Chapter: The Broken Places

A/N: It's been a while, I know. Sorry about that. I do appreciate all the comments and requests from readers to continue the story... so the muse is back. Enjoy.

Chapter title is from a quote by Ernest Hemingway:

"The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places."

Riverside, Iowa

Eight years later

The bar is noisy and crowded as usual, but Jim's barely aware, focused on the book in front of him. In the corner booth where he's slouched, leaning against the back wall, the lighting is just enough to make out the words on the page.

It's a real book, an antique: Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand, the 35th Anniversary Edition, published in 1992. One corner of the paperback cover is torn off and there's a coffee stain on page 482, but overall it's in relatively good condition. (Unfortunately, one of the waitresses knocks his elbow as she's squeezing by his booth, so now there's a splash of Old No. 7 soaking into the binding. But Jim's not concerned about the book's resale value.)

He has a small collection of old books, mostly philosophy and science, with some literature. Nietzche, Sun Tzu, Einstein, Thoreau. 13 books in all, both hardcover and paperback, including this latest one which arrived at the farmhouse three days ago. He's already read it through once and is struggling through it for a second time. It's absurdly long for a novel, elitist, and overly dramatic. Not light reading, although it has some good parts.

He flips open the inside cover to scowl at the inscription.

Every man builds his world in his own image... He has the power to choose, but no power to escape the necessity of choice.

It's a quote from the book. Any of the previous owners could have written it, sometime over the past two and a half centuries. The words are innocuous enough: a general piece of advice, or maybe a warning.

But Jim knows the inscription's personal. Meant for him and him alone. If the quote wasn't enough of a clue - the necessity of choice - there's a small slip of paper tucked between pages 278 and 279, like a forgotten bookmark. It's a receipt from Ed's Hovercraft and Body Shop in Riverside, which is where he's been working for the past two months.

He broke out in a cold sweat when he first saw the receipt. Most people use electronic receipts, of course, but Ed has some Amish customers who bring in their kick scooters for repairs, and they use paper. The receipt is made out to Aaron Ropp in Kalona. Jim knows him; he's a quiet, taciturn man with a long grey beard and glasses.

The receipt may be real, but Jim's willing to bet Atlas Shrugged never sat on Aaron Ropp's bookshelf alongside his books on organic farming and the Hardy Boys mysteries.

Somebody, and certainly not Aaron, put the receipt in the book and sent it to Jim. Most likely Jim's secret admirer was watching the shop while Jim was at work, saw Aaron going in and out and lifted the receipt off him.

Every six months or so, he'll get a little present like this out of the blue. An antique book with a covert message, sent for the sole purpose of rattling him. Which it always does. The idea that somebody's following him - observing him, spying on him-never fails to freak him out, to send him into hypervigilance and paranoia.

His mother told him Kodos was killed during the Starfleet raid when Jim was rescued. He doesn't believe it. This book and all the others were obviously sent by Kodos; who else could be doing it? But he can't prove anything. He's never told anyone about the way Rafael Kodos used to mentor him-Jim Kirk, the stupid foster kid who only wanted to be noticed-sending him books and essays to read. He's too ashamed to admit he ever admired the man who engineered the massacre… but Kodos never lets him forget it.

Kodos - if it really is him - never shows his face, just sends the books and, sometimes, an ominous hint that he's been following Jim's movements. The first one he receives is a yellowed, wrinkled photograph of Highland High School from 2065, showing the 100-year anniversary celebration. It's tucked into a copy of Cosmos by Carl Sagan, sent by FedAir in a plain brown wrapper, exactly three months after Jim finally goes back to school. No return address.

The inscription on the inside front cover reads, Extinction is the rule. Survival is the exception. -Carl Sagan.

Jim refuses to go back to Highland after that.

He says he can't stand the boring routine. His mother doesn't pry too deeply. She doesn't know what to do with him after Tarsus. Not even Frank can keep him in line.

Even when he ditches Riverside for the farthest place he can go-a trek in East Asia when he's nineteen-he can't get away. The Double Helix surprises him at a guesthouse in Vietnam and sends him into a tailspin. His nightmares get so bad they kick him out; he's disturbing the other guests.

He drifts here and there but eventually goes back home to the empty farmhouse. Frank is long gone and his mother's returned to her deep space missions, so at least he has a place to live and some solitude. (No one cares if he calls out in his sleep.)

But there's no escaping the shadow that tails him. Every time he reaches a semblance of stability, Kodos reaches out and taps him on the shoulder with unerring timing. It reminds him of himself in that pitch-black room on Tarsus, eyes wide open but blind, defenseless and furious, while two thugs poke and slap him with sticks.

He knows what people think of him, here in Riverside: he's a lazy screw-up, a devastating disappointment to his mother, a borderline alcoholic who can't hold a job. In the last few years he's had a few run-ins with the local cops, arrests for misdemeanors like reckless driving (which he bitterly contested) and disorderly conduct (which he didn't).

