Star Trek - Series Fan Fiction ❯ Imprint ❯ Chapter 5

Imprint

Chapter Five

 

 

Sprinting uphill, Kirk pushed through his exhaustion and demanded that his body give more. He would have welcomed a tri-ox compound, but he'd trained under worse conditions than slightly lower oxygen levels. Conditions hadn't been ideal on the drill platform high above Vulcan's thin atmosphere, but he'd still managed to hold out long enough to get the job done. That's all he needed to do now. Get the job done.

 

The sound of gushing water magnified tenfold as Kirk drew closer and the trees thinned. The rebels from the village were fifty yards and closing.

 

Kirk urged his legs faster, going full out and blessing the terrain as it leveled. Twenty yards ahead, the ground dropped off. Longitude and latitude meant nothing now that Kirk realized his elevation had been the biggest issue. It was a sheer drop down to the water.

 

The first shot rang out, an unwelcome but expected sound. Little arms tightened around Kirk's neck. Struggling to find the breath to speak, he managed to ask, “Do you trust me?” In his experience, nothing good ever came of that question.

 

Chin tucked against Jim's shoulder, Spock said, “Yes.” He recalled the manner in which Jim had rushed to his defense. Jim had returned for him, protected him, and would not leave him. His trust in the man was only logical.

 

“Get down and run for the cliff.”

 

Without question, Spock dropped to the ground. He stumbled before catching his balance. If he had time to consider it, he would have relished the opportunity to move freely. He sprinted ahead, determined match the captain's previous pace.

 

A phaser with a quarter charge couldn't do much when Kirk was so far away from his target, but the rebels had reason to fear the weapon. As expected, the rebels scattered in response to his return fire. He shot off the last few rounds. Spock had already reached the edge, or as near to it as was safe. The ground sloped down before completely dropping off.

 

Spock inched cautiously towards the edge, attempting to glimpse the river below. The shifting gleam of dark water slithered through the wide canyon, but it was too dark to accurately estimate its distance, rate of flow, or depth. The river's most distinct feature was its sound, a kind of gushing roar that echoed against exposed rock wall.

 

Joining the boy near the edge, Kirk held his arms out as if expecting a hug. “I need you to hold onto to me.” After a moment, he added, “Tight.”

 

 

The rebels weren't far behind, no doubt realizing that Kirk was out of both ammunition and options. Without towering trees to mute the noise, the gunfire resounded as though it came from every direction.

 

Thinking that Jim intended to scale the rock wall, since no other plan of action was available in their cornered position, Spock began to protest such a dangerous endeavor. “Jim-”

 

Acting with the sort of immediacy that usually landed him in trouble, Kirk swept Spock into his arms. It was a scarce five steps to the edge. His long stride and heavy tread kicked grit into the air. As he pushed off the final step, he felt a prick in his left calf muscle that instantly came alive with pain. A cry worked its way up his throat, but as his body arced over the edge, adrenaline spiked through his every nerve ending and the quick plummet distracted him.

 

“Jim!” Spock clutched at Jim's coat, struggling to find purchase and hang on as instructed. His world upended. Up became down as he spun through the air, wind whipping at him from all directions. He couldn't fathom Jim's motive for jumping. Even as his eyes caught the final glimpse of the ground that rose higher as he fell lower, he failed to understand what was happening. Jim had sentenced him to death. The illogic of such actions escaped him.

 

“Hang on!” Kirk yelled. Panic threatened to take hold when he couldn't find a point of reference. It was too dark. The night sky blurred with the dark ridges of rock wall. He was a seasoned diver, but night jumps were notoriously difficult even with preparation.

 

Kirk could feel the direction they fell, where the wind hit strongest. He used the air, testing it and leaning into it until he managed to redirect his body feet first. If they cleared the rock wall and didn't crash against an outcropping, then they were going to hit the water like a ton of bricks. He'd never live down the fact that he had literally leapt without looking.

 

Spock couldn't hook his legs around Jim's waist. His coat fell like a long tunic to his knees and he didn't have the freedom to maneuver the garment out of the way. The firmness of Jim's embrace kept the weightless disorientation from completely overwhelming him, but his heart pounded in panic. They kept falling and it seemed endless. Spock knew they would hit the water or an outcropping of rock. Eyes scrunched shut, he buried his face against Jim's neck while his fingers gouged holes in the man's parka.

