Title: In
This Galaxy
Author: tprillahfiction
Series: ST TOS
Mirror Universe (RPF)
Pairings: MU!Spock/De Kelley, prior MU!Spock/MU!McCoy,
De Kelley/Carolyn Kelley
Rating: R
Words: 9,129
Warning: Non-con, dubious consent.
Summary: The
ISS Enterprise kidnaps DeForest Kelley from 1968.
Disclaimer: Star Trek is owned by Paramount. Features real people engaging in fictional activities.
_____________
He felt dizzy as he opened his eyes on the transporter
platform. Nevertheless he delivered his first line: “Jim, the Kollasians
are in desperate need of medical attention and I uh, uh--” He went up on
his line, suddenly annoyed. The two ding dongs: Bill and Lenny, were off
their marks, standing about a yard from where they should be. From 7am the two
men had been in strange, all together much too jovial moods, wasting take after take.
Great. They were going to have to move on to take twelve. He scowled at them and said out of the side of his mouth. “If
you two don’t quit screwing around--I’d kinda like to wrap at a decent hour.”
“Fascinating.”
“Looks just like him.”
He stared for a moment at the two of ‘em. The pair were clad in the wrong costumes for the scene. In fact they were attired in the outfits from the recent Mirror Mirror episode they’d shot a few
weeks ago but hadn’t been aired yet. Leonard was wearing that beard again. Bill
and Leonard both wore that thick black eyeliner on their eyes to make them look convincingly evil. There was that sleeveless
gold captain’s costume, the metallic blue science uniform, replete with gold sashes and thigh high go go boots. He arched a ‘McCoy eyebrow’ at the sight.
“When did you two have time to change?”
They continued to stare at him.
“Bill. Leonard?”
he said, stepping off the circles, moving carefully down the steps. “Did
I go into a coma or something, and now we’re shootin’: ‘Mirror 2’ or ‘Return to Mirror, Mirror’?”
Bill smiled, a terrifying grin that didn’t reach
the eyes. “Spock? Care to
escort your husband to your quarters?”
“Huh?”
De glanced around. Where was the wilded set? The transporter room should only be three sides. Joe Pevney
should just be standing right next to camera--only there was no camera. No crew
to speak of: No Bob Justman, no 1st AD Rusty Meek, no Eddie Milkis, no DP Jerry
Finnerman, no grips, no lighting guys chattering on the catwalks above them, no coffee urn with the pile of donuts, no lights,
no chairs, no apple boxes, no Gene Coon growling about how much money they were blowing, no Gene Roddenberry’s snickering
from behind a wall, no boom mic with Elden Ruberg sitting on his high chair wearing the cans.
Bizarre.
They were only three in number here, contained in an
actual room. “Husband? What? Oh, no, I uh--” De gave out a hearty laugh.
“Okay. This is a joke. Right? Pick on poor ol’ De day! Okay,
I’m on to you!” he announced to the missing crew. “ You can come out now, Gene! Joke’s over.” He strode around the much larger
than usual transporter room, impressed, examining the console’s blinking lights.
There was no sound of fans blowing, no faint smell of paint. The transporter
appeared to hum and actually seemed like it could operate, the rooms illumination coming from an unknown source. “Man! Look at this!
Looks real! I gotta hand it to the set designer, such detail, just for
a practical joke! Bet that Gerrold kid’s got something to do with this!” He felt for his cigs but of course since they were shooting they sat on his now missing
chair.
“He’s a little softer spoken than the real
deal,” Bill said. “A little too happy. But he’ll do. Won’t he Spock?”
“Indeed.”
Suddenly Bill whipped out a phaser and pointed it directly
at De’s chest. “Go with the Vulcan, Mister.”
De scoffed and folded his arms. “You’re threatening
me with a Feinberger.”
Leonard strode up, grabbed hold. De tried to shake off the warm hand but found himself unable to.
Leonard pulled and De was yanked towards the direction of the exit door, following Bill.
As soon as the pneumatic door opened for them, a tiny,
irrational bit of panic formed in the pit of his chest. They should never hear
that sound in real life; the reality being a scraping noise from a guy in back opening the heavy wooden doors. The Glen-Glen swoosh sound effect was always added in post. Yet
here it was now. “What the hell?
All this? Just for a practical joke?”
The hand tightened uncomfortably onto his arm.
