By the Firepot Beast TITLE: By the Firepot Beast AUTHOR: Kelthammer SERIES: MU TOS CHARACTERS: The Big Three: Spock's POV; McCoy, Kirk. SUMMARY: Betrayal begats betrayal. The Balance of Power is swaying on the ISS ENTERPRISE... ARCHIVE: Sure, just lemme know A long-dead Terran writer once described eyes "blue and bleak." It fits you. Circumstances have forced you here, and the resignation stands with your posture as you brace for the worst I can give you. A sensible attitude. We have been allies by circumstance, but never friends. I do not take pleasure in knowing our captain is losing control of his crew. But I am not standing idle and letting it happen, either. As he throws away the most valuable men and women, I take advantage of his waste. You an unexpected gain. You still carry the soft red dust of the planet on your uniform. I can smell the damp storms that wrecked its atmosphere, clean and fresh. “Are you prepared?” I ask. “As much as I’ll ever be.” Your reply is soft but by now I know when you dissemble, and when you are sincere. I stand then, and we regard each other. You are so much like your twin, only far more subdued and secret. You had to be different in this way, to survive in this Universe. I remember the meld with the other one, and look forward to this one with you, hoping for a similar experience…a better experience… The captain pushed you too far. Secure in his grip on everyone aboard, he miscalculated. The expression on your face said it all. It was not the horror of a man who had been discovered in a crime, but of a man who did not understand what he was being accused of. If you had been charged with a crime involving any of the twenty telepathic species, it would have been solved simply, with a mind-adept glancing inside you for guilt or innocence. But the Draymians were not gifted in any such way, and the procedure was waived. They demanded justice on their terms. I saw your eyes when the captain spoke, agreeing to their "trial." They were bleak and weary, forced to listen to things you did not want to hear. You shift slightly, trying to maintain your calm. In that small movement I see a shadow out of place on your throat, just barely above the scrape of the shirt-collar. It does not belong there. "Take off your shirt." The shirt comes off slowly, and I understand your hesitation when I see your bare arms. The agonizer is rarely placed against bare skin. The electrical charge required to shock the body will raise burns on flesh. On some species, welts and open wounds. Kirk’s “discipline” had created small dry red burns inside the elbows and wrist joints; I see the glimpse of another at your throat, just barely hidden by the black undertunic. There is no point in saying anything. I look up and down, taking note silently, acknowledging what was done. Your face is impassive again. “Continue.” Whatever I order you to do, you are determined to survive it. I see that in your eyes very well. You survived Kirk, you can survive Kirk’s First Officer. The black comes off in a sharp, angry jerk, and worse marks are revealed in the light of the firepot beast. The hot flame makes them painful, but you won’t move away. Not unless I tell you to. I know you won’t ask permission. Kirk was exceedingly angry. I see four agonizer burns, and a single square pressure dent where he was forced to manually regulate your heartbeat when it stopped. Like reading a trail, I can see where his attention drifted; sternum, navel, diaphragm. I turn you around and see the same on the other side. The clay of the planet has worked through the uniform fibers in places, leaving pale rose smears of sweat and mud against a shoulder, across a floating rib, a forearm, down your spine. There could be more wounds in better light. I pause to rest my hand just above an agonizer burn. You feel the heat off my palm and shiver. "Why have you not tended these?" You are just a moment in your reply. The pause is deliberate; poignant. "I was ordered not to." I watch you for signs of panic, but your heart beats only slightly faster. Kirk has numbed you to much. You are hoping that whatever is done, will be done quickly before sensations return. I call for T'Har, the only Vulcan female on the ship. She is also the only Vulcan I know of with xenomedical training. Her record says she is a technician, of course. Her entrance makes no sense to you, for we converse first in Vulcan. "The Doctor needs medical attention. He is..." I pause, and imitate your exact mannerism. "forbidden to see to himself." T'Har nods, unsurprised. It is so like Kirk to give such a command. Over time, even his originality is taken for granted. I return briefly to my reports--an update on Sulu's perpetual machinations. Properly motivated, the man would be a captain worthy of Kirk--but it is simpler, even safer, to kill one's successor than it is to find one's own ship. Again, I consider that perhaps I should offer Sulu his own ship. My father wishes me to gain in power. T'Har says something in the Empire's patois, something medical that makes as little sense to me as Vulcan does to you. You remain a mask as the hard alien clay is soaked away. The burns are paper-thin and fall away, exposing the full wound. T'Har makes a comment of disapproval underestandable to both of us. The salve follows, and the sharpness of its scent is unpleasant to you, but you also control your expression there. To me is is pleasant, reminding me of the spine-flowers in the winter desert. My mother often complained it made her smell like a "spice rack explosion." Such