He flips through the yellowed pages of the book, working his way through shot after shot of Jack Daniels. He always reads the books cover to cover, obsessively. He memorizes whole passages from them… which is probably exactly what Kodos intends. He's still in Jim's head.

If you know the enemy and know yourself, Sun Tzu wrote, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.

Jim's not entirely sure Sun Tzu is right on this point.

By the time he stuffs the book into his jacket pocket and sidles up to the snooty cadet ordering the tray of drinks… he's pretty much wasted.

When the first punch connects with his cheekbone, the pain is a relief.

Fifteen minutes later, he's nursing a beer, a pair of tissues stuffed up his nose, waiting to settle things with Captain Christopher Pike, Commandant of Cadets at Starfleet Academy. The adrenaline's gone and so is his buzz. His nose is stuffy and swollen, and the entire left side of his face is throbbing and sore.

He wants nothing more than to be left to his own morose thoughts, but Pike tells him in no uncertain terms Sit your ass down, kid before heading over to the bar to talk to Denny.

Jim can see where this is going. Denny's going to want somebody to pay for the damages, and there's no way he'll stick the Captain with the bill. The Starfleet construction base down the road brings in most of his business.

Great. So Jim'll be forced to cough up his last wages. Maybe Denny'll let him off easy, if Jim agrees never to set foot in the bar again. It's not like it's his favorite hangout. Too many Starfleet cadets, so full of purpose and confidence.

Eventually Pike comes back, settling himself into the chair across from him and giving him an inscrutable stare, like he's sizing Jim up and isn't pleased with what he finds. Jim's been on the receiving end of that kind of look more times than he can count. (Deserved it, too, most of the time.)

Jim gives him a sour look. "Your cadet threw the first punch. Just so you know."

Pike nods in agreement. "So I hear."

"He's got a pretty good right hook. Gonna make a great security officer."

"I'll take that under consideration."

Jim waits for more, but Pike doesn't seem to be in a big hurry to pin the blame on him, or say anything else, for that matter. The pause is becoming awkward. "Guess I'd better settle up with Denny over there…"

Pike shakes his head. "It's been taken care of."

Surprised, Jim inclines his head in appreciation. Wonders will never cease. "Good talk, then. I'm gonna be on my - "

"You know, I couldn't believe it when the bartender told me who you are."

"And who am I, Captain Pike?" Jim tilts his glass up and drains the last of the beer.

"Your father's son."

Wrong answer, Captain. Jim rolls his eyes and calls for another beer, a classic distraction tactic.

Why do people always fixate on his dead father? He has a mother, too. As far as he can tell, he takes after her in every important way. He's got her sharp mind, her disregard for social norms, and her ability to shut people out. Neither of them are above using charm and manipulation to get their way - okay, maybe Jim's charm needs a bit more polish, but he was making headway with the girl before D'Artagnan and the three musketeers butted their way in.

Pike's looking at him earnestly, talking about the Kelvin, and Jim can see where this is going. How fucking original. Pike's not the first one to think of invoking Jim's heroic father to try to set him on the straight and narrow.

It pisses him off. Getting the shit kicked out of him apparently isn't enough of a humiliation; he has to sit through a lecture on how he's a disappointment to his father's legacy. And all this from a guy he's just met.

"Something I admired about your dad… He didn't believe in no-win scenarios."

Jim has to resist the urge to laugh as he pulls the bloody tissues out of his nose. "Sure learned his lesson." No-win scenario, what a sanitized description. They probably taught a unit on it in Advanced Starfleet Tactics. Lecture Five: on strategic collisions and epic martyrdom.

"Well, that depends on how you define winning. You're here, aren't you?"

Yeah, he's alive, all right. Definitely a win. Thanks for the pep talk, Captain.

"You know that instinct to leap without looking, that was his nature too… and in my opinion it's something Starfleet's lost."

Pike says it like he's expecting Jim to care. Like they're just two old Starfleet buddies, bemoaning the fact that the Service is not what it used to be. It's so patently ridiculous Jim shakes his head. "Why are you talking to me, man?"

"Because I looked up your file while you were drooling on the floor."

His half-amused smile drains away. Pike meets his gaze steadily. Jim's heart starts racing and he can feel sweat breaking out along the back of his neck. His file obviously means his Starfleet file. And Jim's rescue from Tarsus, which is supposed to be his private, personal horror, is about to be dragged into this conversation, for reasons he can't fathom. It was just a goddamn bar fight, and he was the one who was attacked and left bleeding on the table, so what the hell?

"My file," Jim says slowly, trying to keep his voice level, "is my business. I don't recall giving you permission to look at it."

Pike just shrugs, unapologetic, as if invading Jim's privacy isn't something to be concerned about.

Enough of this. He stands up. "We're done here."

