Author's Note: Writing is cathartic, is it not?
A warning that the following contains dark subject matter. If reading a story centered on the topic of suicide bothers you, please read no further. There is also some language.
Disclaimer: Again, I own nothing but the plot, which unfortunately is (loosely) based on a true story.
Chapter 2: Left Behind
Synopsis: Tragedy strikes the crew of the Enterprise. Jim-Bones-Uhura-centric, with a little bit of everybody else thrown in. May be slightly AU.
"After awhile you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul.
And you learn that love doesn't mean security. And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts, and presents aren't promises.
And you begin to accept your defeats with your head up and your eyes open.
With the grace of maturity, not the grief of a child.
And you learn to build all your roads on today, because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for plans.
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.
After awhile you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure...that you really are strong and that you really do have worth.
And you learn and learn and learn...
With every goodbye you learn."
-Veronica A. Shoffstall
It was the kind of thing not talked about within Starfleet.
Well…there were many things not talked about within Starfleet. But this was not an issue of missions-gone-wrong, or the times when Starfleet screwed up so badly that history had to be rewritten; facts being covered up, hidden, and changed for the sake of the Federation's survival.
No, this brand of evil had been around long before the Federation existed.
**** 0744 hours****
Captain Jim Kirk received the news quite abruptly.
"We have a situation," Bones loudly announced, striding into the conference room a good 15 minutes before the morning briefing.
Jim was sitting at the end of the conference table with a cup of coffee in one hand, brow furrowed in concentration at the reports Yeoman Rand had just placed in front of him. He looked up in slight irritation at the doctor's abrupt entrance.
"Geez Bones, can't it wait ten damn minutes?"
"No, it can't wait one damn minute, Captain." The last word was spat with such malice that it took Jim off guard.
He cleared his throat. "Erhm. Janice, could you excuse us for a minute?"
Both men waited until the petite blonde had left the room before speaking again.
"So what's going on?" Jim asked lightly.
The older man sighed, grasping a nearby chair and leaning on it with both hands. "A young computer tech. committed suicide early this morning down on C deck."
"You serious?" was Jim's rather un-captainly knee-jerk response.
"Would I joke about something like that?" Bones snapped.
"No," he replied, rubbing away the headache that suddenly threatened behind his eyes. "And that's not what I meant."
"Well, what are you gonna do about it?"
Jim sighed. "Well, it'd help if you gave me some more information. What was his name? And what happened—I mean, why'd he do it?"
"Hell if I know why he did it. His name was Jason Kudros, age 23. I looked up his medical file—he had been diagnosed with clinical depression and did at one point receive counseling and meds, but that was over 6 months ago; there's nothing recent in his file."
"Huh. Well how'd he…I mean…you know…?"
"He hung himself," McCoy responded testily. "But that's not all."
"What do you mean?"
"I know about this kid—he's not the usual type to do something like this. Doesn't fit the profile. He's got a lot of close friends on this ship, and comes from a good family. I know his parents personally."
Jim's facial features softened in realization. "I'm sorry, Bones."
"Don't apologize to me," the doctor growled. "That's not what I came here for."
'He's hurting pretty bad', Jim mused, pausing a moment before speaking. "What do you want me to do?"
He watched as the older man visibly deflated. "I want to be the one to call his parents. You can deal with the crew, but let me do this."
A firm nod. "No problem."
As McCoy turned to leave, Jim called out again.
"Hey Bones—I'll have Spock run a full investigation of the incident...just to be safe."
McCoy's face remained unreadable and his tone neutral. "You'll need a medical professional. Christine Chapel is a good choice; she has experience in the field of mental health."
Jim noticed how the older man did not volunteer himself—it was a testament to how hard he was taking it. As McCoy's closest friend, Jim also knew that he must tread carefully right now, lest he be shut out completely.
"Sounds good, I'll assign her too. Thanks Bones."
"Don't thank me. I hate when this shit happens." The doctor's words were laced with bitterness.
After his swift departure, Jim continued to sit in the conference room, reflecting on the awkwardness of the conversation with his best friend. It was times like this he hated being Captain of the Enterprise; times when rank and protocol came between them. He knew Bones was hurting and pushing him away.
