.

“Good. This is what it feels like to release the strain.” Finn’s voice was low, a calm and soothing murmur. “Your hand isn't working against you, it’s trying to work for you, but you’re not freeing it up to do that. You’re trying too hard.”

He laughed again, softly, this time in disbelief. “I don’t know how to do all this without trying. It doesn't exactly come naturally.”

Finn opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out; he dropped his eyes and seemed to search for words as he turned Jim’s hand over in his, his thumb now stroking the callused pads beneath each finger in turn. “Listen,” he finally said, “I don’t want to get too personal too fast, but I want to tell you something about yourself. Something you may not know.” He kept his gaze on Jim’s hand as his thumb caressed the palm, his eyes veiled by the silver lashes.

“I know…look, I know your life hasn't been easy," he began hesitatingly. "I don’t know why that’s true, you know, specifically or anything. Maybe someday you’ll tell me. But I do know it’s true. I can see it. It’s written on you, in you, written in your body like the tension in your hand. It’s written on your face, too, in your eyes. It’s all over you.” His thumb returned to the calluses below each finger and lingered on the largest of them, the one beneath his ring finger. “I know you had to grow up fast, to learn how to take care of yourself before most people do. I knew it the moment I saw you, the other day in Medical. That’s why…” He paused, struggling for words again, then changed tack, his thumb warming on Jim’s palm.

“And I know you try, all the time, you’re always working, in some way. Even if you don’t think you are, you are. You’re not afraid of hard work, you actually welcome it, because it gives you a way to change things, to change where you’re at and get you to someplace else.”

A strange buzzing started at the base of Jim’s skull, a warm insistent trill, and he felt his lips part in astonishment. “How…how could you…”

Finn shook his head, the expression on his face as confused as Jim felt himself, before raising his eyes back up to meet Jim’s. His voice grew stronger, more confident. “For the kind of work you used to do, working harder gave you results. If you were up against something difficult, you’d just turn the crank until you overcame it. But this, this class, the whole Academy, it’s not like that. Here it’s like working outdoors in the summer heat. If you go all out all day long, you’ll pass out, maybe even die. You can’t just work harder and make it here. If anything, you have to work easier, you know, smarter, not harder. And you can do that because you have plenty of smarter in you, more than anyone I've ever met. And Jim,” he went on, gaining momentum, “I know something else. You’re used to working on your own, with nobody to help you, because you've been alone. You weren't supposed to be, none of us are, but you were. I want…” He paused, seeming to fumble for words again until they came out in a rush. “I want you to know that all that is over. You’re not alone here. Your roommate, your classmates, they’re here for you, they’ll help you. And I hope, I really hope, that you’ll include me in that mix. Whatever you’re up against, I’m asking you to promise me, whatever it is, that you’ll let me help.”

A pleasant rush of gratitude struck Jim all over again; he curled his hand around Finn’s thumb and held on.

“All right. I promise.”

Finn brought his other hand to Jim’s, to press it firmly between his own, just as the vibration in his head intensified, somehow a demand for his attention. He tore his eyes away from Finn to look toward the glass wall of the study room and into the hallway beyond, the hallway that a moment ago had been empty but that was now occupied by Spock and Admiral Barnett, the pair of them apparently just having left Spock’s office. Barnett looked amused to see them and gave them a jovial salute; Spock’s expression was indecipherable as he glanced at them briefly before looking away.

He has no right to judge me.

He couldn't say why that was his first thought, or who it was even directed against, but it kept his hand in place until Finn patted it and laid it down on the table.

“Guess we should get back to work. You ready to try again, then maybe get something to eat?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.” He glanced back out toward the hallway in time to see Barnett place his hand on Spock’s shoulder to gently but firmly guide him down the hall and away.

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The Plebe, Chapter 3
Confession -- The Plan -- The Ice Man Cometh

“Damn, I love Tuesdays. Doughnut Day.” Mitchell elbowed Jim in the shoulder and squeezed in next to him at the mess table. “Eat up so we can get on over to the gym and get some sets in.”

Jim tightened his fingers around his coffee cup and didn't answer. Mitchell looked hard at him, taking an impressive bite out of one of the stack of doughnuts on his tray. “The hell is wrong with you? You look like your fucking dog just died.” He waved at Jim’s tray. “Look, man, you haven’t even touched your sandwich. You fucking love chicken salad. What’s up?”

