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Chapter Text

Rayna Kapec: What is loneliness?

Flint: 'Tis thirst. 'Tis a flower dying in the desert.

- Star Trek: Requiem for Methuselah

Science Officer Henry Morgan, personal log, stardate 5843.2

A wise man once said the only thing to fear is fear itself.

Easier said than done, of course, especially when bombs are falling, when disease cripples a loved one, or when the world as you know it changes unrecognizably. And yet, history is filled with tales of men and women who have persevered in the face of such fears.

In my lifetime, humanity has made remarkable achievements in medicine, science and philosophy. But for all our collective progress, and regardless of all our technological advancements, there are still problems that cannot be fixed. Diseases that cannot be cured. Loneliness that cannot be assuaged. 

As I have good cause to know, there is no known antidote to fear. According to Commander Spock, it is an unavoidable part of the human condition.

And it is fear, even more than the epidemic, that is crippling the Enterprise. I, who should be immune to both by now, find myself struggling against blind panic. If I die out here, where might I resurface? What would the survivors report to Starfleet? Worst of all, what if there are no survivors? No others, that is. If I survive while all my crewmates perish... how long would we drift, the empty Enterprise and I, before I succumbed to madness?

When I set my course for the stars, I thought I had overcome my fear of space. Of oblivion. 

Now, at the worst time possible, I find I was wrong.

We haven't much time left. There has been no ship-wide announcement, but I know the signs as well as Dr. McCoy. Perhaps even better, now that I think about it; Rigelian fever is remarkably similar to bubonic plague. The third major pandemic of the plague began in Yunnan province of then-China, which until that point was a lovely place to live. In 1855, however -- oh, curse it, why am I lecturing to a bloody machine? Computer, delete last. Er, can you do that? Good. Where was I?

No, computer, that was a rhetorical question. I do not require an answer.

Ahem. Suffice it to say that Rigelian fever is every bit as contagious and deadly as the Black Death itself. Only a few crewman have been quarantined so far, but soon the fever will sweep the decks... No doctor can stop it, not even McCoy. Not even I.

I, of course, am merely a science officer, here and now. But I know this much: there is only one cure. Ryetalyn is an elusive mineral, but it is the crew's only hope. 

And mine as well.

U.S.S. Enterprise, stardate 5843.2

Perhaps it was only natural that Henry found himself in sickbay.

The young ensign (they were all so young, he thought bleakly) whom he'd found in the corridor now lay moaning on a bed. Nurse Chapel, Doctor McCoy, the medics and orderlies were all busy, harried – and the boy was so young – and after all these years, it was still second nature to take his pulse, soothe his brow, use the hypospray someone had placed in his hand. The injection mechanism may have changed over the centuries, but the motions were the same.

"Just lie back," he murmured, expertly holding the writhing ensign down until he quieted. "That's it. The pain will lessen shortly. Concentrate on breathing… slow, even breaths. Very good."

"That's quite the bedside manner you have, Lieutenant." The voice startled Henry. Before he could formulate a reply, McCoy retrieved the hypospray and continued, "Ever think of becoming a doctor?"

"Frequently," answered Henry honestly.

"What's stopping you?"

The question startled Henry, and old habits took over. "Nothing, really… I suppose it's just a matter of time." 

The flippant comment made McCoy raise an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. Are you on assignment now?"

Disconcerted, Henry hesitated. "Well, I…"

"Never mind. Tell your superior officer – is it Spock? Well, tell that old busybody I need you here." Without giving Henry time to protest, McCoy thrust the empty hypospray at Henry like a relay baton. "Now, prepare 20 hypos of sedative for the next wave of patients and roll up your sleeves, Lieutenant. We're about to get busy."

Hours later, Henry's feet sent jolts of pain up his legs, his back ached and his eyes were gritty. He hadn't felt so useful since the end of the last war.

The Captain's announcement over the ship-wide comm broke his reverie.

"... on our way to the Omega system, to a planet with abundant sources of pure ryetalyn. When we arrive, a landing party will beam down to the surface..."

"Three dead," he heard McCoy mutter. The Captain's voice continued in the background, hopeful tones laced with determination, pitched to inspire.

"And twenty-three fallen ill, but still alive." Henry placed a fatherly hand on the young doctor's shoulder. "Still alive," he repeated, "thanks to you and your team. Hold onto that knowledge."

McCoy grunted in acknowledgement, perhaps in gratitude. That was all the comfort McCoy was prepared to receive, Henry knew, so he stepped back respectfully and left the younger man to his solitude.

But when Henry turned away, McCoy's eyes followed.

"Report." Captain Kirk strode into sickbay, with Spock at his shoulder as always.

Henry grimaced at his tricorder, wondering whether to expect a reprimand. Spock had not sounded  irritated when Henry first reported that McCoy had commandeered his services, but one could never really be certain with Spock. For Henry, whose facial expressions had always been too open, too easy to interpret, the legendary Vulcan control was both admirable and enviable.

For McCoy, it was clearly a bone of contention. Or an outright challenge.

"Doesn't anything get through that thick Vulcan skin of yours? Our crew is dying!"

"Bones," said Kirk, a placating hand raised between the doctor and the science officer. "Please. Just report?"

After a gusty sigh and a pointed look at Spock, McCoy proceeded. "It's a matter of hours until the epidemic is irreversible, Jim. By the time we get to the planet and get the ryetalyn, it'll take split-second timing for us to process the stuff into useable form."

Henry cleared his throat. "If I may," he interjected.