The even greater weight of not knowing how to address such a tragedy rested squarely on Jim's shoulders. He'd never dealt with this before as a starship Captain. It was not something that was taught in the academy—no class Jim took ever taught him what to do when one of the men or women under his command took his or her own life for no apparent reason.
He, along with the 416 men and women on the U.S.S. Enterprise ('Well, 415 now'), he mentally corrected himself), dealt with the stark realities of death almost every day. But this was a different kind of tragedy. The obvious pain and confusion sure to result from the suicide of a well-known crewmember was sure to plummet crew morale. And now Jim faced the difficult task of leading his crew through such a crisis.
Jim put his head in his hands and sighed. It was going to be a long day.
****0815****
Later that morning, Jim announced the tragedy to his officers during the morning briefing. McCoy did not show up, an unusual circumstance to the say the least, and Jim tried unsuccessfully to tuck the worry back in the recesses of his mind.
He watched his human officer's faces change from shock to deeply disturbed as he told them the news. Spock, as expected, showed no emotion other than a slight furrow in his brow.
Scotty cleared his throat and spoke, breaking the uncomfortable silence with his thick accent. "I don't understand, Captain; how could the lad do such a thing?"
Jim shook his head. "We don't know why he did it yet. We're not even certain it was a suicide. But we'll be sure to conduct a full investigation. Mr. Spock, I want you to perform the autopsy with Nurse Chapel. You'll be in charge of this incident. I want to be absolutely sure that it was in fact a suicide before we report this to Starfleet."
"Captain, is it not customary for the CMO to conduct the autopsies on this vessel?" Spock asked.
"Yes it is. But McCoy's out of commission on this one. I'm taking him off the medical roster."
"Well then logically the responsibility would fall to some other qualified medical professional," the Vulcan replied.
"It would normally," Jim agreed, a bit of agitation in his tone. "But with McCoy off the roster it'll mean every other doctor in sickbay will be working overtime to cover. Besides, I want a thorough, objective investigation and I know you can do that better than anyone on this ship. Now if you have some sort of personal objection to this assignment we can certainly discuss it after this briefing."
"No, Captain that will not be necessary."
"Good. Any questions?" He asked the others sitting around the conference table.
The room remained silent; filled with tension.
"Gentlemen," Jim addressed, rising to his feet. "You're dismissed."
****1013 hours****
Jim's hand was trembling as he pressed the intercom button on the command chair.
He'd debated with himself the entire morning trying to figure out how to announce Kudros' death to the crew.
As a Captain, he knew he had to strike the right balance of calm, unfettered control and appropriate grief.
"Attention all decks. This is Captain Kirk. I have some bad news. This morning I was informed that Jason Kudros, one of our own computer technicians, passed away unexpectedly."
He did not use the word 'suicide'. Not yet.
"More information will be forthcoming pending an investigation led by First Officer Spock." He paused, "I know many of you were close to Mr. Kudros, and time-off will be granted to anyone who needs it; just let your supervisors know. I've also mandated that the ship's counseling services be fully operational round-the-clock for the next 48 hours." Another pause.
'Well, shit'. What else could he say? "That is all."
He'd given the bare-bones of information, and privately wondered if he'd said enough; if he'd said it right.
It was quiet after his announcement, and for awhile it seemed like business as usual on the bridge.
Then Jim noticed Chekov having trouble.
The young ensign fumbled while completing two routine navigation commands, and seemingly ignored a third.
Looking closer, Jim noticed the boy's hands were shaking.
"Ensign Chekov," Jim called, watching as the navigator slowly placed his hands in his lap.
"Pavel," Jim said again. "Come here."
The teen rose slowly and turned, walking with head bowed toward the command chair.
"Were you close to Mr. Kudros?" The Captain asked softly.
Chekov just nodded, eyes wet with unshed tears. 'Poor kid.'
Jim leaned closer, pitching his voice lower so no one else on the bridge could hear.
"There's no shame in taking time to grieve, Pavel."
"Yes sir," the teen whispered with a sigh.
"Do you need to leave the bridge? It's not a problem, just tell me what you need."
"I zink…I do need zat, sir."
"Okay, ensign. You're relieved. Take the rest of the day off," Jim replied, placing a compassionate hand on the younger man's arm.