In the corridor, which was always connected to the transporter
room set--no different here, thank God-- extras hurriedly saluted before they moved past.
The ‘Mirror Universe’ logo had been painted prominately on the wall.
Still no visible film crew to speak of. A pair of background artistes
cast as ‘personal guards’ joined them. One made up as Vulcan and
one apparently human.
However, his panic amped up as they moved along. He got the crazy idea that maybe this wasn’t a joke, maybe this was real, but
it couldn’t be. Star Trek was only a science fiction television show. Not real. He stuffed the feeling down,
determined not to let Bill and Lenny know they were really scaring him.
Before they entered the ‘turbolift’, Bill
halted. “I’ll be on the bridge.
Carry on.”
Leonard, still holding onto De, saluted his captain. “Acknowledged.”
“Have fun with your husband, Spock.” Bill
shot Leonard a curiously flirtatious glance, then strode down the corridor, his guard following. The pneumatic sound effect occurred once again as the doors slid open.
Leonard dismissed his own personal guard, pulled De inside and the doors shut them into the claustrophobia inducing
area.
As soon as the elevator moved into it’s downward
momentum--the controls operating just like they pretended they did on set--De knew.
No way they could fake a working turbo lift like this. He wasn’t
at Paramount any longer. Had to be on the Enterprise. But when? Were they still in 1968? Was the Enterprise stuck back in time? This evil mirror version? Oh no. He could imagine all the damage
they’d do. His heart pounded and he worked at controlling his breathing
and God he needed a cigarette.
He slowly turned towards the figure next to him. Studied the ears, looking for the seam. There
wasn’t any. The only way an ear job could be that perfect if they’d
been plastic surgery...or they were real. The goatee seemed real, too. He reached
over, picked up an overheated wrist. Green veins. De dropped the wrist, closed his eyes and opened them again. “You’re
Spock.”
Those kohl-lined, dark eyes bored into his soul, regarding
him with amusement. “Of course.”
“Unbelievable.” De reached over with his free arm and pinched himself.
“What are you doing?”
“Seeing if I’m dreaming, Spock. That’s all.” The lift slowed to a stop and the
doors swooshed open for them. “Can I see sickbay?”
“No.”
“What about the bridge?”
“Negative.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“My quarters, as the captain ordered.”
“He didn’t order you to do anything.”
Spock pulled his phaser off his belt, pointed it at De. “Move. This way, please.”
“I know where they are.”
“Excellent.” They began walking. “Your acclimation shall prove rapid.”
“What do you want with me?”
Spock did not answer.
They reached the door to Spock’s quarters. Another Vulcan guard
stood in front. Spock motioned at De with his phaser. “Inside.”
De went in and looked around. It looked exactly like the on-set version, lots of red drapery and gargoyle type objects, sinister antique
looking things-- ‘cept the lighting leaved a little to be desired. “I
love what you’ve done with the place.”
Spock’s phaser was still trained on him. “Disrobe.”
“Now, woah horsey, wait a minute. I like you and all, but you haven’t even bought me a drink.”
“Enough with the joking. Disrobe.”
“Why?”
“If you are to fit in as an officer of the ISS
Enterprise, it is imperative that you are appropriately attired.”
“Maybe I don’t want to fit in.” He pinched himself again. Come on, De,
wake up, get out of this nightmare.
“I will not ask you again. Disrobe.”
De’s hands flew to the invisible zipper in the
neckline but halted. “Can I at least have some music?”
“Apparently you require some proof of the gravity
of this situation.” Spock pointed the phaser at his 3-d chess set and fired. It glowed red then bright yellow then white and disappeared.
De watched, open mouthed.
“Fascinating.”
“Indeed.”
“You must really be pissed off to destroy your
chess set. Okay, fine, you made your point.” De undid the zipper, pulled
off the blue tunic. He sat down on the chair, yanked on the zipper on his boots. “These things always stick. Gimme
a minute.”
Spock rolled his eyes.
Finally, De handed him his trousers, his boots, tunic
and black undershirt. “Can I at least keep my shorts and socks on?”
“Remove everything.”
“What? I’m
not getting completely--” The phaser was leveled towards his chest again. “Alright, alright. Don’t
shoot.” He slid the underwear and socks off and threw them at Spock.
Spock studied him as he caught the items with one hand. “Exactly like the original.”
