THREE

Stardate 5694.7

Everything around him was darkness.

Kirk drifted in the void, the sound of his own low, ragged breathing echoing within the confines of his environment suit’s helmet. It almost, but not quite, masked the soft repeating drone of the alert indicator reminding him that his suit was running out of oxygen.

There was nothing but unyielding blackness in all directions. How long had he been here? Hours, obviously, straining to their limit the capabilities of his suit’s life-support systems. When the shock had passed in the wake of the Defiant’s transition to . . . this place, whatever it was, and it became evident that a quick rescue might not happen, Kirk had taken steps to extend his suit’s oxygen supply. Small, shallow breaths, just as he had been taught in academy survival training. Still, he could not rule out that he might already be suffering the effects of oxygen deprivation. The act of being transferred to this odd realm also seemed to have other effects. First, a feeling of sudden, almost overwhelming fatigue had gripped him, as though his body had fought the transition down to the last molecule. Then there was the disorientation as he struggled to get his bearings, when he was certain he was falling victim to hallucinations. Instead of floating, out here in the midst of nothing, he had envisioned himself aboard the Enterprise, seeing members of his crew and calling to them for help. His shouts seemed to go unheard, but had his people seen him? Did he imagine them reaching out as though trying to make contact?

As for the Defiant, it was gone, having disappeared in the same abrupt manner in which it and he had been brought to this place. Had it returned to normal space, visible to the Enterprise, or had it been sent somewhere else entirely? Perhaps it simply had been destroyed, falling victim to whatever unknown forces might be at play here.

That doesn’t bode well for you, does it?

Fatigue already had him in its grasp, and it was a fight for Kirk even to remain conscious. He tried to focus on his breathing, inhaling and exhaling in short, measured repetition, holding each breath as he counted off the seconds before releasing it. His efforts were only delaying the inevitable, he knew, but he could not bring himself to surrender even this small battle. Kirk had faced death on numerous occasions, but in almost none of those cases had he been a passive observer to his own demise, powerless to ward off whatever fate might await him.

Aside from the odd hunch or stroke of intuition that from time to time had informed a decision during a heated moment, Kirk did not consider himself a prophet or possessed of any gift of foreknowledge. Still, one of the beliefs he always had held, for reasons he did not understand, was that he would die alone. He was certain that did not mean he would suffer the lone fatal injury while commanding a landing party, or even that he might be the sole casualty while standing on the bridge of his ship. He had no ideas, thoughts, or beliefs as to the actual time or means of his demise, only the certainty that when death came, it would visit him during some point of extreme isolation. There could be no denying that holding on to such a thought was silly, but that did not stop him from contemplating it. On occasion, while lying in bed in the privacy of his quarters aboard the Enterprise, Kirk had wondered if his being “alone” in that instance might imply a literal or perhaps metaphorical sense.

This seems pretty literal to me, right about now.

He wanted nothing more than to sleep, though he knew what likely would happen if he allowed himself to fall into slumber. Keeping his eyes open required physical effort, and only the interior of his helmet provided any means of telling the difference between the inside of his eyelids and the vast gulf of absolute black before him. It would be so easy, he knew, such a simple thing to just close his eyes.

Then fleeting bright light exploded in his vision. He had just enough time to register the effect and flinch in the face of it, his body swathed in the same odd tingling sensation he had felt upon entering the void with the Defiant.As before, his body seemed to rebel against the grip of whatever forces snared him. A wave of nausea swept over him and he worried that he might vomit inside his helmet. He forced away the anxiety, seeking some measure of calm as he willed his body not to resist whatever was happening. Then, as quickly as the light appeared, it was gone.

And stars were everywhere.

Kirk grunted in surprise at the scene before him, but when he tried to draw another breath, he was greeted by the low buzz of his life-support system telling him he had depleted the final remnants of his oxygen supply. Whatever air remained to him was trapped within the confines of the suit itself. He had minutes, at most. There would be no fighting it. There would be no fighting anything, as he felt the lingering vestiges of strength draining away.

Then another odd tingling played across his body. This one he recognized, and the first rush of relief began even as he felt the transporter beam envelop him. The stars disappeared, replaced by the familiar welcoming environs of the Enterprisetransporter room. Behind the console was Lieutenant O’Neil, one of Scotty’s young engineering technicians, and standing next to him were McCoy and Nurse Chapel. Kirk was able to comprehend the concerned expressions on their faces as the transporter beam faded and his body gave out, unable to support its own weight let alone the added burden of the now useless environment suit.

He collapsed to his knees on the transporter platform, struggling to raise his arms enough to remove his helmet and fighting for whatever traces of oxygen lingered within the suit. His limbs betrayed him, but by then Chapel and McCoy were hovering over him. The nurse was deactivating the helmet’s seal and Kirk felt it lifting away from the collar around his neck at the same time McCoy pressed something against his right arm. The powerful hypospray, likely containing tri-ox compound or some other medication to aid his oxygen-starved body, hissed as Kirk gulped air, feeling the drug already beginning to take effect. Slumping forward, he rested his hand on his knee and held himself from falling face-first from the platform. His head seemed to weigh a hundred kilos, but he still was able to raise it enough to make eye contact with McCoy, who reached out to grip his right arm and steady him.

“Bones,” Kirk said, his voice hoarse. He tried to say something else, but words failed him as he fought to regain his strength.

His expression one of undisguised relief, McCoy squeezed his arm and offered a small reassuring smile. “Welcome home, Jim.”

Whatever reply Kirk might have made was lost as he sat on the transporter platform, letting McCoy’s medicines do their work. Too weak to reply, he responded with a simple tired nod.

Good to be home.

•   •   •

Alone in his quarters, Kirk regarded the desktop computer terminal’s viewscreen and the transcription of his latest log entry displayed upon it. Having paused the computer’s recording of his dictation, he now reviewed the cold, stark translation of his rambling, almost aimless thoughts. He already had entered his update for the official captain’s log and had done so while minding all of the usual protocols and practices. For his personal log, he felt the need to expound on his remarks in a manner not suited to the official record, documenting his experiences and feelings while trapped in that boundless void that had taken the Defiant.