by S. D. Perry
The doctor was sitting with his back to the door, hunched over a computer monitor, still cursing quietly to himself as Chekov walked into the room.
“Dr. McCoy?”
The doctor started, then turned around with a look of perfect irritation. “What is it, Ensign? Can’t you see I’m busy?”
Chekov backed up a step, raising his hands. “My apologies, Doctor. I was walking by, and heard you—saying something, that’s all. Excuse me.”
He turned to leave, but McCoy apparently hadn’t finished with him yet. “Why are you skulking around down here, anyway? Don’t you have anything better to do?”
Chekov turned back, shrugging. “I was just checking a relay. Sir.”
McCoy stared at him, a thoughtful look coming over his scowling face. Chekov waited, wondering if Joanna’s shift was over already. He hoped not.
“Mr. Chekov . . .” the doctor said finally, “didn’t you tell me the other day that you could find people? With a computer?”
Chekov raised his head proudly. “Yes, sir. If they exist anywhere, I can find them. It’s in my blood, you know.”
“So I’ve heard,” McCoy said. “I’ve been trying to track down an old friend of mine . . . a lady friend . . . and I’m not getting anywhere. This is totally unofficial, of course, I’m hoping to avoid any paperwork, or any talk about it—”
Another man searching for love. “Say no more, Doctor. In the words of the great Russian politician Busdeyanov, ‘I’m the man for the job.’”
McCoy nodded. “I always wondered who started that. So, how long do you think something like this might take?”
“How long has your friend been missing?”
“Two years.”
“She’s in Starfleet?”
“No . . . but she’s a doctor, a research scientist.”
Chekov thought about it, then nodded firmly. “Two days. Three, at most.”
McCoy scowled anew. “That long? What are you going to do, send out postcards?”
Awfully touchy for someone asking a favor—though Chekov supposed he could understand. Love made men crazy.
And if Dr. McCoy hasn’t seen his lady friend for two years, it’s no wonder.
“As I said before, I have a few connections—but it may take some time for them to get back to me, that’s all,” Chekov said. He actually only had one connection, the younger brother of a friend’s friend who happened to work in a Federation records office, and it had been at least a year since they’d last spoken, but Chekov saw no reason that the doctor should know that; chances were good that he’d be able to find McCoy’s friend by himself, anyway, and within and hour or two. Most Russians were just naturally computer-savvy, and he was no exception.
“Oh. I see,” McCoy said uncertainly. He stood and pulled a data chip out of the console he’d been sitting at, walking over to hand it to him. “Well, here’s all the information I have. You won’t tell anyone about this . . .”
Chekov was wounded. “Of course not, sir. A man’s private affairs are his own business . . . particularly when there’s a lady involved.”
McCoy coughed, looking away. “Yes, well. You’ll come to me as soon as you have anything?”
“You can count on it, Doctor.”
The older man stood for another moment, slightly red in the face. When he spoke, it was nearly a mumble. “I, ah, appreciate this, Mr. Chekov.”
“Don’t even mention it, sir. I know you’d do the same for me.” He didn’t, actually, but it seemed like the comradely thing to say.
McCoy coughed again, nodded, and quickly left the room.
Proud to be of service, Chekov pocketed the chip—and realized that he now had the perfect excuse to be in engineering. He could tell Joanna that he was helping a friend . . . no, that he was instrumental in an investigation to help a friend . . . an officer friend . . . in a matter of utmost importance. A priority matter, about which he’d been sworn to secrecy. Alec or Alex the boring lab technician couldn’t possibly compete.
Chekov grinned, images of Joanna’s admiring gaze clear in his mind. He patted the chip and went to find her, new hope blooming in his heart like a delicate Russian rose.
* * *
As the last of the audience filed out of the conference room, Suni decided that Bendes could go it without her for a little while. How many times had she told him not to get carried away, that there was a time and place for everything? Had he listened? Obviously not. He’d embarrassed himself and her, selfishly spouting off without a thought in his head but how right he was. He was a brilliant scientist, true enough, but the rest of him could stand a major overhaul.