The three men turned to study him. Henry cleared his throat again, his throat suddenly dry in the face of their combined regard. Ridiculous, he thought to himself, I'm older than all of them combined. 

"I've devised a refined processing method that should give us a little time to spare," Henry reported. "We should be able to make the antitoxin in two hours. As long as the mineral is not contaminated by sarpesium, silixia or irrilium, that is."

Kirk nodded his thanks and turned back to McCoy. "I want you and Spock to beam down with me."

"I'm needed here!" protested McCoy.

Privately, Henry agreed. He was about to volunteer to go in the doctor's place when Spock interceded. "Lieutenant Morgan seems a competent liaison between our science and medical staffs, Doctor. And I am certain Nurse Chapel has things well in hand."

"Well, I suppose so, but–"

Kirk clapped his hands. "Then let's go, gentlemen, and not waste any more time."

They left Henry standing in the doorway, brooding over the Captain's choice of words. Time. The one thing I have in abundance and yet cannot share.

It was a new variation on a very old theme.  

New York, 2036

"What happened this time, Henry?" Hanson's tone was offhand, but worry lines creased his forehead. He proffered a towel and looked deliberately up at the sky as if studying the stars.

Or looking for news drones, Henry supposed. He kept forgetting about those pesky things. He should really move out of the city, where they were less prevalent, but... The last move had been so hard on Abe, giving up his beloved store in exchange for a flat with no stairs, a walk-in tub, and a home health monitor. His son was over ninety now, and getting almost as crotchety as Henry.

"Abe called you?" Henry asked, prolonging the inevitable humiliation. He slipped on the tracksuit Hanson had brought. Unlike his old friend, who had thickened in the middle over the years, Henry always stayed the same size, making him the lucky recipient of Hanson's hand-me-downs. 

"Yup," Hanson responded. "Said one minute you were cursing in German, and the next – poof." Hanson raised an eyebrow. "So? What's the scoop, doc?" 

Sheepishly, Henry finished drying his hair and folded his towel. "I tripped on the rumba robot and fell down the stairs."

"The what?" Hanson burst out laughing. "The Roomba? God, Henry, those things have been around for decades. Haven't you learned to watch where you step yet?"

"Apparently not." A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. "Abe says I'm a slow learner."

Hanson shook his head. "I don't know how Jo puts up with you."

"Me neither, but I'm grateful for it every day," Henry answered honestly.

"Me too. When she gets back from the conference, she can fish your technophobe ass out of the river."

"Thank you, Mike."

Hanson clapped Henry on the back. "Forget it, pal. Just... try to get with the times, huh? Let Lucas program the house to keep the robots out of your way. Better yet, let his kid do it; Lucas'd probably program the doors to creak theatrically and things to go bump in the night."

"I've already got that one covered," joked Henry ruefully. 

Hanson was right, though. Technology was changing so fast... especially in the field of medicine. If he didn't make more of an effort to integrate it into his life, he'd be left behind.

How was it that time, his one inexhaustible resource, always seemed in short supply?

U.S.S. Enterprise, stardate 5843.7

With time so short, it seemed almost criminal that Henry had nothing to do. He fiddled with the instrumentation, tweaked the ryetalyn processing parameters, fussed over an unconscious patient (earning a suspicious look from Nurse Chapel in the process).

It was a relief when McCoy called from the planet's surface.

"You're where?" At the sound of Chapel's raised voice, Henry stopped what he was doing and drifted closer to where she stood, communicator in hand. 

He mimed a question, and she frowned in answer. "There's a person down there," Chapel whispered.

"I thought the planet was uninhabited?"

The nurse shrugged. "Nearly. I guess it's some old man and his robot."

"The robot is getting the ryetalyn." McCoy's voice over the speaker was tinny, but his skepticism was clearly audible. "The thing almost fried us when we arrived, and now it's out prospecting for us."

"I've never much trusted robots," Henry muttered. He didn't mean for anyone to hear, but Chapel muffled a laugh.

McCoy, thankfully, seemed not to notice. "You should see it down here. This place is like a palace, and the books – you've never seen such books! First editions, most of them. Shakespeare folios, a Gutenberg Bible, lithographs from Centauri Seven… damned good brandy, too. Tastes almost as old as everything else here. Even Spock had some."

Henry and Chapel looked at each other in surprise.

"Spock was raving about the art," McCoy continued. "Undiscovered works by da Vinci, the great masters…  If I didn't know better, I'd say our friend's green blood was getting even greener with envy."

Henry's own pulse had quickened at the thought of the works of art, practically relics in this day and age. "Such treasure," he marveled aloud, "tucked away on an otherwise lifeless planet…" Abe would have been over the moon, he thought wistfully, and then laughed at himself for the archaic turn of phrase. "Your host, who is he?"

"We're working on that," Kirk's voice cut in. "His name is Flint, and at this point we're not entirely sure that he's… human. Spock is going to run a scan to see – hold it. Flint is coming back."

Communication cut off abruptly, leaving Chapel and Henry staring at each other, heads uncomfortably close together from leaning over the communicator.

To Henry's surprise, Chapel didn't immediately move away. "Quite the mystery," she said, smiling.

Henry's mouth quirked. "I've always rather enjoyed mysteries, Miss Chapel." Before he could follow up on the particularly intriguing puzzle that had just presented itself in the form of Christine Chapel, the communicator crackled again.

"Lieutenant Morgan," Spock's voice came over the speaker, "I suggest you join us on the planet. It may prove to be most… illuminating." 

Chapter Text

Flint: I fell in battle, pierced to the heart - and did not die.