"Uhura, call Ensign Tuley up to the bridge to cover for Mr. Chekov," he ordered as the Russian navigator exited the bridge.
"Yes sir," Uhura replied tonelessly.
Jim, feeling an oppressive weight in the room, suddenly began to feel claustrophobic. He stilled for a moment and took a deep breath, to no avail.
'I've gotta get out of here.'
Telling himself he wasn't running, even as another voice in his head questioned why he was running and what from, Jim was to his feet in an instant.
Then, "Mr. Sulu, you have the con."
He briskly left the bridge via the turbolift, bound for sickbay, where he knew Spock and Nurse Chapel were already a couple of hours into their investigation of Kudros' death; and where Bones was surely working himself to death in an effort to not deal with his own grief.
"Spock, how's it going?" Jim called out as he entered the section of sickbay designated as a morgue.
Spock was standing next to a still, covered form lying in a biobed, and was adjusting the readout on a tricorder. Nurse Chapel stood nearby, entering information in the PADD held in her hands.
"I have just concluded the autopsy, Captain," the Vulcan responded. "Mr. Kudros died from asphyxiation. There were no traces of toxins or other substances in his blood, and no further evidence to indicate that Mr. Kudros died at the hands of another or by some arbitrary illness."
Jim allowed his disappointment to show. "Does anyone know why he did it?"
"l'll be interviewing several of his friends and colleagues this afternoon, Captain," Chapel replied. "Perhaps we'll find an answer then."
"Sometimes there are no answers," Jim said quietly.
Slowly, he walked closer to the biobed and lifted the sheet, studying the lifeless facial features of the younger man. He recognized the face as being one of those he often passed in the corridors or cafeterias of the ship, but he'd never really spoken to the man. Still, he felt a pang of sadness at the desperation he knew had to have led to such an act of finality from one so young...only three years younger than him.
Feeling the stares of his First Officer and best nurse, Jim's thoughts returned to him, and he cleared his throat, letting the sheet drop back over the body. "Spock, I want an update of your progress every hour."
"Yes, Captain."
"Christine, make sure you give Dr. McCoy a copy of that autopsy report, right away," he spoke pointedly to the nurse.
"Yes, sir. I understand."
"And make sure his shift is covered. I'm taking him off the roster."
Chapel's blue eyes softened in compassion. "Yes, sir. Of course."
****2004 hours****
After a long shift, Jim stepped into his quarters looking forward to getting a shower and then sacking out. It had been a nightmare of a day. He could feel the stress knots in his shoulders.
Reporting a possible code 319 to Starfleet automatically brought into question Jim's command ability, especially considering his own fragile reputation with Starfleet, and the fact that Jim had only been Captain for less than a year. He wondered if he had contacted his superiors too soon.
All afternoon, he'd sat in his office being privately berated and interrogated by three admirals.
"This looks bad for Starfleet," one had told him plainly. "But more than that, it looks bad for you."
"You have no explanation for what might have led to your crewman's suicide?" Another had asked.
"Not at this time, no sir," Jim admitted. "I'm still not fully convinced it was a suicide. But we are conducting a full investigation."
"Well you had better figure it out, Kirk," he'd ordered snidely. "Or we'll dock the Enterprise and run our own investigation. Maybe we'll find out just what's been happening on that ship of yours."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Jim asked, sitting ramrod straight in his chair.
"I think you know what it means," the admiral snapped. "How you ever got command of that vessel is beyond my comprehension. You're just one step away from being demoted, cowboy, you just remember that. Don't think you're immune to Starfleet regulations just because your last name is Kirk."
"No sir," Jim replied through gritted teeth.
And when the transmission ended, his knuckles were white from gripping the arms of his office chair.
"Lights, forty percent," he said, pulling his yellow command shirt over his head as soon as the door hissed shut behind him.
"Jim."
The young Captain flinched, startled; then whipped the shirt off his head angrily. "Damn it, Bones! Give me a heart attack! How did you get in here?"
"You keep forgetting about that medical override. Comes in handy," the doctor said with a chuckle.
"Isn't there some regulation that says you can only use that in an emergency?"
"Since when did you start caring about regulations?"