odd use of language always surprised my staid, stern father into amusement. I think it was one reason why he kept her. My father's family is not known for their flexible demeanor. T'Har starts at the marks inside the wrists and works down to your shoulders, using light, then firm circles of the fingertips. From the shoulders, your throat. She traces your jawline, square and stubborn. You reflexively shut your eyes as she brushes across the lids, and the thick lashes brush her skin. I see you swallow. You are helpless; I must show that I will not abuse that helplessness. But I think of your twin's hot defiance. It conjures up the warrior of old inside me. Vulcans relish conflict, though they will not speak of it. By the old laws, I could have claimed victory when my mind won over his. The old laws do not necessarily apply to aliens. Logic dictated another action, to return everyone back to their rightful place. Instead, I had reason to consider the advantages of seizing control over you…A pity there is no parallel to the concept in your language. "Hostage" is the closest analogy you would understand, for the Tr'eneh can buy or trade their freedom. You will not be harmed by myself nor by my allies, but now my enemies are yours. This may very well shorten your lifespan. You knew what you had agreed to when you turned to me. Once I had divined the reason for Kirk’s hold over you, it was a simple matter to raise the price. But Kirk acted before I could, and threw you aside. You had nothing to expect save an assassination in the near future. My offer was not exactly an offer…more like a trade. Your loyalty for my protection…and that protection would extend to that of your kith and kin. All this, because my operative was in the most fortuitous place and time… You know all Vulcans on board are sworn to me. None would rise against another Vulcan anyway; their oaths are automatic, given to the highest ranking of our people. That they consider me without question is an honor I cannot deny. *** Storn reports himself to my cabin, saluting sharply, then turning it to a quick Vulcan greeting. I bid him enter. “Commander.” He bows his head, and the tools around his belt wave from the motion. “There is an altercation between the captain and ship’s surgeon.” Our people have an efficient language. I do not ask him why he is informing me. He has reasons to. “Speak.” I tell him. He bows his head again, offering the clear and undiluted memories inside his mind. Never taken lightly, I do not refuse. It is more than his desire to give me an uncluttered account; he is extending his trust to me. His skin is warm as my own under my fingertips. For a moment, I am still in my cabin, warmed by the firepot, then I am in Storn’s body, crammed inside the narrow confines of a relay conduit. Cables and meters surround me from all sides, graphs and guides that increase the ship’s ability to function, but needs constant upkeep. Light filters upward, an air vent protected by a screen that leads to the soft mechanical sounds of Sickbay. “I never caused any plague! The shots were straight and across the board!” Storn stops working, stops moving, listening. “Nobody ever said you DID, doctor. At least no one from Command.” Kirk’s voice is thick with amusement. “But you can certainly see their point of view. If you were being good, then the fault must be with your superiors, correct? And nobody wants that.” “Captain, I don’t care what anybody says! The plague of colors had nothing to do with the medicines the Empire measured out! My God, half that colony was made of children! At least let me investigate the facts before I beam down to a kangaroo court!” Soft sound; Kirk is folding his arms across his chest. “You’re asking a lot, McCoy. I don’t have to grant you any priviledges.” Stone-silence, then the doctor releases a sigh. “What do you want, captain?” “I thought you’d never ask…” “Just…just tell me what you want done.” “Now, now…don’t be impatient. Think of my view, doctor, You’re asking for a chance to prove your innocence. I don’t have much potential for a return investment, do I?” “You’ll know I’ll conceed to anything that doesn’t fall out of the guides of my Oath.” “Still full of that Hypocritic ideal, are you? It must be lonely at the top.” “Captain…tell me what you want.” “I want access to your drug stores.” Storn hears the silence grow thick and hot; horrified. “We’ve been over this before, captain. I know what you want with those drugs. No.” “No? Too bad for you.” “I’m not trading my reputation from one bad end to another! The Draymians MAY execute me, but if I give you free run of my Sickbay it’ll be twice the hellhole it already is!” “Don’t complain to me, McCoy, if you can’t control your own people.” "They aren't my people, they're yours!" "That's right. They're mine, and that's how it is." Kirk’s arms fall to his sides. His voice grows hard; confrontational. “Either way, I’ll get what I want. I’m sure M’Benga will be more…tractable. Nice knowing you.” Kirk's voice is mocking, trying to get a reaction out of the other. Storn does not know this with his own cultural limitations, but my mother's views tell me much: Kirk wants his McCoy's agreement badly, and he has tried everything but harsh coercion. In the replayed memory, I read a mosiac of unsavory emotions: self-directed disgust, anger, and thwarted hopes. What game is Kirk playing that he would have such things inside him? He is the most powerful man on the ship, but he acts as though he is fighting for power on a survivalist level. Something has tipped