Dr. McCoy: Instant tissue regeneration, coupled with some perfect form of biological renewal - you learned that you were immortal...

Flint: ...and to conceal it, to live some portion of a life, to pretend to age and then move on before my nature was suspected.

- Star Trek: Requiem for Methuselah

Planet Holberg 917G, stardate 5843.75

Henry materialized next to a gilded piano.

At first, he thought no one had even noticed his arrival. McCoy was nowhere to be seen, and Kirk's attention was fully occupied by the stunning young lady in his arms, who was looking at him as if trying to discern the secrets of the universe in his countenance. Across the room, a white-haired man who could only be Flint watched the couple intently as they waltzed to a tune played by…

"Spock?" Henry said in disbelief.

"Welcome, Lieutenant." Spock's eyes never strayed from the sheet music. He played with a light touch on the keys. It was a gentle melody, deceptively simple but with rich inner harmonies that reminded Henry of his youth.

"Is that Brahms?" he asked.

Spock nodded. "Apparently so. The manuscript is original. The handwriting is Brahms', the music is unquestionably Brahms', and yet the paper and ink are of contemporary composition. How would you explain such a phenomenon, Lieutenant Morgan?"

Henry shook his head slowly. Something twisted in his gut. Some latent fear instinct that had survived centuries of ennui, telling him to flee-run-hide. "What did Mr. Flint say he did for a living?" Henry asked, striving for a normal tone.

A quirk of his eyebrow was the only sign that Spock noticed Henry's evasiveness. "He said he was a student of history."

Henry looked around the luxuriously appointed room. He recognized the brushstrokes in the paintings, but not the portraits themselves. He saw sculptures from museums that had been reduced to rubble during one war or another, one century or another. These were masterpieces that should have been lost to the march of time, not created anew here in a lonely sector, far from the furthest reaches of human civilization. "History," repeated Henry. He could hardly hear his own voice over the sudden roaring in his ears. 

"Indeed."

The cadence slowed, the last stanza repeated, and Henry's fingers reflexively tapped the meter on his thigh. Henry's gaze sought Flint's, but the older man (how much older? Henry wondered wildly) remained fixated on the Captain. Rather, on the young woman. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kirk and the woman pull away from each other. McCoy entered the room, and the expression on the doctor's face tore Henry away from the spiral of his thoughts.

"The ryetalyn is no good, Jim. It's contaminated with irillium."

Without the spell of the music, suddenly time seemed to run too fast. 

"Most unfortunate," said Flint. But his words did not match the look in his eyes. Henry shifted uncomfortably, drawing Flint's gaze. "Another guest?"

Spock stood from his place at the piano. "This is Lieutenant Henry Morgan, science officer and… medic." 

Flint smiled absently. "Welcome, sir. If you will excuse me, I shall supervise M4 in the collection of more ryetalyn. Do you care to join me, Doctor McCoy or Lieutenant…?"

"Morgan," supplied Henry.

"No," said McCoy. "I'll go." He glared at his fellow officers. "You folks continue with your little music lesson. I'll keep an eye on procedures. That robot is fast enough that we might just finish on time, but–"

"You're right, Bones," said Kirk. "Time is precious. We can't afford to waste another moment." Yet his eyes strayed around the room.

The young lady had disappeared, Henry noticed. McCoy clearly noticed too. The doctor shook his head, visibly holding himself back from an acerbic retort. He turned and followed Flint out the door without another word.

"I'm going to the lab," Kirk announced. "Maybe something can be done to salvage the ryetalyn we already have. Spock, Morgan, you two stay here. Let me know when Flint and McCoy return."

Henry knew better than to question the Captain's orders, although surely if anyone could salvage contaminated ryetalyn it would have been McCoy or Spock. Or a spare science officer who just happened to be on hand. But Henry knew that the Captain's errand was a futile one; likely Kirk knew it too, but was too restless to stand idly by and wait. Henry, however, had plenty of practice at waiting, so he made no move to join his captain in the laboratory.

Instead, he waited until Kirk was out of earshot before asking, "Who is the young lady?" 

"Her name is Rayna Kapec. Mister Flint said she was his ward. She is a most accomplished scientist in her own right," Spock added thoughtfully.

"The Captain seems quite taken with her," Henry observed.

Spock nodded but made no reply.

Henry wandered over to one of the myriad bookshelves. He perused the titles – the oldest were classics from Earth, stretching to the earliest days of printing and beyond. In addition to the first folio and Gutenberg that McCoy had mentioned, Henry saw an illuminated manuscript, a scrap of papyrus, a partially unfurled scroll with faded writing that looked like Greek… "Why did you call me down here, sir?" Henry asked abruptly.

Spock tilted his head. "There is a mystery here, Lieutenant. One which I thought you might be singularly equipped to solve."

Henry's hands grew cold. He clasped them behind his back to hide the sudden tremor of panic. "And what might that be?"

"I ran a tricorder scan on our host. He is most definitely human, and yet his age does not correspond with the normal human lifespan." When Henry made no reply, Spock continued. "Based on my analysis of his biochemical markers and physical readings, Mister Flint is approximately six thousand years old."

Later, Henry could only blame the surreal circumstances for his first reaction. He had a sudden vision of Adam as a sulky child, pouting in response to censure by an older brother. Listen to your elders, he thought, and laughed aloud.

Spock raised an eyebrow.

"Forgive me, Commander," Henry apologized, trying to corral his thoughts. "It just sounded so ridiculous..." His excuse fell weakly into the silence between the two men.

"Did it indeed?" Spock's voice was calm, even, measured.

