First published December 2012 on fanfiction.net. With thanks to Djinn for her ongoing support, suggestions and encouragement.

Errors on the edge of forever

Sickbay is quiet when you enter. The lights are low, the beds empty and there is no sign of the man you seek.

You have made an error. You had assumed the doctor would follow his usual pattern of seeking solace in a solo imbibing of alcohol after his shift had ended. You had relied on finding him alone and had, therefore, spent some time planning how to approach the subject you wish to discuss. To enquire about the Captain’s well-being with the ship’s CMO is certain to result in several minutes of distraction tactics and white noise before any useful information emerges and so you have come prepared.

But those moments of rehearsed conversation have delayed your arrival by eight minutes and fifty three seconds beyond the end of alpha shift. Doctor McCoy has left.

It is not the first time you have miscalculated and been caught out this way. You wonder why you continue to search for structured order in the behaviour of your fellow crew when experience tells you that, outside the confines of Starfleet shift patterns and protocols, humans on this ship are defined only by their unpredictability.

You hesitate; breathe in the sterile air as you undertake an audit of the options now open to you.

You know both your error and your hesitation may be due to the dull drone of fatigue that throbs a beat behind your thoughts, but sleep is not on your list of options. It would perhaps be best to make another attempt to elicit a response from the Captain’s quarters. But, as you turn to leave, the doors open and Nurse Chapel enters. It is apparent she is returning from the medical laboratory.

“Mister Spock. What brings you to Sickbay?”

“I had hoped to talk to Doctor McCoy. But it appears I have arrived too late.”

She puts down her tray of samples and regards you with the combination of wariness and welcome which you find confusing each time you meet. You have seen Christine Chapel in the company of others forty three times in the past three months and five days, but this is only the third time you have been alone with her since —

“Doctor McCoy’s making a house call. He’s with the Captain.”

“Ah. I understand.”

And you do understand. Of course he is with the Captain. It would not be rational to feel hurt that the Captain has opened his door to Doctor McCoy when he ignored your chime, so you are not hurt. The doctor is also the Captain’s friend. And he is also worried.

“Well, in that case, nurse, I will leave you to finish your task.”

Yet you do not leave immediately. You are now more uncertain as to where you should go next and you pause for 2.6 seconds, and, of course, she notices.

“Mister Spock… is everything all right? I mean, with the Captain. I’ve hardly seen him since you all got back. And Len won’t talk about what happened.”

You are not surprised. To talk about what happened would be a serious breach of regulations.

She takes a step closer. She seems to be searching your face for clues. She should know better by now. “Even Nyota doesn’t seem to know what really went on and she was there.”

That is because she was not there. Neither was Doctor McCoy for approximately ninety four per cent of the disrupted time flow. Only you were there as a witness to the full unfolding of events. Only you know what this one landing party has cost your Captain and your friend. And yet he did not answer your door chime. He has not responded to your messages.

Vulcans do not sigh. So you do not.

“I am not at liberty to discuss recent events. The log has been sealed.”

Sealed and sent to the top echelons of Starfleet Command buried beneath eight
layers of coding and security protocols. A quarantine zone and warning buoys have been established around the site. And, despite this, you remain concerned.

You desire to discuss your concerns with the one man who knows first hand the enormity of the threat. But the last time you attempted a conversation on this subject he lifted empty eyes and spoke in a stranger’s voice and waved you away with a weariness that is like an alien life form when squatting on the shoulders of this man.

It occurs to you that the woman now looking at you with a slight frown may have a small proportion of the answers you seek.

“May I ask, nurse, whether the doctor has been treating the Captain? Has he administered any medication?”

Her eyebrows rise. It is an unusual question from the Captain’s first officer. Surely you should know if the health of your CO is compromised.

You do know. And you suspect that he is compromised.

“Why, Mister Spock, you know I’m not at liberty to discuss the medical treatment of another crew member. Patient confidentiality.”

She has used your own words against you.

You clear your throat. “I was merely — ”

She smiles. She is teasing you. It would be easy to believe medical staff on this ship are required to complete modules in the science of Spock teasing.

“It’s okay. The Captain waived his rights as far as you’re concerned a long time ago. You know he made a point of giving you full medical access to his records after what happened with that virus on Psi 2000 — you don’t need clearance.”

