Chapter Text
Day 9
An arrangement of fresh flowers adorned the elegantly set, private table. Crisp, white linens, topped with crystal and fine china – both bearing the Starfleet insignia in gold – gave the temporary room a refined and inviting ambiance. The quartermaster had done a particularly good job with the table’s floral arrangement, and Jim was confident his guest would be pleased.
A large tray holding several bottles of liquor, along with the aged brandy Jim knew his guest was fond of, a silver ice bucket, and various-sized glasses, including two crystal brandy snifters, had been placed on a nearby cart, which had also been draped in white linen. The delicate, sparkling barware would add to the after-dinner experience of sipping the aged brandy, much in the same way an ocean sunset was enhanced when viewed from the deck of a private yacht.
Luxuries, however small, always provided an extra gloss, Jim thought in satisfaction.
Of course, while Captain’s rank had its privileges, he couldn’t take credit for all the luxurious amenities on hand. With fifty-two ambassadors on board, Starfleet had pulled out all the stops while provisioning them for the mission. In his opinion, it would be foolish to waste a chance to experience the rare delights.
As he’d requested, dinner had been arranged in a hastily erected private alcove on the Observation Deck. The intimate retreat had been decorated with small, blooming trees and greenery from the Botany lab. With the backdrop view of stars streaking by in the utter blackness of space, it was the perfect setting for an intimate dinner with a beautiful woman. He intended to thoroughly enjoy the evening, acutely aware that the upcoming romantic interlude was a rarity on shipboard.
Jim cast a considering look at the table. He hoped the fragrance of the colorful flowers in the arrangement wasn’t too strong, overpowering the aroma of the food that would be served. For the last few weeks, he’d been fighting off a persistent virus. Among other annoying symptoms, and to Bones’ consternation, the virus had robbed him of his sense of smell.
Oddly enough, though, he could still taste the food he ate.
Bones shook his head. “Just once, couldn’t your symptoms be typical? Keeping up with your screwy immune system is going to drive me to an early grave. If you can’t smell, you shouldn’t be able to taste.”
Jim shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you, Bones, since it’s true.”
Frowning, Bones grumbled under his breath about conflicting symptoms while he made the notation in Jim’s chart.
Well, Bones might not be happy that he still wasn’t fully recovered, but Jim wasn’t going to let that dampen his anticipation for the upcoming dinner.
He raised the pre-dinner glass of whiskey he had poured a short time ago to his lips. The caramel-tinged spirit exploded on his tongue – strong proof that his sense of taste was still intact – and he savored the whiskey’s burn, letting the rich flavor ease his growing impatience.
He checked his wrist chron, again. His guest was running late – not an uncommon occurrence for a diplomat.
Resigned to waiting, Jim walked over to the portion of the observation window enclosed by the temporary screens, drink in hand. He had poured only a scant amount of the costly liquor, just enough to taste really. A sip or two would have to do for the moment. He didn’t want to start the evening on the wrong foot by beginning the festivities without her. She might view it as rude.
Jim sighed, tired of constantly watching his every step around the delegation on board. He’d had enough trouble keeping the ambassadors from killing each other already, and they were only halfway to Babel. He could only hope his dinner guest planned on leaving her diplomatic mindset in her quarters this evening.
His days since the ship had departed Earth-dock had been largely spent circulating among the ambassadors, smoothing over petty conflicts before they flared into something more serious. Those duties had cut into the time Jim could safely spend on the Bridge, far from all the spats and quarrels. Fortunately, when his duties as captain meant he couldn’t attend a meeting or a meal with the ambassadors, Spock had stepped into his place, seamlessly assuming the vigilant monitoring Jim had ordered as a precaution. Between the two of them, they’d managed to keep the fragile peace from shattering.
It wouldn’t help those efforts, though, if he got impatient now and inadvertently offended his guest. Hypersensitive to nuance, the ambassadors and their aides were quick to perceive slights where none were intended, forcing everyone on the Enterprise to constantly remain on their toes.