"No we're not," Pike tells him evenly, fixing his eyes on him like he's just expecting to be obeyed. "Sit down."

And damn it, Jim does. He's not sure why. Maybe it's the military aura of command and self-confidence-Jim's always been a sucker for authority figures-or maybe it's just the fact that the mention of his "file" has thrown him for a loop. He's stuck between fight and flight and his legs are a little shaky.

He sinks back down into the chair and takes a sip of his beer, consciously rearranging his posture and limbs into a semblance of nonchalance. "Whatever. Make it quick."

"Your aptitude tests were off the charts when you were twelve. But your school record's patchy. You never went back for more than a few months, after you came home."

"I don't have to explain my choices to you."

Pike's expression stays maddeningly calm. "All right. But from what I can tell, it looks like you've spent the last few years trying to make yourself a reputation as the only genius level repeat-offender in the Midwest."

Jim looks away. There's no way he could make this guy, with his immaculate uniform and ramrod-straight spine, understand.

"So your dad dies, you get sent off-planet… and then you find yourself in a crisis situation-"

"A crisis situation?" Jim grits out. "Is that what you call it?"

" - and from what I read, you handled yourself well, took responsibility - "

"You have no idea, I don't give a shit what that file says!"

" - and now you're back, and you've got an excuse to do whatever the hell you feel like. Settle for whatever it is you're doing nowadays. Isn't that right?"

"Maybe it is," he seethes. Arrogant asshole. What does he know?

"Or do you feel that you were meant for something better? Something special?"

For a moment, all Jim can do is stare at him, aghast. Rafael Kodos sure didn't think Jim was special; he thought he was a sociopath. "You're way off base - "

"Enlist in Starfleet."

Now he does laugh. This is surreal. "Enlist? You guys must be way down on your recruiting quota for the month."

Pike seems oblivious, going on about Jim's father (again), the Federation, Jim's potential, something about a dare. Jim stops listening. If this talk doesn't end soon, he's going to take a swing at Pike. Or maybe start hyperventilating.

His hand curls around the heavy book in the pocket of his jacket. Atlas Shrugged is real, immediate. His cuts and bruises are real. Starfleet is a fantasy.

Pike leaves, finally. Jim lets him have the last word.

But he doesn't go home. Sleep isn't what he needs right now, anyway. His mind is in turmoil and there's no way his dreams will give him any rest.

He heads out of town on his bike with no particular destination in mind. The dark old roads are empty at this time of night. Most people prefer to take the faster and more efficient commuter lanes, putting their vehicle on autocontrol and relaxing. Safety is a priority.

Not for Jim. He likes the element of danger. He can never fully relax on his motorcycle; one wrong move at high speed and he'll skid out of control. He's always aware of his mortality. And the old highways might be full of potholes and bumps - they're never a priority for state maintenance - but they're open and straight and they seem to go on forever.

The wind rushes by his head as he shifts and accelerates. On any other night he'd be enjoying the smell of the corn in the fields, the thrum of the engine beneath him, but not tonight. The usual exhilaration of the ride is absent.

He replays the conversation with Captain Pike in his mind over and over, unable to soothe the impotent rage. The casual violation of his privacy, the barely-veiled disappointment-who the hell was Pike to be disappointed?-that Jim wasn't living up to his father's legacy… Fuck him.

Pike's an idiot if he thinks Jim can just put Tarsus behind him. He probably heard a lecture on Starfleet-approved post-traumatic reactions and steps to recovery (apparently, going to school and getting a decent job are high on the list) and Jim's not living up to his expectations.

Pike doesn't know that Jim's a member of a very exclusive book club and he's never going to be able to move on.

Fuck his life.

Kodos is still playing chess with him, and at some point, there's going to be a confrontation. It'll come when he's least expecting it. It's the one thing he's sure of. So why make plans, get into a long-term relationship, build a career? There's no point. Better to drink himself into oblivion as often as he can afford to, or find a warm body to fuck. Preferably both.

A sentence from Atlas Shrugged drifts into his mind. Do not let the hero in your soul perish, in lonely frustration for the life you deserved, but have never been able to reach.

Jim knows he isn't a hero, or not much of one, anyway. But his soul might very well be perishing.

In the distance he can see the glow of the starship construction site. God, he'd do anything to get off this godforsaken planet, to get as far away as he could. To have a phaser hooked in his belt and access to the best technology available. Maybe then he'd finally feel safe enough to look to the future.

Maybe Kodos won't be able to follow him into space.

Maybe.

He shows up the next morning at the Riverside Shipyard just after eight, still in his filthy clothes. Pike's there at the shuttle door, looking nonplussed. "Four years? I'll do it in three," Jim tells him. Nobody at Starfleet Academy, he thinks, is as motivated as he is to get out into the black.

His backpack is a comforting weight over his shoulder as he steps inside. He's only brought the essentials: some clothes, his running shoes, toiletries, and thirteen antique books.