Текст книги "Killing Time "

Автор книги: Della Hise

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Chapter Two

YEOMAN S'PARVA PLACED the dinner tray on the table, sat down carefully in a chair which was somehow too small for her bulky frame, and stared at the food, picking gingerly at the egg rolls and won ton on the edge of the platter. Across the dining room, she noticed a few heads turn in her direction—most of them male, she noted. Muted conversation buzzed noisily in her ear, and she heard her name mentioned more than once. Turning a little more toward the wall, she found herself feeling self-conscious despite the fact that she was far from being the only non-Terran in the room. Psychically, she sensed a Denevan, an Andorian, two Rigelians and a Deltan. Logically, the Deltan female should have been the center of attention, she told herself, remembering her psyche studies of the compelling women who were required to take a celibacy oath before accepting starship assignment. But at least the Deltans were humanoid, she thought.

Carefully, she nibbled at the food, wondering what new rumors were making the rounds concerning her placement on a starship. Even though Katellans had been in Starfleet for years, she realized with a certain amount of pride that she was the first of her race to achieve a position onboard a starship. She smiled to herself, and absently licked at the morsel of shrimp which had accidentally dropped from the egg roll and onto her left paw. Then, realizing what she'd done, she made a mental note to be more cautious. Old habits die hard, she thought. After a few more delicate bites, she laid the egg roll aside, picking up the knife and fork. Inconvenient though the implements were, she accepted that they were a necessity—at least until her peers grew accustomed to her canine physiology. And yet, she realized that Katellans weren't thatdifferent from their human counterparts. Already, she had mastered walking upright—which, she had realized, was actually quite convenient. And the rest would come soon enough. Within a week, the control panel and equipment in her department would be completely refurbished—to accommodate both bipeds and quadrupeds. She looked at her hands, at the fork she had learned to hold with some amount of practice. Three longer fingers and a thumb distinguishable from its human counterpart only by the soft fur. Yes, the rest would follow.

"Hi!" a voice said as another steaming dinner tray seemed to appear on the table next to her own. "How's life down in the psyche lab?"

She jolted, gasped, then quickly recovered her composure, grateful that the facial fur concealed any tint of embarrassment which might otherwise have found its way to her cheeks. She looked up from her reverie to discover Jerry Richardson sitting across the table, a boyish grin playing in the deep brown eyes.

"Didn't mean to startle you," he apologized, grabbing an egg roll and unashamedly stuffing it into his mouth. "Just thought you looked lonely sitting over here all by yourself."

After the initial astonishment, S'Parva felt herself relaxing. She managed a smile. "Thanks, Jerry," she said quietly. "Guess I'm a bit nervous tonight."

Richardson shrugged, downing the remainder of the egg roll and reaching for the container of chocolate milk on the corner of the tray. "No reason to be," he said between swallows. "You seem to be doing just fine—at least from the reports I hear."

S'Parva leaned closer, her voice hushed. "It's not the work, Jerry," she relinquished somewhat hesitantly. "It's … well …" She sighed deeply, broad shoulders rising and falling in the blue V-necked sweater-tunic which had been especially designed for her. Even in that way, she was different, she thought. But Jerry didn't seem to notice—just as he didn't seem to notice that she was a foot taller than he was, or that she could snap his neck with one quick movement. And there was something compelling about that innocence, she realized. Something which allowed her to think of him as K'tauma—friend, companion, teacher, little brother. "It's something …" But she fell into silence. There were no words in Katellan or Terran to describe the feeling.

Presently, Richardson looked up, thin brows narrowing suspiciously. He set the milk aside. "You're not worried about the little remodeling job down in the lab, are you?"

Again, S'Parva shrugged, whiskered brows twitching slightly. "I dunno," she admitted with a sheepish smile. "It just seems like a hell of a lot of trouble—for one person!"

Jerry laughed, stabbed a fried shrimp with the salad fork, and popped it into his mouth. "Don't look at it that way, S'Parva," he said easily. "The Katellans aren't the only quadraped race in the Fleet; the refurb on the control panels down there is long overdue." He grinned broadly, munching down another shrimp and following it with something which vaguely resembled a french fry. "And besides—even if those changes werejust for you, take it as a nice comment on your service record. Starfleet doesn't authorize that kind of alteration unless they think you're worth keeping on the payroll."

