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Summary:

A thought-experiment turned Fanfiction, a Star Trek-ified retelling of Subnautica.

Marooned on the aquatic planet, 4546B, surviving the crash of the USS-Aurora is Captain Kirk and First Officer Spock's least concern. As they navigate the treacherous alien landscape, they must confront the secrets and mysteries that led to their ship's demise. With the Enterprise mysteriously silent and the Klingon threat looming, Kirk and Spock must rely on each other to unravel the truth behind their mission and face the depths of an ocean teeming with both wonders and dangers. As they delve deeper into the planet's secrets, they discover that survival may come at a cost neither of them is prepared to pay. Will their bond be enough to overcome the challenges that lie ahead, or will they sink, forever lost, beneath the waters of 4546B?

UPDATE | Chapter Two has now been added! <3

Chapter Text

What is a wave without the ocean?
A beginning without an end?
They are different, but they go together.
Now you go among the stars, and I fall among the sand.
We are different.
But we go... together.


The ship was a steel sarcophagus, a cataclysmic womb.

“Attention. Hull failure, imminent. All personnel abandon ship.”

Everything was washed in a ravenous red, but whether that was from a yet unaccounted for wound, the flickering emergency lights or an errant flame, Kirk was uncertain. The USS-Aurora lurched violently again, and, on unsteady footing, propelled Kirk forcibly into one of the lifeboat’s chairs.

With trembling hands, Kirk fumbled with the lifeboat's controls. Beneath the entangling wreath of peril and paranoia, Kirk knew that only so much clumsiness can be afforded for time, for each turn of a knob, push of a button and flick of a switch was a sacrifice.

But, after a sequence of inputs and silent prayer, the lifeboat mercifully spurred to life.

“Launch in 3…”

The countdown began, each number a death knell.

Kirk pointlessly licked a dry tongue over dry lips and tried to parse whether the reverberations he heard were the vestigial echoes of the emergency klaxon or the metallic grinding of a lifeboat’s hull upon the imprisoning grip of it’s mothership.

“2…”

Suddenly, metal arms embraced him as the harness mechanism secured him in place. His eyes met Spock's, a silent exchange of fear and determination passing between them. The Vulcan's usually stoic face betrayed a hint of concern.

“1…”

Kirk's stomach lurched as the lifeboat plummeted, breaking free from the dying Aurora.

A whistling sort of wail surpassed them, like a harpy’s final gambit.

In a horrifying instant, a spectacular radiance of blazing green erupted from below, encompassing the entirety of the viewport in a beam that rivalled the nova of a thousand suns. It collided with the hull of the Aurora, the ship's metallic entrails spilled into the vast expanse of space.

The lifeboat shook violently, as if in fear of its destruction, jostling its occupants with reckless abandon. Becoming untethered, a fire extinguisher threw itself to the floor and smashed into an electrical panel in a shower of sparks. Then with little provocation the grey oblong launched towards Kirk with astonishing speed. He heard Spock's warning cry, but it was too late. Pain exploded in his skull, and then—

Darkness.

Silence.

An endless void of nothingness engulfed him, leaving only the lingering echo of the crew's screams and the haunting image of the Aurora's demise burned into his fading consciousness.


Looking back, he really ought to have known, after all, it always was the innocuous days that became anything but. This time, though, Kirk figured that so long as he proceeded with a healthy level of scepticism that he’d somehow be spared from the cruel irony of the universe.

But, alas, when was it ever so for an officer of the Enterprise?

“I just don’t know about that one, Jim.” McCoy intoned, a noticeable frustration captured in his quickened gait, not quite a stomp but a very near thing. “Especially coming from a man who goes about calling himself Hot Dog.”

Captain Hollister was wizened and rotund, with the sort of denialist disposition expected of men whose greatest achievement only ever extended to attaining captaincy. That is not, of course, to discount the man’s hardy determination, of which Kirk had been made painfully aware (and subject to) over the past fortnight. The mission was exceptionally ordinary, if a bit overcautious. The heavy freighter USS-Aurora is currying the foundations for the burgeoning colony on Obraxis Prime, skirting the fringes of Klingon space, with the USS-Enterprise serving as escort. Wayward Klingons notwithstanding, Kirk was hesitant to believe the reason for the Enterprise’s inclusion. Suffice to say, something was amiss, but whenever the Brass was concerned, Kirk knew that was to be expected.

“Screws loose or not, I’m not in a position to refuse, Bones. But you’re not wrong, I am uneasy about the degree of secrecy.” He only hoped that the injected calm disguised the restless urgency settling into him. Pausing besides the transporter console to gather both his belongings and thoughts, Kirk appraised his First Officer, punctual to a fault, awaiting him patiently. He stood as if he were a statue, contemplation etched onto his face with a characteristically raised brow—an expression with which Kirk has become both familiar and fond.

“‘Hot Dog’, Doctor?” Spock spoke as one might speak to a child with an imaginary friend, “As in the Terran food item consisting of a cooked sausage served in a partially sliced bun? If so, I fail to find the relevance.”

For some reason, not at all to do with Spock’s frequent sarcastic remarks, Kirk doubted a man—let alone a Vulcan—so intelligent would fail to find the relevance in anything.

“No, Spock, it’s just a selective example of the highly illogical human practice of nicknaming.”

“Indeed, the custom is most illogical.”

McCoy rolled his eyes, a mixture of exasperation and amusement crossing his features. He opened his mouth as if to retort, but seemed to think better of it, instead shaking his head with a resigned sigh.

Kirk, sensing the potential for another round of verbal sparring between his two friends, decided to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand. He cleared his throat, drawing their attention.

“Don’t think I’m done with you, Jim. You had better not get yourself into trouble this time.” McCoy grumbled, but Kirk couldn’t help but smile knowing that as miserable a bastard as McCoy could be, he’d never let him down yet. They just don’t make men quite like McCoy anymore, or if they do, they’d pale in comparison.

“I’ll try my best, you’ve got no need to worry about me, Bones.” At this the doctor finally appeared mollified, albeit with some degree of doubt—arms crossed as if to stave off any encroaching trouble. Propping himself onto the transporter pad in three confident strides, his movements diligently shadowed by Spock, Kirk nodded towards the young Lieutenant manning the transporter console.

“Ready, Mister Murovich?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Energise.”

Then in not so much as a blink of an eye, the Enterprise became the Aurora, a transporter room familiar but unfamiliar—like witnessing an illusion from a different angle.

“Ah! Captain Kirk, Commander Spock. It is a pleasure to have you both aboard.” Captain Hollister spread his arms in a wide sweep, before his apish palms clasped together in a meaty clap.

Kirk's eyes swept over the unfamiliar transporter room, quickly assessing his new surroundings before focusing on Captain Hollister. He stepped forward, offering a firm handshake and a diplomatic smile.

"Captain Hollister, thank you for your hospitality. I trust our arrival hasn't disrupted your operations?"

Hollister's grip was crushing, his smile a touch too wide. "Not at all, Kirk! We're honoured to have the Enterprise's finest aboard. Though I must say, I'm surprised Starfleet felt the need to send you along. We're just hauling construction materials, after all."

Kirk's smile didn't waver, but his eyes narrowed imperceptibly. "Starfleet Command often has reasons beyond our immediate understanding, Captain. I'm sure all will become clear during our mission briefing."

"Of course, of course," Hollister chuckled, clapping Kirk on the shoulder. "Well, no point in standing around here. Shall we head to the briefing room? I'm eager to hear what Command has cooked up for us this time."

As they moved to exit the transporter room, Kirk caught Spock's eye, a silent exchange passing between them. Something was indeed amiss, and both officers were on high alert.

"After you, Captain Hollister," Kirk gestured, allowing the older man to lead the way. "I'm looking forward to seeing more of your impressive ship."

The trio made their way through the corridors of the Aurora, Hollister's booming voice echoing as he pointed out various features and regaled them with tales of past missions. Kirk listened politely, filing away potentially useful information while maintaining a facade of casual interest.

As they approached the briefing room, Kirk's mind raced with possibilities. Whatever awaited them behind those doors, he was certain it would be far from the routine escort mission they had been led to believe. With Spock at his side and his instincts on high alert, Kirk steeled himself for whatever challenges lay ahead.

The briefing room was sparse, as far as briefing rooms go anyhow, and awfully dark. An unhelpful thought emerged in his mind that this was eerily like stepping inside the maw of a yawning whale. Hollister had a certain flair for the theatrics, Kirk had to remind himself, and he ought not be intimidated by the unusual approach.

Settling besides Spock on one end of the table, Kirk offered a polite nod to the only other man in the room. He was a boyish lad, not yet a wrinkle on his face, expression pinched in an overeager seriousness. He wore his uniform with exactness and held himself much the same. 