 

Spotting the dark gleam of water below, Kirk straightened his legs and he angled their impact. “Take a breath!”

 

Jim's instruction was beyond Spock. He could only cling and frantically try to calculate their force of impact. Before he could even factor their combined weight, Jim's arms tightened in warning.

 

They hit hard and sank like deadweight. Pain exploded in the leg Kirk had taken a shot.

 

The river was deeper, faster, and colder than Kirk had anticipated. The water seemed to drag him in every direction at once. An armful of struggling Vulcan didn't help matters. Jumping off a cliff quickly became less appealing than a firing squad of angry Thelosian rebels.

 

Submerged in frigid water, Spock reacted instinctively. He pushed away from Jim as their combined weight dragged him down. He broke free, but felt the desperate snatch of the man's hands trying to pull him back.

 

Spock surfaced first, sputtering for air and grabbing at the water as though it were solid.

 

When Kirk surfaced, he gasped a grateful lungful and yelled for Spock.

 

“Jim!” Spock called out, head whipping around. He fell under again as the water's tow volleyed against him. The water frothed white near the surface, but the black underbelly appeared bottomless. The prospect of sinking into that darkness was terrifying.

 

Kirk turned about, searching for Spock. He spotted the boy's dark form and surged forward, attempting a clumsy breaststroke. His injured leg wanted to curl up. He suspected that hitting the water had fracture or even broken the bone. The frigid water lapped around his calf as if to sooth what it had done on impact. It made possible for him to ignore his leg. The cold relief was misleading. His fingers were already stiff. He needed to grab Spock and swim to the narrow shoreline before he lost all sensation in his limbs. Hypothermia was a concern, but drowning was the greater risk at the moment.

 

Spock mirrored Kirk's struggle. The boy thrashed desperately. Vulcan or Human, a kid weighed down by heavy clothing was helpless against a strong current. He wanted to shout for Spock to simply let the current carry him and that he would eventually get there, but Kirk didn't have the breath for it. He was exhausted, every ounce of his strength focused on measured strokes and navigating the rough water. The current jostled him back and forth, wanting to carry him in jerky motions, countering his attempts at every turn.

 

Reaching Spock was all that mattered. When it seemed like he could make a final lunge and snatch at Spock's coat, the boy disappeared beneath the water.

 

Spock floundered, clothes dragging him down. The water wanted to suck him under. It pulled him in every direction that he didn't want to go. Suddenly, there are hands on him, pulling him up. He broke the surface with a ragged gasp.

 

Kirk slipped his arm around Spock's chest and towed him along as he swam for the shore.

 

Spock's head fell back against Jim's shoulder. He coughed and gasped, shivering in turn.

 

“You're alright,” Kirk croaked, giving the boy a weak squeeze.

 

“Jim,” Spock said, the name rolling off his green tinged lips like a plea. He didn't recognize his own voice.

 

“You're okay. I got you.”

 

Panting, Kirk made slow progress. Ahead, the water splashed and foamed around jutting rocks that dammed the way. The glistening peaks of sharp rocks were like miniature icebergs. He redoubled his efforts and searched for a safe path through the rapids. Even if there were a clear opening, the water's current was too strong. There was no guarantee that he could control their course enough to avoid a nasty battering.

 

“I'm going to push you onto a rock,” Kirk gasped. He found his mark. The rock was low enough to climb atop. He swam into alignment and waited for the right moment. He absorbed the impact with his side, an experience he didn't want to repeat. Throwing his free arm up, his fingers clamped around rough edges and dug in. He felt the success of his plan in his shoulder as they jerked to a stop.

 

With a grunt, Kirk hauled Spock against the rock. The kid weighed a hell of a lot more in wet clothes. “Grab on!” he shouted, half begged. He felt his strength failing. He couldn't push Spock all the way up. They would fall back if Spock didn't manage it alone.

 

Spock scrambled for a grip, face pressed flush against the hard surface. He felt Jim's hand at his back, holding him in place until he gained footing. His shoes slipped off each time he tried for a foothold. Finally, he managed to plant a foot. He surged up, hands scraping against the top of the rock as he heaved himself onto it.

