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

Errors on the edge of forever

“Edith!”

The shout is loud enough to pierce the wall and reach inside your dreams. You are awake within an instant, and aware and on your feet an instant later. And, before those instants join to make a space for rational thought, you are using your over-ride and standing in a darkened cabin that smells of him and fear.

He is making noises now that are far removed from speech and you realise the scent of fear is not from him. The man so twisted on the bed is not the man who glowed and warmed the space you shared three centuries before. And, when you approach, the eyes are not his eyes.

“Was it her?”

The question and the clutching hand are from a stranger and, for a moment, you are reminded of another doppelgänger who masqueraded on the bridge and wore his clothes. A man possessed by instinct and raw feeling is anathema to the pure Vulcan you pretend to be, but this time the mirror image is refracted through white light, as if the Guardian has stripped him down to elemental pure emotion, leaving intellect and baser thought behind.

“Spock, was it her?” He sees you through a mist of meds and sleep and you cannot fathom what he means.

“Jim…” You hold his hand and feel the scouring grief as sand against your skin. And then, through sand, you grasp the horror of his question. He heard the scream.

He shakes his head, eyes now tight shut. “I keeping hearing it over and over… but I’m sure it’s not her voice.” His words are jumbled like a child. “It was someone else, another woman – watching – she saw the truck, she screamed. It wasn’t her voice. But… Spock, you were there. You saw.”

You drop his hand and back away shaking your head. The truth is there is a ninety eight per cent probability it was Edith Keeler who screamed. You saw no female bystander. There were men, first four then two more who rushed into the road to help, no women. And you hate the half of you that just reduced those facts to numbers.

“Jim, I cannot be certain.”

Later you wonder why you did not lie? He would have believed you. It would have offered comfort. Contrary to the myth you have propagated, Vulcans do lie when required, when there is an absolute necessity. So why did you not lie to comfort your friend? Another error. Another proof of failure.

But then it is too late. You watch the stranger disappear and the Captain surface. You see him drag himself from sleep, his eyes go blank, his shoulders slowly straighten beneath the cloak of command and you marvel at the strength of will.

“Spock. What are you doing here?” The voice is of a different man. And the careful tone is so far removed from friendship that you could wish the stranger and his clutching fingers back.

“I thought I heard you call. But I must have been mistaken. Forgive me, Captain.”

Forgive me. For watching you walk into such pain. For telling you to let her die. For failing you when you needed me most.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m fine. Just talking in my sleep I guess. Those damned meds.” And he dismisses you. “Go back to sleep, Spock. Really I’m fine.”

A joyless smile, a shuttered look, a turn of shoulders. Is this how friendship ends?

-oOo-

“Well, that’s not going to keep you going through the rest of beta shift.” She is looking with distaste at the pile of leaves and vegetable protein you have arranged in neat piles on your plate. “It looks like something to be analysed not eaten.”

You glance at her tray of processed carbohydrate and sucrose. “And perhaps a nutritional analysis of your chosen meal would be wise before consumption.”

She laughs and sits beside you without asking, as if sharing a table in the mess is something you both do on a regular basis. It is, in fact, the first time Christine Chapel has ever sat beside you in this manner.

“Give a girl a break. It’s been a long shift and I could do with the sugar rush.” She bites into a chocolate chip cookie with obvious relish. “Just don’t tell, Doctor McCoy. He thinks he’s got everyone from medical converted to his optimum nutrition programme. No-one can face telling him we’ve been falsifying the results since day one.”

“And how is the good doctor?”

She puts down the cookie with a frown. “Not good. Truth is I’m worried about him, Spock. I’m worried about all of you — but I’m working with Len day in, day out and I’ve never seen him like this.”

She’s breaking the cookie into small pieces on the plate as if doing so will help dissect her thoughts. “He’s swaying on his feet, letting M’Benga do all the hands-on stuff. And just as well — he thinks he’s hiding it but he can’t stop his hands shaking.”

“Indeed.” You process this information and berate yourself for neglecting another friend. If you were not so obsessed with Ji… with the Captain you would have seen McCoy’s distress for yourself.

“Thank you, for bringing this to my attention. I will act on your information.” And you hear yourself, hear your sterile words, and see her wince.

What is wrong with you? It is as if, without the Captain’s friendship, you have lost the connection to a world beyond the data on your screen. You can feel yourself retreating with every passing day. You try again.

“I have heard it said that doctors make the worst patients.”

There is relief in her laugh. “Oh, I don’t know, try nurses. If it came down to a choice between nursing a doctor or doctoring a nurse I think I know which I’d choose. We know it all — from bandages to brachycardia.”

“I believe that is true. You know a great deal, Christine. And I am glad you have shared your information with me. Doctor McCoy may need our help.”

She is blushing at his compliment, covering her embarrassment by pressing her fingertip into the crumbs on her plate and lifting them to her mouth. You observe this with rather more attention than the action deserves.