S'Parva considered that, and forced herself to relax. "Thanks, Jerry," she said with a grin. "Sometimes I just need to be reminded of things like that." After another moment, she picked up the fork again, holding it almost casually in one hand. It still felt damned uncomfortable, but bearable. She speared a clam, placed it in her mouth, and chewed absently as she continued studying Richardson from across the table.

For a human, she thought, he was handsome. And there was no denying the rapport they shared. She wondered if part of it was attributable to the fact that he was one of the only men on the Enterprisewho didn't seem to have trouble just talking with her, spending time with her. Richardson was neither nervous nor cautious in her presence, wasn't always tripping over himself pretending notto notice their differences. He merely accepted them as she accepted his; and there was something about his casual demeanor which served to set her at ease as well. She smiled to herself, then realized abruptly that the young lieutenant was watching her quite closely, a faint smile tugging the corners of his lips.

"It works both ways, you know," he said warmly.

Her brows twitched; she wondered if he knew it was a Katellan trait signaling chagrin. "What works both ways?" she asked innocently.

Richardson shrugged. "The telepathy," he ventured as if discussing nothing more important than the schematics of a food processor. " Youknow what I'mthinking and …" He let the sentence trail off.

For a moment, S'Parva could think of nothing to say. Humans could be so damned open, so easy to read. Then, with a gentle laugh, she nodded agreement. But as she continued to look at the young man, her eyes narrowed curiously. "You look beat," she said, only then noticing the red-rimmed eyes and slouched posture. "Don't tell me the captain's got you sweeping the bridge as a cure for boredom."

Richardson drew back, lips tightening as he looked away. "No," he said, voice suddenly clipped. "Just …" He shook his head. "Nothing."

Briefly, S'Parva wondered if she had somehow insulted her friend; for no sooner had she spoken than she felt an uncharacteristic distance between them. It hurt. She leaned across the table, touching his hand almost without thinking. "Sorry," she murmured. "I didn't mean to—"

But Richardson shook his head, silencing her with a gentle smile. A pink hue had risen to color his face. "No, no," he quickly said. "You haven't violated any human tribal taboo, S'Parva. It's just that I've been having a little trouble sleeping these past few nights." He grinned. "And the captain's been greedy—doing his own sweeping: the bridge, the officers' lounge, the gym. And rumor has it that he's going to scrub the hangar deck with what they used to call a toothbrush."

S'Parva smiled, grateful that it was as simple as that. The door opened again. Easily. "He's quite a man, isn't he?" she asked.

Richardson nodded, taking a deep breath. "Captain Kirk's one of a kind," he stated. "I've been on three different starships on this tour of duty, and he's the best of them all."

S'Parva considered that. The knowledge wasn't anything she hadn't suspected. "Last I heard," she offered, "there was quite a waiting list just to get stationed on this ship."

Pushing the now-empty plate aside, Richardson grinned. "Did you specifically apply for the Enterprise?"

S'Parva shook her head. "I was assigned," she replied, feeling a sense of pride in that realization, which she hadn't recognized before. Assigned—to the best ship in the Fleet.Internally, she felt something settle—like a weight which had been off-balance for a long time. She looked up, and noticed that she'd completely finished the meal—without the self-consciousness which had been with her for the past month. She took another deep breath, leaned back in the chair, and shook her head in mild amazement.

"You're something else, Jerry," she said with a laugh. "For a human, you're really something else."

The lieutenant shrugged as a devilish grin took shape. "Who told?" he asked, then yawned unexpectedly.

S'Parva lifted one brow with an admonishing glance. "You really should come down to the psyche lab, Jerry," she suggested. "We do most of our so-called 'business' during times like these. The crew gets bored and all sorts of symptoms start cropping up—such as insomnia?"

Richardson glanced around the room—almost nervously, S'Parva noted. She wondered what she'd said wrong—again.

"And dreams?" Richardson asked at last.

S'Parva's eyes widened. The fourteenth complaint today.

Kirk stared at the tri-level chessboard without really seeing it, and absently moved the white queen one level higher.

Eyebrow arching, Spock leaned back. "A most unwise move, Captain," he observed, easily detecting Kirk's uncharacteristic lack of concentration. Without trying, the Vulcan had won his third consecutive game.

Kirk shook his head with a sigh, remembering the slip of paper in the top drawer, the dreams. "Distracted, I guess," he ventured, meeting his first officer's eyes and forcing an unfelt smile. He inhaled deeply, then leaned back in the chair and folded his hands neatly behind his head, stretching. "I don't mean to keep whipping a dead horse, Spock," he began, "but … from what I've found out—about the dreams—it's starting to give me the willies."