 

Scrambling onto his hands and knees, Spock turned around and reached out to help Jim. Eyes wide with unrestrained horror, he watched as Jim's hand fell short of his. The man's precarious hold on the rock failed. In that faltering second, the river snatched Jim away.

 

“Jim!”

 

Kirk felt a fleeting sense of relief that Spock had made it. The kid was safe for the moment, which he considered a job well done. He wasn't cold anymore, just numb and weightless and so tired. His aches and pains were becoming distant memories.

 

Disbelieving, Spock remained crouched on the rock, staring after Jim's limp form as it bobbed below the water. He silently urged the man to start swimming, to head towards the shore before reaching the dangerous patch of rapids. Jim didn't swim, didn't even fight to the surface when the water engulfed him.

 

 

ooo

 

 

Aboard the Enterprise in the CMO's office, McCoy pored over daily reports. Nothing but first degree electrical burns from clumsy engineers and a contagious rash originating in the botany lab.

 

Christine Chapel made her fifth pass in front of the office door.

 

“Chapel,” McCoy called out, not bothering to look up from his terminal screen.

 

With an armful of stacked datapad charts, Chapel backtracked several steps until she filled the open doorway. McCoy had a strict open door policy. The man was notorious for his distrust of technology, so it followed that he wouldn't rely on the comm system to alert him of an emergency.

 

Eyes still riveted on the screen, McCoy said, “Just how many times do you plan on checking in here?”

 

Caught in the act, Chapel felt a blush creep to her cheeks. Chin lifting defiantly, she said, “As many times as needed for you to take the hint.”

 

McCoy finally looked up, regarding his head nurse with somber hazel eyes. Dark shadows made his roguishly handsome features appear sunken.

 

“Doctor, you've been here forty-eight hours straight. Please, take a break.”

 

Running a hand over his face, McCoy released a quiet groan of fatigue. He scratched at the scruffy bristles along his unshaven jaw line. “If you knew the number of times I've patched our dear captain back together, you'd understand.”

 

“He's your friend,” Chapel said, her dark blue eyes softening. Her deep voice was almost a purr.

 

Lines of worry etched McCoy's brow. “Something like that,” he said. Jim was more than his friend. The fool kid was like his little brother. If all their missions involved Jim caught in a maelstrom of political bullshit, hurt and waylaid someplace that McCoy couldn't reach him, then he'd resign. He couldn't take this waiting game. He was next to useless puttering around sickbay, restocking cabinets and regenerating minor burns.

 

“Get some sleep,” Chapel advised before taking her leave.

 

Sleep was impossible when McCoy knew Jim was down on that godforsaken planet. He returned to the daily reports. The lines blurred together as his tired eyes refused to focus.

 

Just then, his comm chirped.

 

“Bridge to McCoy,” Uhura's crisp voice relayed.

 

Though the comm was within arm's reach, McCoy stood to answer the call. “McCoy here. Tell me something good.”

 

“We got him,” Sulu answered in place of Uhura. “His signal anyway. Scotty cut through the interference. You want to join us up here?”

 

“I'm on my way. McCoy out.” Bag of medical supplies in hand, McCoy swept out his office door. He spotted Chapel and she gave him a nod of understanding.

 

 

ooo

 

 

Disbelief was foremost in Spock's mind. Still crouched atop the rock, he stared at the last place he had caught sight of Jim. As the minutes ticked by, he waited expectantly for Jim to resurface. Against the odds, Jim had returned for him in the woods. The man had sworn to remain at his side.

 

Sopping clothes clung to him, forcing every inch of his body to feel the freezing bite of winter. He shivered convulsively. When the futility of his expectant gaze finally settled in, he sat back and rung excess water from his clothing.

 

Alone once again, he searched the dark waters and towering rock walls for indications of help. There was no one else.

 

He stood and carefully navigated his way to the shoreline. As he used clustered rocks like stepping stones, he realized how calculated Jim's actions had been. Even under duress, logic underscored the man's brash actions. Once he reached the pebble-strewn shore, he gave the water a wide berth and began to walk.

