0Title: Triangle in the Sky
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek TOS
Pairing: Kirk/Spock/McCoy
Summary: Some futures are predictable, literally. This is one such tale involving a mystery, a romance, and a dire warning not to be ignored.
A/N: Once again another year is coming to a close and we must acknowledge this fact with some lovely McSpirk. Furthermore, Summer 2020 will mark 10 years of my writing Kirk, Spock, and McCoy stories. Let’s consider this a pre-celebration! I will think about how to fully celebrate the anniversary closer to the day.
Without further ado, here is a little gift and a big heartfelt thank you to all my readers. Enjoy your holiday!
Accompanied by two others, a dark-haired man stands reluctantly before a flashing sign. “Tell me again. Why are we here?”
One friend huffs and states, “Seer Grezhar is genuinely talented. Everything he predicted last year came true!” while the other nudges his arm with the murmured reminder, “It’s either this or the ship’s quarter-finals of the ping pong tournament.”
“But this is asking someone else to dictate your fortune,” Sulu points out, eyeing Uhura after her passionate defense of the fellow whose face is stamped upon the shop window in what looks to be glow-in-the-dark paint. “Isn’t that against your beliefs?”
The woman lifts her chin slightly, though her eyes dance with amusement. “Of course I’m in charge of my own fortune. But my Babu always said it never hurts to be forewarned.”
“Maybe we should have stayed on the Enterprise,” mutters Chekov as the young man squints through the window into a dimly lit interior. “Do psychics need licenses?”
Sulu remarks dryly, “If they want to run a business, they do.” Then, with clear resignation, he opens the shop door and holds it ajar. “Ladies first.”
Uhura smiles at him and sails inside, Chekov close on her heels. They find themselves standing in a poshly decorated but empty waiting room. The man behind the front desk is too busy with a handheld PADD to glance up.
“We do group sessions but no group pricing,” the man intones an obviously well-rehearsed speech. “Seventy credits per person. Appointments are preferred but we take walk-ins based on availability.”
“That’s criminal!” Chekov stiffens with outrage. “The shop down the street advertised forty!”
The assistant swaps right on his PADD screen. “Seer Grezhar is a master of the psychic arts, and quality doesn’t come cheap. Pay up or get out. Your choice.”
Sulu leans to Uhura. “Should we—?”
“We will see Seer Grezhar as a group.” Uhura promptly offers up her personal PADD. “One bill, please.” When her companions protest, she chides each of them, “I invited you, therefore I pay. No arguing, mister!”
Sulu and Chekov exchange a look and wisely say nothing else.
Once the payment is made, the group is waved through a set of handsewn curtains with beads and tiny mirrors. “Lucky you, no wait time today. The last appointment didn’t show.”
“I wonder why,” mutters Sulu, still lingering in the waiting room.
Finally, the assistant looks up, seeming annoyed. Sulu averts his eyes and hurries past the curtain to join his friends.
The back room where a small wizened man in dark robes and a turban finishes lighting incense must share a wall with the next-door establishment. Sound rises and falls through the room, sometimes a hum and at other times crescendoing into laughter.
“Be seated,” orders the man, who is indeed the esteemed Seer Grezhar.
Chekov takes the middle spot in front of the low table with Uhura and Sulu on either side. He eyes with trepidation first the large clear glass ball in the center of the low table and then their host. “I want a good fortune.”
“Fortunes cannot be adjusted to suit the person,” states the seer as he settles on a stack of pillows opposite them. “They simply are.” He looks them over. “Starfleet. Hm.”
Chekov’s gaze narrows. “What’s wrong with Starfleet?”
Grezhar ignores that, holding his jeweled hands over the crystal ball, which begins to emit a soft glow. His eyes fall to half-mast. “I sense adventurous spirits of you. Traveling where many fear to tread.” His head turns in Uhura’s direction. “You are a believer. Good. Few can accept the power of the psychic arts, and even less believe it.”
Sulu drums his fingers against the table. “I don’t think we paid for a lecture.”
Grezhar snorts and closes his eyes. “I am your command. The instrument you see before you allow me to bring my visions to clarity. I will describe what I see as I see it. It will be up to you to interpret the true meaning of my vision.”
His hands roam over the ball. “I see… your chosen paths are connected by the same space. A command center, a chair center-stage. In the chair lies a double-edged sword, where a single stroke brings great honor or imminent danger. And the force that drives it…” He frowns. “Love?” As his frown deepens, the light within the ball begins to pulse. “I see… romance.”
Sulu looks ceilingward, sighing through his nose.
Chekov’s eyebrows draw together. “I’m confused. Romance is a sword?”
“I wouldn’t think so,” Uhura whispers back.
The seer clears his throat loudly and clarifies, “I see kissing.”
“Ah, that makes more sense.” Chekov leans forward, putting his face level with the crystal ball. “Who am I kissing?”
Seer Grezhar opens his eyes to a narrow stare, hands poised in mid-reception of his vision. Sulu wisely pulls Chekov back by the shoulder, who had been reaching for the crystal ball. “Apologies for the interruption, sir,” Sulu says. “Go on.”
Eyes closed once again, the seer places his hands onto the crystal ball. “I see… three bodies.”
“Are they alive?” asks Chekov, to which he is quickly elbowed by both Sulu and Uhura.
“Three bodies of a single soul, born apart yet drawn ever closer by a force stronger than fate. I see a constellation of three stars.” The seer hunches forward slightly, his face scrunching up in concentration. “This is something here—something—momentous! Ah, yes. And you will all be affected.”
Here the old man pauses and cracks open an eye. After a moment, Sulu nudges Chekov, who grudgingly pulls some loose change used by the locals from a pants pocket and slides all of it across the table. Their host gracefully scoops up the money and drops it into a copper bowl at his side.
Then he orders, “Join hands now. I need your combined energies to enrich the vision.”
After he resituates his hands on his crystal ball and draws a deep breath, some time passes in silence with the man chanting low under his breath. All of a sudden, the seer stiffens, his eyes popping open and rolling back into his head, leaving the whites showing. “A wedding!” he shouts.
Uhura gasps, “What?” Chekov makes a noise of disbelief. Sulu looks mildly alarmed.
The seer rocks a little. “A union of great minds—”
“I’m too young,” Chekov protests.
“—of unprecedented power—”
Sulu recovers from his unease, crossing his arms over his chest. “Whose wedding, exactly?”
But the medium cannot seem to hear the question and definitely does not provide an answer, for he jerks again, practically seizing as if experiencing an electrical shock. He intones in a deeper voice, “It shall be on the day that the stars defy the laws of gravity to shape a triangle in the sky, a proposition shall bring forth a strengthening of bonds and an age of—of—of—no, this cannot—ahhhhEEEEEE!”
The screech makes everyone jump.
At the same time, Sulu and Uhura each tear one of the man’s hands off the crystal ball. He falls backward, his turban sliding sideways to cover an eye. Panting, the seer gapes at them like he had forgotten they were still there, customers expecting a simple, silly reading. He gulps and pants some more.