Jim had kept a few of the details of his previous week’s meeting with Spock to himself, and he felt a sudden tautness high on his cheeks at the thought that it was likely time to come clean. Mitch deserved to know he’d soon be welcoming a new roommate.

“You remember my first day here, when Mr. Spock asked me to stay after class?”

“Yeah. When he told you to show your work. So?”

“He also said…” Jim finally took a sip of his coffee and pressed his lips together for a moment before finishing his answer. “He said I’m going to fail the test tomorrow.”

“What?” The genuine disbelief in Mitchell’s rounded eyes was oddly cheering, the incredulity in his hushed voice even more so. He leaned in. “You listen to me,” he said slowly, emphasizing his words with multiple gentle pokes to Jim’s left pectoral. “There is no way you’ll fail. You’re about the smartest guy I've ever met. Spock should know that.”

Jim smiled weakly, grateful for Mitchell’s championship. “He does. At least I think he does. He knows I understand the material. But he said I have to show my work because I have to be able to justify myself to my CO. If I ever get that far.” He pushed away the tray, the chicken salad sandwich still untouched. “He told me to go find a tutor. To help me figure out how to, you know, demonstrate my process.”

Mitchell snorted. “’Demonstrate your process.’ Jesus, what a douche canoe. He’s probably just pissed that you’re smarter than him.” He tossed the remainder of his doughnut on the table and dusted off his hands. “Listen, don’t worry. I’ll help you. We’ll practice all that shit tonight. You’re a lock for tomorrow if all you need is to write out the mental math you already do.”

Jim’s shoulders slumped. “Thanks, but it’s not going to be that easy,” he sighed.

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because I, uh…I don’t know how to write it out. ‘All that shit.’” Mitchell smirked at the unaccustomed use of profanity but kept quiet as Jim continued. “He asked me to do it, to show him in his office, and I couldn't. I didn't even know where to begin.” He slurped the now cold coffee glumly. “I felt like a total idiot. Still do.”

“I don’t get it.” Mitchell leaned back in his seat and folded his arms, his forehead wrinkling. “Can’t you…I mean, are you telling me you don’t know how to write?”

“No, I do, I mean, my handwriting’s not great, but I can do it as long as it’s just words. And I’m good with keyboarding. But he asked me to do numbers, you know, equations. I can do them in my head but I don’t know how to take what’s in my head and put it on a screen.”

“How…how can you…gahhhh.” Mitchell shook his head rapidly from side to side, then pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes briefly. “Let’s go to the gym, man. I need to think. I can’t think sitting on my ass.” He rose and swung his bag over one shoulder before hefting both of their trays in a single fluid motion. “Come on.”

The coolness of the cloudy afternoon air was welcomingly refreshing after the crush and din of the mess hall. Mitchell strode slightly ahead of Jim, his brow furrowed as he gazed ahead at the athletic facility across the campus. After several moments he spoke up.

“So tell me this. How the hell did you get through high school without writing any math? Once you get to, like, geometry, you have to write a crap-load of proofs and shit.”

“I never had to.” Jim drove his hands deeper into his pockets as they walked. “All the tests I took just required keyboard entries.”

“Dude. Seriously? That’s dumb. You could cheat your way through if you hacked the lockdown. What kind of bullshit high school lets you take nothing but electronic tests?”

“I, uh, didn't actually go to a high school. I did the curriculum at home.”

Mitchell halted so suddenly that Jim ran into him from behind. He turned and glared.

“Wait…you were homeschooled?” He barked out a laugh at Jim’s abashed nod. “Fuck, that explains a lot about you.”

“It made the most sense. There’s a lot of work to do on a farm, so I’d have chores during the day and do my classes at night.”

“So you seriously never had an actual teacher. Before you came here, I mean. No, wait, don’t answer that.” Mitchell turned and resumed a brisk pace toward the athletics building, Jim following behind. “I don’t wanna hear about whatever your hillbilly girlfriend taught you behind the cowshed.”

“I didn't…”

“Shut up, shitkicker.”

They continued their trek in silence until they reached the doors of the athletic facility, where Mitchell turned and raised one hand to point an accusatory finger at Jim’s nose. “One thing. Just don't tell me it was your mom who homeschooled you. Do not tell me that, you big bleeding pussy.”

A genuine grin crinkled the corners of Jim’s eyes; Mitch was the big brother he would have had in Sam, if Sam had stayed. “I did most of it on my own. But, yeah, my mom helped. She has a degree in engineering physics and another in astrobiology.”

Mitchell rolled his eyes skyward. “Figures.”

