U.S.S. Enterprise
Outside the Pergamum Nebula
“The war is over. Enterprise is recalled from Pergamum Nebula. Destination to follow.”
It had been short, as all their transmissions from Starfleet had been. And sweet—that was a change.
The news of the cessation of hostilities had arrived just as Enterprise was limping out of the nebula, using a Boundless-suggested route that took them through the Acheron Formation with far less drama along the way. The timing made for a psychologist’s buffet of mixed feelings.
Relief, of course, for the war’s end—and for the end to their isolation.
They had spent months longer than the appointed year in the body, and their stay had been difficult in the extreme. And yet, as bad as all the experiences of Enterprise’s crew had been, as more accounts came in about the traumas back home, a mixture of anger, grief, and regret filled the corridors.
Hell had been visited on the Federation, and they had been away. Kept away, Pike felt—where they’d wound up in the wrong war. Many aboard questioned where they’d been, and what they’d done. Pike had thought to remind others that the Boundless had been trapped in a mistake for centuries—but he’d decided that was better left unsaid. His crew was smart. People could figure that out on their own.
It wasn’t long after Enterprise began making its way home that the transfers began. Shuttles dispatched from the ship on a nearly daily basis, sending some away in exchange for their overdue relief officers; others, like Raden, to be with family or friends impacted by the Klingon War. The young Ktarian had shown true dedication despite his injuries, but Pike had missed his longtime helmsman. His command hadn’t been the same without a Tyler on the bridge.
And others were entertaining opportunities to help rebuild the fleet. No one had as many offers as Galadjian, who had resumed holding spirited conversations with a team that idolized him now more than ever. The tale of a prize-winning theoretician crawling around Jefferies tubes and teaching himself starship repair with a data slate had spread far beyond Enterprise. Pike expected to hear any day that he was heading for his own Starfleet Corps of Engineering command, continuing Enterprise’s game of chief engineer roulette.
Possibly the best reason for leaving was Carlotti’s, as she had begun her leave with her new child. He didn’t know whether she, or any of them, would be back. Whatever happened, for the next few months a much different crew would run Enterprise, presuming Starfleet didn’t take one look at its damage and decommission the thing. But he still had Nhan, Connolly, Colt, and many others—
—plus the two he cared most for, and had been most concerned about of late. He stood at the door of the first one, and got ready to wait. Spock had taken ever longer, lately, to respond to the request to enter.
The door opened to admit Pike to a darkened room. He looked about. Spock kept tidy personal quarters normally, but this seemed different. Unlived in. The bed appeared unused.
Spock sat on the floor, staring at nothing. His candles remained on the shelves, unlit. Pike asked anyway. “Meditating?”
“I . . . cannot meditate.”
Pike edged his way into Spock’s view. The science officer didn’t look up. “We’ve missed you on the bridge lately.”
Seemingly lost, Spock spoke to the air. “What time is it?”
“Not that time.”
Pike knew that Spock had barely slept in weeks—continuing to cite the debilitating nightmares. Boyce could do nothing for him. Spock had tried to return to his station during the journey from K’davu, but he had grown so ineffective that often he just sat on the bridge, hand covering his mouth as he looked at his terminal. Pike thought it might be to cover the mouthing of words, which, while better than mumbling, had never subsided.
He saw a data slate on Spock’s table. It was still active. “Still working on Defoe, I see.”
“Yes.”
From past attempts at conversations, he knew that Spock had been trying—intentionally or not—to retrace his life from his exile on Skon’s World, including reading things he had read during that time. But this, Pike saw, was a later Defoe work. “A Journal of the Plague Year. Didn’t we just live through that?”
“No. It is . . . about . . .”
“I know. The black death.” Pike reached down and shut the slate off. “Spock, you should be reading cheerier stuff. Doing cheerier stuff.”
“I have been . . . drawing.”
Pike looked over at the desk before deciding not to look at his art. It was too private, and Spock’s condition was not something amenable to a pep talk—from a captain, or a friend. But there was one thing he and Spock shared. Sitting in one of the Vulcan chairs nearby, he clasped his hands together and spoke into the darkness.
