Chapter Text
“So, that’s that.”
Despite orders—and no small amount of pressure on Engineering, Science, and Environmental—neither Spock, nor any of the crew, had been able to find a miracle by the end of the allotted two hours. It was not for lack of trying; all best attempts had been made and Spock had personally overseen his own department perform with exemplary poise in the face of unlikely circumstances. The crew knew what was at stake; most of them had been part of a landing party at one time or another, and few relished the idea of their captain or department head beaming down blindly.
The information was frustratingly limited. From the readings surrounding the energy barrier of the planet, only the vaguest data could be detected at all. A seemingly Minshara Class planet, the atmosphere composed of seventy-eight-point-zero-eight percent nitrogen, twenty-point-nine-five percent oxygen, zero-point-nine-three percent argon, and zero-point-zero-four percent carbon dioxide. A close match for Earth conditions; if the surface were anything like the reflective readings of the space in orbit, the landing party would be able to breathe without risk of asphyxia. That followed the rather bold assumption that the planet was in a condition suitable to host human life, and Spock did not take assumptions as factual.
“The allotted time has given no further results. Our sensors cannot breach through the planet’s protection. Its origin is unknown to anything we have come across before; our systems are simply not able to pass through it.”
“Deck Four,” Jim murmured, as they stepped into the turbolift. A meeting had been called between the chief officers and Ambassador Hammett. Their deadline had passed approximately twenty-two-point-eight-seven minutes ago and it was now time to plan for the unknown. The general demeanor among the crew, from what Spock could discern, was subdued. His own team had taken the failure personally, despite working to the best of their abilities. It was not a fault of theirs, but a fault of the unpredictable circumstances of space exploration. He had told them such but did not think it had achieved much in the way of boosting their moral; Kirk gave far more motivating speeches than he did.
“Bones is going to have a field day with this.” The captain gave him a wry smile, amused despite the circumstances. The figure-of-speech was known to him after so many years, and he privately agreed with the sentiment. Doctor McCoy, already volatile on the best of days, would be in rare form over this new development. His irrational reactions aside, his concern would not be entirely misplaced. Spock himself had similar misgivings. “Especially when I tell him he’s not going with us.”
Spock raised a brow at this. “You mean to leave him behind?”
“At least for the first landing party.” Jim stepped out of the turbolift, and they fell into step beside one-another towards the briefing room. “If I could avoid sending any of us down, I’d do it. Unfortunately…”
“Unfortunately, orders are orders, sir.”
“Yes, orders are orders.”
Doctor McCoy was already present in the room when they arrived, sitting at the long table and briefing himself on the information they had sent in preparation. His expression was distinctly displeased, and his face went darker when he saw them both. Always so emotional; Spock braced himself for what he was certain would be an irrational, illogical outburst. He wasn’t left waiting long.
“Are you two out of your goddamn minds?” Doctor McCoy erupted, forcibly sliding the PADD across the table towards them, as if Spock himself hadn’t prepared the information and might need updating. “Beaming down without knowing where the hell you’re going? Of all the hairbrained—”
“Bones—”
“I’ve seen a lot of stupid stunts in my time, Jim—most of them from you—no, don’t talk. This right here? This is just a whole different level of stupid. And you—” The doctor shoved an accusing index finger towards Spock now, shaking it angrily. “—are letting him do it!”
Spock blinked, nonplussed. His hands crossed to rest at his back and his chin tilted up a fraction so that he would be looking down at McCoy, a posture he knew would irritate the man further. It succeeded, judging by the increasingly thinning, pursed lips. Jim, however, would be spared further ire for the moment, and so Spock considered it a worthwhile sacrifice to set himself up as the target. Although he thought neither of them deserved such hostility to begin with. It was unprofessional.
“I am not letting the captain do anything. He does not require my permission to act, Doctor, as you well know,” he recited factually. “It appears that you have briefed yourself on the matter at hand and therefore know the sub-optimal circumstances the Enterprise is in. I fail to understand your emotionally volatile need to lash out at others for a situation that is out of their control.”
The man’s face flushed an angry red, expression screwing up into one of imminent argument. Spock tilted his chin up slightly more to meet it.
“Bones, we have our orders. Is this hand ideal? No,” Jim interrupted quickly, and Spock thought he was trying to restrain a smile by the way his mouth twitched. “But they are the cards we’ve been dealt, and we’ll play them the best that we can, however we can.”