***

Mitchell scowled as he sprawled on the locker room bench. Physical activity usually fostered his creative streak, but despite over an hour of training, he felt no closer to a solution for Jim’s predicament, and the unit test in astrophysics was now only twenty hours away. He wiped off the sweat running down his neck and chest and flung the towel on the floor in frustration.

“There’s a shit-ton of brainiacs at the AEC,” he panted, “and you couldn't find a single tutor there?”

“No,” Jim replied miserably from the bench opposite as he pulled off his socks. “Not one of them would help me. They all said I didn't need a tutor.” He didn't relate the details of the most hurtful of these rejections, that of one steel-haired woman who had squinted at him over the rims of her old-fashioned eyeglasses and told him, bluntly to the point of rudeness, that he was wasting her time. Which would be better spent, she had added acerbically, with students who genuinely need help, not grade-grubbers just looking to bump an A into an A+.

He sighed and dropped his face into his hands. “The exam is tomorrow. And I can’t show Mr. Spock how I solve problems,” he mumbled through his fingers. “I’m going to fail, my first test at the Academy and I’m going to fail.”

Mitchell’s expression hardened. “You’re not gonna fail, my man. That’s not gonna happen.” He studied the despondent figure in front of him in the almost angry silence that followed until a sudden light appeared in his eyes. “Wait, I got it, I got it!”

“What?”

Mitchell ignored Jim’s hopeless tone and sprang up to pace the short length of the bench. “AEC tutors are either instructors who teach the class or older cadets who've already taken it and done really well. Right?”

Jim shrugged. “I guess.”

“So of course they’re not gonna be any help. You don’t need help understanding it!” Mitchell quit his pacing and planted his hands on his naked hips, beaming triumphantly as he gazed down at Jim.

Confused at his obvious elation, Jim shook his head. “I don’t see where you’re going with this. I mean, who else could help me with what I do need? Aside from a tutor?”

“That’s just it. Listen, we've been looking in the wrong place. We need to find you someone who's not just book-smart like a tutor, but someone who's a fucking genius like you.” The pacing resumed. “You guys think alike, you know, you understand your own kind.”

The gloom lightened, a little. “You think so? That we could find someone who thinks like me?”

“Yeah, but we won’t find them in the AEC. We gotta smoke them out, you know what I’m saying?”

“You mean, go where people like me spend their time?”

“Exactly.”

Jim could feel his own excitement growing. “So we hit the library? Or maybe a theoretical physics lab?”

“No, you fucktard. The game room.”

Jim was stunned into silence, the look of dismay on his face wringing a cackle from Mitchell. “Come on, don’t be pissed,” he laughed, pleased with the brilliance of his plan. “Gamers are like you. That's why they're fucking gamers. Their minds are too weird live in the real world like the rest of us, so they spend all their time in fake ones.”

“Mitch, listen. I don’t think…” Jim took a breath, fearful of offending his friend, but certain that he was on the wrong scent. “I think it’d be a waste of time to go wait around the game room. I really don’t think there’s going to be someone there who has a lot in common with me.”

“Why not, Einstein?”

“I, uh…I don’t play games. I never have.”

“Let me guess. No time because of all your pussy farm chores.”

“Yeah, mostly. And reading.”

Gary Mitchell was not a complicated man, and Jim was, despite his roommate’s recently voiced opinion, not a fucktard, so the fist that swung toward him with the intent to further bruise his shoulder was entirely expected. The reflexive contraction of his obliques to avoid the punch, however, was not. Mitchell missed, his momentum pitching him off balance; he skidded slightly on the wet tile floor, twisting in the direction of his swing as he fell, the back of his head making shockingly loud contact with the edge of Jim’s bench.

“Ow, fuck!” Mitchell glared up accusingly at Jim from his awkward position on the floor. “You should be a gamer, you asshole. You wouldn't be wound up so tight if you played now and then.”

Jim snickered into his fist, amused at the sight of Mitchell’s genitalia flopping dramatically as his ass hit the floor. The grin vanished a moment later; Mitchell noticed the amber eyes widening. “What is it?”

“Mitch…you’re hurt.” He gestured to the back of his own head, and Mitchell mirrored his pantomime to draw back a bloodied hand.

“Oh, great.” He looked over his shoulder to the drops of blood that merged together to form an alarmingly large and still-growing pool. He paled slightly. “Help me up.”