It soothed Henry's jangled nerves, and he found the grace to look his superior officer in the eye, all pretense forgotten. "Have you scanned me as well, then?"

"Forgive the intrusion, Lieutenant. It seemed expedient at the time." Spock almost looked contrite – for a Vulcan.

"Of course," murmured Henry.

"If you have any insight into our host's behavior, it would be most appreciated."

Henry, who was still trying to wrap his mind around his own behavior, blinked. Before he could formulate an appropriate response, Spock held up a hand to forestall him.

"Excuse me, Lieutenant. I have been tracking the M4 robot's movements. It has entered the laboratory, but Flint is not with it. I must see to the Captain." He strode swiftly to the exit, leaving Henry alone with the statues and portraits.

He sank onto the piano bench. His thoughts in turmoil, he could do no more than tap idly on the keys. Even half an hour earlier, he would have been ecstatic at the opportunity to play an unknown Brahms waltz. But such a short span of time, his universe had turned upside down. How long had Spock suspected Henry's true nature? He should be planning contingencies and cover stories. He should, as his old friend Lucas would have said, be "freaking out." Instead, all he could think about was this vast, empty house – and its owner. When Henry had first steeled himself to leave Earth, when he took his first interstellar journey towards the great unknown of space, he thought he had imagined every possible outcome. He'd never thought he would find someone like himself. Both human and immortal.

The thought was like rising from the water and gasping for breath. It seized Henry with a sudden pang of longing, awoke in him a renewed thirst for answers... and stirred a long-forgotten sense of hope. 

Montana, 2065

Jo leaned heavily on Henry as she lowered herself to the ground. "Oof. This gets harder every year." 

"Let me get you a chair–"

"No! It's tradition, Henry. Shut up and sit with me."

Henry obediently sat on the front step next to her. Jo leaned her head on his shoulder and Henry wrapped an arm around his wife of almost fifty years. 

"More stars than in New York," she commented in a low voice.

"And more snow." Henry made a face.

Jo laughed. "You're the one who didn't want to get a snowbot. You've really got to get over this aversion to those things, Henry. They're not going anywhere."

"There's nothing wrong with a shovel," he said defensively.

"Nope," Jo agreed. "Nothing wrong with getting up at six in the morning, leaving your wife all alone in your warm, comfortable bed, going out into the freezing cold, slipping on the ice and breaking your stubborn neck."

"That happened one time!" Henry protested.

Jo smirked. "So did tripping on the Roomba."

"I still can't believe Mike told you about that," he grumbled.

"If he hadn't, Abe would have." Jo squeezed her husband's hand. 

Henry's throat worked, and he was silent for a long moment. "He would have liked it here, I think. As a boy, Abe always loved the stars. He wanted to be an astronaut. He had Sputnik lamps, constellations on the ceiling, bottle rockets in the backyard... the Space Race, you know."

Jo snuggled closer. "Have you ever thought about going up?"

Henry laughed, the tightness in his chest easing. "What on earth would I do in space, Jo?"

"Explore. Discover things. See something you've never seen before, go places no one else has gone. I dunno, Henry, but I see how your eyes light up when they talk about the launches, and the Vulcans..."

"You're confusing me with Lucas, my dear. Did I tell you he's taking his grandkids to the moon for Christmas?"

Jo smiled fondly at him, and even after all these years, his heart still beat faster at the sight. "If you say so, Henry. But when you find yourself living on a starship, or visiting the Vulcan planet a hundred years from now, just remember – I told you so. After all, that's where they say the future is. Out there." She motioned at the stars.

Henry caught her hand in his, gently brushed his thumb over the fragile skin of her knuckles. "The only future I care about is the one I'll share with you."

He'd thought it a sweet, romantic thing to say. At the time, he couldn't understand why it made her cry.

Planet Holberg 917G, stardate 5843.78

Flint's entrance took Henry by surprise. "Has your captain gone astray?" he asked.

Henry spun away from his contemplation of a Centauriian star weaving, a tapestry of constellations strung with twinkling, luminous beads. "I don't take your meaning, sir," he responded, tucking his hands behind his back.

Flint's mouth twisted sardonically.  "I believe you do, but no matter. M4 will guard what is mine."

Henry felt a prickle of fear. Spock will take care of the Captain, he thought, trying to reassure himself. "We are most grateful for your… hospitality," Henry limited himself to saying. "You have magnificent treasures here. It is a privilege to see them."

"Undoubtedly." Flint appraised Henry. "Yet you look troubled, my friend." Flint spoke softly, but Henry tensed.

"My shipmates are in dire danger," he replied stiffly. "How could I not be troubled?"

Flint nodded. "Ah, concern for one's fellow man. You have not yet outgrown it, I see."

Henry took a deep breath. So there will be no pretense between us, he thought. Good. "And I see you have forsaken all but the trappings of humanity," he said conversationally. "Relics from the past, a world in stasis – you look like a man who holds no hope for the future."

"Rayna is my future," Flint declared.

Henry frowned. "Surely she is not the first…?"

"The first woman I have loved? Of course not, Lieutenant Morgan. I have had so many lives, so many names… I have loved and lost, married and buried a hundred wives over the millennia." Flint caressed the smooth alabaster cheek of a statue, a serene Madonna in an alcove next to the piano. "You must know. You must have felt it – that brief fragrance of beauty, of sweet life – suddenly fading. Withering into dust. Surely you, of all people, understand."