Chekov looks to Sulu. “What just happened?”
“Do you need a doctor?” Uhura asks the seer, concerned.
Grezhar finally closes his mouth and puts his attire to rights. “Y-You… Who are you? No, never mind! You must leave!”
Sulu presses his mouth flat. “Is this a trick to make us pay you more? Because we won’t.”
“Get out,” demands the seer, clumsy pulling out a handful of crumpled bills and thrusting the whole wad back at Chekov. “Take it! Go away!” He babbles something about gods and star alignments and the galaxy going up in flames of righteous judgment.
Chekov snatches the money up as the seer rolls off his pillows, making shooing motions. Then the old man throws himself at the officers, forcing them to abandon the table where the crystal ball still pulses with light.
“What’s wrong with that wedding?” Uhura asks, even as she is hauled to her feet by Sulu.
“Everything! Now get out!” snaps Grezhar.
He successfully herds them out of his little shop, the assistant looking on in astonishment, and slams the door shut in their faces. They hear the snick of a lock. Then something heavy thumps against the other side of the door.
Chekov bends his knees slightly, an ear cocked against the door. “He is saying ‘noooo‘ and,” Chekov pauses, “‘I’m doomed‘, I think? Now he’s cursing in a different language.” He straightens. “I think he’s crazy.”
“Goodness,” says Uhura. “How dramatic.”
“That was worth seventy credits each?” Sulu huffs. “C’mon, you two. I can think of a better way to spend our salaries.”
Only Chekov lingers behind a moment, staring at the closed door and now unlit shop sign. He makes a gesture he has seen his great-grandmother perform a thousand times when she hears something she doesn’t like. Then he follows Sulu and Uhura along the main street.
The connector bridge between the Enterprise and the station makes for a long walk from one side to the other. Most crewmen coming or going across the structure do so at a leisurely pace, taking in the lovely aurora of colors, a phenomenon which had built up over the years from the magnetic charges coursing across the protective domed shield that separated the station from outer space. The dancing lights had become somewhat of a spectacle, drawing many passing ships and sometimes faraway visitors. Even now, several groups of officers have paused in their journey to stare through the transparent walls of the bridge in fascination.
While Uhura, Chekov, and Sulu admired the aurora at the onset of their day trip to the station, they are in no hurry to return to the Enterprise, strolling slowly along to stretch out their last hour of shore leave.
“That’s what you did when you were here last time?” Uhura looks from Sulu to Chekov in bemusement before her expression brightens. “By that measurement, today must have been better.” She gives the cloth bag hanging from her arm a firm little shake. Other than that odd experience with Seer Grezhar, they had spent the rest of the trip wandering several blocks of a bazaar backed against white walls, shopping (Uhura’s favorite pastime) and trying every food stall they came across (Chekov’s).
“This was almost as fun as K7. Do you remember the tribbles? I liked the tribbles.” Chekov grins, patting a full belly as he clearly reminisces of that adventure.
Sulu laughs. “You liked the fighting.”
Chekov cuts a sideways glance to his friend, his grin turning sharper. “Do you remember Keptin Kirk’s face when all the tribbles—oww!”
Sulu abruptly elbows him hard in the side while Uhura strongly shushes both of the men. Chekov sees why, for they have just stepped in hearing range of three people standing neatly shoulder-to-shoulder, looking outwards from the connector bridge: the aforementioned Captain James T. Kirk and two of his seniormost officers, Mr. Spock and Dr. McCoy. Between Spock and McCoy, Kirk leans over the bridge’s railing, one hand on Mr. Spock’s arm rather than the railing itself for balance and the other pointing at the aurora flickering colorfully in the distance.
Chekov clamps his mouth shut, grateful for the intervention. Captain Kirk and Dr. McCoy may not be within hearing range to pick up his comment but Mr. Spock as a Vulcan certainly is. Nobody can be as tough and unforgiving as Mr. Spock when he is miffed over what he perceives as a slight against his captain. As much as Chekov likes learning from the erudite and polished First Officer, he definitely does not want to be stuck under that intense scrutiny while out of favor.
Their little group slips silently past Kirk’s. Only McCoy notices their passing-by, briefly turning his head to catch Chekov’s wide-eyed stare. Then Kirk questions, “Bones?”, and the doctor returns his attention to the man now soothingly sliding a hand across his shoulder blades.
Chekov fixes his gaze forward, feeling like his staring has intruded upon a private moment. “Who’s on bridge duty tomorrow?” he asks to redirect their conversation.
“I am,” Sulu says as Uhura replies, “Oh, the usual characters.”
Sulu smirks. “Who’re you calling a character?”
“Oh but what kind of character?” adds Chekov.
Good-natured joking carries the three officers back to the Enterprise.
Between the food dispensers’ constant whirring and the conversations and greetings taking place, the crew mess maintains a steady hum during the first and second shifts. Sometimes to get a word in edgewise over the chatter, one has to raise their voice the slightest bit.
“I’ve been thinking,” Uhura calls over to her table’s other occupants. She looks at them from over the rim of her coffee cup.
“About the oatmeal?” Sulu frowns at the soupy substance dripping from his spoon back into his bowl. “The replicator program must be acting up again.”
By all accounts, Chekov isn’t a morning person and has never pretended otherwise. He shoves scrambled eggs into his mouth like he hates the universe.
Uhura raises her voice a little more. “About what that Seer said.”
“Fortune teller,” corrects Sulu. “There’s a difference.”
She eyes him. “He said there would be a wedding.”
“Uh-huh. A thought that nearly gave that guy a heart attack. What’s your point?”
“He wouldn’t have gotten that reading from us without a reason.” She pauses. “We must know them.”
Chekov mutters something like “I don’t know anybody who wants to get married.”
“All of us,” the communications officer stresses.
That gives Sulu pause, even Chekov.
Uhura sets her cup aside. “Let’s list all the people we have in common.”
Sulu sits back, giving up on his tasteless meal. “Why?”
“Yeah,” Chekov wants to know too, “why?”
“Gentlemen, think of it this way,” she says with confidence. “Seer Grezhar acted as if this union would be life-changing for a large number of people—us included—and that scared him. Don’t you want to know who could do that by simply marrying?”
“Celebrities.” Chekov points his fork at her. “Everybody gets excited and upset when celebrities get married.”
She props her chin on her hand. “How many celebrities do you know, Mr. Chekov?”
Chekov goes back to eating his eggs.
Sulu nods after a while. “If we know these people, then it’s more likely they are work with us. It wouldn’t be too difficult to find out who’s dating and who isn’t.”
“That’s what I thought too,” confirms Uhura.
Chekov shrugs, eloquently expressing his opinion as “I guess it’s better than doing nothing.”
The list is too long to be worth the effort, thinks Chekov later that day. Between himself, Sulu, and Uhura, they have more than passing acquaintances with two-thirds of the crew. For Uhura, it’s a result of her job in communications; for Sulu, because he is regularly active in several clubs and goes to social gatherings; and only for Chekov because he has worked a brief stint in almost every non-specialized department before landing the position of the ship’s primary navigator.