Jim stood and hauled Mitchell to his feet before retrieving the discarded towel to press it against the back of his head. The thin fabric darkened immediately, an escaping trickle of red snaking its way down the back of Mitchell’s neck. He removed the towel, folded it into a tight pad, and re-positioned it against the now sticky hair.

“We should get you over to the clinic. It’s a pretty big gash.”

“You’re a pretty big gash. Grab me another towel; I don’t want the whole campus seeing my junk.”

Jim doubted there was much mystery surrounding Mitchell’s junk, but complied.

***

Leonard Horatio McCoy had left an established medical practice to join Starfleet, so aside from being older than most recruits, he had already accumulated several years of clinical experience before being assigned to the Academy Student Health Center. To say he had seen it all, at this point in his career, would be an overstatement, but his expertise being far beyond that of a mere stitcher and ditcher, he gave the two barefoot and nearly naked young men that entered the clinic only a cursory glance before returning to the focus of his attention, the compound fracture of the lower leg of a grey-faced girl still in her lacrosse jersey and pads.

“Chris!” he shouted over his shoulder. “You got customers.” He gestured with his head to the newcomers: “Station two. Over there.”

Jim recognized the willowy blond woman who appeared in the clinic doorway from his arrival on campus the previous week; he also recognized the sour expression that he now tried to dispel with a polite nod. “Ma’am. My friend hit his head.”

“I can see that.” She elbowed him out of the way and pulled the towel off; Mitchell yelped as it stretched the raw edges of the wound, bringing a fresh spurt of blood. “I’ll need the glue gun and a cc of lidocaine,” she said to herself, then looked sharply at Jim. “Hold that towel back on there. I’ll be right back.”

Glue gun? Mitchell mouthed to Jim, and despite his concern at the additional bleeding, Jim gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. It wasn't long before Christine re-entered the room bearing a tray that held a small gun-like instrument and a tiny hypospray resting on an impressive bed of cotton gauze.

“Oh, shit,” moaned Mitchell. “I hate shots. I fucking hate them.” He twisted his face up to look imploringly at Christine as she dabbed at his leaking head. “Can’t you do it without a shot?”

“If I do, you’ll be off this table screaming,” she said crisply. “I don’t have the manpower to hold you down.” She pushed his chin away from her with one finger, rotating his face back toward Jim, and directed the hypospray at the back of his head. “Now keep still.”

A squeaking whimper escaped him at the hypospray’s first gentle hiss. Jim leaned in, making sure the anxious brown eyes were fixed on him and that Christine’s were not.

“Now who’s the big bleeding pussy?” he whispered into Mitchell’s ear.

Mitch gaped at him for a moment, disbelieving, before breaking into a roar of laughter. Christine frowned slightly but took advantage of his distraction to complete the desensitization, then started to close the wound with careful, efficient sweeps of the tissue fuser. By the time Mitchell’s mirth had died down into the occasional chuckle and a swipe of his knuckles across his tearing eyes, she was packing the sealed wound with gauze. “Good job,” she said as she dropped the tissue fuser on the waiting tray and stripped off her gloves. “Overnight observation for you, mister. You can go back to business as usual in the morning if you check out all right. Until then, peace and quiet. And some clothes, please.” She pulled a stack of scrubs from a drawer under the biobed and tossed them onto Mitchell’s crotch. “You, too," she said archly to Jim. "That towel’s not hiding much.”

Jim gratefully slid into a pair of scrub bottoms before helping Mitchell pull a shirt over his bandaged head. When his friend offered neither verbal nor physical resistance to his awkward attempt at tugging the pants over his legs, Jim knew that Mitch wasn’t himself. He perched on the edge of the biobed and grasped Mitchell’s hand.

“Are you going to be all right? I could stay here with you if you want.”

“No, no, that’s dumb. I’ll be fine. Go ahead and check out the game room like I said.” He groaned as Christine guided him downward to lie on the biobed, his head sinking into the pillow. “Find yourself a genius. Or a shrink.” He yawned as his eyelids fluttered closed.

Across the room, Dr. McCoy’s other patient was also dosing, her broken leg now encased in a plasticast. He caught Mitchell’s sleepy pronouncement and raised an eyebrow, then moved toward them as he wiped his hands with a surgical towel. “Saw you drive up last Tuesday,” he said pleasantly to Jim. “How’s your first week been?”

Jim looked up into the steady blue gaze, and the polite lie he had been about to deliver evaporated. “Not that good. I’m about to fail my first astrophysics test.” He glanced at a lightly snoring Mitchell before continuing. “Mitch was going to help me find a tutor.”