Bristling, Henry nearly launched into a passionate speech defending the lifetimes spent with the women he'd loved, the memories of whom still sustained him to this day. Building a future and a family with Abigail. The quiet peace of his later years with Jo. More recently, his all-too-brief union with the lovely, enigmatic S'lar. But over the centuries, Henry had learned some measure of self control. He hesitated, the indignant words dying on his lips. If Flint was so despairing of the brevity of human relationships, then why did he define Rayna as his future? How was she different?  

"Rayna," said Henry slowly, "is not human. Is she?"

Flint's heavy sigh was all the answer he needed.

"Does she know?" With effort, Henry kept his voice even. 

"No. I would protect her from ever feeling that doubt," Flint whispered. "Wondering, like you and I have, whether she is truly human or something only half-alive, existing without purpose. No, she shall never know the truth." His face darkened. "And if you think to tell her, Lieutenant Morgan, then your ship will never have its ryetalyn."

Aghast, Henry stared at Flint. "You would withhold life-saving medicine from hundreds of people? Have you ever suffered from the plague, sir?" Henry was conscious of a cold fury rising up like bile from his gut. "You would condemn four hundred men and women to an agonizing death so your… imitation of love… won't question her humanity? Or," said Henry, viciously stabbing a finger at Flint, "or is it so she won't know enough to question yours?"

Flint hadn't reacted to Henry's anger, his strident voice or harsh words, but he flinched at the last question.

"And you're trying to teach her how to be human. The blind leading the blind." Henry tried to inject scorn into his voice, but all he could feel was pity.

Flint turned on Henry, showing the first signs of true anger. "And who better? You must be young, yet, to be so naïve. How old can you be? Two, three hundred years?"

"Four hundred and eighty-nine," said Henry. He had sworn not to be like Adam, not to lose track, not to lose all connection with his heritage.

"A babe in the woods," scoffed Flint.

"Compared to your six thousand years, I suppose I am," acknowledged Henry. "But how many of those have you spent hiding away from the rest of the world? From the entire galaxy?"

Flint motioned to their surroundings in a grand gesture that encompassed the piano, paintings, sculptures and library. "I have served my time with humanity."

He makes it sound like a prison sentence, thought Henry with a pang. Was this what the future held for him? This bitterness and disillusionment? If Flint was who Henry suspected he had been, how could such a great man have fallen so far?

"You were Brahms," stated Henry, trying to coax the story out.

"I am Brahms," corrected Flint. "As your friend Spock noted, I continue to compose my music."

"And the paintings? Da Vinci?"

"Yes, I am he. And Solomon, Alexander, Methuselah, Merlin… hundreds of other names. I have forgotten some of them."

Henry swallowed. "What is your real name?"

Flint shrugged carelessly. "What does one name matter more than the others? … Very well. I was born Akharin in 3834 B.C., in the region you might call Mesopotamia. I was a soldier, a bully and a fool. I died a soldier's death, but it was the fool who survived."

McCoy's voice broke the sudden silence. "I'll say. You were da Vinci – the greatest humanist Earth has ever known – and now you don't give a damn for humanity. Yes, I'd call that a fool."

Unnerved, Henry looked at McCoy. When had he entered the room? How much had the doctor overheard? Did two men now share his secret? "What is wrong, Doctor?"

"A great many things, no doubt, but the worst of it is that the ryetalyn has disappeared. Poof. Like some magician's fool trick." McCoy glared at Flint. "If we don't distribute the antitoxin within the next two hours and twenty minutes, we'll all die." He focused on Flint, avoiding Henry's eyes. "Is that what you want?"

Implacable, Flint stood ramrod straight. "It is not what I want, but what I need that matters to me now. Tell me, Doctor, where is Captain Kirk?"

"Undoubtedly the Captain is–"

"With Rayna. Yes, I know." Flint brushed away McCoy's attempt to stall. "And I suspect your Commander Spock will be nearby. Come, gentlemen. The answers you seek are in the laboratory."

He meant the ryetalyn, Henry knew, and the question of Rayna's identity. But he could not help but wonder whether the answer to his own eternal question might be found in the same place. And whether he would like whatever answer he found.

Chapter Text

McCoy: "You'll never know the things that love can drive a man to. The ecstasies, the miseries, the broken rules, the desperate chances, the glorious failures, the glorious victories."

- Star Trek: Requiem for Methuselah

Planet Holberg 917G, stardate 5843.8

They found Spock in the laboratory, standing outside an unmarked door and examining a pile of wreckage that Henry presumed was the late M4 robot. McCoy peered around him. "The ryetalyn!" he exclaimed and hurried into the adjoining room.

Following close on his heels, Henry stopped suddenly. Within the room, a dozen forms lay lifeless on black marble slabs. He approached the nearest bier and gently drew back the shroud that covered one of the bodies. The figure was bald, but the face was hauntingly familiar. Henry swallowed. "It's Rayna."

Flint had said she wasn't the first.

"There are more of them. Sixteen, to be precise." Kirk's brittle voice broke the silence. He sat in the shadows, next to another prone figure. "Not dead, but… not alive."

"She's an android," breathed McCoy. "The perfect companion for an immortal man."

Henry made a sympathetic noise and affected a look of surprise, but McCoy looked at him sidelong. Henry winced. The greatest protection he'd ever had was that of disbelief, the sheer inconceivability of his secret. With Flint's exposure, Henry's deflector screens were effectively down. 

But this wasn't about him.

"Let's get the ryetalyn and get back to the ship," Henry urged.

Kirk lurched from the chair and whirled on him. "Didn't you hear me? Don't you understand? She's an android. That man, if he even is a man anymore, made her to be human. But he controls her, just like he controls the M4! Doesn't that matter to you?"