the balance against him. What? And why, I wonder, would Kirk turn on one of his closest allies? I would have never predicted such a maneuver. Kirk has always been loyal to those who were loyal to him. His rewards are traditionally as ingenious as his punishments. He cannot bear one thing that I know of, and that is betrayal. Even those who betray others in order to support him soon find, the captain will let them rise no higher in rank. For some reason, the doctor has done something that constitutes as betrayal to the captain's mind. I do not know why Kirk wants access to the drug stores. You do. That is why you will eventually die. Of course, Kirk did not expect you to be cleared of the charges. Nor does he suspect my part in it. If he did, I would not guess his reaction. It was a simple matter to summon you via communicator when I knew you were alone. You came warily, with the strain of the day already on your shoulders. *** I did not waste time. Vulcans do not believe in small talk. “You are about to be charged with genocide on a planetary scale.” “I never caused any plague. But it doesn’t matter.” You answer wearily. “Why does it not?” “Because they need a scapegoat. Someone to blame for all those deaths. They’ll nail me to one of their biggest posts and leave me to die of exposure. And they’ll all go home and have a good night’s sleep, believing the ghosts of their dead kin are at rest too.” Despite your words, heavy sarcasm is present. I lift an eyebrow. “Are you so prepared to die?” “I can hardly prove to them I didn’t cause the plague.” “What if you could?” I press. “I know the captain made you an offer…which you refused.” Spying is taken for granted. You are not at all surprised. “And what do you want?” “Only your loyalty.” Your eyes flash, and I see your twin’s impotent rage as I pin him against the wall. “You have all of that you’re going to get.” “Oh? You do not seem to understand, doctor. And you underestimate the abilities of Vulcans. I can prove your innocence. Have you considered what the captain will do to you when you succeed despite him?” You pale. You have already considered that unlikely possibility. “Kirk is an excellent administrator of revenge.” I remind him. “And I believe, uncaring of family ties since he has none himself. You have family, do you not?” “Stop.” Your hand goes up, shaking. It is all too likely Kirk will target them if McCoy dares survive the trial. He has selected relatives of his enemies in the past. They appear to be his favorite method of attack, as if he is lashing out against a Universe that left him berefit, but not others. “You win.” You swallow. “God…damn you, you win.” “You will find I am not so harsh a taskmaster.” I continue my casual pose against the desk. “It is simply I need a physician I can absolutely trust.” “Why not import yourself one then?” You snap. I almost smile. “I am afraid that is not possible. They are needed where they are.” On Vulcan. With my parents where they can be the most useful. It is true that I do need a personal healer. I had initial hopes for M’Benga, who is skilled in Vulcans, but McCoy by debit, has become the expert in my hybrid nature. And M’Benga is all too corruptible. Not a flaw he was born with, alas, but his genius was carefully corrupted at a young age by experts. My discreet inquires on his nature were disappointing. “I will not require you to renege on any part of your Oath.” My voice drops as I speak, and you stop breathing. “I know your limits, doctor. More than you do yourself.” You lock eyes with me then. I know you think of your twin, and what I saw inside that one’s mind. It gives me an advantage over you you are hardly aware of. I think you are not so unalike, you and he. He is simply living in an environment that permits him the leeway to fight. He would have been an unrelenting battle of wills, and he would have fought me until nothing was left. So I use another tactic. I make this your choice, and chain you with your own sense of honor. You say nothing as you leave. There is no point. Many things can happen in the length of time it takes to conduct a trial and return the convicted home. For all our plans, Kirk may yet kill you before beamup. *** T'Har leaves as quickly as she has entered. You slide the tunic back on slowly, still in pain. "Why does the captain make you an enemy?" Disgust flashes over your face. "You'd have to ask him that." I almost smile, for I can imagine a powerful disagreement in the heart of this shism. And yet, not so long ago, there would have been a time where my loyalty to the captain was unswerving. You are no doubt confused that I would actually be capable of this quiet subterfuge. It is not, after all, the Vulcan Way...but it is certainly Human. "How is it the captain seized total control of your department?" You stop, not looking at me. "It can happen if you're resourceful." He states the obvious. "And I wouldn't call it total control." "If you have allies, I suggest you employ them." You hesitate, choosing your words with care. "I hope it won't come to that, Commander." Your dark blue eyes flicker across the flame of the firepot beast. "My allies have a way of dying." A thin thread of emotion I cannot identify. Humans can convey so much without actually speaking. Myraid, complex, changing...and yet logical if one takes the time to comprehend. There is nothing I can say to his comment...yet. I merely grunt, accepting his unspoken wishes. Whoever he is protecting, he cannot damn them by asking for their help. I wonder who they are. In time I will learn.