The Vulcan stared mutely at his captain. "What would it profit to administer punishment to a deceased lifeform, Captain?" he wondered, attempting to lighten the heavy mood which had settled on Kirk during the course of the day. "And precisely what are the … willies?"

Kirk's smile broadened. "The creeps, Mister Spock," he clarified. "The crawls. The shivers. The boogey-man blues."

The eyebrow slowly lowered. "Of course, Captain," Spock replied, as if the entire matter was suddenly explained.

With a shrug, Kirk rose from the chair, moving into the living area of his quarters. He looked at the dresser for a moment, then impulsively yanked open a drawer and seized a plaid flannel shirt. After hastily removing the gold command tunic and tossing it across the room into the laundry disposal, he slipped into the civilian attire and began buttoning the shirt. He had to put command temporarily aside, and the braid on his sleeve was a constant reminder that that was never easy to do.

"C'mon, Spock," he urged, walking toward the door and tipping the white chess king over onto its side. "Let's take a walk. Maybe I just need some distance from everything."

The Vulcan's head tilted in curiosity. The ship's patrol was so utterly routine that he wasn't particularly surprised to see Kirk's nature asserting itself. The captain was the type of man who was always on the move, always seeking new adventures—and usually involved in dangerous excitement. In a moment of admitted illogic, Spock questioned the mentality of Command for sending the Enterpriseto patrol the Neutral Zone in the first place. Surely, he thought, it would have been more reasonable to assign such a mission to a Scout class vessel. The Enterprisewas, after all, the most efficient ship in the Fleet; and the Vulcan couldn't help wondering if the reasoning behind their current patrol was more complicated than anyone had been led to believe. And there was the matter of the manually coded transmission. But he rose from the chair and followed his friend. Kirk would tell him– whenand ifthe time was right. But as he passed by the chessboard, he reached out and impulsively righted the white king.

"What's the matter, Spock?" Kirk asked, face suddenly alight with mischief as he stood waiting by the now open door. "Afraid I'll have you court-martialed for insubordination because you beat me in another game of chess?"

The Vulcan merely shook his head as he fell in step alongside his captain, and they ventured into the corridor. "Hardly," he replied. "I merely thought it inappropriate to abandon the match so early in the evening. Your unorthodox approach to chess will doubtlessly assert itself later and you will discover some method of defeating me with an illogical and unpredictable move." He squared broad shoulders, innocently looking straight ahead as they approached the lift. "I am merely offering you that opportunity, Captain."

Kirk grinned. "In other words, Spock," he surmised, "you're generously giving me one final chance to humiliate myself."

"Captain!" Spock replied indignantly.

Kirk suppressed a laugh as they reached the lift. He thumbed the button, waiting for the doors to open. "You know, Spock," he mused. "Sometimes I wonder about you. Sometimes I think you're the ship's resident guardian angel—and other times I'm convinced you're the devil in disguise."

The Vulcan stared straight ahead, face expressionless. "Folklore issometimes based in fact, Captain," he replied enigmatically.

For a long time, they simply walked, visiting areas of the ship which were normally removed from the world of command. Finally as if by intuition, Kirk stopped in front of a large door, looked at it as if deciding whether or not to enter, then finally depressed the lock mechanism and urged the Vulcan along with a quick nod of his head. Spock followed, somewhat reticently.

"C'mon," Kirk prompted with a grin. "Stop acting like a cat who's afraid of getting his feet wet."

Spock remained stubbornly standing outside the door. "Captain," he protested, "it is a biological fact that Vulcans are sensitive to high humidity. The gardens—"

But before he could complete the sentence, Kirk seized him by one arm and dragged him forward with a laugh. "Live a little, Spock," he suggested. "And that's an order."

The Vulcan sighed, and slowly followed Kirk into the room. For a reason he couldn't pinpoint, Spock felt uneasy—as if this area of the ship was suddenly alien, dangerous. He lifted both brows at the illogical consideration, and took a moment to look around. Nothing out of the ordinary, yet the feeling persisted—as if ghostly eyes followed them. He swept the thought away. Illogical. Unacceptable behavior—particularly for a Vulcan. Reality seemed unstable. The brows rose higher, and though Kirk seemed oblivious to the sudden ethereal change, Spock couldn't deny its existence. Somehow, he felt himself altered, alien even to his own mind. But he continued following, nonetheless. Kirk's instincts were always good, he told himself.