They know too many people, it turns out. Even when they exclude officially bonded or married individuals, the list is too long.
Chekov checks the ship’s course for the umpteenth time, wishing he had better sense than to go along with a plan that will probably require a good chunk of his free time. It’s not as if there will come a sudden ship-wide announcement that the Enterprise has a new triad onboard. Most crewmen prefer to keep their interpersonal relationships private.
On the other hand, his assignments have been boring lately. He glances around the quiet bridge, noting that his co-workers seem well and truly interested in their stations. If only Mr. Spock was around, he wishes dismally, he could be learning something new instead of stuck in the rut of checking the course and scanning for obstacles in space.
But Mr. Spock isn’t on duty today. Instead…
Chekov surreptitiously looks over his shoulder to the center bridge.
When Mr. Spock is not on bridge duty, Doctor McCoy has a tendency to show up unannounced. Having observed this behavior a number of times, Chekov is convinced the visits actually have little to do with McCoy professing to enjoy the relief of not having to suffer a certain constant discord when in the Science Officer’s presence. After all, why would two people who supposedly, at best, tolerant each other always be seen together?
No, there must be something else that spurs McCoy to stop by when Mr. Spock is absent. Chekov is certain that something is named James T. Kirk. It’s almost as if the doctor thinks Kirk might feel the bridge is a lonelier place without Spock around, and so he sidles right on up to where technically he has no clearance to be and entertains the ship’s captain with some anecdote or complaint until Sickbay rings the bridge looking for their errant chief medical officer.
But how does Dr. McCoy know Mr. Spock is not on duty and Captain Kirk is? Chekov wonders. The easiest answer may be to accept it as yet another mystery of the unusual dynamics between the three.
Today McCoy is leaning casually against the captain’s chair, wordlessly watching Kirk skim through reports. Those reports cannot be Medical-related because Kirk would be asking McCoy questions intermittently as he reviews the material. So in comfortable silence, Kirk reads and McCoy watches, the pair projecting this picture-perfect companionability that Chekov secretly envies.
The atmosphere is disturbed by the whistle of the chair’s built-in comm system. Setting aside his PADD, Kirk clicks the channel open. “Bridge.”
“Good afternoon, Captain.” Chekov recognizes that particular tone of Nurse Chapel. “Could you send Dr. McCoy along?”
McCoy drawls, “How does she always know?”
“You’re becoming predictable, Bones,” murmurs Kirk. “Of course, Nurse. He’s on his way.”
Kirk cuts the channel and regards the doctor’s visage for several seconds. What he sees in that face today which is different from yesterday, Chekov cannot fathom. Chekov sees Sulu noticing this too. They trade a shrug before turning toward the viewscreen again.
Just another boring day in space.
Idly, Chekov begins to wish for an adventure.
The Sickbay entrance whistles open, admitting Lt. Uhura a few scant seconds ahead of someone stepping through from the opposite side. She turns sideways to give him room to pass her, offering a surprised but pleasant, “Good morning, sir.”
Mr. Spock dips his head the tiniest bit. “Lt. Uhura.”
As the entrance closes upon his back, Uhura finds herself shaking her head gently, then dismissing the encounter altogether. In short order, she locates the reason she ventured to Sickbay so bright and early.
“Christine!”
Nurse Chapel turns at the sound of her name in time to catch Uhura’s cheery wave. She says, “Hello, dear,” shifting the stack of electronic clipboards teetering in her arms.
Uhura takes half the stack and follows Chapel to an empty briefing room. In concert, they place one clipboard in front of every chair.
Chapel thanks her afterward. “It’s been touch-and-go this morning.” She inspects the decorative twist of hair at the back of her head and drops her hand away after finding it still properly pinned into place.
Uhura perches on the corner of the conference table, crossing one leg over the other. “You’ve had no breakfast, then?”
Chapel sighs. “I would have but I woke up late.”
“That’s unfortunate.” Uhura eyes her friend with sympathy. “Is it the computer again? I thought the technician fixed it last week.”
The nurse rolls her eyes. “I don’t know what that young man fixed, but it certainly wasn’t the glitch I submitted to Cabin Repairs. My stars, how can the ship’s computer be ‘functioning properly’ if it ignores a simple request like a morning alarm!”
“Ask Mr. Spock to take a look at it,” suggests Uhura. “He’s bound to review the operations report from that department anyway.”
Chapel hesitates. “I don’t know. He’s as busy as the rest of us. I wouldn’t feel right bothering him with a concern so… minuscule.”
“Pssh.” Chapel’s friend insists firmly, “Mr. Spock would want to know. And if you aren’t comfortable asking him as the First Officer, just say you would have a personal request. He understands the difference.”
“Yes, I might do that. Thanks.” A sparkle comes into Chapel’s eyes. “Not that it would be difficult to catch him to ask—especially since he comes here most mornings.”
Uhura pauses in smoothing out a wrinkle in her skirt. “Oh?”
As Chapel starts to reply, the briefing room door slides out to admit the officer presiding over the department. McCoy nods to them as he ambles to the opposite side of the table.
“Good mornin’, Nurse. Lieutenant.”
Chapel smiles at her boss. “Hello, Doctor.”
McCoy takes a seat and picks up the clipboard in front of him. Chapel snags Uhura’s tunic sleeve and dips her head toward the outer corridor. They politely wait for M’Benga and another nurse to enter the room before making their exit and moving a good ways down the hall.
“Time for me to start work too, I suppose,” Uhura says with a resigned little sigh. “Comm me later if you are free for dinner. I taught the replicator a Tanzanian recipe.”
“Yes, please, I’d love to try it. I’ll ask Dr. McCoy if I can leave early today. He’s in such a good mood these days, I doubt he’ll say no.” She lowers her voice. “Speaking of that, I think it’s related to Mr. Spock’s new habit of escorting to him to Sickbay in the mornings.”
Interest dances in Uhura’s eyes. “Oh, that’s definitely new. More details at dinner?”
“You bet. I’ll bring wine too.”
The women share a smile and, for the time being, part ways.
Parties are fun and pleasurable, Sulu has been told. Perhaps it’s age, then, that has made him feel so dispassionate. Or maybe this just isn’t his kind of party.
Either way, he isn’t about to leave this particular affair any time soon. He drew the short straw.
The other attendees make for an interesting mix, though, he notes, most especially the Xolobins. They are the honored guests of the night whose leaders, ironically, go by the title Honored Pair.
Sulu has been keeping an eye on the small cluster of people the Honored Pair are cohabiting in for most of the evening, and not simply because he is tasked with identifying any breaches of security before they become an issue.
It’s a well-known fact that Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock comprise the most talented command pairing in all of Starfleet. High-ranking government officials recognize this; even the citizens are no stranger to the famous reputation of Starfleet’s youngest captain and his decorated second-in-command. It stands to reason, then, that their salutatory status (akin to that of a celebrity couple, in Sulu’s opinion) would proceed them beyond the Federation.
