Chapter Text
Spock’s running alone through the halls when he sees a flash of color from the corner of his eyes. He skids to a halt, turning swiftly on one heel. The person is gone, but he knows what he saw – a humanoid male, unfamiliar, wearing something that wasn’t a uniform. One of the Tazan invaders.
Spock makes a number of adjustments to his communicator. “Bridge, please respond.”
Silence. Not unexpected; it’s the same reply he received after the last three attempts. Finally Spock sets the device on his belt, hefting his phaser. Hopefully the bridge hasn’t been overwhelmed. Spock can't allow himself to be distracted by the possibility.
Weapon in hand, he slowly makes his way through engineering. The halls are deserted; the bulk of the crew were trapped in the upper-decks in an attempt to seize control of the engineering section and overwhelm the ship. Spock has already shot three intruders, but he finds their lack of preparation reassuring. Every intruder he's met has been traveling without a partner. Spock suspects they do not have the numbers that would allow for appropriate caution. He thought this section had finally been cleared…
There is no one near the warp-core when Spock enters the heart of the engineering section. He approaches anyway to confirm that no one has tampered with the machines. Satisfied to find it secure, he carefully keys in a few commands that will temporarily disable ship-board modifications without the First-Officer's clearance code. He turns around just in time to one of the intruders enter the room.
Spock raises his phaser immediately; so does his opponent. They stand frozen in a standoff. Spock rapidly processes his options. They are both centered in a relatively open space; he will not have time to take shelter if a firefight occurs. 89% chance of successfully stunning the enemy; 76% likelihood that he will be shot doing so.
Spock has become accustomed to the prospect of imminent death. His own phaser is set to 'stun', but he cannot expect the same courtesy. He stares hard at the foreign alien, watching for any twitch of movement that might signify an opening.
“Give up, Vulcan,” the stranger says. “We have your ship. Surrender and you will live.”
“Your crew's motives are illogical,” Spock replies. “We are in the middle of Federation space. Even if you successfully commandeered the ship, you have nowhere to go. Furthermore, your mission also explicitly contradicts your own morals.”
“Excuse me?”
The Tazan's grip tightens around his stolen phaser. Spock watches the movement carefully. He is starting to feel bizarrely light-headed; the timing is not ideal. “Your crew is a group of political insurgents,” Spock clarifies. His voice sounds distant and tinny, quiet under a low buzz that resounds in his skull. Illogical. “But I fail to see how you can protest Starfleet's military actions while using violent methods for your own ends.”
“I don't have to explain myself to you,” the soldier says, and shifts his footing. Spock watches tensely, the buzz growing louder. Spock hasn’t been injured today; this is just a very poorly-timed illness, it would seem. He heaves a breath, struggling to focus past the black haze of his vision. The stranger doesn't notice. “This was revenge for the colony. And if you don't stand down - “
Spock blinks, struggling to keep focused. He must concentrate on the soldier, watch for any slight movement that could herald weapon’s discharge...
The soldier stiffens. His phaser falls from his grip a moment before his feet slide out from under him.
Spock stares. He looks around cautiously, then approaches the downed alien. He reaches out to check the man's heartbeat.
He already knows he will find nothing. There is nothing to explain why this man died; but the pressure in Spock's head is gone. And he felt it. He felt the death, felt -
On his belt, Spock's communicator chirps.
He flips it open automatically. “Spock here.”
“This is the captain,” Kirk replies. “We've secured the bridge. Security Chief Giotto tells me they've rounded up most of the intruders; we're running sweeps of the ship now. Where are you?”
“Engineering,” Spock replies. “Also secure. Captain... There is a body in the main engine room.”
“I'll let them know. Meet with Doctor McCoy to assess the casualties; I'll find you there once the ship has been checked.”
“Understood.”
Spock shuts the communicator, looks at the silent corpse one more time, and turns.
As he leaves, Spock notes he feels perfectly well again. Even decades of Vulcan control can't quell a sense of foreboding.
“Well, that was a mess,” McCoy summarizes.
The doctor leans against the wall, surveying Sickbay while wiping his hands against one another like this should accomplish something. There’s a streak of blood running down his neck that the doctor may not have noticed; it’s not his own. He does have a small wound on his side, visible in red glimpses when he tattered uniform shifts.
“You should treat your own injury,” Spock points out.
“Bah,” says McCoy, because he’s a hypocrite. “Just a scratch. This damn ship. I keep saying I should go back to Earth. Never had to shank a man between surgeries back on Earth.”
“To ‘shank’ someone implies a makeshift weapon.”
“I said what I said. What else would you call stabbing someone with a broken hypospray? And then I had to close that up!” McCoy looks away from the occupied biobeds to frown at Spock. “Why’re you down here, anyway? You hurt?”
“No,” says Spock. McCoy ignores him and fetches a scanner.
Spock waits patiently while McCoy studies the results. “Elevated heartrate, blood pressure... and you’re going to crash from all that adrenaline soon,” he snorts. “And your psi-readings are in the yellow. Got a bit physical with ‘em?”
He’s assuming Spock physically touched some of the Tazans – not incorrect – and it overwhelmed his touch-telepathy. “Yes,” says Spock. It’s not even a lie. He did nerve-pinch a few soldiers, though he suspects that’s not the cause of the readings.