Once inside the lush green gardens, Kirk felt some of the uneasiness leave him. He thought for a brief instant that he detected a hesitation in Spock, but when he turned to glance over his shoulder, it was to see the Vulcan standing close at his side. He dismissed the sensation, passing it off to mundane distractions and tedium as his eyes settled on the "world" before him.

The maze paths which ran throughout this Earthlike area of the ship gave the illusion of five miles of hiking trails in a natural environment. Kirk attempted to divorce himself from the fact that it was merely an impression—carefully designed by the builders of the Enterpriseto promote a feeling of "home." The room itself was approximately a hundred yards deep and seventy-five yards wide, almost overgrown with thousands of plants—flowers and small trees from a thousand different worlds. It was always spring here, the air fresh and clean. Even the air-conditioning vents had been designed to provide the illusion of a gentle breeze; and the domed ceiling spoke of a clear blue Terran sky, complete with clouds and occasional rainbows. When ship's night began to fall, a pseudo-sunset adorned the high ceiling, its purples, pinks and oranges all but obliterating the reality that one was still aboard a starship at least five light-years from the nearest Class M planet.

Forcing himself to ignore his own tensions, Kirk slipped into the Earth fantasy as he began walking along the central maze path—which would, he recalled, eventually lead to the deepest portion of the garden. As he looked up to see the Vulcan at his side, he couldn't help noticing that the gardens were having their effect even on Spock. The first officer seemed so much more relaxed and at peace here—even if somewhat distracted, Kirk noticed. For a moment, the human could almost envision his second in command swinging from a tree limb as he'd done once before—but not without the influence of spores to erase the normal Vulcan restraints. It was a soothing image, despite the fact that it was impossible. For an instant, Kirk wondered what would eventually become of his friend—of the two of them, where they would be in another twenty years. For himself, he suspected he'd still find some way of manipulating the stars, chasing adventure through the dark regions of time and space. But for Spock … His mind traveled back in time—to Vulcan. To a day when Spock had been prepared to marry … and disaster had resulted. Unbonded now, the Vulcan was walking a tightrope between life and death; for without the deep mental rapport necessary to establish a bonding, Spock would die in the blood fever of pon farr.

Despite the heat of the gardens, Kirk shivered, walking a little faster toward the central portion of the room. Surely, he told himself, Spock wouldn't die. Surely, he told himself, there would be someone with whom the Vulcan could bond, someone who could walk the path with him, balance him, love him.

For a long time, Kirk considered that. He wondered if the Vulcan knew what he was thinking, decided that it didn't matter. He would have said it aloud– hadsaid it aloud countless times. He smiled to himself. No secrets, he'd once told Spock. And the Vulcan had agreed. He closed his eyes, and attempted to put the frightening thought of the future in the back of his mind. It would take care of itself—somehow.

At last reaching the central portion of the gardens, Kirk took a moment to study his surroundings. Six large trees which vaguely resembled weeping willows grew in a circle approximately thirty yards in diameter. Branches like arms hung to the ground, sweeping against the grassy floor of the gardens.

Entering the circle of trees, Kirk took a deep breath of fresh air, and moved to one of the old stone benches which had begun to sport a healthy growth of mildew. He sat down slowly, then leaned back until he felt the cold moisture of the stone seep through his shirt and onto his shoulder blades. It was good in a way he couldn't describe—good in the same way a memory of childhood was good. It brought back recollections of sneaking off to the park on a warm May afternoon when he shouldhave been in school. He closed his eyes, enjoying the fantasy, the memories … the illusions which existed only in the past. But when he opened his eyes again, it was to see Spock still standing, looking down at him questioningly. There was concern—and possibly Vulcan worry—written in the black eyes.

Kirk held the penetrating gaze for a moment, then managed a smile when he saw the Vulcan soften. "Live a little, Spock," he said again, indicating a nearby bench with a nod of his head. "Didn't you ever go out and roll in the grass when you were a kid?"

The arched brow spoke volumes for the Vulcan's childhood.

"No …" Kirk decided. "I guess not." He rolled into a sitting position, feeling the nervousness and depression return despite the momentary external facade. He knew the Vulcan could see through his masks. "Sit down," he said more seriously. "I need a wailing wall, Spock."

