DISCLAIMER: The Star Trek characters are the property of Paramount Studios, Inc. The story contents are the creation and property of Mrs. Spock and is copyright (c) 2004 by Mrs. Spock. Rated PG.



The Knife

Mrs. Spock



As a Vulcan, I must force myself to present a façade of dispassionate detachment; but that is what it is - a façade - and it is difficult to maintain.

I hold in my hands the instrument of harm to my t'hy'la, the knife that drew the lifeblood from his body and the spirit from mine.

The blade is nothing but a combination of metal alloys, yet my mind refuses to see the simplicity of that truth. This single object caused far more damage than the Orion ship firing on the Enterprise, caused far more anguish than the illness of my father and the angry, desperate pleas of my mother - both of which brought about in me a terrible pain.

But the pain caused by this knife is something more. I know that Jim will survive, will recover without any undue lasting effects. But I will never be able to erase from my mind the sight of him lying in the corridor, his scarlet blood seeping freely from the wound in his back, or the image of him in sickbay, as still and pale as a corpse upon the bed.

As I stood by his side in sickbay, my emotions almost overcame me; I had much difficulty in controlling them. My father, lying across the room, his condition rapidly deteriorating, and my mother at his side, required me to stay and donate my blood for Sarek's surgery. Yet, I found that I could not remain and give my blood so liberally when Jim's had been taken from him with no regard. Nor could I stay and watch that pale figure, knowing that my blood could save Sarek's life and not his.

Once more, I ruthlessly harnessed my control as I interrogated the prisoner, a member of the Andorian delegation. I got nothing from him and little from Shras, the Andorian ambassador. I felt the anger and frustration building in me and returned to the bridge, to command in Jim's place.

I had never thought I would ever turn my anger toward Jim, but, when he came to the bridge to replace me, I felt the heat of rage burning at the terrible risk he took to his own life to save my father's. Could he not see that his life was far more valuable? Sarek and I have begun to bridge the chasm between us, but we will never be close. If he were to die, Vulcan would simply appoint another ambassador; that is their way. Jim is irreplaceable, both as an excellent starship commander, the best in the fleet, and ... as my friend.

If Jim were to die, if I lost my t'hy'la, I would lose the best part of myself. I said it once to T'Pau; I would not survive his death.

Perhaps I am being selfish, thinking only of my own concerns. I find that I am not able to treat this situation with my usual degree of clarity and objectivity. But, I know I would not be the only one to suffer from Jim's loss.

I spent eleven years, four months and five days serving on this ship under Captain Pike. He, too, was an excellent leader but not in all that time did he generate the kind of loyalty and dedication that Jim has achieved in a fraction of the time. This crew, including myself, would die for him without question and know it was the right thing to do. This crew would feel his loss and I believe the Federation as a whole would suffer as well.

But Jim will recover, Sarek also. The Orion disguised as an Andorian is dead and I refuse to feel shame in my pleasure at his death. The Orion ship was destroyed by yet another of Jim's simple, yet brilliant, strategies and the entire group of delegations has left the ship. All that is left is this knife. And the memories of the pain it caused.

I am alone in my cabin. No one is here to witness the Vulcan façade drop as my hands tighten around the knife and the blade, still red- tinted with Jim's precious blood, cuts deeply into my palms drawing blood I can most likely ill afford to lose. But, as my emerald blood washes over the knife, cleansing away the red, I feel some of my anguish drain. As if I have managed to take some of Jim's pain and wash it away, covering it with my own. As if, in mixing our blood together on this heinous instrument, we have fought together against a common enemy. As t'hy'la should.

The blade is green now. I can no longer see Jim's blood. The knife is simply that: a knife, an amalgam of metal alloys. It has no useful purpose and I throw it in the recycler.



FIN