It never failed to amaze him that humans could switch between fact and metaphors with such apparent ease. His mother had used them sparingly during his childhood, so used to the Vulcan way by the time he had been conceived, and it had been a difficult adjustment when he had entered Starfleet. Surrounded by humans, all with a remarkably different manner of slang, idioms, and meanings, he had never felt a language barrier other him quite so severely. Frequently, he had been rendered entirely lost in conversation, having to rely on context words to navigate himself carefully through what someone was saying. Even now, it felt stilted to him; he understood every word individually, but not even one meant what they were supposed to.
When one spoke of playing cards in conversation, his mind brought up the act of playing cards. The rules, the manner of which they were dealt, all the variations of the numerous games, the object of the game. With Jim, it would be poker. With Doctor McCoy, it would be a game called blackjack. None of this was associated with the intended meaning in this particular exchange.
How a game of cards was comparable to beaming a landing party down without coordinates to a planet of unknown properties, he struggled to grasp. However, after so long working with and around humans, he understood the irrational phrasing somewhat better and could puzzle through the illogic. It did not make sense to him, but he’d grown used to humans not making sense.
It seemed that Doctor McCoy accepted the metaphor as factual enough—not surprising. His expression was no less displeased, but his outburst of temper seemed mollified.
“I don’t like it, Jim.”
“None of us do, Bones, but we’ve been overruled by everyone’s favorite diplomat.”
While Lt. Commander Scott undoubtedly held the largest grudge against the ambassador of anyone on the ship, it appeared that the doctor wasn’t too far behind in his esteem for Roger Hammett. The scowl that stole over his expression was markedly different from the one he’d been sending himself and the captain.
“Oh, him.” Doctor McCoy wore an exaggerated look of disgust. “Yeah, that half-witted idiot stomped around my sickbay yesterday and tried to tell me how to do my own goddamn job. Had to demand that he either show me his doctorate in medicine or get the hell out of my office. Heard down the grapevine that Scotty almost went to blows with him the other day. DeSalle had to wrestle him back.”
This was new. Spock had been informed about the altercation, but only in vague terms. Engineering had displayed a certain reluctance in speaking about the issue out of a display of loyalty for their chief engineer, and Spock had let it be due to a lack of actual physical contact. Hearsay wouldn’t make for a valid claim, and Ambassador Hammett hadn’t pressed the issue when asked about it. Upon hearing of the incident, he’d been reluctantly impressed by Lt. Commander Scott’s self-restraint; the emotional display would have been horrifying for a Vulcan but was an improvement in what he usually expected from the man.
That it only didn’t lead to outright violence due to external interference made considerably more sense and did not surprise him. He resolved to speak to DeSalle about the matter later.
“Probably for the best that he did. Although—" Kirk was saying, an amused smile curling at his lips. Spock quirked an eyebrow up; speculating about the hypothetical assault of an official Starfleet Ambassador did not call for amusement. It was actually a rather serious matter. “—with some luck, he might have been down for a few days; save us all some hassle.”
“Uh-huh. Try forever; I heard Scotty was gonna shove him out of the airlock.”
“Ahh… well…”
“’Should have heard what he said to Christine.” McCoy leaned back in his chair. “I thought she was gonna start swinging too; the girl’s got a mean right hook and now she’s out for blood. That moron’s flirting with anything in a skirt and it’s becoming a damn problem.”
“You should have heard what he said to Spock.”
“Captain—"
“He flirted with Spock?”
The captain blinked, huffing out an incredulous laugh.
“What?! No! No, nothing like that. Just some—what was it you called it earlier Bones?—some old-fashioned casual bigotry.” But the captain paused then and threw a guilty look towards Spock, who sat there with a degree of confusion on how they shifted from discussing the mission to being on this topic. “By the way, you alright? I’m sorry, Spock, you shouldn’t have to deal with hearing that sort of thing. Not in your own backyard. Not ever, but especially not here.”
“I am not offended, Captain. Offense is a human emotion, and one I thankfully do not possess.” Spock said, eyebrows raised at the solemn look in the hazel eyes boring into him; even McCoy looked upset on his behalf. It was somewhat moving. “It’s hardly the worst comment Ambassador Hammett has made towards me. I assure you, sir, I can handle it.”
“There’s been other comments?” But before Spock could speak, the captain scowled and continued. “No, of course there has; I don’t know why I ever expected any sort of professionalism out of that man. I swear, the moment—the split second—we drop him off, I’ll be having words with Command about this. Ridiculous.”
“This is the last stop though, Spock, and thank the heavens for that. We only gotta deal with it for a couple more days. He starts up with anything, give me a holler.”
“I assure you, gentlemen, I can—"
“Captain, you’re gonna have ta put me on the same side ‘o the table as that dullwit.” Mr. Scott entered the briefing room, followed by an amused Lieutenant Uhura. “I cannae stand to see his face sitting across from me, or I’m likely to be sick.”