 

Snow fluttered down from the overcast sky. Within the canyon's enclosure there was less snowfall, but the air misted a frosty white with every breath. The air's dampness and his sodden clothes made the freezing climate unbearable. His skin stung as precious heat bled away.

 

Spock didn't have to think about where he was going. His body moved automatically in the direction that the water had taken Jim. Despite the logical conclusion that Jim could not have survived the barrage of rapids or falling unconscious beneath deep waters, he could determine no other course of action.

 

The wind funneled down from above, cutting back and forth at sharp angles. Spock kept his eyes trained on the ground and his head bowed. Every movement brought his body in contact with the freezing wetness of his clothes. His lengthy coat hindered his stride, but his shoes were a small mercy.

 

There was little chance of finding shelter within the steep cliff face. He might attempt to construct a small fortress out of stones, but residing in one place presented the threat of being found. If the rebels continued to give chase, then he needed to keep moving.

 

Lips tinged purple, he clamped his teeth together to keep them from chattering. He no longer felt the pins and needles in his feet or hands. His appendages were numb, suggesting the onset of frostbite.

 

After the first kilometer, the river smoothed to a glossy black sheet. The rapids had been isolated, perhaps the result of a rock slide. Dark eyes remained fixed on the thin strip of shoreline that vanished into the distance. He set markers for himself, waiting until he passed one to set another. Four kilometers became eight and then ten. His steps were heavy and increasingly clumsy.

 

Every so often, he glanced skyward and discerned the high ridge of the canyon's edge. Jim had leapt without hesitance. In retrospect, he conceded that such drastic measures had been necessary. Faced with a band of armed assailants who had previously demonstrated the intent to kill, jumping into the river held a higher statistical likelihood of survival. He wondered if Jim had calculated the odds beforehand.

 

In his hypothermic state, he could stave off shock for another two hours. He regulated his blood circulation as best he could, but without extensive meditation, he could not effectively control his body's functions.

 

The chance of finding Jim grew slimmer with each step. At 1.97 percent, the chance that Jim's body had washed ashore was only slightly higher than the chance that the man hadn't drowned. Factoring in the Jim's exhaustion, the rapids and undertow, and the river's lack of bends that would help deposit a body, Spock should have counted Jim as dead. However, within 1.97 percent resided the faintest of hope.

 

While Spock's Vulcan mind clutched at calculations, he didn't recognize the prone figure in the distance. At first glance, it appeared to be another dislodged rock from the cliff. The night's cast of shadows made everything angular and misshapen.

 

As he drew closer, the form caught his attention. The black pants and dark blue jacket blended in with the shore's violet stones.

 

Chapped lips fell open in a silent gasp. Heedless of the slick ground, Spock sprinted. In his haste, he narrowly tripped over Jim's still form. With shaky hands, he grabbed the man's shoulder and turned him over.

 

Jim's coloring was wrong. Humans were supposed to be warm reds and pinks. Jim's blue lips and bleached skin made for a frightening contrast against mottled cuts and bruises that littered his face.

 

After clenching his teeth for so long, Spock's jaw was stiff. His clumsy attempt at saying Jim's name came out as a hoarse croak. He tried again and managed a firm, “Jim.”

 

He checked for a pulse, but his fingers were too numb to register tactile sensation. Spock knew of several life sustaining procedures intended for such emergencies, but they were not designed for Human physiology.

 

Despite his association with Humans, he had not cultivated an extensive knowledge of their culture or biological functioning. He had considered it prudent to focus his studies on all things Vulcan, so as to discourage assertions that he wasn't Vulcan enough.

 

He thought he saw a faint rise and fall of Jim's chest, but desperation and unchecked emotions compromised his observations.

 

Fingers hovering over Jim's neck, Spock studied the man's lax features. Unguarded meld points drew his focus. Spock had never initiated a meld or even touched the surface of another's mind. He had learned the technique in school. It required great discipline. His current state of mind was fractured. A meld was out of the question, but he could ghost the surface and determine whether Jim lived.

 

With an eagerness that betrayed his inadequate state of mind, Spock arranged his fingers over Jim's meld points. The absence of psionic energy was alarming, but Humans were a psi-null species.