“Yeah, well you know I’d do anything for Len. And talking of sharing, have you given any more thought to talking things through?” She looks up from her plate, her gaze direct. “I know you’re still not sleeping.”

“I can assure you…”

“Come off it, Spock. I’m a nurse. We’re trained to observe. And what I’m observing right now is a sleep-deprived Vulcan.”

“I do not require…” You are about to make the well-worn retort, but find you do not have the energy. “I find sleep does not come easily at the current time. I prefer to meditate.” You lift a forkful of your salad and pretend more certainty that you feel. “I am sure this is merely a temporary state of affairs.”

She raises an eyebrow in an almost perfect imitation of Vulcan scepticism. “I see. So this wouldn’t have anything to do with what happened when you went through the Guardian portal then?”

It as if your salad has turned to ashes in your mouth and you carefully place the fork back on your plate.

Your question is unspoken but she hears it nonetheless. “Doctor McCoy talks in his sleep. He sleeps at his desk. And I’m not beyond a little gentle questioning when that sleep is shallow and alcohol induced.” She sees your frown. “So sue me, Spock. I was worried. I needed to know. And I don’t know it all. Just that this had something to do with a time paradox…”

Your voice is stiff. “That information is classified — ”

“And that the Captain loved her — a woman in the past — I know she had to die or none of us would be here.”

You are not sure which is more shocking. That she knows so much, or that she has put the events into words. To hear even a brief description of that pain spoken aloud is disturbing, not least because it suddenly becomes a finite thing, something that can be discussed.

“Nurse Chapel, this is not an appropriate topic for conversation. You must know disclosure would prove the gravest threat — ”

“God, Spock, no wonder you’re all so screwed up. I can’t imagine… Listen, if there’s anything I can do. For you, for the Captain.”

“The Captain will come through this. He is — ”

“A strong man. Yes, I know, you mentioned that before.” Her voice is gentle. “He’s stopped talking to you, hasn’t he?”

It is unnerving for a non-telepath to look at you with what appears to be such understanding. You feel your shields rise in defence.

“The Captain and I converse daily.”

“I don’t mean on the bridge. Listen, the rest of us are getting used to the whole non-communication thing, although there’s not a crew member aboard who doesn’t miss their old captain. But you two, I bet you’ve barely exchanged three off-duty words in a week. Tell me, Spock, when’s the last time the two of you played chess?”

And you cannot help it. You do not allow your face to betray you but she is attuned enough to read the body language of straightened spine and shifted chair.

“Miss Chapel, the Captain and I have a ship to run and we do not always have the time to indulge in frivolous…”

“Oh bull, Spock!” The raised voice startles as does the language. You are beginning to wonder which alien race abducted the nurse you thought you knew and replaced her with this forthright, unflinching woman across the table. The few crew members left in the mess are beginning to stare.

She notices and drops her voice to a hiss. “I’m sorry, but that’s bull. You two found time to play chess at least two or three times a week before you went down to that damned planet, even when we were lurching from one crisis to another. And, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re not exactly in crisis mode right now.”

She is, of course, correct. It is fortunate that Starfleet has chosen this particular month to assign the Enterprise the task of testing the latest modifications to the sensor array. Mister Scott and his team might be flat out, and enjoying every minute, but the rest of the crew have time on their hands.

You have already mapped out a series of drills in order to keep them alert and occupied. In a previous life the Captain would have teased you that your drills were too predictable and modified them with some booby traps of his own design, but today he waved them through with barely a glance and went back to his paperwork.

You try a different approach.

“The Captain has a great deal on his mind. He does not need me to add to those pressures.”

“Now that’s where you’re wrong, Mister Spock. He does need you. You two work best as a team. You belong together and it’s not just me saying that.”

No, it is not just her. Another woman, 17 days and three centuries ago made the same observation.

“And where, Miss Keeler, do you estimate we belong?”

“You — at his side as if you’ve always been there and always will.”

No, not always. Always and forever are words humans use too easily. But when she said it you did not correct her, believing it to be true. Another error.

You resist the temptation to close your eyes against the voice, against the remembered heat of his smile, his eyes reflecting the flames of the furnace. You wonder if you will ever see that smile again.

The thrum of fatigue is back and so is the headache. You rise from your chair.

“Miss Chapel, I appreciate your concern but I have further work to complete. Once again, I must ask you to refrain from referring to this topic and — ”

You are interrupted by a whistle from the comms unit in the corner.

“Bridge to Mister Spock.”

It is a relief to leave her glaring and walk over to press the button.

“Spock here.”

The relief is short-lived. “Mister Spock, you’re needed in sickbay. It’s Doctor McCoy. He’s –” Uhura’s usually calm voice cracks and you have a sudden premonition of disaster. “He’s collapsed. Doctor M’Benga says he’s having some sort of fit.”