He loves her, Henry realized with dismay. They both do. Flint and Kirk – one old, one young, both lonely. It was like looking in a mirror – or a crystal ball. Henry had always thought that his condition had driven him to what was, with rare exception, an isolated existence. But seeing the raw anguish on Kirk's face made him wonder. Were all men so lonely? Was that in fact the ultimate human condition? 

How can I be so old, and yet know so little?

When neither Henry nor McCoy replied, Kirk's voice took on a desperation that was entirely unlike anything he'd seen in the Captain before. "Rayna is extraordinary. Not just her beauty or intelligence, Bones, I know what you're thinking. But it's everything about her. She is so innocent, so curious – about everything! She hasn't experienced the joys or tragedies of human life, but she wants to. She yearns to. She makes me want to open myself to all of it, not lock my feelings away… don't you see? She is her own person, not his!"

"Neither is she yours," said Spock gravely, entering the room. "Jim, you must let her go. Lieutenant Morgan is right. We must return to the Enterprise."

"I think not, gentlemen." Flint's voice echoed grandly. He stood suddenly in their midst; even Spock looked startled. Another M4 robot hovered ominously behind Flint. "By coming here, you have violated my sanctuary. Now that you know my secret – and hers," he added, nodding to the draped forms, "I cannot let you leave."

Kirk's eyes narrowed. "Even with an army of those robots, you'll be hard pressed to stop us."

Flint gazed impassively at them. Unaccountably, Henry shivered. And then the impossible happened, for the second time in his long life.

A miniature Enterprise appeared on a table – a perfect scale model, down to the scoring on the port nacelle, courtesy of a lone Klingon ship they'd had the misfortune to encounter only a week earlier. Surely no one could have that kind of power. Not even Flint. Surely…

"That can't be real," Henry found himself saying in disbelief.

"Rejoice, Lieutenant Morgan, for your shipmates shall not perish of the plague. They are there," Flint pointed at the model ship, "frozen in time. I shall release them, in a hundred years or a thousand. Then you may see them again."

Henry's heart thudded painfully in his chest. He stared spellbound at the Enterprise and willed away the belief that settled in his stomach like dread. Awe warred with revulsion. The worst of it was the insidious thought that someday, if he lived long enough, he might gain that same power.

Might I be capable of such a feat?

McCoy shoved past him, planting himself between Flint and Henry. "Spock, use that Vulcan logic of yours. Reason with him!"

Spock shook his head slowly. "I fear Mister Flint is beyond reason."

A truly fearsome look on his face, Kirk stepped forward. "Release my ship," he demanded.

"I regret the need to take such measures," said Flint. "But I do what I must… to protect what is mine."

"Release my ship!" Kirk thundered.

For a moment, Henry feared the Captain would physically attack Flint – with likely disastrous consequences, given the immortal's newly revealed powers.  But a new voice rang out a command that brought both men to a sudden halt. "Stop!" cried Rayna from the doorway. The M4 glided respectfully out of her way.

Flint moved to bar the entrance. "No, Rayna, you must not enter here. I forbid it!"

Just as swiftly, Kirk blocked Flint from grabbing hold of her. "If Rayna is human, then she is not your property. She is free to do as she wills!"

Rayna's eyes swept across the room. The others, even Spock, held their breath as her gaze jumped from bier to bier, from one lifeless body to another, each labeled with her own name and a single number. Impassive, she returned her gaze to Flint and Kirk, who had frozen with his arm still outstretched. Rayna moved to the miniature Enterprise and gently stroked the damaged nacelle with a trembling finger.

"You say I have never asked you for anything until today, Flint." Her voice was quiet, but there was an arresting intensity to her expression that reminded Henry of Abigail when he first met her. "I asked to meet the humans and the Vulcan. You granted me my wish, and it was everything I could have hoped for – and more." Wonder and delight showed on her face, along with something else. Sadness, longing…  regret?

"Now I am sorry for it," continued Rayna even more softly, "because of this." She caressed the ship once more. "You did this because of me, although I did not wish it. Like the M4 attacked Captain Kirk when he kissed me, although I did not wish him harm."

Henry sighed inwardly. Of course that was where the Captain had been. No wonder Spock had left so precipitously to find him.

Of course, Henry was the last person to accuse anyone else of behaving foolishly out of love.

Rayna turned to Flint, pleading. "I will never ask anything else of you again. But please, do not harm them. Restore their ship and send them home." She placed a hand lightly on his sleeve. "I will stay with you."

Kirk could no longer contain himself. "No, Rayna, don't give up your life for him. Come with me! I can show you the galaxy. You'll see such wonders –"

Spock, McCoy and Henry all spoke at the same time.

"Captain, you must not–"

"Jim, don't be a fool!"

But Henry spoke loudest. After all, he had raised a boisterous son, commanded the 5th Army Medical Corps during the Battle of Puget Sound in the Eugenics Wars, and taught schoolchildren on the far side of the moon. "That is enough, gentlemen!"

The men turned to him in astonishment. Spock raised an eyebrow.

"You are all acting as if it is your decision to make," said Henry severely. He pinned Flint with a scathing look. "And you are indeed a bully and a fool if you seek to hold Rayna captive here. You want her to love you?" he demanded. "Try being worthy of it."

And Henry turned his back on all of them.

Earth's moon, Mare Ingenii, 2159

"Professor Morgan. You dismissed your class half an hour early. Why?"

Once, Henry would have been perturbed by the cool voice, reading disapproval into the tone and doubt in every inflection. After two years teaching by the Vulcan woman's side, he had learned to focus more on her words and her dark, questioning eyes – and less on his own insecurities.