The Xolobins are fascinated by Kirk and Spock. Because of that distraction, the Federation delegates are having some difficulty keeping the conversation to a strictly professional topic.
This is why Sulu looks on with amusement from the sidelines while another colleague, Landon from Engineering who also drew a short straw, attempts to keep him engaged in conversation.
“The way I see it,” Landon says, “if I look like I have someone to talk to, I won’t be dragged into talking to someone.” He heaves a sigh. “Mr. Scott says this is a good experience for polishing our credentials, but frankly I think he just didn’t want to be the one standing here all night.”
Sulu can agree with that. “Mr. Scott drinks too much at these parties so the Captain won’t invite him again. Never works though. Kirk is trying to encourage him to polish his credentials too.”
“Ah, a vicious cycle.” Landon turns in the direction of Sulu’s gaze. “I would have never guessed the Xolobins are neighbors to the Tellar Prime. They look nothing like Tellarites.”
“And don’t share the love for arguments either.”
“Yeah, they do seem fairly laid back.” Landon shakes his head slightly. “So why does our ambassador look like he bit into a lemon?”
Sulu tips his champagne glass toward the cozy little group in the center of the room. “He wants to secure the Xolobins as trade partners but the Honored Pair seem less interested in talking shop than flirting with the Captain and Mr. Spock.”
Landon shifts to have a fuller view of this drama. “The Captain doesn’t look upset about that.”
Sulu glances at the engineer. “What do you mean?” In Sulu’s experience, Kirk never seems troubled by the attention he receives and fairly adept at handling his admirers if that interest crosses a line it shouldn’t.
“Oh you know… Mr. Spock,” Landon starts, then stops. He makes a vague gesture at their superiors. “Kirk is protective of him at times.”
“Mr. Spock can stand up for him for himself,” argues Sulu, thinking of how deftly the Vulcan is able to cut off unwanted attention with a blandly worded comment or a polite display of disinterest.
“I’m just saying that lately the Captain has seemed a little more on guard than usual, that’s all. But clearly he isn’t worried about the Honored Pair stealing away our Mr. Spock.”
There is one truth Sulu would bet on, and that’s Spock’s loyalty getting in the way of anyone trying to take him away from the Enterprise—or his captain. Considering how long Spock was under Pike’s command when he wasn’t as close to Pike as he is to Kirk now, the Vulcan might just spend the rest of his career at Kirk’s side given half the chance.
“Well,” Sulu wonders, “I don’t think the Xolobins want to attack anybody. What are the chances we can slip out undetected before this party is officially over?”
“Should we though?”
Sulu looks at Landon, and Landon looks at Sulu. A beat later, Landon says, “I’m game if you are.”
Sulu grins and clinks his glass against Landon’s. “Deal!”
Weeks may have passed but Uhura’s curiosity has not waned. She surveys her team with pride.
“Mr. Sulu, Mr. Chekov, I have acquired reinforcements,” she announces, indicating the newly arrived individuals to the small conference room at the end of the public observation deck.
Still dressed in a medic’s standard blue uniform, Christine Chapel crosses her arms over her chest with an air of intimidation (at least, Chekov seems unnerved by her). Beside her, Yeoman Janice Rand offers the group a shy smile.
The last person through the doorway checks his stride when he sees everyone. “Is this the right place?” he asks.
Having beckoning Chief Engineer Scott inside, Uhura engages the lock on the door to prevent interruptions.
Sulu studies her choice of new recruits with thoughtful consideration. To Uhura, he asks, “How much have you told them?”
Scott takes a seat at the head of the table, raising both eyebrows. “I’m not sure why I’m here?”
“So she told them nothing,” concludes Chekov. “Oh, boy.”
Rand politely accepts the chair Sulu pulls out for her. Chapel moves to stand next to Uhura, tacitly the position of her second-in-command.
Which Chapel is, as far as Uhura is concerned. Matters like these require the very best minds.
Once again, she surveys her team. Her long pause of silence ensures by the time she is ready to speak, she has their full attention.
“Each of you brings a unique perspective to this operation. Nurse Chapel, you encounter the most variety of people in a single day. Yeoman Rand, you have the strongest personal connections with junior staff.”
Rand smiles the tiniest bit. “Thank you, Lt. Uhura.”
Uhura faces her seemingly oddest recruit. “Mr. Scott, you lead the best rumor-mill on the ship.”
Scott’s mouth drops open. “I do?”
“There’s no better place to hear the latest gossip than Engineering,” declares Uhura, to which everyone else nods agreement.
Scott whistles and sits back. “I guess I do then. I suppose it can get a wee bit boring in the shafts at times.” He certainly doesn’t look like he is going to head back to Engineering to reprimand his lads for their wagging tongues.
Uhura releases a breath and squares her shoulders. “There is a mystery afoot, ladies and gentlemen—and it requires having eyes and ears in as many departments of this ship as possible.”
Chekov perks up. “So we’re spies!”
“Don’t say that outside this room,” Sulu advises.
“We’re spies in a way,” confirms Uhura. “Intelligence agents within our network. Frankly, the best there is for this kind of task! I feel confident we will gather the relevant data in record time to suss out the suspects.”
Chekov nods along. “Like an undercover assignment? I’m in. So much better scanning, scanning, scanning. I am sick of scanning!”
Scott says with concern, “Lass, I have so many questions. What kind of suspects, and what did they do?”
Uhura smiles, then. “It’s not what these suspects have done, Mr. Scott, but what they will do.” Her smile broadens. “They’ll marry. On this ship.”
Rand straightens in her seat. “Where did you hear that? Captain Kirk only officiates weddings if a request is submitted first, and I haven’t seen of that paperwork recently.” She tacks on, “One of the rec rooms would be scheduled for a ceremony even if the Captain hasn’t been requested to oversee it. Which none of them are.”
Uhura looks to Chapel, who dutifully takes notes on her clipboard.
“A mystery, indeed,” declares Sulu.
“A fortune-teller told us,” Chekov admits.
Chapel snorts, having already heard parts of the story from Uhura.
Scott barks out a laugh. “Oh, I need to hear this story!”
And so Uhura, Sulu, and Chekov share the tale of meeting—and terrifying through no fault of their own—Seer Grezhar on the last shore leave. As they take turns describing the bizarre experience, Scott starts snickering and Rand simply looks aghast.
But she remarks, “If he gave your money back, he probably wasn’t lying.”
In the end, following much discussion and debate, all parties agree on two things: one, they have encountered the oddest story of the year (for the flagship’s crew, that is quite the feat!) and, two, Grezhar’s dread of a powerful triad sounds suspicious.
Scott wants to know, “If we find out who they are, are we planning to stop them?”
Uhura answers honestly, “My first thought is no. Why would we interfere with a wedding?”
“What if they get married and blow up the galaxy?” Chekov adds, “Or take us over?”
Chapel shakes her stylus at the young lieutenant. “Now you’re looking for trouble.”
“Apparently it already found you,” mutters Scott. “All right. I’ll keep an ear open when I’m with my lads.”
Rand offers, “I can find out if we have any throuples onboard.”