"Since my CMO decides he can just sneak into my quarters whenever he pleases," Jim shot back, tossing the shirt onto the floor and heading over to the food replicator.
"I had good reason," McCoy said, giving a Jim a small smile as a beer was handed to him a moment later.
"And what would that be?" Jim asked, plopping onto the sofa with a sigh. "Have a seat, Bones."
"You took me off the roster," the doctor replied. "I don't know whether to be pissed at you or thank you."
"Yeah, it's that Captain's override," Jim said with a sly chuckle. "Comes in handy. And in this case I think gratitude may be slightly more productive."
"You didn't have to do that," insisted McCoy, refusing to sit.
"Well, we're friends, aren't we, Bones?"
"Sure, but—"
"And you would have done the same for me, right?" Jim frowned comically. "In fact, you do it to me all the time."
"Now that's different," the older man growled, only slightly irritated.
"Bullshit. Sit down and quit being a hypocritical ass, alright? That's an order."
McCoy grunted, then finally, begrudgingly, sat down in the recliner across from his Captain, who smirked at his small victory and took a small swig from his beer.
Then, noticing the bone-weariness evident in the doctor's slumped form, the triumphant grin slowly slid from Jim's face.
"So how're you doing; you know, with everything?"
McCoy shifted, taking a large gulp from his beer. "I'm fine."
"Come on Bones, be straight with me."
When no answer seemed forthcoming, Jim took a more subtle approach.
"So what'd you do all day, seeing as you had the day off?"
McCoy sighed, staring at the bottle in his hands. "I contacted the kid's parents. They want to have a video conference with his friends tomorrow, by the way. Around 1600 hours."
"That can be arranged." Jim paused. "How'd they take it?"
"How do you think? The dad was in shock. The mom was an emotional wreck. They were devastated."
He continued, "And then I went down to counseling to see if I could help down there—"
"Bones, I took you off-duty!" Jim exclaimed in a petulant tone. "Off-duty means completely off-duty!"
"Well, what the hell do you expect me to do? Damn it man, I'm a doctor! I can't just sit around and do nothing!" McCoy shouted, suddenly, almost violently angry.
Slamming his bottle down on the coffee table and standing abruptly, the older man began to pace.
"Talk to me, Bones," Jim demanded, his voice hard. He knew his friend, and he knew this had to be dealt with now before it spiraled out of control.
He stood, and walked over to where Bones was now leaning with both arms against the kitchen counter.
"Bones," he prompted, crossing his arms and resting a shoulder against the adjacent wall.
"It's just…you spend your whole life fighting to save people, fighting death," Bones began, his tone low and broken. "And then some people just give in and…." He paused. "And you tell yourself it wasn't their fault; that they weren't thinking right. They were sick. Well that's what doctors are for, to recognize sickness and heal it…."
"You didn't know," Jim interjected.
"I should have. I was close enough. I had his file. I talked to him at least once a week. There should have been signs…I would have seen them..."
"You can't play that game, Bones. Everybody thinks about what they could have or should have done in hindsight. Yeah, it sucks, but you can't beat yourself up over something you couldn't have predicted."
McCoy shook his head. "But I could have—"
"Let me ask you this: looking back, can you honestly think of one thing that might have suggested to you that Kudros was suicidal?"
He watched his friend's eyes grow distant; his memory desperately trying to drudge up something, anything that would justify his self-condemnation.
Jim had extraordinary faith in Leonard McCoy. He was the type of man who was brutally honest with himself. He was not one to place irrational, unjustified blame on himself or another; however, nor would he forgive himself of the slightest lapse in personal or professional judgment. In a way it was a gamble—Jim was betting that Jason Kudros gave no outward indication that he was contemplating suicide—for if he had, Jim truly believed Bones would have seen it.
Finally, after several minutes, McCoy sighed. "For the life of me, I can't think of anything."
Jim just nodded.
"That doesn't make it any easier," the older man insisted, giving Jim a glare.
"No, it doesn't," Jim agreed. "But it's a start."
****0700****
Early the next morning, Jim met with Spock and Nurse Chapel to discuss the investigation.
"It's very sad, Captain," Christine said. "Over the course of this past week, Mr. Kudros had contacted and met with almost everyone close to him on this ship."