The last words are indistinct as she becomes suddenly busy with the tray on the table. She is remembering the other effects of the Psi 2000 virus and she is blushing.

Vulcans do not blush. However, it appears that the air temperature in sickbay is somewhat elevated compared to the ambient norm. You must remember to mention this fact to the engineers.

She places the last of the empty sample bottles in the steriliser. “So, yes, Doctor McCoy did take his medical kit to the Captain’s quarters. And I know he’s been attempting to persuade him to take some meds. He asked me to load the hypos with something for stress, something to help him sleep. But I doubt he’ll have much luck actually administering them. What do you think?”

You think Doctor McCoy would have to invoke Regulation 121 section A to persuade the Captain to accept help from pharmaceuticals, and the doctor is unlikely to take such an extreme step. The Captain may be compromised but he has done nothing to endanger the ship or her crew. His performance on the bridge has been exemplary, his paperwork has never been more up to date — and no-one has seen him smile since he returned.

“I am glad the doctor is offering assistance. And I think the Captain needs to sleep. But I agree he will have difficulty persuading him to agree to treatment.”

“I see.” She switches off the light above the cabinet and turns towards you. “And what about you? Have you slept?”

She stops your automatic reply with an upward motion of her hand. “I know you’ll tell me Vulcans don’t need much sleep but those are some pretty impressive dark green circles you’ve got going there. And, as for Len, well I don’t think drunken stupor counts towards the sleep quota. He’s a mess.” She is thoughtful and the frown is back. “Spock, I know you can’t talk about it in any detail. But I’m not blind. Something happened on that planet; something that’s hit all three of you pretty hard.”

You note that she has dropped the Mister. That she has moved approximately twelve centimetres closer to where you stand.

You clear your throat again. The dry air of sickbay is causing some constriction. “You are correct that something did occur which has affected the Captain. The doctor and myself were also involved. But I regret I am unable to –”

Unable to what? Think, feel, act? All of the above? The words die on your tongue as she takes another step forward. Her hand is now a mere twenty centimetres from yours. Part of you fears she will touch you. Most of you knows she will not — she is free of the virus and well trained in Vulcan protocol. And the smallest portion of you wishes —

“I can’t help thinking there must be something I can do. Sometimes talking things through with a third party, someone who’s not so close to the trauma can be helpful in these situations.”

Her eyes are blue and calm. She has recovered her composure. You observe with surprise that you find her offer tempting. But it is, of course, impossible to ‘talk things through’.

You step back, away, and this is what you say. “Thank you, nurse. But I believe the situation will soon be resolved. The Captain is a strong man.”

This is what you do not say. “The Captain is a strong man but his friend is weak. His friend, who was there, who was witness, is unable to to help his pain. His friend lacks the ability, the knowledge, the understanding. His friend lacks. So how can he call himself his friend?”

And this is what you do. You nod and spin on your heel and leave sickbay and the woman offering help before you make another error.

-oOo-

The Captain is sleeping.

You know this because the doctor told you as he left his cabin. You both pretended it was co-incidence that you were in the corridor when the doors opened and the doctor came out, allowing you the merest 1.4 second glimpse of the prone form within.

It is a sign of the doctor’s concern that he does not mention your vigil, and that it does not occur to him to tease.

It is a sign of the seriousness of his condition that, contrary to your expectation, the Captain has allowed Doctor McCoy to administer the medication he requires.

“I had to virtually tie him to the bunk. Thought I was going to have to call on you and that damned Vulcan neck pinch. But he gave in.”

The doctor’s face is pinched and grey. The words hang heavily between you. The Captain gave in. This is new data and its effect is to ripple and reorganise your perceived universe.

“That is good news, Doctor. I believe sleep will be helpful in restoring his… equilibrium.”

It is the wrong word. The Captain is not an item of scientific equipment that requires calibration and balance. The Captain is hard fire and warm steel and sharp instinct.

“I’m not sure, Spock. He needs sleep, sure, but he needs more than that. He needs to talk to somebody and he sure as hell won’t talk to me. I don’t think he’s forgiven me for — ”

You interrupt. You are aware his words still haunt him but this is not acceptable. “You cannot blame yourself. It is not logical. You did not know.”