“Oh, forgive me, this is my Second Officer Keen.” Hollister offered, slapping the man so harshly on the back that Kirk thought he might buckle underneath it. “My First Officer is manning the bridge.” The pointed way in which he said my frustrated Kirk, acting as if he was unaware that Spock was specifically requested for this meeting. Spock himself appeared unfazed, if anything, he seemed mildly bored based on the loose poise of his features.

They waited in awkward silence that lingered for just a touch too long, before Hollister cleared his throat like a particularly congested elephant and tried to covertly nudge his Second Officer into action. Keen, flustered, fumbled with the controls for a moment in order to cover up his mistake and before anything more could be said the tri-screen viewer flashed to life.

The face of the admiral was sour, so sour, in fact, that it could outperform lemons in its sheer intensity. Eyebrows fixed and lips compressed together, he had the look of an admonishing school teacher. At Keen’s age, the man would have unnerved Kirk, and it clearly had, for the boy suddenly snapped back into his chair, back set straighter than a ruler.

“Gentlemen.” The admiral regarded the room, his presence as all-consuming as his ego. “I mean to keep this terse, I assure you that time is of the essence in the matters of search and rescue.” The admiral’s exactness was rudely presumptive, as if the briefing was already wasting his time and Kirk readily took issue with it. He could not stand a person who looked down his nose at others, especially from a superior to his subordinates.

“Admiral, if I may, was there a particular reason Command chose to withhold this information until now?” Kirk’s gaze was hardened, not a glare, but as close as could be reasonably achieved without implying disrespect.

“Astute as always, Kirk,” The admiral’s demeanour was glacial, “I assure you, our procedures are in place for good reason.” He lifted his chin, begging Kirk to argue; Kirk was more than willing to oblige.

“Of course, sir. I'm simply concerned about the level of secrecy surrounding this mission. It seems... unusual.”

The briefing room held painfully still in that moment. Kirk held his ground, his gaze never faltered, utterly unafraid of reprimand. Then finally the admiral dipped his head in a sigh, relaxing his shoulders in an attempt at submission.

“I understand your concerns, Captain. However, I must remind you that Starfleet often operates on a need-to-know basis. And, might I add that it has not slipped my mind of your frequent, let’s say, forgetfulness regarding regulations.”

Kirk relented only because he knew that the truth was not probably forthcoming. Instead he settled his clasped hands into his lap and schooled his expression into pacified neutrality. 

“Now that I have your proper attention, gentleman, I shall commence with the briefing.

A Terran vessel, the 'Degasi', disappeared almost a decade ago, carrying with it a high ranking Torgal Corp. member. Its last known position was within the vicinity of M-class planet designated, 4546B, within the Ariadne Arm sector. Corporate insurance has purchased passage aboard the USS-Aurora for Emissary Khasar, and your orders are to make every reasonable effort to locate and retrieve the Degasi crew members, without compromising the primary mission. Confirming the fate of the crew will aid the Federations diplomatic efforts with the Klingon councils, who are against being primary suspects of this case. The mission details and Degasi crew manifesto have been uploaded onto microtapes and, separately, to your PADD’s. Please review this information at your digression, and, while I doubt you need this reminder,” The admiral’s gaze sat heavily upon Kirk, his words brokering no argument, “This information is to remain strictly confidential.”

If Kirk were any lesser of a man he might of scoffed at the admiral’s implication, a bruised pride was the least of his concerns, and besides he was well aware that his eccentric reputation often exceeded him—a fact that McCoy ceased to let him forget.

Clutching the chromatic microtapes with perhaps too much pep, Second Officer Keen wasted little time in bringing the relevant information up onto the tri-screen. Illuminating the darkness in a bright cybernetic blue, Kirk struggled not to squint and reviewed the lines of text and graphics as if he were still an alumni of the Academy--some habits die hard, after all.

Mission Details:

- USS-Aurora is due to perform a gravity slingshot manoeuvre around 4546B approximately 13 months post-launch. 

- This will bring the ship within range of the Degasi's last known position. 

- Additional aquatic and all-terrain vehicles have been included in the Aurora's cargo package for this mission.

Auxiliary Search & Rescue Mission:
Paul Torgal

Position: Chief of Torgal Corp, Captain of the 'Degasi'

Status: Lost in space near planet 4546B

Age at time of disappearance: 79



Paul Torgal and his crew fell out of contact with Federation authorities close to a decade ago. The Torgals were a resourceful and powerful clan, and the ship was well-equipped, so their survival is considered likely; however multiple vessels passing through the system have since attempted to trace the ship to no effect. It is hoped the Enterprise’s superior scanning suite can do better.

    

- Made majority shareholder in Torgal Corp. by his mother upon her retirement.
    
- Interaction with Federation limited to infrequent chartered munitions deliveries. 
    
- Beneficiary of life extension technologies. 
    
- Accompanied by his only child, Bart Torgal (19), heir to the Torgal Corporation. 
    
- Emissary Khasar reports Torgal often travelled with a skeleton crew, and was known for making rash, but profitable decisions. 
    
- Inadequate systems maintenance or straying from its planned route may account for the ship's disappearance.

Auxiliary Search & Rescue Mission:
Bart Torgal

Position: Vice President of Torgal Corp.

Status: Lost in space near planet 4546B

Age at time of disappearance: 19

    
- The only legitimate child of Paul Torgal. 
    
- Beneficiary of enhanced learning techniques and cerebral implants. 
    
- Digi-trained in advanced biochemistry and stellar economics. 
    
- Emissary Khasar reports Bart was accompanying his father to a newly-constructed, deep-space station, Starbase 32, where he was to serve a five year term as Chief Operating Officer.

Auxiliary Search & Rescue Mission:
Marguerit Maida

Position: Freelance Security Personnel

Status: Lost in space near planet 4546B

Age at time of disappearance: 42

    
- Mercenary, born in the Mongolian States. 
    
- Experienced in ship-to-ship and close quarters combat techniques. 
    
- Tours of duty with the Mongolian Defence Force and the Federation. 
    
- Dishonourably discharged from Starfleet 15 years ago for going off mission (details classified). 
    
- Emissary Khasar reports Maida was hired to accompany Paul Torgal onboard the Degasi into uncharted space, and defend the ship in case of assault by pirates or rival corporations.

Committing the information to memory wasn’t difficult per se, but Kirk knew, with a fleeting surge of admiration and possessiveness, that so long as Spock had a head on his shoulders he’d be more than happy to remind his only human Captain should he forget—or happen to simply desire to hear the Vulcan’s voice. To Kirk, that rumbling baritone was caffeine, he yearned for it as a source of energy in the evening and had a near habitual expectation for it to be the first thing he hears in the morning.

“Captain?”

The sound was barely perceptible, not even a whisper, any decibel quieter and it would have gone unheard. Only then Kirk realised he must have been staring, unbroken, at the back of his First Officer’s head for a time longer than would be polite. Passively meeting Spock’s gaze made Kirk desperate to look upon anything else, his eyes lancing about the room as if that settled the matter. Evidently, it did, as if Spock had anything else to say, he didn’t, turning back towards the tri-screen—not for reviewing, just for something to do, no doubt in his boundless Vulcan efficiency, he could already recite the information word-for-word.

The debrief droned on for a little longer after that. Kirk was a man of action, having spent the remainder of his time in the briefing formulating a crew itinerary and complement to accompany him down to the planet, and whilst the Degasi begged for little urgency—it had been a decade after all—the simple fact was that lives were at stake. Disguising the whole situation in layers of procedure and bureaucracy was just a distraction and Kirk couldn’t help but compare this to Spock’s—But, no, they swore never to speak of that incident again and Kirk promised to honour that. 

So when Kirk found himself and his First Officer being escorted out through to the hallway, he couldn’t help but feel relieved. They had their mission and their orders, and Kirk was practically chomping at the bit to get into the Galileo to commence the search--it was these kinds of adventures that made Captaincy, and to a greater extent, traversing the galaxy as a whole, worthwhile. 

It was a feeling awfully short lived, for in less than a heartbeat the Aurora, shedding her veneer of austere professionalism, reeled in pain from an almighty bash. The hallway’s emergency lighting fluttered on and then off in quick succession and the intensity of the blow nearly threw its occupants to the deck. Shrieks and cries bounded throughout the corridors and was accompanied by the crashes of falling equipment and the hiss of fractured metal, making for a rancorous orchestra. Regaining their composure, the group passed a look amongst themselves, few phenomena could explain what just happened. They nodded in agreement of this silent assessment: Klingons.

Hollister jabbed at the communications button on a nearby wall panel, moustache twitching in mounting stress. But before he could get a word in edgewise a woman, likely a Yeoman based on the exasperation of her tone, demanded, “Captain, your assistance is required on the bridge. The Aurora has sustained a critical hit, starboard side.”

“Blast!” Hollister slammed his hand against the wall and swore beneath his breath.

Just before he could make to open it, Kirk’s communicator chirped.