“Or a psychiatrist,” Christine interjected as she dumped a mound of bloody gauze into an orange biohazard bag. Her tone was tart but the expression on her face was noticeably more pleasant than when they had entered the clinic. Jim felt a tug of hope.

“That’s right. Someone who can help me get what’s in my head down in writing.”

McCoy pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Son, we’re clinicians, not astrophysicists. But we do have someone here who might be able to point you in the right direction.” He moved to the door and called down the corridor beyond. “Finn! You got a minute?”

 

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The Plebe, Chapter 1
The Ark Lands -- In Admin -- Roommates

“Nyota. Nyota, oh my God, turn around. You won’t believe it.”

Such dramatic pronouncements from her roommate were common, so Nyota Uhura was prepared to be underwhelmed as she shifted her shoulder bag and twisted slightly to her left to look behind her. But this time, she had to admit Gaila was right; for a moment, she in fact didn’t truly believe what she saw. An ancient, mud-spattered automobile — at least, something that looked like an automobile — was making its painful way up the drive, its progress marked by the cycles of slowing and accelerating that signaled either a highly inexperienced driver or someone who just didn’t know where the hell he was going.

Christine Chapel raised one hand to shield her eyes against the bright slant of the afternoon sun, her nose wrinkling. “What on Earth is that…thing?”

Nyota squinted from beneath the bill of her cap as the car lurched toward them, the whine of an old electric engine protesting against the final steep climb toward the Administration Building. “I don’t know. It says ‘Tesla’ on it, but that’s like no Tesla I’ve ever seen.”

“It has…oh my God, are those rubber tires?” Gaila stood on tiptoe, clutching at Dr. McCoy’s upper arm to balance herself and peer over the top of Christine’s head. “How old is that car?”

“21st century. My granddaddy kept one like it in the garage.” McCoy’s curiosity overcame his good manners as he too stared at the ancient car’s approach. “Couldn’t drive it anymore, but he let me sit in it a time or two. Looked a lot like that one there. Except,” he added wryly, “Papaw’s didn’t look like it’d been to hell and back.”

The engine sighed to a stop as the car finally crested the hill and came to rest directly in front of the main entrance to Admin. Christine muffled a snort with the back of her hand. “Hope they're not planning on leaving anytime soon. I think it just died.”

“Oh my God, Chris, shut up, they can hear you.” Gaila removed one hand from McCoy’s arm to swat at the back of Christine’s head. “Have some tact, can’t you? Not everyone has…ooh! Wait, here they come!”

The driver’s side door opened with a grinding creak that set Nyota's teeth on edge. She tried to mask the grimace with a smile aimed at the young man who sprang out and glanced back at her briefly before turning away to heave the door closed behind him and sprint to the other side of the automobile. He had to tug repeatedly on a mechanical handle to open the passenger door, eliciting another huff of suppressed laughter from Christine and a squeak of excitement from Gaila, who sprang up lightly onto her toes to get a better view of the new arrival.

McCoy crooked a half-smile and patted the hand whose nails dug into his biceps as it eagerly clutched his upper arm. “My dear, he’s not your type.” He nodded at the boy’s decidedly unfashionable apparel, worn denim jeans and work boots and a faded flannel shirt topped with an ill-fitting canvas barn jacket. “Got ‘hayseed’ written all over him.”

The words were spoken quietly, but the youth raised his head as though he had heard, affording the friends their first good look at him as he gazed at them over the roof of the car. Nyota saw he was younger than she had first thought, his build straight and slight under the too-large jacket, with sun-bleached sandy hair and a fair complexion that still bore the marks of a summer tan. The eyes that stared back at her, amber-green and fringed with heavy lashes, were wide with curiosity and a bit of apprehension, an expression so open and frank that she felt her mouth relax into a genuine grin. She freed her fingers from the strap of her shoulder bag to flutter them at him in welcome and was rewarded with a shy smile and a faint flush before he lowered his eyes to the now-open car door.

“Oooooh,” hissed Gaila in an easily discernible whisper, her long auburn curls bouncing on McCoy’s shoulder as she hopped up and down in a near-frenzy. “He’s fucking adorable.”

His blush deepening, the boy extended one hand toward the car to help out the occupant, a slender blond woman who emerged with some difficulty to steady herself on his arm. Nyota saw her smile gratefully up at him, the fresh beauty of her face at odds with the apparent infirmity of her body, and glared at Gaila in warning.

“Word to you all, hands off this one. He’s just a baby.”