God forbid, as Bones would say, if one of the greener crew members accidentally said or did anything—
A forceful blow followed by a sharp spike of pain sent him reeling, stunned. Shocked, he heard the glass he’d been holding at his side shatter on the deck.
Reeling, Jim groped for the source of the excruciating pain, the utter silence of the attack disorienting.
Something hard protruded from his right side, low over his ribcage. The brush of his fingers against it sent another burst of agony through his body and he snatched his hand away, staring in disbelief at the blood staining his fingers.
Understanding, however belated, dawned.
He’d been stabbed.
Someone was trying to kill him.
Before he could move, the blade was ripped out of his side, leaving a burning path of fire in its wake. The fresh pain was galvanizing, and he reacted instinctively to the looming threat.
His elbow came up and out in a blur, connecting with something solid behind him. He spun, bringing his arms up, hands curled into tight fists, ready for battle.
The sight of his silent assailant’s face brought him up short. Jim gaped at his attacker in disbelief. For a moment, it all seemed surreal, as if he were caught in a bizarre nightmare.
But the growing pain in his side reminded him that the attack was, in fact, very real. Shaking off his shock, Jim sprang forward, his paramount goal disarming his attacker.
His assailant mirrored his response, lunging toward him in return, face cold and set, the knife glittering. Jim was forced to quickly backpedal in order to dodge his attacker’s determined strike at his midsection. The blade swept across the front of his uniform, slicing through the gray fabric as if it were tissue paper, leaving a searing, new line of pain across his abdomen in its wake.
Ignoring the fresh injury, Jim leapt forward again, surprising his opponent. With a swift, deft move, he wrested the knife from his assailant’s hand.
“Don’t move,” he commanded, once the knife was no longer a threat.
Ignoring his breathy order, his opponent attacked again in a blur of speed.
Jim brandished the knife, desperate to keep his assailant at bay as the growing pain sapped his strength, but his feet were swept out from under him, dropping him to the deck with a jarring thud.
Fiery pain spiked through his side, and he momentarily lost his grip on the weapon, a burst of stars clouding his vision. Gasping for breath, Jim gagged on the metallic taste of blood in the back of his throat.
He was in real trouble.
Realizing his growing vulnerability, Jim lashed out with his legs, desperately hoping to connect with his assailant and force them away. But his efforts were in vain. His countermove found only empty air as his attacker swiftly retreated, a cold smile of triumph in place.
Laughter and chatter suddenly intruded on Jim’s hearing, breaking the unnatural silence.
The crewmembers, or visitors, entering the Observation Deck on the other side of the screens seemed oblivious to the violence taking place behind the temporary walls. Jim strained to find enough breath to call out and summon their attention.
And then, in an instant, his assailant was gone.
Blood was pooling beneath him, thick and sticky. Too much blood.
With shaking, bloody fingers, Jim tapped the insignia on his chest. “Security. Red alert.”
His voice was barely a whisper. Jim couldn’t seem to get enough air into his lungs. He struggled to calm his racing heart, to gather his reserves, and focus.
His life depended on it.
Vision fading, Jim gasped, “Kirk to… security!”
A moment later, “Security, sir.”
Secure the deck.
The words were clear in his mind, but he couldn’t push them out of his mouth. Jim sucked in a desperate breath, straining for air – and choked on his own blood instead.
He couldn’t feel his hands anymore and his fumbling fingers slipped from his comm badge, smearing blood on his tattered uniform jacket.
A cold numbness spread upward through his body. The pain began to fade, and he stopped fighting the grayness gathering at the edges of his vision.
“Sir? Captain Kirk? Are you alright, sir?”
He coughed weakly, and a rivulet of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.
“Captain Kirk! Please respond!”
Jim’s vision darkened.
“A security team is on their way, sir. Hang on.”
Jim’s vision darkened. He felt a hand – gentle and warm – on his face, the comforting touch reassuring. He heard the muffled, distant sound of raised voices, strident with fear and exhortation.
He was dying, Jim realized in some dim part of his mind.
Gasping for breath, he struggled against the rising tide of unconsciousness, but his steadily weakening efforts were to no avail.
Awareness fled, carrying him away into a deeper blackness.