“Spock, I want to tell you something. I’ve had moments like these too. I nearly got crushed as a kid—” He paused. “No, it’s not that. It’s more recent than that. It’s Talos IV, Spock. I was there, and I think I still am. Buried, under all that rock.”
He looked over at his friend. Spock was mouthing words, not fully listening.
Pike looked away at the ceiling. “I see that place, Spock. I see Vina all the time. You were there, Spock. Do you see them?” He looked to him. “You knew to use Talos IV as a code I would recognize. Do you remember that?”
Spock clasped his own hands in front of his face, the same way Pike had. “I remember . . .”
“I don’t dare bring it up because I know they’ll lock me away, pull me off the ship. And I have obligations. These people need me, Spock.” He leaned over, toward him. “You need me.”
“You . . . need me,” Spock parroted.
“Yes, Spock. We need you.”
“Captain . . . I request you . . . take me to . . .”
“Take you where, Spock?”
“. . . a facility. Where I can be helped.”
Pike simply breathed. It was the only thing he’d asked for in weeks.
“Sure thing, Spock. I’ll take you.”
Eyes wild, Spock grabbed the captain’s hands, surprising him. “I will take you, Christopher Pike. To be helped.”
“No, Spock. I’ll take you. You’ll get help—and I’ll see you again. I swear.”
Pike felt he had already been made a liar—this time, by obligations to a larger number. Starfleet had not approved the captain’s absence, and he could not leave his post until he got the rest of his crew all the way home. Boyce had accompanied Spock aboard shuttle Copernicus, delivering him to a mental health facility on Starbase 5.
The doctor was available because Carlotti’s relief had arrived, but also because he had no patients left to tend. Una, with no more reminder of her Rengru joining than a light scar on the back of her neck, joined Pike on the observation deck.
“Good evening, Number One.”
“And to you. I wanted to let you know that the final turbolift has been repaired.”
“That is the best news I’ve had in a year and a half.” He stretched against the viewport. “Why’d we put it off so long?”
“Too much else to fix,” she said. “There still is. We attempted to bring the holographic systems up again today—that was a mistake.”
“I saw what happened to the lights—I was afraid it was Defoe all over again. I think the ship’s in about the same shape as her crew.”
She nodded. “Well, there’s something they won’t mind. I got word: Starfleet’s awarded Extended Tour Ribbons for everyone aboard.”
“That’s the least they should get. Anybody who helped get that saucer section aloft is an honorary engineer in my book.” He looked to her. “How’s our acting chief science officer settling in?”
“Connolly is . . . always right. And anxious for action.”
“Before the Boundless, he was a little headstrong. I thought the last year would have humbled him some, and maybe it did, a little. But he seems to have taken his survival as a sign to push even harder. I just hope he doesn’t flame out.” He thought for a moment. “It’s probably not a big deal. It’s not a permanent step-up.”
She nodded. “How long do you think Spock will be gone?”
“However long it takes.”
“He does have months and months of leave accumulated.”
“I hope they can reach him. Nothing I’ve told him since K’davu has gotten much reaction. Not when I told him about the war—or when I said Discovery had been found.”
“Oh, I think he’s hearing,” Una said, rubbing the back of her neck. “But maybe he’s like I was with the Rengru. He’s hearing too much.”
He looked at her. “How?”
“The Illyrians’ and the Vulcans’ minds aren’t that different. Hit them with anything that can make sense, and they’ll find a way to sort it out.”
“But if it doesn’t make sense . . .”
She took his hand. “They’re going to help him, Chris. And we’ll all get home, and you can ride a horse.”
Pike took a deep breath. “Believe me, I’m going to take a few months and just—”
“Captain, this is Nicola.”
“That’s probably Boyce calling in,” he said to Una. “Have we received a signal, Lieutenant?”
“Not one, sir. Seven.”
Seven? “We’ll be there. Pike out.”
Una and Pike looked at one another. “Seven? What could that mean?” she asked.
“I know exactly what it means,” Pike said, already heading for the turbolift. “No rest for the weary.”