De blushed. “Listen,
uh...I’m not that guy. I’m not really Doctor McCoy. I play him on television. It’s not real.”
“Obviously this is quite real, Doctor.”
“No, no, no.
You got it all wrong, see? I’m an actor, not a doctor. My name is DeForest Kelley. I live in Sherman Oaks, California. I work in television for Paramount Studios.
I have a wife and a dog and a turtle--”
“Your wife is dead,” Spock informed him.
“What?” De sank down heavily onto the closest
available chair. “What did you do to her?
Did you kill her?”
“Negative.
You simply disappeared. As you are now in the year 2268, your wife is
long dead.”
De’s mind reeled.
“2268? The future?”
“Affirmative.”
De’s voice cracked as he said: “You can’t do this--you gotta send me back. I
don’t belong here. My wife. I
can’t live without her.”
“You will.”
“No.”
Spock turned from him with the costume bundle, seemed
about to throw them into a disposal chute. “Wait!” De called after
him. Spock paused, raising an eyebrow.
De darted over to him and dug into a hidden pocket, pulling out a slim
black wallet. “This is mine.”
“What is it?
“None of your damned business.” Spock yanked it out of his grasp and opened it, perusing the various cards and photos inside. “That’s my wife, Carolyn,” De informed the Vulcan a little frantically. “She’s holding our dog, Cheers. That’s my
turtle, Myrtle. That’s my California driver’s license.”
“Jackson?”
“That’s my real Christian name. I go by DeForest.”
Spock read some more:
“15463 Greenleaf Street.”
“You leave that house alone,” De warned. “You do something to my wife and so help me I’ll--”
“What is this?”
“That’s my SAG card.”
“SAG?”
“Screen Actor’s Guild. My union. And that’s the business card of my agent,
Ashley Famous. And that’s my producer’s business card, Gene Roddenberry. He’s the guy who produces the television
show I work on--you see? I’m not really Doctor McCoy.”
“You will be.”
Something in that made De’s blood run cold. “You keep saying I will be. How?”
Spock handed the wallet over. He placed the costume into the chute then called up a replacement.
He held it up. “Put this on.”
De grabbed the costume and quickly reclothed himself. Black underwear and thick socks, identical design of trousers but slightly better
constructed, thigh high go-go boots, black undershirt (with a mirror, mirror emblem embroidered in black). The metallic silken tunic and sash he was given appeared to be identical to what Spock wore. “This is all wrong,” De said.
“Wrong?”
“I don’t wear this.” De explained. “We shot a mirror episode recently. I wore the same velour as I had on, except with different insignia and a gold sash.”
“Negative.
As my spouse, you wear this design.” He handed De a small pin. “This is for you.”
“Spouse?
I thought you were joking.”
“Vulcans never joke.”
“I can’t be married to you. We’re both...we’re both male.”
“You are my spouse.”
“No, no, no.
Aren’t you and Kirk together? Homosexual lovers or something like
that?”
“Kirk? Negative.”
“Huh,” De quipped. “All those housewives were wrong.” He glanced
at the object in his hands. An emblem bisected with a sword. The pin had never appeared in the show. “I don’t
recognize the design. What’s in the circle?”
“That is the Vulcan IDIC. By wearing it, it shows all aboard that you are mine.” Spock
took it and pinned it onto him.
“I said, I’m not yours.” Spock did not reply to that, merely eyed him. “Does
anybody smoke around here? All this--I need a cigarette.”
“Negative.”
“Well that’s just great. Throw all this shit at me, you know this is a lot to deal with, and then I gotta quit smoking, too.”
Spock regarded him not unkindly. “My apologies. Have you ever been in the service?”
“Yeah, I got drafted into the army when I was twenty
three. During World War II.”
“You served in World War II?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you fight valiantly?”
“I didn’t...” De gulped, wondering
how much information he should tell this guy. “I didn’t see any action. I was in the motion picture unit. We
made films. Propaganda and training, mostly and radio broadcasting. I wrote a couple radio plays.”
“I see.”
“And for a short time... I uh...landed airplanes.”
“You flew aircraft?”
“No, I uh...I was a, uh...you know...what’s
it called...an aircraft controller.”
“Ah. And
this is the sum of your military experience?”
“Yeah. I
served out my draft for two years. Then I went home. That was it.”