Jim nodded slowly. "You believe that's significant?"
"I believe he was saying goodbye," she replied softly. "He had even met with his supervisor and apologized for not being dedicated enough to his job."
"And yet nobody noticed anything odd about his behavior?"
"No sir, no one did. I guess he just…slipped under everyone's radar."
Jim sighed; then turned to his First Officer. "Spock, did you find anything in his quarters?"
"Not anything pertinent, Captain. Certainly no evidence to support the theory that Mr. Kudros was murdered."
"There wasn't a note or…something to that effect?"
"Nothing of any significance, sir."
"Damn," Jim muttered, turning away in his chair, apparently deep in thought.
"Nurse Chapel, would you excuse us?" Spock asked suddenly. Jim turned and gave him a questioning stare.
After the blonde woman left, Spock shifted in his seat across from the Captain.
"Sir, if I may speak freely…."
"Spock, if you're going to speak freely to me than you'd better call me Jim."
"Jim," Spock reluctantly responded. "I fail to understand your reaction to this incident. The autopsy clearly showed that Mr. Kudros died of asphyxiation, and yet you continue to search for some other cause of death. There is clearly no other logical possibility, and yet you have continually demonstrated your disappointment in our findings."
"What's your point, Spock?"
"I merely wonder, Captain, if your reaction is a result of some underlying emotional distress."
"Underlying emotional distress," Jim repeated, shaking his head.
"I'm guessing that suicide wasn't a cultural issue on Vulcan?"
"Suicide is illogical in most cases," Spock replied. "While it is not common among Vulcans, I understand it to be an extreme and irreversible human response to primarily emotional pain."
Jim grunted. "Well, that's the dictionary definition. But I'm sure you can understand my reluctance to accept that one of my own crewmen, or any human for that matter, would commit such an act."
"You find it difficult to accept emotionally," Spock surmised.
"No, I find it difficult to accept period," Jim replied. "Suicide never makes sense—not to the people left behind. And anybody who thinks it makes sense is sick—it's a sickness, Spock. Most men fear death, not desire it."
"I believe I understand, Captain, however I sense you are distressed about more than this specific incident."
'Damn—was he that readable?' Jim sighed. "Well, Starfleet's been coming down pretty hard on me lately; perhaps that's what you're sensing."
Spock shook his head. "No Captain, friction has always existed between you and Starfleet. The existence of tension in that regard is…normal."
"Well, then what is it, Mr. Spock?" Jim spat, throwing up a hand in irritation. "And why do you care, anyway? Are you really that eager to get me out of the Captain's chair?"
Spock's spine went rigid at Jim's outburst, but he said nothing.
Deflated, Jim ran his hand up and down his face. "I'm sorry, Spock. I know better than that."
"No apology is necessary, Jim," Spock replied, noting the positive change in his Captain's demeanor brought about merely by using his first name. 'Facinating,' he thought to himself.
"You're right in what you're sensing. There's…stuff from my past—and I guess this whole thing brought it back. But I've been dealing with it and it'll get better when this is all over."
Spock nodded. "I trust it will, sir."
'That was it?' Jim thought. One thing he was learning about his Vulcan First Officer—he seemed to know when to push for information and when to leave well enough alone. Spock appeared to possess an uncharacteristically human ability to discern appropriate responses to social cues, whether they be spoken or left unsaid. The only difference being that Spock seemed to have no selfish desire for unnecessary information. Unlike most humans, Spock could handle not knowing all the juicy details. For that, Jim was relieved.
It was times like these that Jim found himself feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude that Spock was his First Officer, and not someone else, be they human or some other species. He'd really lucked out when it came to his crew.
Jim Kirk was convinced he had the finest crew in all of Starfleet.
"Good. Are we done here then, Mr. Spock?" Jim asked, not impatiently.
"I believe we are, Captain."
After Spock left, Jim spent the next twenty minutes alone, staring at the wall; lost in dark, haunting memories from the past.
****1600****
The conference call with Mr. and Mrs. Kudros was gut-wrenching.
A small, private room filled with approximately twenty of Jason's closest friends, and his shift supervisor.
Spock stood in the back of the room next to the Captain, watching the scene impassively.