As the others offer suggestions or potential sources of intel, Uhura settles in the chair at the head of the table, feeling a sense of something momentous about to happen, indeed. Seer Grezhar has never steered her wrong before.
She smiles at the thought.
Mr. Scott’s idea of a pleasant evening is finding a cozy corner in the officers’ lounge where he can catch up on the latest changes to the Starfleet Technical Manual and the quarterly edition of Procedia Engineering. Having submitted an article or two in the past to this particular research journal, he receives a free copy to his personal PADD but unfortunately doesn’t always have the time to thoroughly assess the activities of his peers.
Today’s second-shift roster is missing his name. At first, he thought that was a clerical error. But when he asked Lt. Riley who recently was put in charge of publishing the daily schedule for Engineering, Scott was told, “My orders were very clear, sir. You’re to be off-duty every third day.”
Further pressing for information revealed this mandate came from Medical and had Captain Kirk’s seal of approval.
A small part of Scott thinks he should be offended to be forced to take time off when he is an adult who clearly knows when he should be resting versus working. Mostly, though, he feels humbled by the obvious caring of his shipmates. Despite spending most of his days buried in wires and piping, he rarely feels forgotten or ignored. His contributions are valued here, the same as his health and well-being.
The officers’ lounge is nearly empty on the second shift, and this little corner spot is his favorite. It is an unadorned alcove behind a shoulder-height curved wall. The alcove is blissfully dark and secluded from the other tables and booths and grants him a sense of being hidden (though not quite as delightful as being inside a Jeffries tube). Here, he has privacy, some peace and quiet, and, ah yes, a new article by his favorite physicist at the moment, a Betazoid who strongly believes Voth technology could be adapted for a different kind of engine—transwarp!— that would inevitably bring about a brand new starship-class.
Halfway through the article, Scott realizes he needs a refill of Scotch. The lounge staff in charge of the bar area only work third-shift and special occasions and the rest of the time is self-service. Slipping to the edge of the booth and wall, his empty glass in hand, the engineer assesses the occupancy of the lounge—
—and finds his gaze caught on a pair of officers at a table directly in his line of sight, their backs to him.
Very familiar backs. Tunics. Voices.
The Captain and Mr. Spock!
As Scott puzzles over them sitting so close together, he absentmindedly thumps his glass against the tabletop, having momentarily forgotten his desire for a refill. The Vulcan across the lounge visibly stiffens at the sound.
Scott doesn’t know why he does it, but he jumps behind the wall again, certain beyond a doubt he should not be seen. As he hunkers low, tucking his legs toward his chest to ensure no part of his person is visible, he imagines a sudden shadow shaped like Mr. Spock looming over the wall, ready to snatch him up.
Seconds pass. A full minute. Nothing happens.
Scott’s imagination settles down, and his shallow breathing evens out. He inches forward to peek around the wall again.
Spock and Kirk have vanished. So have the drinks from their tables, leaving him to wonder if he was mistaken about seeing them there. He slumps back into the corner, part in relief, part in dismay at his own foolishness. After a while of carefully reviewing what he saw, he dismisses the article on his PADD and pulls up a search box.
The meaning of touching forefingers and index fingers, he types into it.
Sadly, the galaxy-wide internet has no definitive answer on this query, just a lot of weird images of fingers, handholding, and partners gazing romantically at each other.
Perhaps, Mr. Scott thinks, that is for the best.
People assume that Sulu is a botanist at heart and a pilot by career. The truth is his chosen path in Starfleet stems from his love of being at the helm. Yes, he is part of the navigation team; but the experience there is merely a stepping stone to the place he truly hopes to be someday: the captain’s chair. Learning to react at a moment’s notice, to own his choices, to accept the responsibility of hundreds of lives—all those things that tip the scales of survival for a crew—they thrill him.
Sulu is fully aware Kirk has recognized this adventurous spark in him, and he is thankful his current captain wants to nurture that spark, showing him how to shape himself into the kind of leader who can command a starship.
But the botany is separate from his desires, a legacy from his past. It’s part of where he came from and the experiences that shaped him. Most importantly, it is a remnant of his deceased father, a man who knew how to nurture a tiny green sprout into a beautiful thriving orchid.
Sulu’s father had once told his young offspring, who begged for a puppy for his sixth birthday but was instead handed a brown earthware pot of packed dirt, “Raise this from seed to bloom, my son, and I shall consider your request.”
Sulu never did get that puppy, but he did earn the knowledge his father wished to instill in him: one must never take for granted the honor of nurturing and protecting life. He thinks that bit of wisdom will also make him a good leader, an honorable captain; and so to keep himself grounded and always mindful of it, Sulu volunteers to work in the botany labs and ship’s garden in his free time.
There, for the first time, is where Sulu encounters sentient plant life by way of meeting the prickly personality of Gertrude. He makes a friend he never dreamed of when he joined Starfleet. And sometimes while combing the soil for Gertrude’s comfort, a swelling of respect overtakes Sulu: for the botanists working diligently around him; for the life he is tasked to care for; but most of all, for the good man his father had been.
He wakes up with a measure of that nostalgia in the morning and carries it with him as he enters the botany labs.
Gertrude is sensitive to moods, a touch more empathetic than most of her kind. Recently she has been making enough of a fuss to keep the workers occupied from early morning to simulated sunset. Not being able to communicate directly with her, no one knows why. Today she is being given over to Sulu’s care by a frazzled lieutenant with the warning, “Something’s got her riled up bad. She shrieked until the other buds closed up. Can you talk to her, please? She likes you better than anyone.”
“Don’t worry,” Sulu comforts the young man, “I’ll see what I can do.”
A female botanist walks Gertrude over in her special traveling pot, whose quivering petals are fixed pointedly in Sulu’s direction. Both botanists leave with such haste that Sulu is insulted on Gertrude’s behalf.
He says kindly to his charge, “I’m sorry you feel unwell.”
Gertrude tilts her flowerhead toward his face.
Sulu has an idea and glances toward the wall chronometer to confirm if it is a viable one. “I know just the thing to cheer you up, Gertrude.”
He tucks her pot into the crook of his arm. Gertrude seems interested in where they are going, twisting this way and that as they exit into the main corridor running from the lab to the entrance of the ship’s spacious gardens. She complains a few times as they pass by others in the hallway as if they don’t suit her.
Sulu smiles to himself. He has long-suspected the reason for Gertrude’s acting out to be linked to a particularly notable absence. Of the small group of people whom Gertrude tolerates, only one person hasn’t been around her in the past two weeks—and she apparently is not happy about being forgotten.
But if Captain Kirk keeps his usual schedule, today he shall be enjoying a stroll through the gardens and so, with Sulu’s help, Gertrude can be reunited with her not-so-secret crush.
As they enter the gardens, Gertrude stills.
“Is he here?” Sulu whispers, pausing along the wide pathway so she put her talent to good use.
Gertrude perks up. Moments later, the flower trills softly.
Sulu silently congratulates himself. “Show me the way, little one.”