“Any jobs in civilian life besides actor?”
“Yes, various things. Oil rig.”
“Oil rig?”
“Yeah. Roughnecking. Drilling for oil on Signal Hill. Man,
that’s tough work. A young man’s game. Wouldn’t be able to do that now.”
“Irrelevant in our present time. Is there anything else?”
“Well, I was an orderly at one point.”
“In a hospital?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Ah.”
Spock’s eyes grew thoughtful. “Sickbay orderly shall be your
position aboard this ship starting immediately. Since your television show mimicked
this ship and its equipment almost precisely, with relatively minor cosmetic differences, you should have little difficultly
handling the real thing. Dr. M’Benga shall give you and orientation.”
“Spock? In
this universe, who won World War II?”
“Why, Nazi Germany did, of course.”
De hung his head.
“Of course.”
“This way,” Spock commanded, leading the
way out of his quarters.
*
It was clear that this version of Doctor M’Benga--
a man who still looked identical to Booker Bradshaw, except for an ugly scar running under his eye to his chin--was not a
fan of his. The man glared at him with murderous intent, gave him a barely cursory
orientation to the sickbay, quickly ran through the orderlies duties.
M'Benga hoisted upon him the most humiliating, disgusting
duties, like transporting sacks of body parts down to the incinerator and the humdrum task of sweeping floors and cleaning
lab equipment. Spock had been correct about equipment operating exactly as how
the Feinbergers were supposed to on set. Except there was no Irving Feinberg
looking over your shoulder or slapping your hand when you picked one up.
Sickbay felt quiet;
lights dark, shadowy, the vibe foreboding. And so far, no sign of the
real Doctor McCoy.
De supposed his assigned duties would keep him busy,
keep his mind off of things, until he could figure out how to get back to his own time, his own universe. There had to be a way out of this. Maybe, click his heels
together and say three times: ‘There’s no place like home’?
Spock had threatened him with the booth--and he knew
fully well what that meant, without even having to see the contraption--if he did not return to the Vulcan’s quarters
promptly after his shift ended. He decided not to push his luck and headed off
towards officer’s territory.
The idea of walking along a corridor of a vessel that
was actually self contained and moving at warp speed or impulse through space made him nauseous. He was constantly reminded that this was a ship by the barely perceptible throb of the engines, the sounds
of the doors as they swoosh-swooshed, various other computer noises that previously only had been added in post. Crew walked past him, saluting.
Why couldn’t he have been captured by the other
one? The friendly USS Enterprise? Maybe
there wasn’t one. Maybe this was it.
He felt exhausted and heartsick by the time he made it
back to Spock’s quarters.
Spock glanced up from his dataPADD. “I trust your shift went well?”
De shrugged. “Mind
if I use your shower?”
Spock pointed.
“In there.”
“Thank you.”
The bathroom door wouldn’t lock, so he quickly disrobed, washed his make-up off and took a shower. He stood there a couple of minutes trying to figure out the controls not wanting to ask Spock how to operate
them. He’d spotted a toothbrush in a wrapper on the sink, assuming it was
for his benefit. He finished up, dried off, brushed his teeth and dove back into
the costume...or uniform as the case may be. He strode out, his damp dark hair
falling into his eyes.
Spock looked up once again. “Your appearance is remarkably different.”
“Well, maybe it was the make-up. I’m not quite so pretty with it all off,” he said ruefully.
An eyebrow went up.
“Make-up?”
“Couldn't’ you tell? I wear ‘pancake’ for work. That’s television
make-up.”
“Ah, of course.
Due to 20th century primitive television lighting.”
De sat down across from the Vulcan. “What happened to the real Doctor McCoy?”
Spock didn’t answer the question. “What would you like for dinner? The replicator can
create most anything you wish.”
“Can it replicate me a way home... in 1968?”
“Impossible.”
De slammed his palm down on the desk. “You kidnapped me, now you can send me home!”
Spock stood and strode over to the replicator. “If you do not inform me of your food choices then you shall go hungry tonight.”
“That’s fine.
How ‘bout replicating me a cigarette?”
“Also impossible.”
“Well, then what about a bottle of Vodka?”
“Negative.”
“I hate this damned ship.”
*
Later that evening, De felt himself so exhausted he was
seeing double. As he saw Spock going through the motions of preparing himself
for bed he wondered: “Where am I sleeping?”