“I’ll give you something in case you get a headache. And tell Jim not to get grabby.”
“Excuse me?” asks the captain, striding up behind them. He’s only half paying attention, eyes roving over the convalescing crewmen on biobeds.
“I’m popular today,” McCoy says. “You two ain’t got nothing better to do? No wonder some half-rate pirates got a drop on us, with the command crew gossiping like old hens in my Sickbay - “
“You leave your post frequently,” notes Spock. “Do you require more work, Doctor?”
McCoy makes a face at him, and without answer finds a dermal stimulator to finally start knitting up his own side.
“Just came to check on the casualties,” says Kirk, peering nosily at McCoy’s work. “Are you alright to work, Bones?”
“You’re worse than this one,” McCoy says, jerking his head toward Spock. “Look at him fretting over me.”
Spock blinks at him, stone-faced.
“See,” continues McCoy. “Damn near hysterical.”
“Well, you know how violence makes him anxious,” says Kirk cheerily. Spock doesn’t control himself fast enough to quell the offended sound that rises in his throat. “I’ll get him out of your hair. Spock, you were in the engine room, weren’t you? Give me an update.” He waves Spock after him as he walks through the biobeds.
Spock dutifully trails the captain through a rotation of the room. They discuss the current state of repairs while Kirk checks on his crew. There are about a dozen injuries, only one serious. Unfortunately there were also three deaths, all junior crewmen; Starfleet has an unfortunate learning curve.
“I’m not sure which part is more insulting,” says Kirk once he’s satisfied with the crew’s condition. “That they thought they could take the ship, or that they actually managed to board us… once the repairs are complete we need to step up our drills.”
“The crew repulsed the invaders by following correct procedures.”
“But they still got aboard. Well, we’ll deal with that in the after-action reports… how are you?” Kirk’s keeps his voice casual, not even looking at Spock as he poses the question. But his tone is sober. “I saw the engine room; you had to kill someone?”
“A standoff,” says Spock tersely.
“It’s not a judgment,” says Kirk. Though it is the only death among the attackers. “I’m sure it was necessary. But I know you hate it.”
“I hope none among our crew relish violence, Sir.”
“Alright, alright. Let me know if you need to talk about it. I’ll read the report eventually… did you see the new orders? We’ve already been given a new job.”
“The ship needs repairs at a starbase.”
“I know; that’s where we’re headed. Apparently there’s a trial… I’m to help with the judgment. Haven’t looked over the details yet. At least we’ll be able to wrangle some leave for the crew after this.”
Spock does indeed develop a headache over the course of the next hour. But they’re understaffed anyway due to all the casualties; he takes one of McCoy’s pills and continues working.
Spock has always been prone to headaches, but they are never accompanied by this low-level tension of anxiety. He mentally goes through ancient mantras as he addresses damage-control, and he’s sure no one else notices his discomfiture. But Surak’s teachings are about internal control as well as external, and Spock’s attempts today are woeful. His stomach twists.
He knows why; he knows what he fears. The fear itself almost seems irrational, but it is also logical to accept what evidence proves.
He skips his scheduled meal.
The incursion of the Tazans left the Enterprise with a great many issues. Not just their own damage; they’ve taken custody of the limping pirate-slash-rebels, which means twenty-five members of the prize-crew are off-ship and require frequent check-ins. Spock’s frequently called upon to help puzzle over those alien systems. He also assists Mr. Scott with repairs, coordinates security checks with Security Chief Giotto, check with Lieutenant Uhura to ensure the pirates didn’t send off any calls…
He adjusts the duty-shifts for his department, sending out a reminder for other departments to do the same. He stops by the bridge and ends up fixing a damaged console. He awkwardly consoles a crying yeoman – it was her first combat experience – and finally sends her away to Sickbay.
The headache gets worse. He takes another pill. Twenty minutes later, he excuses himself from inspection of a damaged conduit to find a nearby restroom. He quietly vomits, takes five minutes to compose himself, and returns to duty. The feeling of dread grows.
Spock tests his theory once his shift ends.
Six insects float through contained air in a glass container within Spock's quarters. Opalescent white, covered in fine glass-like hairs, they tumble around and bounce slowly off the sides of the transparent casing. They have no wings, but fly using their many soft hairs to collect and push away air. The propulsion mechanism is unique and architecturally elegant. These six were taken from among more than three-hundred specimens in the science labs, where their structure is being investigated. The bugs breed quickly, easily, and the insects can be killed with a careless touch; these ones will not be missed.
Spock unlatches the specimen-case and carefully pulls away a single insect, dragging it gently through the air using only the tips of his fingers. The creature's primitive mind – a flurry of lazy instincts and absent curiosity – brushes against his consciousness. He releases the creature. It floats harmlessly through the open space of his quarters, tumbling along a swaying path toward the ceiling.
Spock concentrates. He lets his thoughts fade away, recalling the harsh buzz that frothed under his skin when the Tazan soldier died in Engineering. With a single-minded intensity known only to Vulcans, he bends his every thought and force of will toward the oblivious lifeform spinning in front of him.
The insect vanishes. Spock is startled for a moment; then he looks down, and realizes that the creature only fell. It lies unmoving on the ground, its glassy hairs limp and dull. He crouches and touches it: dead.
He has found his answer.