Gertrude does, facing a specific direction. Sulu lengthens his stride to take them as quickly as possible to their quarry. After Gertrude has had a chance to bask in Kirk’s attention, Sulu will take the man aside and explain to him succinctly why it’s not nice to disappoint a special little lady like Gertrude.
Gertrude has been humming since that first sweet trill. Now her excitement blatantly shows by her side-to-side swaying. It’s a good thing she has roots, thinks Sulu, or by now she would have taken a leap right out of her pot to find the captain and left Sulu behind to catch up on his own.
They turn the corner, and she sings a single high note.
Sulu jerks to a stop in the middle of the path. Stares.
Gertrude’s note falters.
A voice in the back of Sulu’s mind bleats helplessly, Don’t look! Close your eyes and turn around this instant, you fool! But the rest of him is too shocked to move, leaving him to gape openly at the two men in an embrace. They are completely oblivious to their audience and, in fact, to everything but each other.
Sulu feels like he has been clobbered upside the head.
Captain Kirk and Dr. McCoy are kissing.
As if the world comes life again, Gertrude shrieks deafeningly loud.
Kirk and McCoy jump apart.
Every inch of Sulu feels a frisson of energy, online and in sync again. He springs into action, taking off like an arrow released from the bow before Kirk can fully spin around to see who is screaming bloody murder.
Sulu doesn’t stop running until he is out of the gardens and safely in the corridor. An officer looks at him in displeasure when he nearly mows her down coming through the archway.
“Sorry,” he apologies, out of breath, but before she can answer (or chastise) him, Gertrude gives a final wail—has in fact been wailing the entire time. It cuts out suddenly when she slumps sideways.
“Gertrude!” Sulu gasps at the flower dangling limply over the side of the pot. Then he cries to the equally startled officer, “Call Dr. Heaton!”
The officer leaps toward the nearest wall comm, recognizing his alarm as genuine.
Sulu rushes back to the lab with Gertrude’s pot clutched to his chest, an arm extended to carefully supporting the limp flower to prevent any injury to her. Dr. Heaton, the ship’s head botanist, comes running full tilt into the lab a moment later along with two assistants.
“She had a shock and just f-fell over,” Sulu stutters.
Dr. Heaton inspects the plant with a calmness Sulu doesn’t feel. “She’s fainted.” He draws Sulu aside after ordering the assistants to transport Gertrude to the biodome where they will give her a quick nutrient-replenishment. “What happened?”
Sulu takes a moment to weigh his loyalty between his friend and the captain of the ship. It’s not an easy choice. “She saw—no, sorry, felt—a close acquaintance expressing affection with another person.”
Dr. Heaton says nothing.
“It’s my fault, sir,” Sulu adds quickly, disheartened. “I took her to the gardens to improve her mood, but I didn’t know—” His throat works a moment. “I didn’t think of the possibility that—”
Heaton stops him there, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, Mr. Sulu.”
“Gertrude was hurt,” he protests.
“Gertrude will recover. Yes, it is the nature of her species to bond emotionally with others but I think you know as well as I do that the possessiveness Gertrude harbors for the ones she forms connections with is a character trait of hers, not a biological imperative. Meaning, she needs to work on her willingness to share. Facing this disappointment won’t harm her.”
“Are you certain, sir?”
“Fairly certain, but of course I’ll keep you updated regarding any adverse impacts on her health.” Heaton smiles. “Then I expect you to talk sense into the girl.” He chuckles. “Think of it as practice for parenthood.”
That startles Sulu. Parenthood? “Wait a minute, just how old is Gertrude?”
“The equivalent in human years? Early adolescence.” The man’s laugh is more full-bodied. “She’s living the experiences of the young.”
The botanist turns for the room housing the biodome just as an assistant leans past the threshold to say, “She’s coming around now, Dr. Heaton. I think she wants to fuss at somebody.”
Heaton winks at Sulu. “I’ll take this first discussion. You take the next.”
He leaves Sulu behind wondering when the concept of ‘nurturing life’ turned to freefall into fatherhood.
Chekov sinks into the sofa with the look of a man who has seen something he cannot quite believe to be true. Sulu isn’t due to arrive for a half-hour and, studying Chekov with concern, Uhura thinks he needs to talk now.
“Pavel, are you okay?” she asks first, softly, turning to face him from her end of the sofa. “You’re not hurt?”
Chekov shakes his head slowly, the blankness of his gaze receding as he meets her stare. “I’m okay.”
“Christine says Mr. Spock is already on the mend. There won’t be any permanent damage to his hands.”
She hesitates, shuddering internally at the memory of the few details from the debriefing she had overheard. Even the walls of the Ready Room couldn’t contain Kirk’s explosion at the Admiralty, who still wanted to salvage the reputation of the now-defunct governor of Minoris. Because of that loathsome man, thinks Uhura fiercely, Mr. Spock had to suffer at the hands of mercenaries trying to force the governor to step down from his seat. She didn’t blame Kirk one bit for telling his superiors they have gone too far. Their loyalty should be to those officers who risked their lives in the name of the institution, not playing lapdog to the powerful. Though Uhura knows she is lucky not to have been part of that landing party to Minorius, if she had been, she is certain she would have tried to take out those bastards hurting her crewmates herself.
Poor Chekov. By the look of him, he is very traumatized by the experience.
“I’m so sorry,” she says softly. “I can’t imagine what it was like for you down here… but if you need someone to listen, I’m always here for you.”
The lieutenant shakes his head again, that haunted look still in his eyes. “It’s not… the torture… we had to watch,” explains Chekov at length. “Not entirely.”
She waits, silent.
Chekov lowers his gaze in shame. “It should be me in Sickbay, Uhura—would have been but for Mr. Spock. I was angry that they had tricked us, trapped us, that I kept needling the guards even though I should have kept calm like I was supposed to. Then when they came for one of us, those guards picked me to make an example of to the governor and the Keptin.” His voice drops to a whisper. “But Mr. Spock convinced them he was the better choice. I was furious at him. We all were. McCoy especially, because when he tried to do a double-trade, himself for Mr. Spock, the guards just laughed in his face and took Mr. Spock away.”
Uhura picks up her friend’s hand and squeezes it.
“Do you think Mr. Spock can forgive me?”
“I think he would say there’s nothing to forgive, Pavel—but I think you should ask him directly.” Only then will you start to forgive yourself, she thinks privately.
Chekov nods. “I tried to, earlier, but I seemed to be in everyone’s way, so I left Medical after M’Benga discharged us. The Keptin and Dr. McCoy were in the observation room with Mr. Spock anyway.”
She nods knowingly. “You should wait until Mr. Spock is moved to the common ward. Christine says by then, he will be ready to leave on his own but McCoy will still be reluctant about releasing him to his quarters. She also says she’ll look the other way if you decide to sneak in some reports to make his stay more bearable.”
“I could do that,” Chekov says, some color returning to his face. “Yes, I could.”
“Good.” She gives his hand a final pat, eases back, and is a little surprised to see his expression still undergoing some internal debate.
