First published December 2012 on fanfiction.net. With thanks to Djinn for her ongoing support, suggestions and encouragement.
Errors on the edge of forever
Later you cannot quite remember agreeing to talk to Christine Chapel. In fact, you are almost sure you did not agree, not in words. But your actions suggest acquiescence. You have so little energy that it seems logical to move into a side room, then to sit here in a chair where you cannot see her, to close your eyes and drift. You know the doctor has left. Her voice is gentle but persistent.
“I think it might help if I ask some questions. I know the basic sequence of events. And I get why the Captain is going through a tough time right now. But why the guilt, Spock? Why are you blaming yourself for the Captain’s pain? You didn’t make him fall in love with that woman. He did that all by himself. And she was always going to die, she had to die, remember?”
Oh yes, you remember.
The marching, triumphant forces of fascism. Hope draining from the room with every passing second of footage. No space age, no democracy. No mistake.
The Captain’s confession. His back turned. Something terrible about the set of his shoulders. Already you knew what he was going to say. And already you feared for your friendship.
“Spock, I believe… I’m in love with Edith Keeler.”
“Jim, Edith Keeler must die.”
Christine is speaking again. You are not sure how she is following your tangled mix of thoughts and words but it does not seem to matter. You hear her as if via the ship’s intercom, remote and far away.
“What happened, Spock?”
“I told him, I told him she had to die.” You are speaking in a whisper, as if reducing the volume of your words will make the truth easier to bear.
“Yes, but after that? After he found out. What did he do? What did you do?”
He had left then. Left you with your valves and vacuum tubes and the smell of singeing circuits. And you had gone back to the screen, to the flickering newsprint that condemned a woman to death and your friend to hell. There is no mistake. That’s what you told him but you must check, and check again. And now you can read more of the article from the alternate timeline, the one that ends with Nazi victory and a new dark age.
That’s when you see it. You read how the Edith Keeler of that future is single, childless and devoted to her cause of peace. The right idea at the wrong time. But this is a timeline with but one intruder from the future.
Edith Keeler must die.
Yes. That Edith must die. But what if there is another future Edith? A married, happy Edith with a devoted husband and a family to distract her from presidential meetings and her crusade. Is it not possible, even probable, that she, that they, could have a different future? And that with Edith Kirk tied to hearth and home the march of history would proceed as it was meant to do?
What if there is another way to change history?
Her voice is soft. “You didn’t tell him, did you Spock?”
No, you didn’t tell him. You barely allowed the thought to crystallise. And now you question why. You question your motives and your answers are dark and ugly. You failed your friend when he needed you most. Your error, your fault.
“Tell me, what if she had lived? What if they’d found happiness? What then?”
So many possible futures shimmer if one life is saved. Jim Kirk stuck in the past. McCoy too. You, an alien, trapped in 20th century New York, walking proof of life beyond this planet. Three men three centuries ahead of their time. Impossible to calculate the ripples of temporal dissonance.
“Spock, what would have happened if you’d told him?”
The roar of the approaching truck. Jim Kirk in love and feet away. Doubt in his mind. And a woman who deserves to live facing pain and death.
“I do not know.”
“But what do you think would have happened. What does your gut tell you?”
You drop your head; your voice as bleak as your words. “I could not have stopped him. Or he would not have stopped the doctor. She would have lived.”
“And you would have stayed. No re-boot. No second chance with the Guardian.”
“No.”
“So why, Spock. Why all this guilt?”
And the answer suddenly seems so simple.
“Because I could not trust him with the truth. I could not trust my friend.”
-oOo-
When you sleep you do not dream. You sleep as if you have not slept in several centuries and, in a sense, that is the case. Even in 1930 you had lain awake constructing circuits in your head. Now you sleep as if time is suspended — a sleep with no thought and no recrimination.
And when you wake she is there. She says nothing. Just hands you water because you are parched, and fruit because you are famished. And you do not say thank you. You have said all your words. She has heard them and it is enough. But something has changed between you and when her hand touches yours you do not withdraw. You find it is not unpleasant to feel her touch. You will not act upon it. Not now. But something has changed.
-oOo-
You have just lit the flame when the chime goes and the sound is so unfamiliar that at first you cannot place it. It has been a long time since anyone came to your quarters. And when he enters it is so unexpected you cannot, at first, find words to greet him.
“What’s the matter, Spock? Were you expecting someone else?”
“My apologies, Captain. Please…” And you gesture to the chair beside your desk. But he does not sit. He paces, a restless wave of energy that seems to fill your cabin and sucks the air you need to speak.
He seems uncertain how to begin; picks up the Denivan crystal you keep on your desk and examines it.
