Hello again! So this is being posted WAYY faster than I thought it would be. On the flip side, I'm pretty sure I'm going to fail my physics test tomorrow. Oh well, priorities. This is a continuation of Chemistry Sucks, it picks up about four months after the end of Chemistry Sucks and the 2009 movie. This isn't going to be as emotionally heavy as Chemistry Sucks, it's more story driven. We're in deep space, guys! Isn't it exciting? BTW: This switches perspective, ships, and dates. I put the little header explaining where, when, and who for a reason, it'll help keep everything clear.

Jim's POV; USS Enterprise, Stardate 2254.89

"Captain, we're being hailed…" Uhura called from behind me on the bridge.

"Hailed? By whom, not a starfleet ship this far out?" I asked as I spun around.

"No sir, it appears to coming from a planet orbiting HD 39194. The third planet from it, planet 'C', seems to be the source of the hail." Uhura commented, not taking her eyes off of her quickly changing screens.

"Well, put it on the screen, Lieutenant." I said as I spun my chair back around.

"Sir, it isn't a visual hail. It seems to be a recording, actually…" She trailed off

"A warning signal?" I prompted.

"No, captain. At least I don't believe so. It isn't a known language, but I believe it is a welcome message. The translator is having trouble with it, but if I didn't know better I'd say it was a Romantic language." She answered, again not bothering to look up from the screen in her concentration.

"Play the hail, Lieutenant." I called.

"Yes, Captain." A strange but undeniably living voice rang through the speakers on the bridge:

"Leram ipsam delar siet omlia, qua exquarent prudentiam"

"Well, that means… absolutely nothing to me. Think you can swing a response, Lieutenant?" I asked.

"It would be a complete shot in the dark, Captain, without more examples to draw from." She said almost dejectedly.

"How sure are you that it's a welcome message?"

"Sure enough to say we probably won't be fired on if we approach the planet, sir." She responded.

"Mr. Chekov, set course for planet 'C', warp four." I called to the young navigator.

"Yes, sir." The response came quickly.

"How long until arrival, Chekov?" I asked as I stood and walked towards Spock at the science station.

"Approximately forty-five minutes, Captain." Chekov answered.

"Forty-three point eight, Captain." Spock corrected him barely loud enough for me to hear. The look Chekov gave me told me that while he might not have heard what Spock said, he certainly saw his lips moving. Everyone on the bridge was getting a bit, annoyed, by Spock's constant pursuit of precision.

"Thank you, Mr. Spock." I muttered under my breathe. "Spock, what's the deal with that planet?"

"I am not aware of any current agreements with this planet, Captain." He said, looking up at me with that smirk in his eyes that screams that he knows exactly how much of a smartass he's being. I hate that look.

"Spock," I half whined as I rolled my eyes, "you know what I meant. What do we know about that planet?"

"It is a Class "M" planet, atmosphere conducive to humanoid life. It has an extremely warm and dry climate that may be uncomfortable to humans, but should not inhibit any crew member's ability to function on the planet's surface. It has roughly 5.0193 times the mass of the Earth, and a diameter 11,713.013 meters, slightly less than that of Earth." That last little side note was added with a bit of a bite. Well, maybe not a normal bite, but definetly a half-vulcan equivalent of a bite. As if I didn't know the diameter of the Earth. He continued:

"The planet was considered a super-earth planet during the early twenty-first century. This hailing suggests it is home to an intelligent race, capable of crude space travel. If Lieutenant Uhura is correct in her interpretation of the message, then there is an 87.23 percent chance that they will be open to our communication attempts." He said just as calmly as ever.

"And the other thirteen point something percent? What happens then?" I asked.

"There is a 9.93% probability that-"

"I don't need the percentages, Mr. Spock." I cut him off.

"They will either fire on us once we are within range, wait until we are planet side and then kill us, or they are no longer capable of receiving transmissions, Captain." He said as his eyes narrowed slightly.

"I'll take those odds." I said before turning to walk back to the lift.

"It seems there are very few odds you would not take, Captain." Spock said from behind me. I stopped walking and turned back to face Spock.