Most of the women had been crying—many of the men looked close to tears. They gathered their chairs into a half circle in front of the large computer screen on the wall and waited.
Jim was anxious. Arms crossed, he had one elbow bent upward, and was discreetly chewing on his thumbnail.
All the while he was oblivious to the distress he was causing his First Officer, who flinched ever so slightly at the loud clicks made whenever Jim would successfully bite off a chunk of nail.
The door opened suddenly behind them, and they were surprised to see McCoy escorting a stoic-looking Uhura into the room. Once they had walked past, Jim nudged his First Officer.
"Spock, did you know that Uhura was close to Mr. Kudros?"
"I did not."
"Oh."
It was quiet for a few moments, and Jim went back to biting his nails.
Finally Spock could take no more. When he spoke, the words came out fast and hushed, betraying his desperation.
"Captain, far be it from me to lecture you on proper hygiene—but do you not realize that by biting your nails you are endangering your health?"
Jim gave Spock an incredulous stare. "No."
He paused, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Does it bother you, Spock?"
"Not necessarily, Captain. However, it is a fact that millions of germs and bacteria collect under the nail bed. Therefore when you bite your nails, you send all of those germs into your mouth."
"Well…it can't be that bad," Jim replied, staring thoughtfully at his fingertips.
"Indeed, the risks of nail biting include contracting mouth infections, Paronychia, and even oral herpes."
"Oral herpes?" Jim hissed, a horrified expression on his face.
"Oh yes, Captain. It is a very real possibility."
Jim stared at the Vulcan for a few moments, vaguely recalling his mother telling him to not bite his nails because it was impolite.
Then he remembered that Vulcans are incapable of lying. Spock wouldn't lie about such a thing, would he?
Jim frowned.
His mother had never used the phrase 'oral herpes'. If she had, he definitely would not still have the nervous habit. He fought the urge to bolt to his quarters and gargle with mouthwash.
If he would have stared at the Vulcan for a few more moments, he would have noticed the corners of Spock's mouth turned up almost imperceptibly in a rare grin.
The computer screen suddenly sparked to life, and Jim made his way to the front of the room, his First Officer close behind.
"Alright everybody, thank you for coming—though I wish it was under better circumstances. Uh…in a few moments Jason's parents are going to speak with us. I'm sure they have many questions and are having a rough time of it so…let's all try and be accommodating."
It was a lame speech, Jim knew. But he kept his shoulders squared and his expression unreadable as he turned to greet Mr. and Mrs. Kudos.
****1930****
Jim received a comm. from Admiral Pike toward the end of his shift. He left the bridge to take the call in his quarters.
Linking his communicator to his vid. screen, Jim grinned as the familiar face came into focus.
"Admiral Pike," he greeted warmly.
"Jim," the older man replied with a smile. "How is the Captain of Starfleet's most prized vessel?"
"I'm doing alright—I'm sure you've heard about the problems we've been having lately, though," Jim said.
Pike nodded with a frown. "Yes I have. In fact, that's the reason I contacted you. How are things going?"
Jim sat back in his chair and sighed. "The admiralty is after my ass, I can tell you that."
"Well, they just have to get used to you—give it time."
"You don't understand. They were talking about docking the Enterprise and sending their people onboard to investigate this whole thing. They threatened to demote me."
The older man shook his head. "They can't do that. Not without due process."
"They act as if shit like this has never happened in space before."
"Starfleet is almost hyper-aware when it comes to these things, and with good cause."
"And why would that be?"
Pike sighed. "Have you ever heard about the U.S.S. Carmichael?"
Jim leaned forward. "No…why?"
"What I'm about to tell you is classified. Years ago, back when the first Starships were being sent into space—this was back when the Federation consisted of only a few small planets in close proximity to earth—they were built and often even captained by wealthy and ambitious men; mercenaries, if you will. They weren't military men—they were only in it for money and power. Their loyalty was bought by the Federation. Back then Starfleet was just a small corporation. They received a majority of their funding from the Federation, but it was not a military organization. It had little control; there were few regulations, and very little means of managing what went on out in the black. Piracy was the norm, and the Federation just didn't have enough money or support to take care of the many problems."