“So… I’ve had a visitor.”
You suspect you know which visitor.
“Indeed.”
“Yes, McCoy came to see me. He seems to think we need to talk.”
“I see.” Your mouth is dry. “Did the doctor disclose a subject for discussion?”
He looks at you and there is anger in his eyes. He puts the crystal down with a bang.
“Oh come on, Spock. Stop playing the Vulcan in an emotional vacuum. This is me you’re talking to.”
You say nothing. There is nothing you can say. Despite his assertion, you do not know which man has come to your cabin — your commanding officer, the friend you used to know, or the stranger of the last 20 days.
He runs his hand through his hair; places one fingertip on the crystal and sighs. “He wants us to talk about what happened in New York, of course.”
You cannot say, ‘Indeed’ again. You swallow hard. “I am not convinced such a discussion will achieve a useful outcome.”
His eyes narrow. “You and me both, Spock. But I’ve learned to listen to Bones over the years. Don’t ever tell him I said so, but he’s usually right.”
You allow yourself a small inward smile. You are certain you do not allow it to show but he sees it anyway. It has always been impossible to fully shield your emotions from the Captain.
“Your secret is safe with me, sir”
His lips twitch. “I never doubted it.” And he looks at you for the first time. “You’re pretty good at keeping secrets, aren’t you Mister Spock?”
He is talking about trust. The foundation of your friendship. A friendship you have jeopardised; a trust you have betrayed.
Your words are careful. “I would hope you can rely on me. But I fear you have found that difficult of late.” You do not have the words for this conversation and you have to make a conscious effort to unclench your fingers. “Recent circumstances have made that difficult.”
He leans against the desk. “Listen, I can understand why you don’t want to talk about it. I don’t blame you. And I know why you’ve been avoiding me.”
This is puzzling. “I have not been avoiding you, Captain.”
He does not appear to hear you. “It must be pretty tough on you, Spock — all this angst and emotional excess. I know how difficult you find it. I’ve done my best to stop myself over-emoting all over your personal space but the last couple of weeks haven’t been easy…”
Once again your universe ripples and changes shape. You have been working from a false premise; your data was skewed from the outset. You know the light level in the cabin remains unchanged yet your surroundings appear a little brighter. He does not appear to notice.
“…and I know I let you down. I’ve been… working through some things. I’d just ask you to give me a little more time.”
Is that pleading in his eyes? These words make no sense. “Jim, in what sense do you believe you have ‘let me down’?”
He looks up then, at the use of his name. “Okay, not just you. But you’re the one who bore the brunt of it. And that night — you know where I went, what I did.” His words are bitter. “I don’t blame you for judging me.”
That night. You know which night. The night you spent trying to do what you had already told him was impossible — to narrow down the circumstances of Edith Keeler’s death, to find a date. And wrestling with a dilemma that would not obey the laws of logic.
He did not come back that night. You had assumed he spent the hours with the woman he loved. And looking at him now you see that you were right.
“I did not and I do not judge you, Captain. You are in error.”
He explodes off the desk, advances. “Well, why not? I sure as hell judge myself.” He is pacing again — with a sort of fury. “God, Spock, what sort of man am I? What sort of man learns he must let the woman he loves die, then goes off and knocks on her door and seduces her?”
“I am sure you did not intend –”
“Oh no, my intentions were strictly honourable. At least that’s what I was saying in my head. I went there to say good-bye. Better for her, better for me, that’s what I told myself. It wasn’t as if I could change anything. She was always going to fall under that truck. Hell, in my timeline she’d been dead and buried for centuries. And I knew there was nothing I could do –”
“Jim, listen to me. There is something I must tell you –”
“Except that she didn’t know any of that, Spock.” He turns away, fists clenched. “She looked so hurt when I tried to… when I…” His voice is choked. For one awful moment you think he may be about to lose control. But he pulls himself straight, his back to you, as it was when he confessed he loved her.
“She stopped me talking and she kissed me. And that was it. I couldn’t… I tried, I’m sure I tried… but I couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t… stop. We’d kissed before. But this was different. It was like…” He turns then, his face transformed. The glow you remember is back. “It was like coming home, Spock. But to no home I’ve ever known. It was as if I couldn’t remember the meaning, even the… concept of loneliness. I know she felt it too. We were lost.”
You know with sudden certainty you are seeing a Jim Kirk no-one has ever seen. To witness such vulnerability in this man is a terrible thing.
He looks down at his fingers gripping the back of the chair as if he does not recognise them. “It wasn’t what was supposed to happen. I didn’t mean to end up in her bed. But she was a woman way ahead of her time. I think you saw that.”
You nod. “Edith Keeler was a remarkable woman.”