*Oh hell, Spock, don’t talk to me about logic. There’s nothing logical about how I’m feeling, about how he’s feeling. And it hasn’t stopped you from blaming yourself, has it?”

Despite your best attempt to control he sees you react. This man knows you too well.
“Hell, yes, Spock. Did you think I didn’t know? Mea culpa is written all over that stone-faced Vulcan visage you take such pride in. So tell me, my oh so logical friend, why would you blame yourself for saving millions of lives, for setting time back on the straight and narrow? He wouldn’t have stopped without you, y’know?”

“No, Jim!” Two words, five letters, a million irrational regrets. But you do not believe he stopped because of you alone. James Kirk is a creature of instinct, yes. But he is also a man of iron control with a strict moral code. You are sure he would have stopped.

You are almost sure.

“The Captain acted to protect the needs of the many. He did what he had to do, as did I.”

The words are mechanical and not entirely accurate. You cannot, dare not, examine the half-formed accusation that disturbs your thoughts. It flickers as the newsprint did on that rudimentary screen you constructed long ago. “But now…” You stop, not quite sure how to phrase your question. You do not often admit weakness to the doctor but you need answers. “Now he seems… I do not understand why he does not take comfort from success. Why he appears… so unlike himself.”

“No, well, you wouldn’t understand, Spock. No frame of reference.”

The doctor looks unwell. His eyes are underlined in red; his skin is pale and sweating. “And I’m as much good to him as a tissue in an ion storm. There’s not a lot medical science can do to heal a broken heart.” His mouth twists and you know what is coming. This is a familiar pattern between you and you know he is reaching for that reassurance. “But then what would you know about broken hearts, you cold-blooded, pointy eared automaton?”

His heart is not in the insult. And since you agree with his premise you do not respond. There is a pause, then he dismisses you with a wave and stamps off down the corridor. You estimate a 98.3 per cent probability that his next action will be to pour himself a glass of the alcohol he denied himself earlier.

The Captain is sleeping at last and you know you are not performing at optimum efficiency. While you do not wish to sleep, a short period of rest is the logical next step. You enter your quarters which are adjacent to his and make the necessary preparations for meditation.

But the flame does not soothe, the incense smells bitter, and instead of inner silence the scene replays from your internal data tape as you suspect it does in the room beyond the bulkhead.

It always starts at the point where the timelines converge — those seconds slow and shimmer in your memory. The squeal of brakes, the noise of metal colliding with flesh, and the doctor’s words, the words that haunt him still.

“You deliberately stopped me, Jim. I could have saved her. Do you know what you did?”

There was no time to explain. The doctor was in no state to hear an explanation as, sweating and swearing, he fought to reach the woman lying beyond the help of even 23rd century medicine. And beside him, the Captain, mute and hard-faced, and incapable of making a decision; hardly capable of placing one foot in front of another.
You had to use your considerable strength to manhandle both of them back through the door of the Mission and down the stairs to the basement. You knew it was imperative to retreat out of sight and, as her life ebbed away, as time shuddered and rebooted, you felt the tug of the vortex.

Flashframes and dizziness. Dust and ancient air. The incomprehension of the landing party who greet you as if you are the same people who left mere moments and a lifetime ago.

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”

The Captain does not swear in front of the crew. But he is barely recognisable as their captain even as his pattern disperses in the beam of the transporter.

The doctor does not shut up. There are more words, hurtful words, in the transporter room and in the corridor beyond. Fortunately you do not think the Captain is aware of the words. He says nothing more. Grim and pale, he leaves the landing party and their questions trailing in his wake and disappears into the briefing room alone.

Only then are you able to pull the doctor back, to dismiss the others, to silence him with the look you rarely use but which has proved effective in the past. And only then does he listen to your summary, to the bare outline of the facts.

Once again you lack.

Oh, you can explain the physics, the two timelines. You can describe the pivotal role of one woman who stood unknowing at their junction.

But you cannot explain the chemistry. You lack the vocabulary to explain what you have seen between that woman and the man who let her die. You cannot describe how for a few short days he seemed a more complete version of himself. How his glow dazzled and warmed the room you shared as if, instead of thin soup and baloney, he had swallowed starlight.

And how, with mounting dread, you heard him plan a future that could never be.

To be continued…