“We’re on our way Scotty, focus your attention on the Enterprise.”

“I’ll try me’ very best to keep the deflector’s down ’til you get yourselves back safe an’ sound.”

“Maintain the deflector shields and lower them only when we’re ready to beam aboard.”

“But, Captain—“

“Scotty, never mind me and Commander Spock, the Enterprise is your first priority.”

A moment passed between them as Kirk thought Scotty might try and argue, but then,

“Aye, Captain.”

Keen, worrying his lip, had withdrawn into himself, and Kirk figured it was only out of a sense of decency that he refrained from curling up into a ball on the floor. Such behaviour was not befitting of a Starfleet officer but, beneath the desire to secure his own ship, Kirk sympathised with the young man’s position—the ship and it’s crew were utterly ill-prepared for such an event.

Hollister swung back towards them, “Keen, make yourself useful and get Captain Kirk and Commander Spock back aboard the Enterprise.” And without checking to see if his command was either heard or complied, Hollister disappeared into the bowels of the ship.

Keen, shaking himself out of the fear that gripped him, yelped a delayed “Yes, sir!” And pivoted towards Kirk and Spock expectantly. Realising that neither Kirk nor Spock were going to direct him, Keen took a laboured breath and, as though the experience was novel, struggled to put one foot in front of the other.

Clambering through the doomed ship was like something out of a nightmare, the emergency klaxons fought for dominance over languished cries of both ship and crew. The hallways were pulsating red, beating at an arrhythmic pace. With each flash, a second passed, an apocalyptic clock counting down to their demise. A hellish pandemonium was born of each creak and crack.

"This way, sirs," Keen called out. They rounded a corner, narrowly avoiding a group of crewmen rushing in the opposite direction. In their faces Kirk saw their anguish, their absolute, abject terror. This did little to abate his own rising panic. 

As they approached the transporter room, Kirk's mind raced. The situation was deteriorating rapidly, and he knew they had precious little time to get back to the Enterprise.

"Attention. Hull failure imminent. All personnel abandon ship," the Aurora's computer announced, its emotionless voice was a spike of hopelessness caught up in the brambles of their certain doom.

They burst into the transporter room, finding it mercifully empty. Keen rushed to the control panel, his fingers flying over the buttons, guided by what appeared to be instinct alone.

"I'll have you back on the Enterprise in no time, Captain," Keen said, a slight tremor in his voice that Kirk wished, if there were only enough time, to smother.

Kirk nodded, stepping onto the transporter pad with Spock at his side. "Mr. Keen, once we're clear, make sure you get yourself to safety."

Keen looked up, a very youthful surprise evident in his eyes. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

As Keen initiated the transport sequence, the ship lurched violently once more. Sparks erupted from a nearby console, and the lights flickered ominously, but Keen did not falter.

Kirk flipped open his communicator. "Kirk to Enterprise. Scotty, we're ready to beam aboard. Lower the shields."

"Aye, Captain. Lowering shields now," Scotty's voice crackled through the device.

"Energise, now!" Kirk ordered, his voice sharp with urgency.

The familiar hum of the transporter filled the air, and Kirk felt the telltale tingle of dematerialisation begin. But as the room started to fade from view, he caught a glimpse of terror on Keen's face as another explosion rocked the ship.

In that instant, Kirk realised with a sinking feeling that their escape might not be as smooth as he'd hoped.

"What's happening?" Kirk demanded, looking at Keen.

The young officer’s face was ghoulish, haunted by something unseen. "I-I don't know, sir."

Kirk raised his communicator again. "Scotty, we're having trouble here. Can you lock onto us?"

There was no response.

Only static filled the air.

"Enterprise, come in!" Kirk called urgently.

The static was abruptly replaced by a deafening explosion, so loud it punctured the speakers in a crackling pop.

Then, silence.

Kirk's blood ran ice cold.

"Enterprise!" Kirk shouted into the communicator. "Enterprise, respond!"

But there was no answer.

The Enterprise had gone silent.

He wanted to be sick, the only thing that kept him from doing so was the immobilising shock. How useless he felt then, stricken with mind-rending dread. What was he to do? A Captain goes down with his ship, and bereft of that privilege, Kirk was no Captain. Anger soon outpaced the fear; a simian and utterly childish response to such helplessness, he knew. His hands fisted and jaw clenched, a tight coil of barely leashed destruction. Kirk saw red, but not from the emergency lights.

A force was on his shoulder then, a tether to reality. Briefly he thought that death had caught up to him, a necrotically-cold cradle seizing it's chance. Kirk closed his eyes, as if by sheer will alone he could deny this as his fate. 

“Captain,” then, after a bated breath, Kirk reopened his eyes--it was Spock, “Jim. It is imperative that we evacuate immediately.”

Kirk held his gaze; those earthly eyes, not of Earth and yet so much like the fields and paddocks of home—of rusted threshers and sun-baked cottonwood, of splintering barns and whiskey bottle caps—and in that blissful moment, Kirk was home. The unspoken became spoken: do not fret, for whatever happens next, I will be there.

This renewed hope invigorated him, desperation became determination and Kirk leapt from the transporter pad. "You're right, Spock. We need to move. Now.”

This drew the attention of Keen, who was aimlessly prodding the console for lack of anything else to do. Planting an affirming hand onto the young man’s back, Keen stilled at once.

“Commander,” Kirk spoke firmly, deciding that Keen needed a steady hand to guide him, “It’s time to go. The transporters are down, and we need to get to the lifeboats."

As if to emphasise his point, a violent tremor shook the ship, sending a ceiling panel to the ground in a burst of sparks. The groaning of stressed metal filled the air, a haunting chorus of the Aurora's death throes.

"But sir, the Enterprise—“ Keen started, his voice trembling.

"Is no longer an option,” Kirk cut him off, willing his words to be more untrue than he thought them to be, “Our priority now is survival." Kirk herded Keen in the direction of the hallway.

Picking up the pace, the trio rushed through the corridors. The acrid smell of smoke lingered, a sure sign of the Aurora’s continued deterioration, for the ventilation was supposed to be one of the last systems to suffer failure in such a disaster.

Suddenly, a thunderous creaking echoed through the ship. Kirk looked up just in time to see a mass of welded steel and frayed wires plunging from a hole torn in the ceiling. 

"Look out!" he shouted, diving forward, tackling Keen out of it’s way and landing hard on his shoulder. The mass crashed to the deck behind them, narrowly missing Spock, who leapt clear in the opposite direction.

As they scrambled to their feet, flames erupted from a nearby junction box that the mass had struck in it's fall, splitting Kirk and Keen from Spock. The heat was intense and quickly grew in size, gorging itself on the exposed wiring and carpet. A pit formed in his stomach, he refused to leave Spock behind. Spock, evidently, wasn't too keen either, as he effortlessly dropped prone and crawled--although slithered might be more apt--beneath the carnage. Kirk stared on, slack-jawed, as stray embers and molten fragments lapped at his form, threatening to consume him just as readily as it consumed all else. But little time could be expended, for once on the other side, Kirk could only visually examine him for injury when hauling his First Officer to his feet. With Spock’s hair disheveled and uniform singed, it was the sort of unusual sight that in any other circumstance Kirk would have laughed, the numbness of self-preservation dulled his enjoyment of this novelty.

The automatic doors either side of the lifeboat bay were thrown open, gaping and compromised like a weeping wound--just like every other part of this damned ship, Kirk thought bitterly. The lifeboat bay was eerily empty, although Kirk could not spare a second thought as Spock all but dragged him towards lifeboat 5. 

The hatch was as stubborn to pry open as Spock was, an impressive feat admittedly, but beneath the combined force of two men and one Vulcan, it gave little resistance.

Keen hesitated as Kirk and Spock made to get in, a distance look in his eyes. 

"Captain," Spock said, his voice on the brink of urgency, "we must hurry."

Kirk nodded and glanced over at Keen, who took a few determined paces backwards. His meaning was clear and more admirable than even Kirk had suspected from the young man, he intended to assist his crew members, however many remained behind. 

"Good luck, Commander,” Kirk smiled, knowing that the young man had some great potential which he only hoped would not be wasted.

Keen was perhaps unsure of what to say in what very well might have been his last farewell, but then he smiled back—it was bright and boyish, youthful in ways that Kirk could only envy.

Kirk then turned his back on him, a lump in his throat.

The lifeboat's hatch sealed behind him with a hiss.

So began their descent into an unknown world.

Chapter Text

Awareness was this crevice of sprawling light, pinpricks of consciousness and surface perceptions. He was reborn in the flame, avowed by a biological imperative that was both him and wasn’t simultaneously. A mere vassal, he would succumb to its grand edifice, of what he is and isn’t and should and shouldn’t be. The chaparral sands of home to become a siren song, an imaginary lure that flayed his very soul apart.

Already its infernal heat radiated through him in seismic whorls of devastation, and yet...