"They were rambunctious," he explained with a smile. "It is the first full daytime cycle of the school year. Let them play and renew old friendships."

S'lar tilted her head. "They will expend their excess energy today, and be more receptive to the lessons of history tomorrow?"

Henry chuckled. "Something like that. In any case, there will be plenty of time for studying when night falls. By the next day cycle, they'll be accustomed to the rhythm again."

S'lar nodded thoughtfully. "You did not return to Earth for your leave. May I ask why?"

Henry fell silent. He knew she would not take offense if he refused to answer, but something compelled him to speak anyway. It was an odd tugging sensation in his chest, something he recognized all too well but preferred not to dwell on just yet. "I have too many memories down there." He nodded at the marbled planet looming over the horizon. Up and down were all relative in space, of course, but planetside linguistic habits stayed with him. "I needed to leave them behind for a time."

"That is a curious attitude for a history professor," S'lar observed.

"What is history but the study of events at a safe distance?" countered Henry.

"Emotion recollected in tranquility," quoted S'lar.

"You know Wordsworth?" Henry asked, delighted.

The corner of her mouth twitched – the closest the Vulcan woman ever came to expressing amusement. "I am a literature professor. Terran poetry is not a negligible part of the course."

Henry grinned ruefully. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's just that I can't picture you wandering 'lonely as a cloud' here on the far side of the moon."

S'lar's lips curved ever so slightly. "Strange fits of passion have I known," she recited. Her low, even voice should have been at odds with the words, but it did strange things to Henry's heart rate. "And I will dare to tell: But in the lover's ear alone, What once to me befell."

Henry decided he had seriously neglected his study of Wordsworth.

"If you ever wish to… share… the memories you seek distance from," S'lar offered, sounding uncommonly tentative, "I would be most receptive."

He wasn't going to answer her. It was too personal, too deeply intertwined with his secret. "I loved someone," he blurted, "and ever since she died, I have worried that I'm not the same man I once was."

The compassion in her eyes made it hard for Henry to look at her. Had he ever thought the Vulcan woman cold and uncaring? "You flee your memories out of fear," said S'lar. "Do you truly think that, having had happiness once, you do not deserve it again?"

In almost four hundred years, no one had ever quite put it like that before. The constant battle against apathy, against cynicism, against the endless current of loss… yes, Henry feared his humanity was slowly being eroded. In purely philosophical and metaphysical terms, he could wrestle with that problem.

But S'lar's question robbed him of breath.

Boldly, she stepped forward and brushed a hand across his cheek. "Do not be afraid, Henry."

Almost without thought, he reached for her. "I'm not."

Planet Holberg 917G, stardate 5843.8

Henry stood at a laboratory table, head bowed. The glimpse at his future had shaken him every bit as much as those first confrontations with Adam, before their uneasy truce. Flint possessed none of Adam's malice, but his utter callousness was almost worse. Will I become so self-centered? Am I already? He missed S'lar's calm certainty, Jo's unwavering faith, and Abigail's boundless hope. He could understand Flint's desire for a woman who would never die – and that terrified him.

"Don't be afraid."

Henry spun around. Rayna had followed him. She stood in the middle of the room, her silver dress shimmering and her golden hair haloed by the laboratory lights.

"Flint has restored your ship. I have said my farewells to your Captain." Her voice was steady, but her lips trembled.

Moved with compassion, Henry took her hands in his. He was surprised to find they were warm, as if real blood circulated in her veins instead of circuitry. Perhaps it did; who knew how Flint had constructed his masterpiece? But that analogy was flawed; Rayna was no statue, but rather a student who had outstripped the master.

"Do you love him?" asked Henry gently.

Rayna shook her head, troubled. "I could have loved your Captain. He made me feel…" she trailed off, tried again. "Each moment with him was like a flower blooming in the desert. I will always remember it," she added earnestly.

"And Flint?" asked Henry.

Again Rayna hesitated. "I feel great affection for him. Not as he wishes me to, perhaps. But I am not… lonely… with him."

Henry hardly knew her, but he felt a rush of paternal pride – and protectiveness. "I will not argue with your choice, because it is yours alone. But you don't need to stay with him forever."  

Rayna smiled at him. What Henry had initially taken for glacial beauty was transformed by her smile into radiance. "You are very kind. Spock said you are a scientist and doctor both? It must be wonderful to put your knowledge to use for the betterment of others. I have studied many sciences, but have never helped anyone." Her smile faded. "There is no one here to help."

"Flint is here," said Henry softly. "I rather think he needs your help, Rayna. Perhaps help that only you can give him."

"Do you mean love?"

"There are many kinds of love," Henry temporized. He wondered if Flint had ever been a father. Given enough time, perhaps he and Rayna could grow something beautiful out of such a twisted beginning.  

Rayna clasped her hands tightly. "Flint has taught me so much, but I know so little about love. Perhaps this is something we can learn together." She hesitated. "Will you come see us again, someday?"

Henry wondered how much Flint had told her about Henry's condition or about his own age. "Someday," he promised.  

She squeezed his hands briefly and let go, stepping back just as the shimmer of the transporter beam dazzled his eyes. The last he saw of Rayna, the android – no, the woman – was turning to greet Flint, whose slumped shoulders straightened at the sound of her voice.

Henry smiled to himself. It was a start.

U.S.S. Enterprise, s tardate 5843.8

When he had fully materialized on the Enterprise, Henry surreptitiously glanced down at his body.

"Don't worry, it's all still there," said McCoy.