McCoy frowned as the youth pushed the automobile door closed with a groaning slam that made them all jump. “He can’t be that young. Starfleet’s not so desperate that they’re taking in children.”

“Maybe she’s the recruit.”

“Could be.” McCoy’s eye had noted the tremor in the hand that reached for the boy’s and the brief tension that had flitted across her face as she stepped out of the car. “Doesn’t look like she’s in much shape for basic training, though.”

All eyes were on the pair as they walked slowly around the automobile to the curb, the youth carefully averting his face away from them and toward the woman on his arm. Gaila, her bouncing mercifully ceased, narrowed her eyes as she petted McCoy’s forearm.

“Mm. Mm hmm. Look at that ass. Tasty.”

“Down, girl,” growled Christine. “Didn’t you hear her? The kid’s jailbait.”

Gaila nodded raptly. “Tasty jailbait.”

“Jailbait who knows his manners.” McCoy watched as the couple navigated the short flight of stairs up to the front door of the Administration Building, the boy’s hand just grazing the small of the woman’s back as he shepherded her through the door. “You don’t see that much any more.”

Christine sniffed with disdain as the pair disappeared inside Admin. “Looks like a mama’s boy to me.”

“How they treat their mothers is how they’ll treat you. Give me a mama’s boy any time.” Nyota linked her arm through Gaila’s to pull her off of McCoy and toward the downhill path to the residence halls. “Come on, let’s go to the dorm and check the fourth class roster. There might be a new entry on it.”

“Ooh, that’s a good idea.” The bouncing began anew as the friends started down the walk. “We can find out his name…and where he’s from…and what room he’s in..”

“And you’re going to stay away from that room.” Nyota tried to look stern, but she felt her own curiosity rising and quickened her pace to keep up with Gaila’s excited skipping.

“Oh my God, I’ll just be friendly! What if he needs help with his homework? Or shopping for some decent clothes?”

McCoy waited until they were out of earshot before remarking, “I hate to disappoint her, but that boy’s not up to snuff, even if he is legal.”

“What makes you think she’d be disappointed?” Christine snickered as they turned to head back toward Medical. “She’ll enjoy the challenge.”

***

The administrative assistant briefly shifted his gaze from his terminal to the ID chip before glaring up at the pair that stood in front of his desk.

“Kirk, James. You’re late.”

The boy’s cheeks colored slightly. “Yes, sir, I know. Sir. We were, uh, delayed.” He looked down at his mother, then back at the frowning assistant. “But I’m here now and I’m ready to start classes.”

“You are.” The statement was more accusation than acknowledgment, and the flush on Jim Kirk’s face deepened as the scowling assistant inspected him closely before turning back toward his terminal to swipe and tap at its surface. “Semester started over two weeks ago. Your slot in the dorms has been taken; we held it as long as we could while we waited for you to show up. I’ll need to find you another room.”

“I’m sorry. We got here as quickly as we could.”

“I’m sure you did,” came the reply, but there was nothing conciliatory in the muttered tone or the snort that accompanied it as the assistant glanced through the window toward the dilapidated car outside before returning to his tapping. “There might be room— “

“Excuse me for a moment.”

The assistant’s lips tightened in irritation at the interruption as Jim looked down to the woman next to him.

“Mom, do you want to sit down?”

His mother smiled gratefully and nodded, her hand gripping his arm as they turned toward the bank of chairs opposite the assistant’s desk. He noticed that she sat with some difficulty and watched, his expression softening a little, as her son wedged a few of the reception area’s decorative pillows around her left elbow and hip before turning back toward him.

“You were saying something, about finding another room…?”

“Yes, that there might be room for you in the old Watson dorm. Down the hill.” He jerked his head over his shoulder toward the window in what Jim surmised was the general direction of the dorms. “No parking over there, so you’ll have to leave your car in the guest deck on the east side of this building and walk your things down.”

“May my mother stay here while I do that? It looks like it’s too much of a hike for her.”

“I suppose,” came the reply, but the assistant was frowning at his terminal as he spoke. “But wait, don’t go yet. You’ve got another issue.”

Jim waited and wondered what other offense he had unknowingly committed as the assistant stabbed at the terminal screen a few more times before frowning up at him over the rims of his reading glasses.

“It says here that you’re registered for twenty-one hours. That’s an overload, and we don’t allow overloads for fourths.”

“But I really want those classes. I promise you I can handle it.”