And yet, just as before—for he now could recall the memory—, a golden rope eddied about his collapsing mind and a greater compulsion took hold. Too weak to resist, he ceded to this primordial force and Spock—yes, that is who he was—roused from within.

Ringing and roaring, a moulting chrysalis of incandescent amber seized his senses in a vice—a deterrent from reality, his emerging brain supplied, and one to be overcome. Senseless but mentally tethered to that golden string, he splayed out his hands and came upon a cylinder made of metal. Oh yes, it had fallen from it’s compartment, a fault that should have been addressed (and would have been had Spock conducted it’s maintenance), although the name failed him. It’s coolness was a balm upon scorched palms and, in absence of this overwhelming instinct, he may have rested his head against it. Drawing the implement against his chest, Spock grappled for it’s pin, a illogically small piece, in his opinion, for, surely, it was through no fault of his own that he struggled to locate and pull it. It detached itself with a tug, disappearing someplace upon the floor with a tinkle, and Spock clamped the release lever with more force than was strictly necessary.

The tank sprayed its foamy extinguishing agent—a water solution of sodium bicarbonate and aluminium sulfate being the highest likelihood—in a wide, white arch. The flames became smothered beneath the blanketing fluid, subsiding in a sudden dimming of light, only broken by the occasional sparking of damaged electronics.

This suited him just as well; Vulcans had superior optical faculties, superior in such ways that he easily detected the cloistering plume of carbon dioxide that threatened to suffocate him. The lifeboat’s ventilation was inoperable and smoke inhalation was particularly damaging to respiratory functions in enclosed spaces in an excess of five minutes. Registering the risk, Spock propelled himself from his prone position on the floor—how he had fallen and what caused him to act so illogically as to vacate his seat was a matter for future meditation—onto the lifeboat’s central ladder. Luckily, it withstood the fire and appeared structurally sound, if a bit charred about the lowest rung and stripped bare of its fluorescent hazard paint.

Climbing up the rungs, a bizarre sound like stretched rubber—comparable only to species within the reptilian Squamata order found on Earth—called from beyond the roof hatch. Looking up, Spock caught a glimpse of a feathered creature soaring about a blue sky. It was monochromatic in colour with an highly specialised, aerodynamic, V-shaped build. Fascinated by the specimen, Spock pushed aside the hatch and pulled himself atop the lifeboat’s hull. Startled by his approach, the creature squawked and took flight, joining a flock that circled above. 

Taking a more inquisitive view of his surroundings, Spock noted the totality of the planet’s ocean. Wth minimal wave patterns, it was a veritable plane of lapis blue, which, to a being adapted for desert survival, was a sight to truly behold.

It was an odd thought, to think that a member of his species not one millennia ago would have been incapable of conceiving such a thing—novel as it seemed to him, Starfleet Academy, for instance, was girt by the Pacific Ocean. It shouldn’t have confounded him as much as it did, for he had been the one to conduct a scan of the planet upon approach—an M-class ocean planet with a oxygen/nitrogen atmosphere and extensive biodiversity. The only landmass, if you could even call it that, was the hulking wreck of the USS-Aurora. Partially immolated in a fire that breached its exterior and scored with deep gouges that exposed its latticed foundations, it was a shell of its former self. It was difficult to conceive that Spock, not three hours ago by his estimate—although with some degree of uncertainly, his internal chronometer might very well be compromised—was aboard the vessel.

Idle thinking, however, would not ensure his or his Captain’s prolonged survival and, therefore, was an ill use of his time.

Returning to the interior of the lifeboat with a reminder to defer his wayward thoughts until his next meditation, Spock adopted the standard emergency regime. Like any Vulcan, Spock revered the minutiae of procedure and established his priorities in a hierarchy of most to least importance.

First and foremost was the task of attending to his Captain, as was the responsibility of every First Officer.

Spock was by no means a medical doctor but medicine, like any science, operated upon the basis of defining and exploiting set patterns and principles relative to each other.

Kirk was arrested and hunched lamely in his harness, no doubt putting an uncomfortable strain on his musculature, but, thankfully, his breathing was unhindered—his chest rising up and down in precise, sequential movements. His assessment of Kirk was limited to somatic symptoms and interpretations procured from the insights of the medical scanner, and, hence, a concussion was determined as the most prevalent, if sole, concern. A large purple contusion patterned his brow ridge, disturbing his Captain’s handsome face. The blemish was… unsettling, it was only a pocket of blood that settled within the epidermis—nothing to be particularly concerned about—but a sickening presence settled heavy within Spock’s abdomen nonetheless.

A Vulcan’s aversion to direct touch was a necessary practice, but in instances such as this, Spock decided he could make an exception—reasoning that this was what the good Doctor would do if he were present and Spock was not. Spock fortified his mental shields in a manner that could be visualised like a cattle dog coaxing sheep into a paddock, depositing his ambient thoughts into an inescapable containment. With deft grace, Spock pitched his Captain’s head backwards and gently pried his jaw open, inspecting his pharynx and trachea for any obstructions or bodily fluids.

Finding that both were bereft of any anomalies, Spock chiefly examined his Captain’s limbs, pushing aside clothing where necessary. Patches of peach fuzz were laid softly into muscular flesh, and skin lesions, like a prominent birthmark on his upper left thigh, were like landmarks of his body’s topography. Oddly enough, Spock recognised a sudden increase of vascular dilation within his face, experienced through a hot spell that wavered heavily upon his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

Then, using a most archaic method to determine his Captain’s heart rate, Spock gingerly planted his pointer and middle fingers to the underside of his Captain’s strong jaw.

It was remarkable, the internal mechanisms which perpetuated homeostasis, oxygenated blood skipping beneath his fingertips in beautifully trafficked networks. At an acceptable eighty-seven beats per minute, the blood channeled life into his Captain without any conscious effort on his half. His state of unawareness did unfortunately siphon impressions of thoughts into Spock’s own mind, but confirmed Spock’s suspicion that he was not in distress—it was like refractions of golden-gelded light striking a liquid’s surface. Leaning deeper into the transient state of this meld, Spock interrogated the light—asked of it to reveal it’s pains—any internal damage to Kirk would surely complicate matters, but luckily, the light proved his concerns unfounded. Figuring it was best not to further disturb his Captain’s rest, Spock withdrew from his mind—the golden tendrils releasing him from their delicate embrace.

Whilst humans were unable to enter a healing trance like a Vulcan, sleep was nevertheless a natural and effective method to recuperate after sustaining injury and it was especially encouraged proceeding cranial trauma.

Unlatching the harness would prove difficult, if not impossible, through the undoubtedly fire ravaged control systems—a safety measure that Spock had begun to realise was markedly unsafe. In lieu of any other immediate solutions, Spock tensed his forearms, mustering his incredible Vulcan strength, and forcibly hoisted the harness off of its occupant. The metal whined and bent beneath his force, but Spock had already anticipated as much and found he was unbothered by the potential consequences.

His attentions drawn towards securing a newly freed Kirk, Spock knelt down and procured a canvas tarp from one of the lifeboat’s compartments. While certainly not a mattress by any stretch of the definition, it would serve appropriately in separating and cushioning his Captain from the banded, rubber floor. After fashioning the canvas into an impromptu but sufficient bedding, Spock effortlessly lifted his Captain in what he had heard described as a ‘bridal’ embrace and laid him down laterally. Sparing no delay, he extended his Captain’s arm such that his head could rest upon it, and bent both legs, a perfect execution of the recovery position. 

His second task was to perform the same medical assessment on himself, with the only caveat being that the medical scanner was unlikely to be calibrated to his unique physiology. Vulcans, however, could administer such inspections without the need of a medical scanner, a fact that consistently confounded the good Doctor any time Spock insisted upon it. Regulating his breathing to timed, even strokes and rearranging himself on the lifeboat’s floor, Spock’s eye turned inwards. He jettisoned rebounding electrical impulses to his extremities, honing onto any potential sources of pain that he had previously quietened. Suffering is illogical, Surak once supposed, and when faced with untold dangers, it was better to be excused than not.

His back, most concentrated around his scapula, was blistered and burnt in mottled concavities of green, skin-ringed shapes, carved into, fortunately, insubstantial depths. The prognosis was theoretically simple, utilising the dermal regenerator housed in the emergency medical kit, he could seal the scorched flesh together. The plan was hindered by his limited biology, his shoulder’s could not produce the angle required to appropriately temper his wounds. Attempting to proceed by himself could and, according to his calculations, probably would risk further damage, but even so, that did not exclude all of his options. Bandages, as rudimentary as they are, would suffice just as well in the interim, for, exposing his wounds unwittingly to a foreign world—which he has no natural immunity—was just about begging for an infection.