“Scotty, we’re going to have to have a talk later about your colorful use of euphemisms.” Kirk didn’t look upset, though. Quite the opposite; he looked like he agreed wholeheartedly. Still, he shot Spock a look promising further discussion later. “Funny enough, we were just talking about you. What’s this I hear about an airlock?”
Lt. Commander Scott shot McCoy a nasty look, and the doctor only shrugged unrepentantly in return.
“Oops.”
“Gentlemen, Lieutenant Uhura,” Spock began, trying to interject some semblance of professionalism into this meeting. He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling rather long-suffering. The Seskille’s transmission had already bloomed a headache at his temples; this back-and-forth bickering was unnecessary and simply furthering the pain. “Shall we begin? This meeting does have an official purpose. And a time limit.”
The smile faded from the captain’s expression, and Spock regretted to see it leave. He wanted to allow the man to get in what amusements he could, but they did have business to discuss. The officers were present, but the ambassador was late. Spock predicted he’d arrive no earlier than five minutes past. The lack of courtesy rankled. Even at the Enterprise’s most lax, her crew still showed up to their appointed meeting times without exception.
“Let’s get started then.” The captain cleared his throat, directing that commanding gaze towards the rest of the officers. “Unfortunately, our deadline seems to be up and it’s looking like we’re going to have to send a landing party down despite any misgivings—and believe me, there are many of them. You’ve all done the best you can, but the circumstances are what they are. Our orders are to meet face-to-face, and we will follow those orders. It’s less than ideal, but we’ve faced greater odds before and come through them. Mr. Spock, what do we know for certain about Seskilles VII?”
Spock straightened in his seat, glad to be back on track in a conversation that he could logically follow and contribute towards.
“Factually, we know very little. Seskilles VII is small in comparison to your Earth, approximately two thousand, eight hundred and sixty-one point-three-seven kilometers in radius. Trace elements of oxygen and nitrogen in the upper-most atmosphere suggest it has the ingredients needed to sustain life in some form. The thick cloud coverage indicates a possibility for precipitation on the surface, but this is not certain. The majority of what we know of Seskillies VII comes from the trade vessel Boa and is based on their scans four years ago. However, that information was either false or is largely outdated based on our current data.”
Kirk nodded, mouth a grim line. Spock met his gaze.
“So essentially, we know nothing.”
“We know that there is life of some kind on the planet, sir. The Seskille have returned contact with the Enterprise. Communications have been limited due to a delay of approximately five minutes and twenty-eight-point-three-nine seconds between transmissions, however, they are communicating. Lieutenant Uhura has been in further contact with them.”
Uhura was reading over her PADD, focused on it to the exclusion of the rest of the conversation. She looked up when her name was called.
“Oh, yes, sir, although it’s like what Mr. Spock said, it’s been limited. They’ve been friendly to questioning but haven’t provided many answers back. Uncertain whether they don’t have those answers, don’t want to provide them, or there is a breakdown in translation between us. It’s likely the latter.” She moved down the PADD, tracing the words with her finger with a speculative expression. “I suspect they may not fully understand the questions we’re asking. They have confirmed the existence of the energy around the planet, but they claim it’s us. I asked for clarification on whether they mean it belongs to them or if they think it’s from the Enterprise, but I they didn’t seem to really understand and just repeated the same thing. I’ve got Linguistics running alternative questions to simplify communication on both sides, but with the delay, it’s slow going.”
Spock, while having studied extensively in Xenolonguistics, would not claim to be an expert by any stretch of the definition. Still, he found the process of it fascinating. Communications truly took center stage when it came to first contact, and it was clear that Lieutenant Uhura was in her element, so to speak. She was flushed with clear joy at learning more about the inhabitants of the small planet; if he could experience the emotion of envy, he’d have found himself struggling with it. At least one department was having success.
The captain, who had been about to speak, audibly snapped his mouth shut as Ambassador Hammett entered the briefing room. This time, there was no civil smile on his face, forced or otherwise. He looked annoyed, and Spock shared in his disdain. For a man who had been so set on implementing a rigid deadline, he seemed remarkably cavalier about time management. It was unprofessional for anyone aboard a Starship, let alone a diplomat.
“Good, good, you’re all already here. Let’s get this meeting started, shall we?” Hammett reached out and clapped a hand on Kirk’s shoulder—Spock tensed at the motion—before taking a seat one down from Mr. Scott. Uhura, who had been sitting on the opposite side of the table, silently stood and relocated to the free space between them with a long-suffering sigh. The ambassador favored her with an exaggerated smile and a wink. The lieutenant didn’t look impressed and gave him a distinctly cool look back.