Suni turned to Jim. “I don’t want to see him right now. Let’s get out of here, I need a drink.”
The captain nodded, standing as she did, his first officer doing the same. “I don’t blame you. Mr. Spock, would you care to join us?”
Suni could hear a note of reluctance in Jim’s invitation, and either Spock heard it, too, or he had other plans. “No, Captain, but thank you. Dr. Suni . . .”
The half Vulcan nodded politely at her. She shot him a brief smile, then turned and walked quickly toward the exit, wanting out before Bendes spotted her among the rapidly waning crowd. After a few words with his first officer, Jim hurried to catch up to her.
The corridor was filled with excited conversation, the tone of it what one would have expected—disdain for Kettaract and questions about his past, mostly, but also a number of debates about the merits of his statements. A good number of the scientists were Starfleet, and not everyone disagreed with what he’d said.
God, what a mess.
She stared out at the bickering crowd, astounded by Bendes’s recklessness.
Jim touched her arm. “Jain, are you all right?”
She nodded, turning to face him. The expression he wore—concern, compassion, his genuine like for her as clear in his eyes as polished dilithium—was touching, if misplaced. She wasn’t upset, she was mad as hell. She needed a distraction, she needed to not think about Bendes Kettaract and his destructively self-righteous ego for a little while . . . and she saw the answer in Jim Kirk’s sweet expression.
“I’m fine, thank you,” she said. “Really, I don’t want to talk about it . . . or hear about it, for that matter, and it’s going to be all over the station in about ten minutes. There’s a bottle of wine in my quarters . . . would you join me?”
She looked into his eyes as she asked it, and saw that he understood the implications of her question. Still, he hesitated a few seconds before answering, and in that small space of time, she saw a depth of deliberate caution and self-control in him that she hadn’t suspected. That, and something unfamiliar, something she wasn’t sure about until he asked a question of his own.
“Are you sure that’s what you want?”
He was trying to watch out for her; he was trying not to take advantage. That unfamiliar thing was protectiveness, and it made her feel vulnerable to him suddenly, so much so that she almost retracted her invitation . . . but at the same time, his chivalrous warmth thrilled her, it made her want him even more. To be alone with him, to be touched by him, looking into his eyes and seeing what she saw now . . .
“I’m sure,” she said, her heart beating faster at the gentle smile her response elicited. “Positive.”
He offered her his arm and the two of them started down the corridor, the thought of Bendes Kettaract seeming like the least important thing in the universe, second only to the irony of her sudden intense desire for James Kirk.
* * *
Spock waited until the small, enthusiastic crowd surrounding Dr. Kettaract gradually melted away before approaching, hoping to receive the doctor’s undivided attention. He was still unable to recall the reason by which he associated Kettaract’s past with conflict, but had already decided that he would investigate the matter upon returning to the Enterprise.
Kettaract was following his last supporter toward the doors of the conference room whe
n Spock stepped up to meet him.
“Dr. Kettaract. I’m wondering if I might have a moment of your time.”
Kettaract turned to look at him, his reaction upon seeing Spock one of surprised recognition . . . turning quickly to a guarded wariness. The doctor folded his arms, staring steadily at him.
“You’re Spock. From the Enterprise.”
“I am.”
“Tell me,” Kettaract asked, a note of challenge in his voice, “have I merited your support or your condemnation?”
“Neither, sir,” Spock said. “I’m merely curious. The fervency with which you have expressed yourself is uncommonly strong.”
Kettaract laughed suddenly, a high, harsh sound that indicated scorn or derision—though Spock did not believe it was directed at him. “And you want to know why, is that right? You, of all people.”
Spock was puzzled by his reaction. “I fail to see, sir, why my interest might be distinct from another’s.”
“Do you really?”