“Oh, you can.” The assistant swiveled in his chair to face Jim directly for the first time. “Well I’m sorry to inform you that we can’t just take your word for it. You need the associate dean’s approval to register for more than fifteen hours your first year at the Academy. I’m looking at your registration form right now, and I don’t see any approval signature on it. You’ll have to drop at least two of these classes.” He turned his screen toward Jim and leaned back in his chair, pointing. “Look for yourself.”

Worried eyes scanned the screen before looking back imploringly toward the assistant. “There must be some mistake. I reviewed my transcript with…uh, my transcript was reviewed and my course requests were approved. I thought they were, anyway.”

“You can see that they’re not.” His expression grew kinder at Jim’s obvious distress. “Listen you don’t want to do that to yourself anyway, pile on classes like that and overload yourself your first semester here. My advice is to drop three of them, get down to twelve hours. That’ll be something you can handle.”

“But if I only take twelve hours, I’ll have to take classes over the summer, and I can’t do that.” Jim glanced over toward his mother to find her lips clamped together in a straight line, her eyes closed against the pain that whitened her face. He turned back toward the assistant. “Please, I need to go back home over the summer, to help out. I need that overload now, and it was approved when I registered, honestly.”

“Really?” The irritation was back in the assistant’s voice. “Then who approved it? And why isn’t it on your record?”

The door at the opposite end of the office swished open.

“At ease, Mallory. I approved the overload.”

“Commander Pike!” Mallory rose behind his desk and turned, as did they all, toward the tall, dark-haired officer who entered the reception area and scanned its occupants before coming to rest on the woman seated in the chair.

“Winona!” He strode across the room toward her, hands outstretched. “You should have told me you were coming.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise.” She reached up to clasp the officer’s hands with her own. “It ended up being more of a surprise than I intended, though. We couldn’t leave Riverside until almost a month after we’d planned. Medical issues,” she frowned slightly, “on my part, not Jim’s.”

He turned toward her son and took in the directness of the gaze, serious even in the smiling face under the freshly cropped hair, before looking back down at her. “Sure you’re ready to let him do this?”

“I couldn’t talk him out of it. He simply wouldn’t wait another year. Or change his mind, either.” Winona looked up at her son, and Pike saw the battle raging in her features, pride and worry each fighting for control. “I think this is the right thing for him. It’s just maybe not the right thing for me. Perhaps it’s harder when it’s your youngest.”

“I’m sure that’s true.” He turned back toward Jim. “What do you have to say, young man? Are you ready for the Academy?”

Hazel eyes met blue ones with the perfect frankness of youth. “Yes, sir. I am.”

Pike nodded and released her hands to turn toward Mallory. “Have someone transfer Mr. Kirk’s bags to my car. I’ll be escorting him to the dorms. What room?”

All trace of officiousness was gone from his voice. “Watson 242, with Mitchell.” Having evidently decided that it was simpler to help with the bags himself than locate another pair of hands, Mallory rose and moved toward the door, Jim trotting along behind him.

Winona studied them through the window, smiling a little ruefully as Jim yanked open the rusted trunk lid to haul out one large and obviously weighty duffel bag. “He’s been ready for months. Years, really. He’s spent so much time studying the first-year curriculum that I’m afraid he’ll burn out in a few weeks.”

Pike seated himself next to her and watched alongside as Jim, the heavy duffel slung easily over one shoulder, followed Mallory around the corner of the building and out of their sight. “If he does,” he replied, “I’ll comm you right away. But I don’t think he will. I’ve seen that look before.”

“Oh, I know I worry too much.” She closed her eyes briefly with a tiny sigh before continuing. “But I can’t help it. After what happened with Sam…”

Pike patted her hand. “He won’t burn out, and he won’t quit. He’s ready for this. It won’t be like Sam.” A sudden thought creased his forehead. “How are you getting back? Is Frank…?”

A huff of laughter eased the concern on Winona’s face. “Hardly. He’s back at the farm doing God knows what. I’m heading back tonight, very slowly, with frequent stops. I’ll be fine.” 

He knew her well enough not to argue and gave her hand a final pat before rising as Jim and Mallory re-entered the admissions office. “You want to head down to the dorm with us, check out his new digs?”

Jim took Pike’s place next to her and put one hand on her shoulder; she covered it with her own and shook her head. “No, we agreed we’d part ways here. Too…emotional, you know, otherwise.”

Jim leaned in to kiss her cheek with no trace of self-consciousness. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. You just take care of yourself and make sure you leave something for me to do when I get back in the summer.”

