Finding the appropriate words was difficult.

Despite having “a whole universe to himself,” as he earlier had described it to Spock and McCoy, Kirk realized that concentrating on surviving long enough to be rescued by the Enterprisehad precluded any sort of true contemplation about his situation. The only thing he recalled with any clarity was his sense of total isolation. There of course was no way to know if his assertion was true; it had been nothing more than a gut feeling reinforced by the unremitting nothingness in which he had found himself. His ability to recount what had happened to him out there in a way that made sense and might resonate with whoever chose to review these logs in years to come was proving inadequate.

That’s why you’re a starship captain and not a storyteller or a poet.Smiling, Kirk imagined he could hear McCoy giving voice to the errant thought.

“Computer,” he said, leaning back in his desk chair and reaching up to rub his temples, “cancel current recording.”

The stilted, feminine voice of the Enterprise’s main computer asked, “Shall I hold the data in memory for later update?”

After considering the query for a moment, Kirk shook his head. “Negative. Erase it completely.”

“Acknowledged. ”The text on the terminal’s viewscreen disappeared.

Deciding he had spent enough time in solitude and that he should return his focus to other matters at hand, Kirk rose from his chair just as his door chime sounded. He frowned, wondering if he had forgotten a meeting or other appointment. “Come.”

The door slid aside to reveal McCoy, dressed in standard uniform trousers but with the short-sleeved blue medical smock he preferred to wear while toiling within the environs of sickbay. He was carrying a tray shrouded with a cloth napkin, and Kirk eyed it with suspicion. “Now, what might you be?”

“Room service,” the doctor replied as he stepped through the doorway—without actual, proper invitation, as was his habit. “After what you’ve been through, it seemed that a little extra medical attention was in order.”

Chuckling as McCoy set the tray on the desk before helping himself to the unoccupied chair positioned before it, Kirk asked, “It’s not any of that theragen antidote you cooked up to deal with the interphasic effects, is it?” He had read reports from both Spock and McCoy detailing how the doctor had studied the effects of the interspatial rift on some crew members’ neurological systems, notably Lieutenant Uhura, Ensign Chekov, and members of both the medical and engineering staffs. McCoy had deduced that in order to mitigate or ward off the affliction, desensitizing certain key nerve inputs to the humanoid brain was required. A search of the Enterprise’s library computer banks had provided him with the best option for producing the desired effect: theragen, a nerve gas employed by the Klingons. Though lethal when used in its natural form, the toxin could be diluted and mixed with other compounds to produce a powerful neurological relaxant, which he prescribed to the entire crew.

McCoy shook his head. “I’m saving that for the next time we get assigned to cart some huffy ambassador somewhere.” He pulled the napkin off the tray to reveal two tall glasses filled almost to their brims with ice as well as a translucent yellow-green liquid. Each glass was topped off by a sprig of lush green leaves.

“Are those what I think they are?” Kirk asked, his nose already catching the first faint hint of spearmint.

“Damned right,” the doctor replied with unabashed pride. “The official McCoy mint julep family recipe, given to me by my father, who got it from his father, and on back for more generations than I’ve got fingers. I’ve been saving the leaves in stasis for months, waiting for just the right occasion, and I figure your captain not dying ranks right up there.” He handed one of the cocktails to Kirk before retrieving the other drink for himself. “If you don’t want to eat the glass when you’re finished, then you don’t know anything about drinking.”

Kirk took a hearty swig from the drink as he reclined in his chair. The blend of whiskey and the mint from muddled spearmint leaves sweetened with sugar was, in a word, exquisite, and he closed his eyes as he savored its taste. Though McCoy was a gifted surgeon, Kirk wondered not for the first time if his friend might have missed his true calling as a bartender.

“This might just be your best prescription yet,” he said. “Even better than that Finagle’s Folly you gave me last year.”

“It’ll recrystallize your dilithium, all right,” the doctor replied before taking a long sip from his own drink. After a moment, he asked, “So, no lingering aftereffects? Fatigue? Disorientation?”

Kirk shook his head. “Nothing. I feel fine, Bones.” Holding up his glass for emphasis, he added, “Better than fine, now.” Upon his return to the Enterprise, he had felt utterly exhausted, drained to the point where he was certain his body would simply shut down as a consequence of the ordeal he had endured. Fortunately, the effects of his time in the interspatial rift were fleeting, his strength returning soon after McCoy set to work treating him.

Grunting as he leaned back in his chair, McCoy lifted one leg to rest atop Kirk’s desk and gestured with his mint julep. “If only every diagnosis were as easy to treat.”

Before Kirk could respond, he was interrupted once again by his door chime. “Come in,” he called out.

This time, Spock stood before the threshold, his hands clasped behind his back. Noting McCoy’s presence, he said, “Good evening, Captain. Doctor. I apologize if this is an intrusion.”

Kirk shook his head, gesturing for his first officer to step inside. “Not at all, Mister Spock. The doctor was just conducting a . . . follow-up examination.” He decided not to smile at Spock’s arched right eyebrow as the Vulcan entered the room. “I don’t suppose you’re here to tell me you’ve got an idea about recovering the Defiant?”

Moving to stand next to McCoy, the first officer replied, “No, sir. With Mister Scott’s help, I recalibrated our sensors to better register the energy field it generated but that was not initially discernible by our equipment. All scans of the area where the interspatial rift was located show no signs of the phenomenon. It is as though it was never there at all. I can only conclude that our entry into the region, followed by the Tholians and our ensuing exchange of weapons fire, or the use of their energy web generators, disrupted what we already knew to be a fragile balance with respect to the rift.”

Swirling the remaining contents of his glass, McCoy said, “So there’s no way to know where the Defiantwent, or even if it went anywhere?”

“Not at this time,” Spock replied. “Based on the information currently at our disposal, we are able only to classify the Defiantas lost and presumed destroyed.”

It was disheartening to write off a Constitution-class starship and its crew with such a cold, blunt statement, even with the knowledge that, without doubt, everyone aboard the Defianthad perished. In the absence of other evidence to the contrary, Kirk knew it was the only proper choice with respect to cataloging the tragic incident.

“Then that’s how my report to Admiral Nogura will read,” he said after a moment. “So, if that’s not why you’re here, then what can I do for you?”

Spock answered, “I have been examining the data retrieved from the Defiant’s memory banks. With the Tholians and our attempts to rescue you, this was the first such opportunity to present itself. Most of the relevant data was transferred to the Enterprisecomputer, but I realized during my research that certain files were not moved. They were not only omitted from the transfer but also erased by another program created specifically for that purpose.”