The Vulcan might have considered responding in the customary, teasing way, but the idea left him as he observed the unusual tension in the familiar hazel eyes. Perhaps Kirk hadfelt the difference, the ghostly quality of their surroundings. He settled for a neutral approach. "This mission should not last much longer, Jim," he ventured, feeling suddenly inadequate to deal with Kirk's frustrations as he searched for something positive to say. "We are scheduled for shore leave in less than a month." He paused as if hearing the clipped tone of his own voice; perhaps teasing with this human wasthe only solution. "And I believe Altair has always been one of your favorites, has it not?"

Kirk shook his head, then felt the angry butterflies warring in his stomach again. "Altair …" he mused. He looked closely at the Vulcan, then impulsively reached into the pocket of the plaid shirt to withdraw the crumpled piece of paper he'd hidden there earlier. He unfolded it, handing it to the Vulcan. "The transcript," he explained. "All leaves have been indefinitely postponed."

The Vulcan studied the paper carefully, committing its sparse contents to memory.

KIRK: YOUR CURRENT MISSION EXTENDED UNTIL FURTHER NOTIFICATION. THREE EAGLES LANDING ON THE BORDER MIGHT NEED FLIGHT INFORMATION. A TIMELY CONSIDERATION FOR ENTERPRISE—EAGLES FLY BY NIGHT.

Spock looked up, handed the paper back to Kirk. "Romulan activity," he surmised.

Kirk nodded. "Romulan activity, Mister Spock." Then, with a frustrated shake of his head, he rose and began to pace back and forth in the confines of the circle of trees. "From the sounds of that transmission, the upper echelons are getting more than a little worried," he continued. "But no one seems to be able to pinpoint whatthe Romulans are up to this time." He shrugged. "Command suspects it has something to do with an attempt to invade Federation planets bordering the Neutral Zone, but …" He stopped pacing long enough to rub his forehead as he sensed the prelude to another headache. "But that's nothing new," he realized, resuming the nervous pacing. "Besides, that's what battle cruisers were designed for. Starships are supposedto be for exploration and contact; battle cruisers were built to deal with invasions and attacks." He managed a smile, an uneasy laugh. "General rumor also has it that three additional starships are being sent to this sector as a precautionary measure. And if that doesn't mean somebody's got their rocks in a grinder, then I don't know what to think." He took a deep breath. "But as usual with Command, they aren't being very generous with their information."

Spock was silent for a long moment. "And you stated that Starfleet has no precise knowledge of what the Romulans are planning?"

Kirk shrugged, threw up his hands, then forced himself to sit by the Vulcan's side. "All they know is that the Romulan Fleet appears to be converging near the border of the Zone. Our intelligence forces inside the Empire got wind of something concerning a time travel experiment which has been going on over there for quite a while; but according to Admiral Komack's last general transmission, we lost contact with the agents before they could relay the specifics." He grimaced. "I don't think we have to ask what happened to them."

Spock glanced away, confirming Kirk's suspicions; but the Vulcan changed the subject. "Do you believe the dreams could have something to do with events inside the Romulan Empire?" he asked.

Kirk felt something stir in his stomach.

"Since certain Romulans aretelepathic," Spock continued, "do you believe it possible that your dreams could have resulted from a temporary psychic link to someone inside the Empire?"

Kirk's brows narrowed thoughtfully. A possibility, sure. But random speculation—from Spock? "I dunno," he admitted. "Maybe I'm just getting paranoid in my old age." He laughed gently, trying to chase away the cold, black thing which seemed to be lingering at his shoulder. It had his own eyes, his features, his mind. But it felt alien.

Kirk was the only person on board to whom Spock could open up, and he valued that freedom. "If there are answers, we will find them, Jim," he ventured. "But … I believe it can wait until morning. You appear somewhat … fatigued?"

Men like Spock weren't standard issue. "Thanks, Spock," he murmured. "I don't know what the hell I'd do without you." He stood slowly, and turned to go.

The Vulcan rose to follow his captain, taking a moment to appreciate the easy rapport which was always there between them. "No doubt you would win at chess, Captain," he suggested as they began walking back toward the entrance of the gardens.

Kirk laughed, then turned to glance at the "sky" when he noticed that nightfall had begun. Muted colors melted into the domed sky, and he allowed himself the luxury of inhaling the cool fresh air into his lungs and holding it there.