“Uhura,” Chekov starts, stops, then starts again. “Uhura, if you were glad to see me alive… would you kiss me?”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “You want me to kiss you?”
He flushes, cries, “No!”, then flushes further at the dismayed slant to her mouth, fumbling belatedly, “I don’t mean, you’re a nice person but we’re not, uh, that is.”
Uhura laughs and teases him goodnaturedly, “I know what you meant to say, dear. You’re a good friend too.” She laughs again, having rarely seen Chekov turn so red-faced. “So who did kiss you?”
“Not me,” mutters Chekov, sinking farther into the sofa cushions. He pauses. Then, “But let’s just say Dr. McCoy was very happy to have Mr. Spock back.”
Uhura opens her mouth but can’t think of anything to say to that.
Not until, that is, it occurs to her: “Was Captain Kirk there?”
Chekov’s eyes widen. He nods.
When Sulu finally joins them in the common room, Chekov and Uhura greet him enthusiastically but oddly won’t look each other in the eyes. By some unspoken pact, they don’t bring up the kiss again.
“It’s been some weeks since we last convened,” Uhura begins, taking in the carefully blank expressions of her team members. “Enough time to perhaps have an answer to our mystery?”
She understands the collective silence very well—and feels the same way about today’s proceedings. They must take great care given what comes next. Until recently, she did not quite realize how important that aspect was.
Uhura picks up the room’s main controller. “We’re going to vote on the most likely candidates. Voting is anonymous,” she assures everyone. “You will not be required to publically disclose your guess. Also, the information seen and discussed during this meeting is never to leave this room.” She puts some steel into her tone. “Is that clear?”
“Lass,” Scott soothes, breaking the others’ collective silence, “we know when to be discrete.”
Sulu looks grim. “Careers could be at stake if we aren’t.”
Sulu knows who it is, thinks Uhura.
Rand adds fiercely, “We’re Starfleet. We protect unions, not break them up.”
Good. Despite what she said at the last meeting, they seem to understand they shouldn’t be the cause of someone else’s heartbreak.
“We’re not that cruel,” Chapel echoes as if she can hear Uhura’s concerns.
“Hear, hear,” says Scott approvingly. “All right. On with it!”
Uhura pulls up the controller’s interface that connects to the computer built into the table and activates the privacy screen around each person seated at the table. She explains, “You have the ship’s personnel roster in front of you. Please select the individuals you believe are involved. It’s okay not to have a guess for all three.”
After the voting, the computer tabulates the results and she displays them on the viewscreen embedded in the wall at the end of the room.
Rand puts a hand to her mouth. Chapel turns to Uhura and, with tears in her eyes, abandons her chair to hug her friend. Scott seems to think his boots are fascinating. Chekov comes out of his seat to stand in front of the viewscreen as if seeing the results up close is required to believe them. He can be heard muttering, “Him too?”
Sulu eventually fetches Chekov back to the table, and everyone settles down.
Uhura clears her throat after a full minute of silence. “12 votes,” she summarizes, “equally distributed among Captain Kirk, Mr. Spock, and Dr. McCoy.”
Rand finally removes her hand from her mouth. “I knew the Captain had someone special. He’s been so happy lately. When I thought about who the person could be, it seemed like either Mr. Spock or Dr. McCoy, but I didn’t know for certain so I didn’t vote for them.” She trails off, looking at the rest of the team. “Are we absolutely sure about this?”
“We have to be,” states Scott. “There are people who won’t like their… relationship. And definitely some of those people,” here he winces, “are in high places.”
“It’s against regulations.”
Uhura knows Sulu is only stating a fact, yet hearing it said aloud makes her angry. Calling upon years of experience as a professional, she locks away her gut reaction, saying simply, “Not once they’re married.”
Sulu nods. “We just have to hope it happens before the Admiralty finds out.”
“So that’s why I didn’t see the Keptin?” Chekov questions. “Because he wanted to be circumspect since technically Dr. McCoy and Mr. Spock are his subordinates?”
Sulu’s sudden coughing fit makes Uhura wonder what he has seen that Chekov hasn’t.
Chapel pushes back from the table and stands up. “Can we all agree we support this and that we’re keeping it a secret?”
“Of course we do, and of course we will,” Uhura responds.
Scott waves a hand at the screen. “How does one even explain that?”
“I’d rather not,” Sulu says, his voice a touch dry. “It’s not our business anyway.”
Except they all made it their business up to this point, which means this secret must go to the grave if necessary, decides Uhura. She doesn’t say that because she knows every person in this room well enough to be certain they would agree. It’s not just a matter of solving a mystery, of fun and games. This is about keeping the private life of their superiors private. Kirk, Spock, and McCoy are good men who deserve their chance at happiness.
And she’s damned certain this team will fight anyone who feels otherwise.
“If we’re done here,” Chekov says, watching everyone, “anyone else hungry besides me?”
Scott pushes back his chair. “I could go for a drink.”
Uhura announces, “I thought as such so I booked us a party room in the officer’s lounge.”
Sulu snorts but looks approving as he makes his way to the closed door.
“I love a party,” declares Chekov. He asks Rand, “Have you had borscht? No? It is a delicious soup. Like Scotch, it was invented in Russia.”
The Chief Engineer wags a finger at the young navigator. “Don’t be telling the lady lies, Mr. Chekov! Everybody knows Scotch comes from Scotland!”
Fire comes into Chekov’s eyes. “Says who?”
Chapel motions for Rand to join her, Uhura, and Sulu at the doorway. “They’ll catch up,” she tells the yeoman, indicating the two men now openly debating the history of good whiskey.
The group exits the conference room in unison.
When the holiday season is in full swing and the corridors of the Enterprise are bustling with more activity than normal, one man races headlong for the crew mess with palpable excitement. He bursts onto the scene unannounced, startling more than half of its occupants with the exuberant cry, “It came! It came!”
Navigator Pavel Chekov rushes over to the circular table which harbors the individuals he considers to be the core group of the Starfleet’s flagship—and his friends. Upon skidding to a stop, he thrusts a PADD under Sulu’s nose, laughing gleefully.
“Oh, good,” Chapel says, “so everyone’s gotten an invitation.”
Chekov stops laughing. “What do you mean ‘everyone’?”
Rand rolls her eyes. “It’s an open party, Pavel. I would know because our captain can’t plan a fancy event to save his life, much less his own wedding!”
Chekov takes back his PADD, looking down in dismay at what he assumed would be an exclusive invite to the wedding of the century. Now it seems somehow less special.
“Oh,” he says, and sits down next to Mr. Scott, who ignores the group at large in favor of swiping through his own PADD while muttering about a replacement capacitor.
Uhura and Chapel turn to Rand in disbelief. “Who picked the theme?” Uhura wants to know.
“I did,” Rand says.
Chapel demands, “And the menu?”
“I did.”
Both women look affronted.
Chekov leans toward Sulu. “Why are they upset?”
Sulu surmises, “I think they’re surprised our superiors weren’t interested in details like the wedding colors or the cake.”