Surprised to hear his own thoughts echoed aloud, Henry looked up. The doctor was lounging against the transporter control station. "I hate these things too," he said as Henry stepped off the transporter platform. McCoy winked. "You're not the only technophobe in this century, Lieutenant. Better get used to it."

Henry held his breath at the blatant mention of his condition. All the potential ramifications of the day's revelations pressed in on him, and the edges of his vision darkened as his body reacted to the sudden rush of adrenaline.

Then McCoy slapped him on the back, jarring Henry out of his thoughts. "Come on, Lieutenant. We've got ryetalyn to deliver, and – believe it or not – we're right on time."

U.S.S. Enterpris , stardate 5846.5

"How is the Captain?" asked Henry.

Since his return to the Enterprise, he had been engulfed in a flurry of activity. In addition to delivering and administering antitoxin to all those stricken and to the skeleton crew, there was much work to be done to keep the ship running smoothly while so many of the crew recovered. As one of the few able-bodied crewmen, Henry had been pressed into service in Engineering of all places, repairing consoles and performing other menial tasks that he hardly understood but which Mr. Scott had assured him he could not damage… much. (His exact words were hardly reassuring: "Well, you won't blow the ship to kingdom come if you reverse the polarity, but I won't answer to Doctor McCoy if you short out a few brain waves.")

In all that time, Henry hadn't the luxury of fretting over his secret or worrying about the unresolved situation they'd left behind on Holberg 917G. But now, in the blissfully empty sickbay, McCoy and Spock had conspired to ambush him for a conversation he was ill-prepared to have.

Thus, stalling tactic #17: substitute a topic of greater concern.

It failed miserably.

"Oh, he's fine," McCoy said, waving off Henry's not entirely feigned concern. "Sure, he was head over heels for the girl. Who wouldn't be? But Jim falls in love easily. He's got a big heart – it's an occupational hazard. But in the end, he always finds what he's looking for back here. On the Enterprise."

"The Captain's devotion to duty is exemplary," agreed Spock.

"Ah," was Henry's eloquent contribution. He cast about for another stalling tactic, but McCoy beat him to it.

"I propose a toast," said McCoy, pouring himself a generous glass of brandy. "To Flint, the man of the hour."

Henry stared at the doctor incredulously.

"We might not have made it if Flint hadn't held the ship in stasis," McCoy explained. "The epidemic should have progressed too far for us to turn back the tide by the time we returned with the ryetalyn. As it is, we were just in the nick of time."

The irony was staggering. Henry took a large swallow of his own brandy in lieu of responding.

McCoy eyed him closely. "Speaking of Flint," he drawled. Henry tensed. "I've got news for you on that front." Then McCoy frowned. "I'm not sure you'll like it," he warned.

Henry squared his shoulders. "Please, just tell me."

"Flint is dying."

The words didn't make sense. "But he's immortal," blurted Henry.

"The conditions which made him so were unique to Earth," said Spock. "Away from the magnetic fields that prolonged his life, he will gradually age and die."

"At a normal rate," McCoy hurried to add. "For all intents and purposes, he's a normal human being now. Well, biologically speaking," he amended. "He knows; I told him before we left. He'll have time to make his peace. Who knows, maybe he and Rayna will make some great discovery for the betterment of mankind."

"The improvement of the human condition," corrected Spock.

Human. The word ricocheted around Henry's mind. Mortal.

His mind should be racing. He should be exultant, or terrified, or… something. He felt a stab of pity for Rayna, who would outlive the only man she really knew. But as for himself… Henry drew a blank. "All this time... and all I needed to do was to leave Earth?"

"Do you actually want to die?" He could tell McCoy was striving for professional detachment, but something colored his voice – incredulity, fascination, revulsion. Or was Henry projecting his own feelings?

"It is not our place to ask, Doctor. Nor to judge his answer," chided Spock.

Henry shook his head. "No, it's all right. I don't..." He took a deep breath and tried again. "For a long time – a very long time – I sought release from my condition the only way I knew how. Through death. But now I find that the prospect of life, a mortal life, is..." Again, words failed him. Thrilling, terrifying, a relief, a terrible responsibility... 

And then the memory of Jo rose up to fill the gap in his words, the emptiness that threatened to swallow his heart, just as she had so often done in life. "I want to explore, to make new discoveries, to see places no one else has seen. To risk my life, if need be, alongside you."

Henry paused, and the memories swelled. Not only of Jo, but of Abraham, a little boy fascinated with spaceships and antiques alike. Abigail, who found such joy in every new place. Lucas, yearning to touch the stars. So many faces he remembered, friends and children and lovers… That was life, he realized. Not Flint's hidden world, filled with riches never to be shared, but these moments with living, breathing people who boldly defied the brevity of their lives with every step they took into the unknown.

For the first time in a very long time, the thought of the unknown filled Henry with hope.

"Gentlemen, I want to live."

Personal log, stardate 5844.9

In the end, we are all mortal, even if some lifetimes are longer than others. I have seen the same joy and despair on the faces of a young Captain and an ancient philosopher, artist, musician… both seeking a love with which to fill their lives. It's a very human thing to do.

Now that I know my journey will have an end – someday – it is paradoxically easier to open myself to this life, and all the pains and pleasures that make it worth living. To serve alongside these men and women, some of the best and bravest I have ever known. To reach beyond the limits of the world I was born into, beyond the sea that stole my death and gave me life after life, beyond even the sky I looked to with my son perched upon my shoulders. To see such rarities and beauty in the stars, to seek out life in all its wondrously varied forms...

This is my final frontier.