 

Taking several meditative breaths, Spock suppressed the array of emotions he had neglected to rein in earlier. One by one, he gathered his errant concerns and fears. He blockaded the impulse center, which was a ruthless technique that utilized suppression rather than control. Vulcans preferred control, but he didn't have the strength for it at the moment. Like a lit match trapped in a sealed jar, the emotions dimmed until only a trickle of smoke and faint ember remained.

 

His mind was not at peace, but for the moment his thoughts were ordered and clear enough to attempt penetrating Jim's mind. He centered all thought on the mind beneath his hand. Warmth blossomed against his fingertips. The sensation was soothing as it emanated along his hand. The warmth spread, fingers to palm, then his wrist and arm. It would envelope him, warming him to the core. It rocked him, welcomed him and soothed every ache.

 

The siren of warmth was the buzz of Jim's subconscious, a mind that had retreated from the world. It hummed, singing and beckoning Spock closer. His fingers pressed firmer against Jim's meld points, but he realized the danger involved and broke away. The warmth fled in an instant. His hand trembled in response. Numbness returned. His body shivered a plaintive request for more warmth.

 

Before Spock could settle on his next course of action, a sharp chirruping whistle cut through the river's loud din.

 

“Enterprise to Captain Kirk,” a disembodied voice sounded from Jim's hip.

 

Quick to realize the source of the voice, Spock grabbed the communicator and flipped it open. He studied the device, deducing its basic functions. Pressing down the relay button, he said, “This is Spock.”

 

There was a long pause. A quick glance at Jim's unconscious form made Spock impatient. Remembering everything that Jim had told him about himself as first officer aboard the Enterprise, he assumed an authority that he was not entitled.

 

“Captain Kirk is unconscious at present. If you are able to transport myself and the captain aboard the Enterprise, I request that you do so with haste.”

 

“Commander Spock?” was the only reply. It was a question laced with doubt.

 

Small fingers clutching the communicator tightly, Spock quelled rising panic. He had not considered a scenario that involved negotiating directly with crewmembers from the Enterprise. He did not know them and they would be equally unfamiliar with him.

 

“Can you transport us?” Spock repeated. If communications were open, then they were either out of reach of the jamming signal or the ship had resolved a solution to the interference. It stood to reason that the Enterprise was now capable of beaming them aboard.

 

“Aye, we've a solid lock on yer signal,” the voice replied. “Ye say the cap'n is with ye?”

 

The request was clear, but Jim was unable to negotiate the situation. “As I said, Captain Kirk is incapacitated. Your doubt regarding my identity is evident. I shall endeavor to explain, but must insist you beam us aboard first. Captain Kirk is in need of medical attention. Further debate in this matter may prove fatal to him.”

 

It might already be too late. Jim's lips were too blue. This man who had done so much to protect him lay in front of him unmoving, not even a flicker behind closed eyelids.

 

“Aye, it doona sound like ye, Commander, but ye talk the same. We'll be beamin' ye in just a moment. Hold yer position.”

 

Spock watched the bright particles circle his form. He allowed himself a moment of fascinated observation.

 

 

TBC…

 

Author's note:

 

Not beta read yet, so sorry for any errors. Does anyone know the color of oxygen deficient Vulcan blood or tissues? I took a guess and figured it's a purple-blue color. I know Spock's eyelids had a purple tinge in TOS, so I figured blue is to red as purple is to green?

 

Scottish brogue really isn't exactly my forte (totally used Wikipedia which has phonetic list). Don't be surprised if I change how Scotty talks, or even do away with the accent altogether. Heck, Scotty's third in the chain of command and should probably be on the bridge instead of working at the transporter, but I can't imagine anyone else in his place. Maybe Chekov, but that's a whole other mess of accent (TOS Chekov and STXI had totally different accents. One said everything with V's and the other can't even pronounce the letter V).

 

As always, please read and review. Fairies are real and one drops dead every time you don't review. No lie. The leprechaun in my sandbox told me so, though he also said I should set my garage on fire.

 

A hundred imaginary cuddles from kid-Spock to anyone who knows where the leprechaun in the sandbox reference comes from. There's more than one correct answer. Go on, Google it. I dare you. I dare you with the same sexy awesomeness that Pike dared Kirk. -_- I'm weird and this is a ridiculously long author's note.