Walking over to the console, where the emergency medical kit lay open upon it’s plastic spine, Spock’s gaze strayed towards his slumbering Captain. It was markedly charming, peaceful even, to witness a face so often expressive, slackened and undisturbed. After acquiring and winding the gauze about his torso with minimally offensive stabbing pains, Spock commenced his third task, examining and documenting supplies.

Ideally, the lifeboat’s built-in compartments stored all the essentials for survival, but given the questionable quality of maintenance aboard the USS-Aurora, any utensil’s integrity was to be highly scrutinised. The cabinet's tin-hatched lid was propped open against the wall and inside was as messy as one would expect from a lifeboat that had just plummeted some 400 kilometres. Sorting through the vacuum-sealed and bubblewrap-padded packaging, Spock summarised a complete itinerary of each and every item: An (Earth) week’s supply of emergency rations (two nutrient blocks, two filtered water bottles), two hydrophobic flares, a portable five kilowatt power pack, a puncture-resistant, endothermic, collapsible canvas tent and tarp, a pair of Starfleet mandated tricorders and sub-space radio communicators, four hand-held, magnetic flashlights, four standard hand phasers manually locked on ‘stun’ (for safety reasons), a water treatment kit and a emergency medical kit. Additionally, a set of meagre tools were bundled at the aft of the vessel for restorative purposes. The set appeared half-complete and a decade out of standard, in fact, Spock got the faint impression that he had used something not too dissimilar during the late Captain Pike’s tenure.

It was useless to calculate their chance of survival as a percentage, for he figured it would be too low to be statistically significant. However, taking a note from his Captain’s book, as it were, it was not over until they were. It was ever in an officer’s nature—or truly any star-faring being—to persevere. However, taking actions to increase their likelihood of survival was not an argument anyone would rightly protest and so, quietly—as to not disturb his weary Captain—, Spock pried open the metal panel beneath the primary console, concealing the inner mechanisms of the lifeboat.

Launched lifeboats subsisted on their own internal electrical network, generating electricity from natural resources. These intricate systems distributed power based on a hierarchal matrix, ensuring that life support functions could be retained even in the absence of excess power. Naturally, this complicated matters, for upon closer examination of the charred remnants of what could only be assumed was once fuses and circuits, there really was no definitive measure to distinguish one system from another. Spock also remarked at how truly ravaged the electrical components were, blackened and sparking furiously, casting a vanishing light in a series of pulses. For Spock to even attempt to restore power to the lifeboat, it was reasonable to assume that entirely new electrical cables would need to be created. This was an arduous undertaking for, with the replicator as inoperable as the rest of the lifeboat, Spock was required to manually gather and manipulate the planet’s natural resources.

Sweeping a look across his Captain’s supine form, Spock hesitantly lifted the in-set floor hatch.

Beneath was a wonderous world, one of vastness and abundance and blue—a Vulcan was keen to remember that they were ever only a foreigner on a planet such as this.

Indeed, the round pool below was a mere quadrat and the creatures of this world went about their routines, utterly undisturbed and unaware of the thriving galaxy above. Their star could very well supernova and not a tear would be shed for it.

One of these beings was quite small, not much bigger than his forearm from head to forked tail-tip, and used a method of locomotion, a warbling tissue-esk membrane, that was visually reminiscent of the Batomorphi taxon—commonly referred to as ‘rays’. Its smooth, charcoal skin was both dorsally dotted in perfectly circular spots and laterally outlined beginning from its dog-like snout in a most vibrant, bioluminescent, monarch blue. Strangely, its large, droopy, molten-amber eyes were shadowed by a band of blue and orange that became steadily brighter—like a stroke of water paint thinning across it’s canvas—which was repeated on it’s bident tail. Perhaps most astounding of all, however, was the set of twin orange appendages mounted on its head, it gave the unmistakable impression of the ears of the Terran Leporidae—and the tricorder seemed to insisted upon this interpretation, marking the creature as a rabbit ray. The tricorder speculated that the specimen was an adult, possibly of a masculine reproductive gender and of good health.

The other set of creatures, these ones being a deep violet striated with bands of orange, swimming in a circular, clockwise pattern besides the rabbit ray were holefish, the tricorder supplied. Spock figured the name was rather apt, if a bit uncreative, as this creature was just a tropical fish, if not for a naturally-occurring hole in it’s caudal peduncle. A fascinating feature, that, given its internal structures, Spock surmised could be manipulated for greater manoeuvrability. Two cartilaginous, fin-like protrusions comprised the top and bottom of its skull, a triangular form that proved beneficial when concerning aquadynamics. 

Appraising the alien wildlife was what any science officer worthy of his rank was wont to do, Spock told himself, but he also knew, however minutely, that it was a poor tactic in order to avoid confronting the pertinent issue—getting wet. With a reluctance that foretold of his looming displeasure, Spock finally analysed the data from his tricorder. He determined that the lifeboat was situated approximately fifteen metres above the seafloor—an admittedly convenient turn of events, all things considered--meaning he didn't have to go too deep.

Given the patterns of the sediment dispersal—a simple assumption as there was no computer to run a simulation—and abundance of coral and coral-like structures, Spock suspected that the biome was reasonably reef-like, much too shallow for larger predators and most likely supporting a very diverse ecosystem. Interestingly, buried within unusual geological structures—denoted as a limestone outcroppings—were titanium and copper deposits, with the latter being an essential component of all powered equipment due to its almost unrivalled conductivity. Minor interference to these geological readings, that Spock quickly factored out from the computations, suggested the existence of sizeable metallic objects within the region. Most appeared to be comprised of off-world alloys and therefore most likely originated on either the Degasi or USS-Aurora.

Spock figured that, knowing this, their probability of survival had just increased to unlikely, but plausible.

Conducting a rudimentary sample analysis, Spock determined that the water was primarily composed of saltwater, had a healthy ecosystem at the microorganism scale and contaminated with high levels of foreign bacteria. The bacteria was, clearly, a rather prudent concern, for as resilient and adaptable as the Vulcan and human immune systems could be, in the absence of any natural immunities and means to treat an infection, the contagion could easy prove fatal. However, running the calculations through his mind, Spock determined that they are almost certain to perish if they were to remain inside the lifeboat, as opposed to the potential death of succumbing to an alien bacteria or the hostilities of this alien world, if they were to leave.

With that firmly in mind, Spock pulled on a environmental protection suit, a ‘’hermetically-sealed personal environment, designed to withstand the most extreme conditions in the known universe’’ with ‘’biometric sensors and contextual heads-up display’’ or so it was advertised. His posture bowed awkwardly, accommodating for the added weight of the oxygen tank and instability of flippers. He was almost positive that, had his Captain been awake to witness this, his light laughter would ring about the lifeboat most pleasantly.

Spock was rather hesitant to leave Kirk behind, it was born out of a brotherly sense of camaraderie that the pair had nourished across the last three years aboard the Enterprise. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little bit concerned for his Captain’s security and health if left alone, but Spock also understood that the planet only had a limited amount of sunlight that afforded him a limited amount of time to accomplish these most necessary tasks. Out of what could perhaps only be described as loyalty or the unique First Officer compulsion to minimise risks, Spock promised that he would not stray out of sight from the lifeboat and that he would work in prompt, fifteen minute intervals.

Stepping up to the rim of the floor-hatch, tricorder and phaser close at hand, Spock spared one look back at his sleeping Captain before delving into the waters below.

A wave of white surpassed him, the erupting splash hushed to a bubbling slur beneath the waterline. Adjusting to this unforgiving environment would be difficult, he thought as an unseen chill seeped bone-deep, rattling his body about in a necrotic tango.

Swimming was not a preferred hobby for a Vulcan, in fact, a Vulcan’s aversion to it was near enough to their repulsion to direct physical touch. Whilst Spock could swim, and quite proficiently at that, his species had little need for it—in fact, a swimming lesson on Vulcan sounded rather like the beginning of a joke the good Doctor might have made. It wasn’t so much the water that he took umbrage with, but the dampness and cold temperatures that happened to come with it. Vulcans scarcely produced sweat, a necessary evolution to survive in a place where water was a scarce commodity, so the sensation of dampness was confounding--almost paralysingly so. If he were to compare it, he would say it was like wearing a second skin that was two sizes too big or like a body-wide, slobbery kiss from a well-intentioned grandmother that left you desperate for dryness—an idiom that Mister Scott had acquainted him with, the thought of T’Pau even bodily embracing another was somehow a step too far.

The water echoed in his ears, the teasing taunt of an old rival, a bundled brush of sheer intensity like a supersonic speaker playing a lullaby—but even that failed to suppress the absolute wonder evoked from the alien terrain.