“In this bunk.
With me.”
“No way.
I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“You will do no such thing.”
“I’m not sleeping next to you on that tiny
bed. Why not give me my own bed in my own quarters?”
“Because, Doctor, you belong to me.”
“For the last time, I’m not a doctor and
I don’t belong to you.”
Spock sat down on his bunk. “Disrobe and get into bed.”
“No.”
Spock sighed, strode up to De, and began methodically
divesting him of his uniform.
“What the hell are you--Fine I’ll do it!”
De wrenched himself away from Spock, pulled everything off but his shorts.
Spock calmly sat down once again on his bunk and motioned
for De to join him. De finally, begrudgingly lay down next to Spock. “Oh, this is comfy,” he complained.
Spock made no moves on him; the Vulcan seemingly falling
asleep, his breathing slowing.
De finally closed his eyes, relaxed somewhat and dozed
off.
*
He was used to getting up early, getting by on very little
sleep with an early call time so six hours later he was up and in the shower. It
disconcerted him that there was no window. No light filtering in as it would
in the hot summer in his house in the Valley; during winter he was up before
dawn on weekdays. He found himself obsessively checking the clock which
was of course set to military time.
Spock watched him with a curious expression as soon as
he got out of the bathroom. “Your eyes are extremely bloodshot.”
“Yeah, they get like that. Look uh, I need to shave.” Spock nodded and got him
a fresh razor and creme and something else in a tube. As De shaved, Spock continued
to study him intently, tilting his head. “Something the matter?”
De asked him.
“Your hair is falling into your eyes.”
“Yes, it also does that. I don’t suppose you would have any hairspray around here, would you?” Spock shook his head. “Didn’t think so.” He finished up and wiped his face with the closest available towel. He noticed the tube. “Aftershave?”
Spock reached for the tube, opened it, squirting the
contents into his hands. He applied it with a caress to De’s face. “Beard repressor. Shaving is only
necessary in weekly intervals.” He continued caressing De’s cheek
till De cleared his throat.
“Listen, I need some floss. People still floss their teeth in this day and age don’t they?”
Spock went over to the replicator, retrieved the article
and handed it over. “We utilize a mechanism for oral hygiene.”
“Well, nothing’s wrong with good old fashioned
toothpaste and floss.”
“What would you like for breakfast?”
“Coffee and an English muffin. With butter. And maybe some strawberry jam.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s it for now.”
*
Day two in sickbay proved mostly boring. Nothing to do but sweep floors, not that M’Benga seemed to care what he got up to. He spent most of his time re-cleaning equipment and drinking the piss-water they called coffee around here.
The only excitement was when a dead body appeared on
the bio bed. It being his lovely duty to snap on some gloves, wrap up the corpse,
then hoist it onto a cart and take it to the incinerator, assisted by another silent orderly with dull eyes. That’s all there was all day, dead bodies. Seeming to
result from stab wounds. Nobody seemed to come around for any kind of medical
care.
He made the grievous mistake of asking M’Benga
where Nurse Chapel was. M’Benga’s hateful gaze bore into his soul. “Who?”
“Christine Chapel.
The head nurse. Is she around?”
“Don’t bother me with your stupid questions. I’ll give you the booth if you don’t shut up.” M’Benga strode
off, seething.
“Sorry,” De called in his wake. Well, maybe it was better if she didn’t exist. Who knows
what the mirror version would be like.
*
He returned after his shift to Spock’s quarters,
but not before he’d done a tiny little bit of exploring around the ship, which mostly consisted of getting himself lost
in the multitude of corridors. He didn’t dare head up the bridge. Everyone aboard appeared to be in a continuously foul mood, either stiffly saluting
him if they were a crewman or personal guard or simply flashing him a unnervingly sinister grin (Chekov), or scowling at him
(Sulu). He did recognize Marlena Mordreau, whom he assumed to still be the captain’s
woman. She passed by him in the dark corridors without much acknowledgement.
As he strode through the door of Spock’s cabin,
the Vulcan looked up from his dataPADD. “You are late.”
“Sorry. Thought
I’d take a look around. You’re not real concerned about me escaping,
are you?”
“Not at all.
As Dr. McCoy was completely incapable of piloting a shuttlecraft, you should also not be able to. However I would, for your own personal safety, discourage your wanderings.”