"Mr. Spock, care to take a walk with me?" I asked shortly.

"Certainly, Captain." He responded almost eagerly. We made our way to the lift. Stepping out once we arrived on one of the less trafficked levels, I turned to face him. That damn eyebrow raised.

"Yes, Captain?" He asked painstakingly slowly.

"Mr. Spock, it has come to my attention that the bridge crew is starting to be negatively affected by your constantly correcting them. Have you noticed that?" I asked.

"No, Captain. I have not. Nor do I recall correcting any of the bridge crew." He said, seemingly legitimately confused and thrown off by my accusation. If he didn't know about this, what did he think I wanted to talk to him about?

"When you corrected Chekov's time estimate just now. You've been correcting people all week!" I exclaimed, my annoyance lessening at the fact that he at least wasn't pissing people off consciously. That's just how he was.

"I would not consider that 'correcting', Captain, but simply specifying. Mr. Chekov gave an accurate estimate of 'about forty-five minutes', and I was merely attempting to provide you with a more precise measurement." He said cooly. I sighed.

"Mr. Spock, at what time have I reported to duty over the last three days?" I asked.

"You have arrived on the bridge at two point one minutes past eight on Tuesday, one point five minutes before eight yesterday, and today you arrived seven point three minutes before eight." He supplied quickly. Didn't even have to think about it.

"So does it stand to logic to say that I approximate times?" I asked.

"Certainly, humans often approximate data." He pseudo-insulted me.

"So, if I am going to estimate the time anyway, what reason is there for undermining Chekov and telling me the exact time?" I pushed.

"I did not intend to undermine Mr. Chekov, Captain." He said simply.

"I know you didn't, but it happened anyway. Now Chekov is upset, not seriously upset, but more upset than he needed to be. For what? For me to have an exact figure that I'm not going to really consider anyway." I sighed. "All I'm saying, Mr. Spock, is that I would appreciate it if you would refrain from providing 'a more precise response' because I'm afraid it will be interpreted as correcting people. If I need an exact figure, I know you're my guy." I said with a smile as I put a hand on his arm. He looked down and stared at my arm, then looked me dead in the eyes and cocked that one damn eyebrow as if to say: 'In your dreams, Captain'. Then he turned and walked back into the lift, leaving me standing dumbfounded in the corridor.

….

Addy's POV; USS Farragut; Stardate 2254.89

"Hey, uh-Addy, right?" A disembodied voice interrupted my thinking. Not a great start to the conversation.

"Yes?" I answered harshly without looking up from my work in an attempt to give him, whoever he was, as little encouragement as possible.

"It's comin' up on lunch, a couple of us are headed down to the mess. Just wonderin' if you'd like to join us?" He asked, maintaining his disturbing cheerfulness. I sighed heavily.

"I'm kinda in the middle of something, might catch up later." I looked up and saw that the disembodied voice was Sean Gerace, someone I would be working very closely with and probably shouldn't be a bitch to. Shit.

"Oh, yeah, okay. I'll catch ya later!" He said, taking my rudeness on the chin. Why did it always take my being a jerk for me to realize that someone isn't a jerk? I sighed again and went back to my alien soil sample. An indeterminable time later, I failed to realize that my commanding officer was reading my work over my shoulder until he patted my shoulder.

"Those are some interesting theories, Ensign. Have that report on my desk first thing tomorrow?" He asked as he walked out. I nodded but paid him little notice. I finished the report and left the lab pretty early, about twenty-one hundred hours.

Arriving in my quarters, I collapsed on my bed. I kicked my shoes off and wiggled out of my dress, threw on some pajama pants and a t-shirt, and wrapped myself in the standard issue Starfleet blanket. I drifted off imagining warm, strong arms around my stomach and a low, gentle voice in my ear. The air when I woke the next morning was frigid.

Little mistake on my part, the USS Farragut was actually destroyed in the Nero incident. But I found that out after I wrote it into Chemistry Sucks so it's staying. If that's as un-canon as I get I'll be a happy camper. Of course, REVIEWS always make for an even HAPPIER camper! :D