If one were to squint, the sight would be innocuous, earthly even, from the sandy silk-like sediment to the shredded silver of refracting sunlight, and from the piebald slivers of sky curtained by ever-collapsing waves to the ultramarine haze withholding the secrets of far distances. For where planet 4546B diverges, is not in her sanded dunes cropped with green vegetation, but the creatures that nestled within. Indeed the very essence of life on this otherwise lifeless rock was what made her so special—a uniqueness that no other planet could have, for it was a contest that only this planet belonged. A scientist shan’t compare the mystery of one planet to another, for each was an ovum, a budding genesis of its own, but all sprouted from the catalyst of creation. It was fascinating to think that at one time, all that made up the being known as Spock was also made up of the very same bits and pieces that would become the creatures known as holefish and rabbit ray—in this way, the galaxy was forever united, a descendent of this primordial womb—it was that, he thought, that was meant by infinite diversity in infinite combinations.

In more mundane, strictly scientific terminology, the alienness was most founded upon the sprawling networks of gigantic coral tubes. Its outer plate was scaled, its polyps of a concentric variety and evidently most related to the encrusting coral morphology—characterised by low spreading growth forms that adhere to hard, rocky surfaces. Its internal structure differed substantially, its texture and shape not far from an ear canal, smoothed from millennia of constant water erosion. So large in size were some of these tubes that he could extend his arms completely and have neither touch the walls. A great number of coral variants grew about the reef and seabed and climbed atop both rocky pillars and each other.

The brain coral, for instance, a type of massive coral, was this hemispherical, porous and purple mound with puckered holes about its surface like dozens of hungry mouths. It was a permanent, growing colony of microscopic organisms and adapted to filter carbon dioxide from the environment, using the carbon to build the colony, and expelling the oxygen from those specialised lip-like exhaust funnels.

A tricorder scan, coupled with his own interpretations, revealed that many of the coral structures were rich in calcium, one may indeed argue that they were quite literally the skeleton of this ecosystem, but Spock was more interested in their potential use for purifying water. Whilst his scientific and Vulcan instincts protested against such actions, he gently used a survival knife to sever a small cross-section of coral—with any luck, these corals were similar enough to those on Earth, and therefore minor damage to them was negligible—he based this theory on the jaw-like indentations patterning the coral and, who he could only presume were the culprits, the shoals of tropical fish which swam about the reef.

Viewing these swift critters from afar was his best means of study, for their prey instincts would surely override any curiosity should he approach.

One of the larger shoals were comprised of, well, what could only be described as four-eyed, boomerang-shaped individuals with the sort of blue and fluorescent green colouration that reminded Spock of Earth’s needlessly genderfied ‘little boy’ swimming goggles. Unusually, the species' two fins appeared to be cartilaginous extension of its skeleton. Their serrated teeth effortlessly grounded the corals into consumable chunks, and the bright blue tips of it’s two fins were in fact the ends of its digestive tract, where the luminescence of the corals it consumed was most focused. This species was called boomerang—named after the deadly hunting implement utilised by Earth’s ancient peoples.

A most peculiar specimen was this unusually defenceless herbivore, although Spock was hesitant to call such a creature a fish. Indeed, on first glance one may easily mistake the animal for a piece of floating rubbish, for it’s body was segmented into two (an upper and lower), large, transparent, semi-permeable membranes, which surrounded its speckled spine like a bladder. Attached onto these bladders were three open-ended vascular tubes that could be angled and contracted to pump out water and achieve low-velocity guided propulsion—the specimen was thus referred to as a bladderfish.

The coral reef sported much more diverse life than just fish, however, for upon some of the low-lying coral were a common, spore-bearing fungi species. The acid mushrooms were infundibuliform—a deeply depressed, funnel-shape—indeed, call him crass, but for lack of a better term, these violet mushrooms had a striking resemblance to the anus. The flesh contained a highly acidic compound which leached into the water if the outer skin was penetrated, which a stray garryfish had the misfortune of discovering.

The garryfish possessed a certain endearing clumsiness. It was a slow-moving, docile creature with a striated amber body that offered a passable attempt at camouflage amongst the reefs. Its mouth hung slightly open, framed by gentle whiskers reminiscent of a catfish, while vibrant red, feather-shaped fins rippled along its back and underside. The overall effect was that of a golf club come to life, gliding serenely through the water. Perched atop its head were long, pivoting eye stalks, capable of rotating three-hundred and sixty degrees, presumably granting it a wide field of vision to watch for danger amongst the coral's hiding places.

On his third dive, he found a most remarkable example of symbiosis. Scattered about the edges of the shallows was the occasional floating pillar, rendered buoyant by the combined biology of two lifeforms—collectively referred to as a floater. The dominant lifeform was comprised of an internal pink body with a parasitic, suctioning jaw and the subordinate lifeform was comprised of an outer gel-like membrane, which itself was a mesh of microorganisms capable of forming a sealed vacuum around the creature's jaws. Buoyancy was achieved through careful equilibrium of the thin helium layer of the outer membrane.

On his fifth and sixth dives, he had located and scavenged a small wreckage. Analysis confirmed that the debris originated from the Aurora, with the outer layers of the material having oxidised, suggesting it had been heated to over 1200 degrees Celsius. This pattern was consistent with hull disintegration during atmospheric entry—it was any wonder how or, rather, if, anyone could have survived landfall under those conditions when stranded aboard the Aurora. Fortunately, this wreckage was void of any or traces of any human remains, he thought that his Captain ought to be spared the sight of the deceased where necessary—humans tended to react most emotionally to a cadaver. The chances of survival for individuals lucky enough to have boarded a lifeboat, however, were much greater and therefore Spock found it now more than ever imperative to restore their lifeboat’s radio functionality as to establish contact with potential survivors. It would be in their best interests to coordinate a rendezvous point, as survival greatly increased with each additional person.

The wreckage was a veritable graveyard, a morgue of denatured metal, with rusted fragments scattered about like a decaying skeleton. He was cautious of his movements, it was unlikely that the debris were at all structurally sound and was gravely hazardous from either flashing, electrifying wires or ruptured, claw-like shrapnel.

Tentatively, he investigated underneath sheets of crumpled steel, on top of fallen gangways and creaking air ducts and inside waterlogged crates—while most of the materials were completely unusable, not to mention unrecognisable, a few relics of this near past—that felt practically ancient given the circumstances—were deemed suitable for his needs. Removing its maintenance panel and gutted of all its internal electronics, the spherical anti-gravity field generator (colloquially referred to as a ‘Gravtrap’) and a welded fibre tether was repurposed as a shoulder-carried repository. The partially collapsed form of what was once a beacon, crushed beneath a reasonably heavy object during landfall no doubt, and a fried seaglide with a shattered propeller missing three of it’s blades were both collected and placed within the Gravtrap-receptacle. The seaglide is a personal transportation device designed for use in oceanic environments, capable of speeds of up to thirty six kilometres an hour in standing water, and therefore a most fantastic device for increasing an individual’s effective exploration range. 

Momentarily distracted, a rather unusual predicament for Spock—a fact he hoped was related to his exhaustion rather than his own personal failings—a whining, guttural groan followed by a gaseous spluttering was all the information he needed.

Hurrying backwards, he swung beneath the hulking frame of the wreck and emerged unscathed on the other side. The creature he encountered, lumbering away with surprising speed, was a gasopod. A slow-moving, seacow-like lifeform, the gasopod defended its territory by expelling clouds of poisonous and corrosive pods. Its snout, a thick, nozzle-shaped appendage of non-reactive skin and multiple gill layers, rendered it impervious to its own noxious emissions. A bulbous, sack-like caudal fin, adorned with luminescent, noxious, yellow algae, swayed behind it. When threatened, the gasopod contracted its abdominal muscles, forcing the algae gland to release its toxic compound into the surrounding water. Curiously, gasopods appeared to be social creatures, often found in pods of up to five individuals, and Spock had even observed what seemed to be strange relationship rituals involving the controlled release of their emissions.

On his twelfth dive he had endeavoured to explore further, and made a most fortuitous discovery. A truly colossal coral tube engraved the seabed, in fact Spock would argue that it was less coral and more cave, but the distinction hardly mattered when he had no-one to debate this with. He would be remiss if he were not to mention the creature that had assisted him, for the shuttlebug was a most helpful specimen. The shuttlebug, a common scavenger at the base of the food chain, had a compact, pear-shaped carapace supported by three spindly legs. Its eyeless body was equipped with three mandibles that allowed it to sift through detritus on cave floors in search of nutrients. Spock had come to rely on their presence as an indicator of nearby cave systems, which often contained the valuable limestone and sandstone outcroppings he sought. It was, at the very least, a much more agreeable creature when compared with the crashfish.

The crashfish, by contrast, was a volatile and highly defensive species. From what little he had gathered of its appearance before it ostensibly imploded, its spherical, bright red body bristled with jagged spines, and its single forward-mounted eye tracked potential threats with unnerving precision. When provoked, the crashfish employed a self-destructive defense mechanism: it launched itself at high speed toward its target, triggering an explosive chemical reaction upon impact. Spock noted its symbiotic relationship with the sulfur plant, which provided a nesting site for the crashfish while feeding on its sulfuric secretions. The creature's strategy of mutually assured destruction was as fascinating as it was dangerous—an illogical but effective adaptation in the harsh environment of 4546B.