“Cake is cake,” Chekov states, bemused. “As long as it tastes good, what does it matter?”
He has a feeling he said something he shouldn’t have when Sulu looks pained and Uhura, Rand, and Chapel fix narrow gazes upon him. He elbows Mr. Scott in hopes of having a supporter on his side.
Scott starts at the touch, and a nutrient tilts off his spoon. He looks up, blinks, and surveys the expressions around the table. “Did I miss something?”
“Monty,” Uhura says innocently to the confused man, “when you get married, what kind of cake would you like at the reception?”
“Silver cake,” he answers immediately. His gaze turns dreamy. “Shaped like the fair Lady Enterprise.” Then he clears his throat, seeming to remember his present company, and amends, “Whatever my future wife wants.” He shrugs. “One of us should choose, right?”
Uhura smirks. Chapel and Rand make tsking noises at Chekov.
The young man ducks his head, mutters about something ordering kolbasa before they’re all gone and slinks out of his chair. Sensibly, he lingers a while by the food dispensers before returning with his tray of food.
Sulu makes some remark that has Scott snorting juice out his nose and Uhura laughing so hard she cries. Chapel points to an empty seat next to her, and Chekov dutifully takes it.
All is forgiven and forgotten, he realizes a moment later as Chapel steals a piece of his toast and Rand finds them a fresh pitcher of coffee for refills.
These men and women have become more than close friends and a strong team.
They are family.
Seer Grezhar, intently or not, did them all a huge favor with his great prediction.
Chekov bites into a sausage and joins the conversation.
Epilogue
Three figures shimmer and form atop a landing pad on Deep Space Station K5.
“I’ve never heard so much cheering and catcalls in my life.” Dr. Leonard McCoy looks over at his new husband. “You liked it, didn’t you?” He turns to his other new husband. “You saw it, Spock, how Jim ate up all that attention!”
“Bones, what’s your point?” As he says this, Kirk takes McCoy’s hand to assist him in stepping down from the platform, although the act is entirely unnecessary (but no one seems to notice that). “Jealous already?” he teases.
McCoy flings Kirk’s helping hand back at him. “Who are you callin’ jealous?”
Spock joins them. “Jim is merely appreciative of the enormous show of support from our colleagues.”
The doctor rounds on the Vulcan, a finger pointed in his direction. “You always take his side!”
Spock catches that finger and rubs it against his own fingers. “You, Doctor, always see fit to express your opinion through an extreme outburst of emotion.”
Seeing the deep, pleased flush to McCoy’s skin, Kirk shifts to block the view of any onlookers. “Before any of us feels any more ‘spirited’, we should check into our hotel.” A moment later, his stomach quite loudly makes itself known.
“And find a decent meal apparently,” remarks McCoy dryly as he retracts his hand and composes himself. “I gave you a plate of food at the reception, Jim. Didn’t you eat any of it?”
“There were so many well-wishers,” murmurs the man.
“I believe he had a piece of cake.”
McCoy cuts his eyes to Spock. “I didn’t give him cake.”
Behind McCoy’s back, Kirk deliberately widens his eyes. Attuned to this signal, Spock swiftly produces a data padd and says, “I will locate our hotel.”
Before McCoy can pursue the matter of the cake further—for Spock will tell him if pressed—Kirk grabs his husband from behind and whispers into his ear, “Would you like to hear about my plans for tonight, Bones?”
McCoy hisses, “Jim,” and in response, Kirk kisses the skin just above the collar of McCoy’s dress uniform. Then he loosens his grip on the man.
McCoy doesn’t go far, turning around so that they are nose-to-nose. “Anybody ever tell you’re trouble, Jim Kirk?”
“All the time,” Kirk says pleasantly. “But I like it best when you say it.”
“This is why I said I’d only marry you if you asked Spock too.” McCoy gives Kirk a soft kiss to take any potential sting from the words, though Kirk’s eyes are dancing merrily at the memory. “An old country doctor needs all the help he can get when chasing after trouble.”
“Spock,” Kirk says a few kisses later and as the Vulcan returns, “where’s that hotel?”
“Taken care of, Jim,” Spock assures him. “Their transport service will be here momentarily for pick up.” He lifts an eyebrow at the snug embrace of his husbands. “Is this not an example of acting ‘spirited’ in public?”
McCoy explains, “Jim just said that because he’s the jealous type who doesn’t want everybody watching you and me get frisky.”
“I’m not that possessive,” Kirk protests. “I simply think that, given it is my wedding night, I should be the primary audience.”
Spock’s gaze darkens. “Room service will provide dinner tonight.”
“See what you did, Jim-boy?” McCoy whispers to Kirk. “Now somebody’s in a hurry.”
“Good.” Kirk keeps one hand anchored on McCoy and offers the other hand to Spock. “I prefer us all on the same page.”
A voice calls out, “I’m here for Spock, party of three?”
“Even better,” hoots McCoy, “our ride’s here. Honeymoon, here we come!” He grabs Kirk’s arm and tugs both husbands toward the cab driver standing at the edge of the courtyard.
A few of the passers-by give their applause at the declaration. Kirk cannot help but grin broadly and say loudly, “Thank you! Thank you very much!”
“There he goes again,” McCoy claims, and forthwith Spock hustles everyone into the shuttle alongside their grinning driver.
On the opposite side of K5, a man in a luxury dressing gown bolts upright from his slumber, the wisps of a strong vision still clinging to his inner eye. He is sweating.
Part of him had been convinced the threat wasn’t imminent, that he would have time to react, years to plan. A smaller part foolishly believed this problem would never land on his doorstep when there exists a galaxy full of criminals to be brought to justice.
Oh, but how cruel the cosmos can be, even to a special one such as him.
He finds his comm unit among his nightmare-strewn bedcovers and rapidly texts his assistant. Cancel all appointments! Do not open the shop! Delete this number!
He must leave the station—nay, the quadrant!—immediately. But where is that damned ledger? Where is it?
He tears through every nook and cranny of his room, shakes out the pockets of his seer’s robes, digs through the recycle bin before, at last, collapsing in despair among the destroyed remnants of his belongings.
He closes his eyes, demanding of his inner eye to show him the whereabouts of the only evidence linking him to the shady underworld of the station. It isn’t that he is a bad person, simply a greedy one with, quite literally, a wealth of foresight.
Foresight that, in his greatest time of need, he dared not to heed properly.
The inner eye shows him the ledger stuck between the toilet and sink of the penthouse at K5’s most luxurious hotel. After his clandestine meeting with the station master to collect on the latest bribes, his forgetfulness—the bane of old age—has struck again.
The inner eye also shows him the triangle in the sky, newly formed and glowing, above the hotel.
He moans, still entangled in the vision and the prophecy.
“And so the fear descends upon us, the Unjust and Inglorious,” Seer Grezhar intones in the silence of his bedroom, heedless of himself, “falling in the shadow of a magnificent power, this Triumvirate, who heralds an age of love and an age of harmony. They. Have. Come.”
He opens his eyes and thinks to describe his situation succinctly thus: “Shit!”
The End
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