Pike nodded and shifted his gaze to where Mallory stood waiting. “I’m sure Mrs. Kirk would like some refreshment while I take the cadet over to Watson. I’ll be back shortly.”

She waited until after her son had followed Pike out the door before inclining her head toward Mallory, her smile faintly sardonic. “Bourbon and water, if you have it.”

***

“Wait, this is all you brought? A bunch of fucking books?”

Gary Mitchell looked up at Jim from the eviscerated duffel, brown eyes wide in genuine disbelief. Despite the implied criticism, Jim smiled back; it was impossible not to like the energetic young man who, having politely relieved Jim of his duffel and shaken hands with Commander Pike, had immediately tossed the bag onto his own bunk to gut it of its contents once Pike had left their small dorm room.

“It’s not all books. There’s a few clothes in there too.”

“Understatement of the year, my man.” Mitchell removed an armload of books and dumped them unceremoniously to the side before resuming his excavation of Jim’s belongings. “T-shirts and tighty-whities. And ooh, surprise, more fucking books. Paper books, for fuck’s sake. Don’t you own a PADD? Christ, man,” he muttered as he pulled out the remaining volumes from the duffel. “No wonder your bag’s so fucking heavy.”

“I just love to read, that's all.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that message loud and clear. Damn, brah,” he breathed as he held up two pairs of carefully bundled white crew socks, “you’re not gonna get any unless you kick it up like a million notches.”

“Get any what?”

Mitchell snorted and tossed the socks at Jim’s chest. “You planning on studying the whole time you’re here, book man?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Jim answered as he lobbed the socks back, a little mystified at the question. “But those aren’t textbooks. They’re for fun.”

“Oh they are. For fun.” Mitchell flipped a shock of dark hair out of his eyes and turned his attention to the pile of books on the bunk. “That’s like the one thing you don’t need at the Academy,” he said over his shoulder. “More books. You should have brought some better threads instead.” He began to inspect the titles one by one, his brow wrinkled in mock consternation.

“I figured I’d be in uniform most of the time, so I didn’t pack much.”

“Most of the time, not all of the time, you know what I’m saying. S’okay, I got stuff you can wear. We’re about the same size.” His forehead creased further with every volume he examined, bringing each to his face in turn to read the titles. “The Art of War…Two Years Before the Mast…Kir’Shara…Jesus fucking Christ.” He squinted at Jim’s dog-eared copy of Histories and waggled it at him accusingly. “You actually read this shit, James R. Kirk?”

“That’s a T. I had terrible handwriting when I was a kid.”

“When you were a kid? What the hell does that make you now?”

Jim colored slightly. “I’ve finished high school, took a gap year, then came here. I’m not a kid.”

“But you read this…” He leafed through the book before tossing it back onto the pile. “…when you were. Seriously, brah? This is your idea of fun?”

The exaggerated dismay on Mitchell’s face made Jim laugh out loud.

“Yeah. Maybe I’ll even let you read them.”

“That’s cold, man. Seriously.” Mitchell flipped the book over his shoulder and sprang up off the bunk. “Listen, we’ve got about an hour before mess at eighteen-hundred. I’ll take you on down to the CS to get your reds.” He turned to the small closet set into the wall near his bunk and pulled out a black leather jacket. “Change into this first, though. I can’t be seen with you looking like that.”

Jim frowned as he pulled off the barn jacket. “Why not?”

“Screams redneck, loud and clear. You’re gonna wreck my cred.” Mitchell darted back to the bunk to seize a t-shirt from Jim’s duffel. “Here. Give me that lumberjack shit too.”

Jim pulled off and folded the flannel shirt, which Mitchell snatched from his hand to toss on the floor. Wrinkling his nose, he dropped the barn jacket on top of it and kicked both into the closet. “Smells just like it looks.”

“What do you mean?"

“Shit, man. Smells like shit. You shovel shit back home or something?”

“My family owns a farm. In Iowa.” Jim felt the blood rise in his neck as he pulled on the t-shirt, then shrugged his arms into the leather jacket.

“Fuck me, Iowa? That’s actually a place?” Mitchell swatted at Jim’s hands. “Don’t zip, man, come on, you’re killing me.” He smoothed the jacket over Jim’s shoulders and nodded approvingly. “Fits you good. You can keep it. We’ll do something about those fugly-ass shoes later.”

“They’re work boots. I don’t have any others.”

Mitchell clapped Jim on the arm and pushed him toward the door. “You will.”

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