"It's almost like being home, Spock," he said. "No Romulans except in Dad's exaggerated space-tales; no nightmares other than algebra …" He gave in to the fantasy for just a moment, then, recognizing the lethal danger of homesickness and melancholy, opened his eyes once again. "You know," he continued, "my father used to tell me that childhood itself was the only home a man could ever have." He laughed—somewhat nervously—and continued to look at the domed ceiling. For the briefest instant, he could almost envision cloudy dragons and white-fluffed unicorns.

Spock's eyes closed for just a moment. "Your father was, no doubt, a remarkable man, Captain," he replied after a long silence. His own father had rarely spoken of such matters—and never of the stars. He started to speak again, but stopped abruptly when Kirk shook his head with a smile.

"Don't worry, Spock," the human replied. "I don't expect an answer." He took one last look at the dome; it was almost "night" now, and soon the stars would be visible through the transparent ceiling. He turned toward the door, determined to leave the melancholy behind. "I don't regret anyof it," he said. "And who knows? Maybe we'll be laughing about this whole thing in some Altairian café in another month." He turned to look at the impassive expression on his friend's face as the double doors opened into the main corridor of the ship. "Well, at least I'llbe laughing," he corrected.

An eyebrow climbed under sleek black bangs as they stepped into the hall and resumed the correct routine. The masks of captain and first officer fell into place.

"I would not be adverse to spending some time on Altair, Captain," Spock said unexpectedly. "I am told that the museums and library facilities are excellent."

Kirk laughed as he drew up to a halt in front of the turbolift doors. "I didn't know Altair hadmuseums and libraries, Mister Spock!"

"Well, Jim," McCoy drawled, "there's not much I can do about it without running tests on all the people involved." He relaxed in the high-backed chair, placing his feet on the corner of an always-cluttered desk. "And as you probably know better than anyone else on board, dreams are just a way of letting off steam." The blue eyes studied Kirk carefully. "Since the conscious mind is theoretically too civilized—and too scared, I might add—to even thinkcertain things, those things work themselves out in dreams." A warm smile came to his face. "It's probably just a coincidence that the people you talked to had disturbing dreams."

Kirk shook his head. "I don't think so, Bones," he said, refilling the two brandy snifters and passing one to the doctor. "All the people I talked to had the same typeof dream."

McCoy glanced up lazily. Granted, he thought to himself, Kirk had a point. But his professional ethics compelled him to dig deeper before jumping to any irrational conclusions. For once, he mused, even Spock would've been proud of him. And he knew Kirk would respect those ethics as well. It would have been easy enough to run sample vid-scans, but the Surgeon General would want specifics– facts, which as yet didn't exist.

"Suppose you tell me about this dream again, Jim," he said, taking a sip of the brandy.

Resignedly, Kirk repeated the dream, concluding with a heavy sigh. "Maybe you're right," he ventured. "Maybe I amplacing too much importance on it." He paused, staring at the desk, using it as a focal point. "Hell, Bones," he confessed, "I've thought about losing the Enterprise, and I can accept that it'll happen one day. Nobody stays this age forever." He grinned, almost shyly. "So … that's not what's bothering me. And I'm not insecure to the point that I would ever suspect Spock of trying to usurp my command." He laughed, then fell silent. "Am I?" he asked at last.

McCoy looked up, blue eyes narrowing curiously. "So maybe your mind was just playing out a fantasy," he suggested. "In the back of your thoughts, you've wondered what it would be like to serve under that stubbornly logical Vulcan. Your dreams just let you act it out—harmlessly," he added. He leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbows on the desk. "Off the record, Jim, I wouldn't be surprised to discover that half the crew has the same kind of daydreams. But since you're the only one on board who happens to out-rank Spock, the dreams are going to be more disturbing to you than anyone else." He shrugged amiably. "But it's a safe fantasy, Jim," he stressed. "You're just curious underneath that command pose of yours. After all, with a Vulcan captain, no decision could ever be biased—"

"Are you insinuating that mine are?" Kirk asked.

McCoy grinned. "Not at all, Jim," he said quietly. "All I'm saying is that Spock has a certain … mystique. It leads people to wonder what kind of commander he would make. It's as normal as fantasizing about anything else—and twice as secure. As you already know, Spock doesn't want command; he never has; and he never will. The two of you owe each other your lives a hundred times over, so you can put your subconscious to rest. Spock would never be the one to take command of the Enterprise—especially if that meant commanding youas part of the bargain!"