Nonetheless, pilfering the giant coral tube was of no consequence, evidently, the crashfish were not fond of its particular environment.

The sedimentary formations—seemingly a mixture of both limestone and sandstone—bulged from the walls like pustulous speleothems in nodules of earthy tones. They were most distinguishable in texture, the limestone was particularly hardened against erosion, and the sandstone, being particularly porous, stratified much more evenly and gave for a smoother appearance. The sandstone outcroppings were welcomed additions, for it supplied precious metals like lead, gold and, more infrequently, silver. Although Spock doubted anyone would choose planet 4546B to prospect these minerals, the chemical properties of the elements were what made them valuable—not for their intrinsic wealth—which, in any case, was something with which a Vulcan could not be tempted—but rather their exploitable properties. Spock, on a previous dive, had fashioned a makeshift trowel to extract the materials and diligently scraped at hardened layer after hardened layer of earth and rock—but even then it was no simple excavation, for Spock then had to, without damaging the material within, break apart the outcrop with a mallet. A steady hand was required for each step of the long process, and if Spock were being honest, he was pleased to have something productive to work on. Moreover, the ambience of planet 4546B made for a spectacularly peaceful backdrop and he could hardly grow complacent when the droning hymns of some squid-like humpback echoed from afar. 

What Spock found most compelling was the remarkable characteristics exhibited by an otherwise unassuming creature: the peeper. Its streamlined body, adorned with vibrant golden streaks and propelled by powerful fins, seemed almost designed for efficiency. Large, luminous eyes dominated its head, their molten glow reminiscent of distant stars. The peeper’s movements were swift and purposeful, leaping from the water in arcs that defied its humble size. It was a marvel of adaptation, thriving in an environment that demanded resilience and ingenuity.

To Spock, the peeper was more than a biological curiosity—it was a symbol. Each umber-skinned individual was but a cog, insignificant and utterly useless on it’s own, but, as a component in a greater mechanism, became a sinew—a specialised cell with it’s specialised organelles that one could not be bereaved of.

Though he did not yet understand the full extent of its importance to the ecosystem, Spock observed peculiar traits that hinted at deeper significance. Its oversized nasal cavity suggested an evolutionary specialization for detecting something vital in the environment, while its digestive system featured unusual expulsion mechanisms that seemed designed for dispersal rather than mere sustenance. These adaptations hinted at functions beyond mere survival, as if the creature were designed to fulfill a role greater than itself. Stranger still, was that the peeper demonstrated a degree of intelligence than succeeded that of the usual small herbivore. At times they appeared eerily cognisant and encouraged by some unknown predilection to approach. It was as if it knew something he did not.

Spock could not help but ponder the mystery of their existence. They were more than simple fish; they were stewards of this alien ecosystem, their actions resonating with purpose yet shrouded in ambiguity. In them, he saw reflections of his own crew—ordinary individuals bound together by extraordinary circumstances, each contributing to something far greater than themselves.

 

As the daylight stretched thin across the sky like butter on bread and the stars bled light from the galaxy’s astral pelt, Spock determined that his productivity relative to his visibility had begun to decrease. His intentions were not dashed in light of this, for he very well could continue his tasks if only he had access to a renewable and luminous source. Whilst the flashlights were always an option, they had a limited battery life that was better spent elsewhere and it was generally preferred, where possible, to utilise the resources of their immediate environment to their advantage.

Spock’s tricorder beeped faintly, its display flickering as he catalogued the samples he had collected. The dim light of the ocean floor painted the scene in muted blues and greens, a kaleidoscope of alien life swirling around him. He reached for a cluster of creepvine seeds, their bulbed bioluminescent glow glimmered in the gloomy kelp stalks like thousands of starved eyes. Carefully severing a few clusters with his survival knife, Spock secured them into his makeshift container. The light would serve as a temporary beacon in the dark cavern that had become of their lifeboat, additionally satisfying a belligerent itch to assure his continued usefulness even in adverse and suboptimal conditions. It in an of itself belied greater character flaws that, had he been complemented with a Vulcan crew, would have been scrutinisingly reproached—it was rarely justifiable to sacrifice productivity for wellbeing, for a host of reasons, beyond just exposing a blatantly emotionally derived response.

Withdrawn as he was, Spock was reviled by a pulsating red light and the accompanying tone was no more pleased when it uttered, oxygen. Having been caught utterly unaware was reasonably alarming by itself, but it was scarcely helped by the tightness that left him wheezing in pitifully shallow breaths. It was a great disgrace for a creature who had once been nurtured in the thin oxygen cradle of Vulcan. Disturbingly, in an act of further illogic, so humiliating that it was certain to be rebuked by all Vulcans living or otherwise, he spared no second thought, ascending rapidly towards the surface.

The water crested overheard in an appealing bellow, the nearness of breathable air was a powerful ploy.

It was then smothered beneath a shadow and Spock instinctively froze. He’d offer himself no recourse for failing to detect its presence sooner, as the creature was especially evolved to inhibit prey response.

He was not unnerved, per se, one would struggle to conceive a Vulcan as capable of such an emotion, but a good deal of unease settled upon his pinched brow. Deprived as he was of oxygen, he would soon suffer the ill effects of carbon dioxide, but given that rash decisions had only lead him into this predicament, they surely would not prove a viable exit. 

He stilled in an attempt to make himself imperceptible, instructing his sensory organs into a state of readied alertness. It was perhaps a fruitless endeavour, he was playing at a great disadvantage—for the thick fronds and foliage of the kelp forests hampered his ability to distinguish between leaf and fin.

Slowly and alarmingly sluggishly, he adjusted his position to face the threat head-on, or at least as close to head-on as the animal had telegraphed, his muscles coiled like ancient springs.

This was a streamlined predator, seven dark indigo dorsal ridges could be moved independently and with long and powerful fins, the stalker was especially evolved to hunt the fastest of prey. Spock calculated his options swiftly; retreat was not feasible without provoking pursuit.

The stalker lunged.

Spock dodged with precision born of Vulcan reflexes, contorting his body, cat-like, to avoid the creature’s fanged surge. His tricorder whipped about his neck and, counterintuitively, he thought of its strap as a hangman’s noose—tightening and tightening, compressing his airways thinner and thinner.

The stalker recovered quickly, winding in a tight turn for a second assault. Spock’s eyes stewed with blackness, as he brandished his survival knife defensively, his grip was absolute.

The second attack came faster than anticipated, but Spock met its ferocity threefold. Drawing from the aggression of his ancestors, in one almighty, offensive slash, he burrowed the blade into the stalker’s leathery hide. The creature unthinkingly pulled itself about in an attempt to dislodge, the blade followed in harrowing pursuit, scoring the stalker from gill to stomach.

Plumes of ashy, yellow blood poured from the slit and the stalker howled most gutturally. It hurriedly retreated and vanished into the kelps, seemingly just as eager to end this interaction as Spock was.

Even before the blade had left its quarry, Spock had begun to ascend desperately once more, an overwhelming tiredness enveloped him. For a prolonged and delusional second, he thought it was strands of kelp, endeared by his alienness and unprepared to forfeit him to the sky’s, that bound his arms and legs in leafy tentacles. Near immobile, he managed to peddle himself towards the surface, the beams of light separating into shimmering scales and emerged uncontested.

Yet, it was not a breath that escaped him, but a blood-curdling scream. Nevertheless, even if it could, it went unheard, for in the brief moment it was open, his mouth flooded, a well-like abscess beneath a torrent of water. His head was submerged again, sightless eyes cowed into disuse and all sensation rendered utterly foreign. It was then that he knew, he was fated to be consumed by the enormity of this planet.

He flailed in a blind and desperate panic, the water and world barrelling and twisting around him in a vicious downwards spiral. His lungs ceased to function, as his body refused to cooperate, wavering about weightless like a flag caught in a cyclonic gale. It wasn’t until something only truly ancient awoke in him, a bitter vehemence to death, that he mustered all what was left of his dwindling strength and bore down.

Through a slippery veil of numbness he recorded a sudden release of pressure in response to a severe divot that made whatever he held unsteady. When the next neurone fired, he had resurfaced and been, for some time based on the rawness of his throat, hacking up a viscous fluid mixture of phlegm and seawater.

He wasn’t sure how long he remained like that, floating atop the ocean in complete stasis, occasionally stroked by the languid laps of a subdued tide. Spock recovered in bouts of sensation, slowly rewoven into the tangible fabric of reality like a wizened woman attending her loom.