“McCoy’s dead, I’m assuming?”
“Your assumption would be a correct one,”
Spock said tightly.
“How’d he die? Stabbed? Did you kill him?”
“He terminated his own life.”
“Oh. I’m
sorry.”
“Would you like dinner?”
“Huh? Oh
yeah. Supper would be nice.”
“The replicator is on the far wall. Simply give it a voice command of what you would prefer. I
will have a bowl of Plomeek soup.”
“Alright.” De went over and did as commanded,
brought a tray back of soups for the both of them, chicken for himself. They
sat down to consume their meals.
“Not very tasty, is it?” De asked.
“It is adequate.”
“That thing in the wall, how does it create the
food?”
“From recycled plant matter and waste products.”
“I’m eating waste products?”
“Affirmative.”
De set his spoon down.
After many moments of silence, he blurted out: “Did you kidnap Dr.
McCoy? Is that how he became your spouse?”
“Why would you ask such a thing?”
“Well, because he killed himself. He was that unhappy? Look, I’m sorry about that.”
He reached out for Spock but drew his hand back.
Spock raised an eyebrow.
“I will admit the relationship was not consensual to start off with. I
claimed him as mine and he was not happy.”
“Oh.”
“However, in later years, I was certain the relationship
progressed to...” he broke off, shaking his head.
“How did you guys find me?”
“We simply watched you on a television signal that
we intercepted.”
“So coincidentally there was this 60’s science
fiction show that appeared nearly identical to your ship and you went back in time to fetch little ol’ me?”
“Essentially, yes.
There had been concerns about my...efficiency. It was suggested...by Captain
Kirk that we replace him with you.”
“I can’t replace him. We’re not the same guy. I keep telling you this. I’m not a doctor.”
“Not yet,” Spock told him.
“You know on ‘Star Trek’, the ship’s
crew doesn’t stab each other if they get into arguments. The medical staff
actually cares for their patients. We don’t let them bleed out on the biobed
and make the orderlies dispose of the corpse. We don’t rise through the
ranks through murder. And we sure as hell don’t attack innocent planets
so we can steal their dilithium deposits. Our mission is to seek out new life
forms and learn from them, not plunder them.”
“You appear to be rather familiar with the operations
of the Empire. Excellent.”
“Like I told you--we shot the ‘Mirror, Mirror’
script a few weeks ago. How’d you guys get back in time, slingshot around
the sun?”
“That information is classified.”
“So we’re definitely in the future?”
“Yes.”
“There’s no way to take me back home. Is there. My wife, my home, my career
is gone forever.”
“I am afraid so.
You will remain here for the rest of your life.” De paled, quieted
and bowed his head. Spock stood up, fetched a few items from the drawer and placed
them on the desk.
“Cigarettes?”
“Klingon cigarettes. The only kind available.” Spock handed over the pack. “I cannot vouch for their quality.”
De grabbed the silver zippo lighter that accompanied
it, noting the mirror emblem emblazoned on it. He opened the pack, pulled out a cigarette, put it in his mouth, lighted it
and inhaled deeply. “Beggars can’t be choosy. It’s no ‘Marlboro’, but it will do. Thank
you.”
“Apparently the cigarettes have a delayed kick
to them.”
De had already began coughing. “Oh, shit!” He pounded his chest. “Do they ever! Want one?”
Spock waited patiently till the sputtering stopped. “Negative.”
“It’s weird not seeing you smoke. The actor who plays you, is a heavy smoker. As bad as I am.”
Spock shook his head.
He pulled out a bottle of what seemed to be booze. “I acquired this
from Mr. Scott.”
“Vodka? He
has vodka?”
“He is in possession of many different types of
alcohol.”
“I’ll have to keep that in mind.” Spock fetched a glass for him, handed over the bottle.
“You’re trying to make me fall in love with you,” De said.
“I am simply attempting to make your new home a
bit more comfortable.”
The door buzzed and Captain Kirk swanned through them. “What’s that I smell? Klingon
contraband?”
De turned around to the visitor, blowing out cigarette
smoke. “Evening, Captain,” he said coolly.
Kirk had a brief, seemingly coded confab with Spock. He reached over poured himself a fist of the vodka, downed it, smirked, then walked
out.
“What was that all about?” De asked.
Spock shook his head.
*