The physicist glanced around the nearly empty room before leaning forward, his voice lowered as if in confidence. “After what you did to even out the playing field, as it were, you and your good friend Captain Kirk—you expect me to believe that you don’t understand where I’m coming from?”
Not willing to deny some understanding, Spock didn’t answer, waiting for him to expand, to clarify—although Kettaract’s open accusation could only be about the theft of the Romulan cloaking device. Considering the covert nature of the mission, Spock was quite surprised that Kettaract was aware of it—and even more so that he appeared willing, even eager to volunteer his knowledge.
“Starfleet Intelligence called me in to study it,” Kettaract said, his tone flat with anger. “Whenever they get their hands on some piece of advanced alien technology, I’m one of the first ones they call. In fact, Starfleet is currently preparing sensor-array upgrades based on my report.”
“And because of this, you feel that I possess a particular awareness of your feelings regarding Federation technology?” Spock asked, choosing his words carefully. He did not share Kettaract’s rather casual attitude toward disclosure—and as fascinated as he was by the unusual conversation, he was forced by personal conviction and duty to consider its cessation.
At his question, Kettaract’s demeanor changed, turning from anger to what Spock perceived as frustration.
“We have the technology,” Kettaract said. “Starfleet has the means to make a decisive stand against its enemies, and it’s just sitting there, collecting dust. And all because the Federation wants to play fair, they want to pretend that they’re too good to resort to anything so unflattering as winning. It’s a pretense of virtue, a sham.”
Spock nodded, understanding finally. “You object to Starfleet’s policy against the use of certain technologies that they have acquired.”
“Obviously,” Kettaract snapped—and then frowned, peering closely at Spock. “And actually, I don’t understand why you don’t. You’re a Vulcan. They ordered you to lie and steal, I read the report . . . tell me, how did you rationalize it, Mr. Spock? And how do you now rationalize the hypocrisy that your mission and its outcome has exposed?”
The questions were valid, but unacceptable. Spock had not admitted to anything, nor could he. “I am unable to respond, sir.”
Kettaract nodded. “Of course not. But if I were you, I would consider it, because you never know when things might change. The Federation wants to set an example, they want everything to evolve at a nice, even pace, so that nobody can win. But if Starfleet ever gets hold of something truly significant, do you honestly doubt they’ll hesitate in using it?”
Spock was considering a response in spite of the question’s rhetorical nature, when Kettaract’s communicator sounded. The doctor pulled it from his belt and flipped it open, half turning away from Spock.
“Kettaract.”
“Dr. Kettaract, this is M-20 Communications.” A young male voice. Spock could hear him clearly. “Sir, we’ve just received a text message field for you . . .”
“Go ahead.”
“Actually, sir, there is no message,” the young male said. “Only the name of the sender was received, one, ah, John Hermes, but the field was blank.”
Kettaract glanced at Spock. “John Hermes . . . no message? Can you trace the line back?”
“No, sir, I’m sorry. It came in through the main sector relay.”
“Figures,” Kettaract said, sighing. “Thank you.”
He closed the communicator, facing Spock again.
“Technology at its finest. Well. As much as I’ve enjoyed our little nonconversation, I imagine my welcome at this conference is about to be rescinded, and I’d like to leave before I’m forced to. If you’ll excuse me, Commander.”
Spock nodded, although he doubted very much that the summit organizers would eject the physicist. Kettaract walked away, his thin shoulders hunched, already reaching for his communicator again.
He stood for a moment, considering Bendes Kettaract . . . and decided that he would return to the Enterprise promptly, his curiosities only heightened by their brief encounter. Spock decided also that his earlier assessment of the day as “engaging” had been accurate, but much too mild a sentiment.
* * *
Jain’s rooms were much like Darres’s, plush but nondescript, and by unspoken agreement, they left the lights low. They chatted about nothing at all—a childhood pet, a memory from school—as she uncorked the wine, a kind of burgundy, Jain sticking to her resolution not to discuss Kettaract or the panel. She poured each of them a full glass before joining Kirk on the couch, and drank half of hers in one swallow before leaning back against the cushions, sighing heavily.