An agonising pain crystallised then, and, having pursued the inbound nerve impulses, found the pain endemic to his right hand. That was a great simplification, though, for surely the hunk of mutilated flesh making these aborted, incessant and disjointed movements was not his hand. Macabre didn’t even begin to describe it. Quivering in flayed apart sockets were completely exposed muscles, his palm meatily shredded and punctured such that tendrils of flesh hung sloppily like a shawl from fractured bones. Green blood settled in sticky mats atop his musculature and refused to congeal the perforations any deeper. Indeed, it in every way resembled the sort of salami that was sold fresh in a butcher’s shop; it was apt to call it just that, meat.

The culprit was evident: a poor job made, for it had tarried off without its prize. Or had it? Initially, Spock presumed the creature had given up, rightly deducing that he was too great a risk to consume. But, a closer inspection revealed the more likely truth: during the exchange, his tricorder had vanished. An oddity, given that the strong titanium alloy would likely induce significant wear onto its teeth. Regardless, the loss was significant; its data and scanning capabilities were invaluable. However, survival took precedence.

Returning to the relative safety of the lifeboat, Spock made a mental note to construct a replacement device from salvaged materials. Upon arrival, his first course of action would be to administer a dermal regenerator to his hand and mitigate the damage sustained. While this injury would inevitably slow his progress, he intended to compensate by working longer hours to ensure their continued survival. For now, he would rely on his Vulcan adaptability and resourcefulness to navigate this perilous environment. The ocean was unforgiving, but so too was Spock's resolve. The coming challenges demanded clear-headedness and action, and he would not falter. His duty was to his Captain, and to finding a way forward.


The buzzards careened overhead, rustic sycophants of these barrelling dusts.

Homing calls shuddered and shrilled, mechanically—their bodies, now dots on the horizon, pivoting two degrees, three degrees, four degrees, six…

Jim roused from his uneasy stupor with a head that felt at least two miles wide and screwed on the wrong way. Grimacing, he flexed feeling back into his fingers and lolled about on the world’s most uncomfortable blanket doggedly. He was unsurprised and only a little bit disappointed to find that it was not, in fact, a blanket at all, but instead a horrible plastic tarp, the creased edges poking and prodding his back like fifty or so scratching kittens. Dried spittle crusted about the creases of his mouth and no doubt his hair hadn’t fared much better, it’s not that his vanity was all that important, but propriety tended to be a civilised comfort.

For most people, the belligerent veneer of amnesia would spare them the wallow of tragedy, but chalk it up to his Captaincy or the darkest days of his adolescence, ‘most people’ did not include James Tiberius Kirk. The aberrant truth was a poison that never became any easier to swallow, one would think that, given enough time and exposure, he’d have mustered up a resistance to it--but he just never had. McCoy often espoused on and on about how that was supposed to be a good thing, and he wouldn’t readily deny that, but nevertheless his humanity could, at times, be a most horrible tormentor. For even in sleep it was undeniable; the USS-Aurora was no more, its crew was sacrificed along with it and he had the gall to once again survive where other’s had perished—a thought that was most irrational and not one bit helpful.

His restless movements must have alerted the silhouette of his First Officer, for the idle tinkering sounds he made quietened some. Through half-lidded eyes, he stared, whilst Spock toiled like antique clockwork, grafting sparks to steel inside the primary console’s cabinet. Fixed to the cabinet’s lip by strips of black electrical tape was these bulbs of bioluminescence like ripened honeypots, casting domes of warm, yellow light about the cramped interior of the lifeboat. It felt homely and rather more personal for a creature as cerebral as Spock, with the sort of sanctuary milieu thought only to be found in the pillow forts and treehouses of childhood. Spock’s features were quite enrapturing in that halo of alien candlelight, like the galaxy’s final rosebud at long last coming to bloom. Except for one petal, in this case a hand, which remained cradled at his side. A binding of gauze was sewn tightly around it and there was that crisp, unmistakable tang of blood that had long since outstayed its welcome. Jim permitted a crease to fall on his brow, wrinkles be damned, the injury was troubling, for he did not remember Spock sustaining it during their evacuation. Just how long had Spock been working? It wasn’t all that uncommon for the man to work unethically long hours, burrowed deep in the bowels of the laboratories perusing the latest scientific journals as if his life depended on it. Jim figured that in some ways it very well did, without Spock’s expertise, he would’ve found himself dead at least three times over by now. It was for that reason that he felt he owed something to Spock, for as alien as he was, he made an exquisite First Officer and, quite possibly, an even better friend.

“Spock...” He husked with the diesel puttering of a greasy exhaust. It was painfully pathetic and absolutely not befitting a man of his station, he felt not much further from that young boy who sobbed for the safety of his mother’s arms.

“Captain.” Spock acknowledged softly, his voice enchanting in those gentle rumblings of honey-butter. Even so, Jim had scarcely ever seen the other man reduced in such a way, as though slipping across the event horizon of a blackhole. He knew all at once what Spock would resolutely deny, exhaustion hung heavy about him. From his hunched shoulders and bleary eyes, fatigue was this ever-hungering parasite that was slowly taxing him of whatever little energy he had left. Even a Vulcan had their limits, and Jim suspected that, recklessly, they had long since been surpassed. It was a remarkable thing really, for beneath this adamant weariness, there was still an undeniable determination that was so quintessentially Spock—logical, resolute, and unyielding.

He juggled his next words carefully, testing their taste on his tongue. He had found that, when it came to the sensitivities of his First Officer, it was best to tread cautiously and behave in a way not too dissimilar to how one would corral a particularly reluctant cat.

“How long have you been at it?" A question was perhaps a little cruel, if only for the fact that Vulcans could neither lie nor resist an unanswered problem once raised. In any case, it was far better than asking after his health, that would have been rebuked most severely with that typical nonchalance of a peeved Vulcan.

"Approximately five point three hours, Captain. I deemed it necessary to attempt repairs while you rested." Spock made no indication that he was prepared to give up, grasping at an electro-spanner with what, for a human, would be an affordable amount of difficulty.

Jim hummed in commendation, before groaning as he raised himself upright onto a stiff elbow. Evidently, the sound of his pain roused Spock from what busied him and hooded eyes peeked out of the darkness.

“And your hand?” Jim said, nodding towards the neglected limb.

“Adequate.” Spock spoke with such an assuring tone that to someone less familiar with his habits could easily made the mistake of taking his word at face value—Jim, however, was not so gullible--his face alone spoke of his disapproval.

Spock's eyebrow quirked upward, "Captain, I assure you, Vulcans require significantly less rest than humans.”

A smug smirk played about Jim’s lips, this was not the first time he’d heard such a claim and, so long as he could help it, wasn’t likely to be the last time either.

“I am quite capable of continuing—"

“Continuing, after a few hours of sleep, surely?” Jim said in his most noncommittal tone, it would serve him well to remember that Vulcans, being stubborn as mules, preferred to beat around the bush before submitting to their condition, “We will work far better by daylight anyhow, and, well, it’s only logical to maintain our standard of productivity, wouldn’t you say?”

The pregnant pause that followed was absolutely gravid but Jim remained undeterred, more keen than ever to settle himself down and get his forty winks. Deciding it was best to leave the ball in Spock’s court, he wouldn’t stoop so low as to order him to rest, Jim smoothed out his bedding and, having removed his over shirt, fancied the fabric into a half-decent pillow. He laid himself down gently, it wasn’t comfortable, between the tarp and his bed aboard the Enterprise he knew which he’d prefer, but it would have to suffice.

When he heard no further noise, Jim cracked open an eyelid and sighed.

“Come on, Spock.” It was delicate, bordering on patronising and quite unlike any tone Jim had taken with Spock—or any man for that matter—before. As embarrassing as it was, he wasn’t to dwell on it for, after a belated and forlorn look back at his neat pile of tools, Spock stiffly crept up beside him.

Jim blinked superfluously, and as if sensing this lingering bashfulness, Spock curled himself up without sparing another word. That worked just as well for Jim, although he couldn’t help but feel a bit crestfallen—a simple ‘goodnight’ would not have gone amiss.

 

It was at the dead of night when Jim was next roused, the ghost of a chill nipped goosebumps into his skin and his exposed torso practically begged for a respite. He blindly sought out warmth to ease his wayward bones, shivering in this pesky cold, only to knock against a solid form with a grunt. Spock wasn’t that close to him, was he? But close he sure was and absolutely freezing to boot, as cold as ice from head to toe. In a stroke of what could really only be called delirious genius, Jim shirked the simple comfort of his shirt-pillow and draped the garment over his fellow officer’s shaking form. He felt more so than saw Spock stiffen momentarily before relaxing into the warmth, his shivering gradually subsiding. Then, hooking his finger into the silver eyelets, Jim folded the tarp in half as to, hopefully, offer more warmth. Returning beneath the cover, he soon realised that Spock had taken the liberty to, almost imperceptibly, notch closer to Jim’s side. Jim allowed himself a small, secret smile in the darkness. Sometimes, what Spock needed most was what he'd never ask for himself.