“The meeting has already started, Ambassador,” Kirk said, voice steely. “It started five minutes ago, or didn’t you get the memo? Due to our deadline, we’re on a bit of a time crunch so I’m afraid you’ll just have to read and catch up. Lieutenant Uhura, you were saying?”
“As I was saying, sir, we’ve been restricted by the delay. Any further questions have had to be held off due to establishing base introductions. Who we are, what we are, where we come from, our intentions, etcetera. They appear to understand our words themselves, but some of their replies indicate a lack of comprehension about the actual meaning in context of the others.” She motioned to the PADDs of the other officers. “I’ve forwarded the transcript of what we have so far, but I’m afraid it’s not much.”
“Aye, but it’s better than nothin’, lass.” Mr. Scott sympathized, patting her commiseratingly on the arm. “And otherwise, nothin’s all we’ve got. Sorry to say, I’ve not had near as much luck on my end, Captain. We’ve thrown everything and the kitchen sink at it. Whatever that shield is, nothing on this ship can break through it.”
Spock raised a brow. He could feel the warm gaze of the captain glance over at him; could see him from his peripherals as he looked his direction. He didn’t disappoint.
“I fail to understand, Mr. Scott, why you would throw common plumbing at an energy shield, especially one that cannot transmit information back.”
“It’s an expression, Spock. Humans like to have fun when we talk.” Doctor McCoy turned and fixed him with a look. “Right, but I forgot, they don’t have any fun expressions where you come from—just route memory and humdrum faces.”
Spock turned to face him, already positioning himself in a way that would incite a challenge— and the doctor matched the pose, something anticipatory brightening in his eyes. At his side, he could sense the captain start to smile. “On the contrary, Doctor McCoy, on Vulcan we do indeed have many aphorisms. In fact, we have a particularly relevant one about those who should not practice medicine—”
“A shame we didn’t throw the Vulcan at the shield, eh Kirk? He might have spit out more numbers than the probe did, and we’d not have to hear anymore of his jokes.”
Silence fell across the briefing room.
Spock raised the other brow into his hairline.
Whatever amusement the captain had felt at the routine bantering between his first officer and CMO was gone now, and a coldness took its place, fairly freezing Spock at his side. If this was an attempt at a joke, it was a poor one. He couldn’t be certain whether the Ambassador was trying to insult him or whether he was simply just ignorant of his statement’s cruel implications. Both had an equal possibility of being accurate, but Spock wasn’t familiar enough with the diplomat to calculate which was more likely.
“Jim.”
“Right, that’s it. Captain, I cannae—”
“Mr. Scott, Doctor.” Spock raised a pausing hand and turned his attention to Hammett. “Although it is true that I am more durable than that of a human, sir, Vulcans cannot survive the vacuum of space, nor the inevitable burn-up of atmospheric entry. While I am humbled at your estimation of my ability, your statement is both highly illogical and appears to be based on faulty information. I’m sure our Chief Medical Officer could forward you the relevant materials for your re-education.”
Although Doctor McCoy audibly snorted, but he didn’t look amused at all; he was staring down the Ambassador with something dark in his expression. And sparing a glance at the chief engineer—Spock thought it fortunate that Lieutenant Uhura was in between Mr. Scott and Hammett; the man would never aim his volatile displays of emotion towards her, and she was likely all that was preventing another brawl.
The captain put a hand on Spock’s shoulder and left it there.
“Yes well, since we’re not throwing anyone out of the airlock—at least, we’re not throwing Commander Spock out of the airlock—“ Kirk disdainfully side-eyed the Ambassador, who had a red flush of embarrassment rising up his neck. “—I guess we’ll just have to come up with something else. Although, if all of our systems were lucky enough to have your personality and attention to detail, Mr. Spock, we’d all be better off for it.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
“Right, ah—right. Well, gentlemen, I’m afraid we’re out of time.” Ambassador Hammett clapped his hands once and stood. “We’ve got our orders and cannot delay any longer. I’m scheduled to report back to Starfleet Command in four hours, and I’d like to bring them good news. I’ll be joining the landing party, along with you, Captain—oh, excuse me, you’re in charge of those particulars, of course.”
The captain gave what was possible the most insincere, mocking smile Spock had ever seen.
“Of course. The landing party will consist of myself, Mr. Spock, Lieutenant Uhura, Security Ensign Kemen-Varley, and Lieutenant Tabea from Science. Oh, and the Ambassador. Mr. Scott, you’ll have the conn while we’re gone; I don’t expect things to go smoothly, for all that I hope it does. If something goes south, you’re to get us out of there. We meet in the transporter room in one hour. Until then, brief yourselves on what limited information we’ve got and prepare for anything. Dismissed.”