“Excuse me,” she said, smiling. “I believe it’s supposed to be sipped.”
“I believe you’re right,” Kirk said, tasting from his glass. The wine was rich and sweet, very good. He was about to say as much when Jain took another deep swallow and set her glass aside, moving closer. Her leg touched his, and he felt a surge of warmth, of want, as she reached out and plucked the wineglass from his willing fingers. She put it on the low table in front of the couch before turning to face him, moving still closer—and although her intent was obvious, he saw a trace of uncertainty in her eyes, the same he’d seen outside the conference room.
As she leaned forward, he reached out and cupped her face with both hands, stopping her.
“Jain . . .” He searched her face, searched for words that would express all the things he wanted to tell her—that she was beautiful, smart, exciting, that he wanted to kiss her, to make love to her, but . . .
“We don’t have to hurry,” he said, meaning it for her sake. “It’s all right with me if we don’t—if you—”
“Kiss me,” she whispered, and the last of his reserve fell away. He pulled her close, kissing her, marveling at the softness of her lips and skin, at the sweet taste of burgundy and her mouth, at the scent of her hair, like peaches. Her arms came up across his back, a soft, yearning sound in her throat as her fingers twined through his hair—
—and her communicator beeped. Once. Again. A third time.
Against him, Jain had tensed. Kirk reluctantly broke their kiss, unable to help a smile at the look of black irritation on her face as she leaned away from him, fumbling at her belt.
“Somebody hates me,” she said, standing. She opened the device, running a hand through her hair.
“Suni.”
“Jain, it’s Bendes. I’m—”
“Hang on,” she said, glancing apologetically at Kirk before walking toward the bedroom.
Kirk took a deep breath and blew it out, reaching for his glass. He could hear the angry tone of her voice if not her words, and from the sound of it, he almost felt sorry for Kettaract.
Almost. The smell of peaches still lingered.
He clearly heard her ask, “John? Not Tom, you’re sure?,” and then her voice lowered, became serious, barely audible
.
Kirk sipped his wine, impatient for her return. Any suspicion of uncertainty on her part was gone, lost in the total abandonment with which she’d returned his kiss . . .
“Jim.”
He looked up, saw her standing in the bedroom’s entrance—and knew immediately, from the look on her face and the unhappiness with which she’d spoken his name, that something had come up.
Kirk put down his glass and stood, straightening his uniform, wishing that communicators didn’t exist. Jain moved to stand in front of him, the disappointment clear on her face.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, taking his hand. “Bendes—Dr. Kettaract—has decided that it’s time for us to leave. He’s already at the ship, and I’ve got about five minutes to get there. Believe me, if there was any way . . .”
Kirk forced a smile. “Where are you going?”
“Back to the lab—Jim, the project we’ve been working on, it’s going to be over with soon. My part in it, anyway—”
“How soon?” He asked, gazing down into her astounding eyes. Scientific consultants had traveled on the Enterprise before, many times.
“Maybe a few weeks. Maybe only days,” she said.
“How can I contact you?” he asked, brushing her dark hair away from her forehead.
“You can’t, and please don’t try,” she said. “It’s a security matter, I’m sorry. But I can get in touch with you . . . if you want.”
“I want.” He leaned over and kissed her firmly, already wistful for her as she walked him to the door. He offered to see her to her ship but she shook her head, sounding just as wistful as he felt.
“It’s better this way,” she said, stopping just short of triggering the door. “More private.”
They embraced, tightly, and said good-bye, and then he was alone, the door closed between them.
Chapter Nine
Returning to the Enterprise almost a full hour before the captain, Spock had ample time to research Bendes Kettaract—and to look into circumstances which might prove valuable in the imminent future, depending on his conversation with Kirk. Spock had asked to be alerted when the captain called for transport, arriving just as he was walking out of the transporter room.