“It wasn’t her first time, but it felt like mine. As if everything in my life had been leading up to that moment. It was a sort of madness, Spock. History seemed irrelevant. Nothing mattered, not my career, not the Enterprise.” He looks at you. “Not even my friends.”
You wish now that you were fully human. That you could reach out to touch, to offer comfort. There is a hard lump in your throat. You cannot swallow.
“Jim –”
“And then, afterwards. Afterwards it came to me — it seemed so obvious. What if there was another way? Another timeline. One where she didn’t lead a peace movement. We could go away, start a family, grow old together. Let history go on without us. I couldn’t sleep for thinking about it. We had such a connection. She said it — we spoke the same language. I was sure I could persuade her.” His voice drops to a whisper. “When she woke up I asked her to marry me.”
He sees your reaction and he thinks it is the second part of his revelation that has caused your shock.
“I told you. It was a sort of madness. And she saw it. She laughed, Spock. She touched my cheek and she laughed. She thought we had all the time in the world, you see. And then she left. Said she had to serve breakfast and we’d talk about it that night.”
He sits then, sits at your desk as if he has no choice, as if a weight has shifted back onto his shoulders. The glow has gone.
“Mornings have a way of counter-acting madness. I should have come back. I should have talked to you. But I didn’t.
“I walked. Didn’t really know where I was going but I ended up on Brooklyn Bridge, looking down at all those ships, the cargo boats — they’d taken weeks to cross one ocean. And I remember thinking just how far the world had to go before they launched a starship. And, of course, I saw my madness for what it was.”
He rests his head on clenched fists. “One chance. That’s what the Guardian offered us. One chance to put things right. How could I think marrying Edith would not change time? What if we had children? What about their children? A whole generation who weren’t meant to exist.
“And she was right. I didn’t belong. None of us did. 23rd century knowledge transplanted to the 20th century — we might have resisted for months, years even, but we would have cracked eventually. And then there was you.” He looks up. “You really didn’t belong.”
“No.” You pause. “I do not believe the accident with the mechanical rice picker would have endured another recounting.”
He laughs then, as you had intended, but the laugh becomes a muffled groan, almost a sob. He rests his head on his hands. “What was I thinking, Spock? How could I do that when I knew she was going to die? I betrayed everything I thought I believed in.”
“You loved her, Jim.” For once you do not allow yourself to shield yourself from his pain. You even welcome it. “You loved her and she knew it.”
“I think she knew it — I told her. I’m not sure she believed me.”
“She knew, Jim. I knew. I did not understand it but now I think I knew from the beginning; from the moment she appeared on those basement steps.” You look at him, at your friend, at the man you thought you could not trust, and your doubts seem ludicrous. Of course, his instinct had led him down the same path as your logic, and, of course, he had reached the same conclusion. Alone. “You did not come back that day.”
“I’m not sure how I got through those next few hours. After I realised… But you know my capacity for self-delusion. Like you said, we weren’t that sure of our facts. I wouldn’t admit defeat. I told myself we might still have weeks, months perhaps.
I even started thinking we could tell her… we could show her the future. I knew I couldn’t stay; that if it worked we would get pulled back to our own time. But she wouldn’t have to die. She didn’t deserve to die, Spock.”
“No.” You frown at the idea of revealing the truth to someone with Edith Keeler’s vision, her insight. As before, as always, he is ahead of you.
“Yes, I know. I still wasn’t thinking straight. There was only one way to avoid changing history. Deep down I knew it but I didn’t want to face it.
“I couldn’t wait to see her again. Had a whole plan mapped out for the evening. And then… she said his name, she said she’d seen McCoy… It was as if I’d fallen off a cliff. I saw you. And I left her standing there. I ran from her.”
He has arrived at that moment. The collision of the timelines and the stuff of nightmares. And you are there with him. Shouting words that are not needed.
“No, Jim.”
He already knew what he had to do. Even as he whispered her name he knew.
“She trusted me. And I watched her walk in front of that truck. And, coward that I am, I turned away. I held Bones back and I couldn’t look. But I heard, Spock. I heard — ” He swallows. “I heard her scream. I know it was her. I’m done with pretending.”
He is looking at you now, a flat, hopeless look and the action you take is the only logical one available. You reach and hold his hand. And, for just that moment, time seems suspended. You have both travelled three centuries and a thousand light years from this quiet cabin.
And there has been another journey. A journey that continues since you do not know the destination. But someone has given you a map.
“Jim. There is something I must tell you.”
And you begin to talk; to tell him everything. And the words come as if they have always been a part of you. And you know this conversation will stay with you forever.
Always and forever. Words humans use too often. And Vulcans not enough.
FIN
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