"The Carmichael was one of these ships?" Jim interjected.
"Yes. It was built by a man named Damien Taggert. You won't ever read his name in the history books because it's been stricken from them just like everything else the Federation decides to hide or change to cover its ass."
"Like Tarsus," Jim muttered bitterly, and Pike gave him a sympathetic look before continuing.
"He rated at genius levels on his aptitude tests, passed the psych. evaluation with flying colors. And he got to Captain his own ship. Well a few months went by and there were reports coming in of disgruntled crewmembers asking for transfers. Starfleet questioned Taggert, but he insisted he ran a clean operation. They couldn't pin anything on him. And even if they'd have been able to, he probably would have just bribed his way out of it."
"So what happened?" Jim asked.
"What happened was probably the single most disastrous event in Starfleet's history. Taggert turned out to be a monster—he was crazy in the most diabolical way." Pike paused. "Have you ever heard of Jim Jones?"
Jim nodded slowly. "I remember his name from earth's history—he was some fanatic cult leader, wasn't he?"
"He brainwashed over 900 people into taking cyanide—even women and children."
"And Taggert?"
"He used brainwashing, manipulation, and intimidation to convince over 250 of his crewmembers to commit mass suicide."
"Jesus," Jim breathed, closing his eyes in horror.
"Luckily about 100 of the rest of the crew locked themselves in the brig as a means of escape. Afterward, a big lawsuit was filed, and Starfleet nearly went bankrupt. That's when it allied with the military. The Federation offered them more manpower, funding, and control than the private sector ever did."
"But I don't have crewmembers begging for transfers, and this is the first and hopefully only suicide that will ever happen on this ship," Jim protested. "So why's Starfleet so intent on kicking my ass?"
"Jim, the admiralty is trying to intimidate you. From the beginning they've felt uncomfortable with you in command. A suicide on a starship isn't common nowadays; mostly because frequent, extensive psychiatric screenings are required of all cadets and crew. The admiralty is treating this incident as a red flag. Any kind of dirt they can get on you, they'll use against you. That's why you have to be on top of your game."
Jim sighed. "They're asking questions that I don't have the answers to. I don't know why the kid did it. According to my investigation, the suicide took everyone close to him by surprise. There's no note, no motive…and if I can't come up with an explanation, the admiralty could suspend me indefinitely."
"Look son, there's always going to be things that you can't control. The difference between a good captain and a mediocre one is the ability to accept that fact, and to guide himself and his crew through situations of turmoil and uncertainty with strong, balanced leadership. I know you have that in you. I've seen it."
The older man suddenly shifted his gaze off screen, probably looking at a nearby clock, and said, "I have an interplanetary dinner to get ready for, so we'll have to discuss this more later. Good luck with that investigation."
"Alright thank you, Admiral Pike," Jim replied, "Kirk out."
Reluctantly, he shut off the view screen and ended the transmission.
Almost immediately, his communicator beeped. It was Uhura, Jim noticed with a puzzled frown.
"Kirk here," he said, flipping open the device.
"Captain…I was wondering if I could speak to you, if you have a moment."
Jim's frowned deepened. She didn't sound right. Normally Uhura's voice was hard and her communication direct. Tonight she sounded almost timid, like she was holding something back.
"Sure Uhura, what's going on?"
"Can we speak in person…and in private?" she asked.
"Okay, how about we meet on observation deck 1?"
"That's fine, thank you."
"I'll meet you there in ten," Jim said, "Kirk out."
"Uhura," Jim called as he walked toward the dark, slender figure of his Chief Communications Officer.
She did not turn toward him, her eyes focused out the observation window, staring at the inky black.
"Uhura?" Jim approached tentatively. He was used to the strong, confident, Uhura; not this softened creature with tear tracks running down her cheeks.
"Should I go get Spock?" Jim asked, for her sake.
She shook her head. "No…no. He wouldn't understand."
She looked so vulnerable in that moment, so broken, that Jim was moved. He swallowed hard, then reached out to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. He frowned in confusion when she jerked away.
"Don't," she mumbled in a strangled voice.
"What?" he asked. "What can I do?"
"I'd liked to be relieved from duty, sir," she replied.
"Sure, however long you need—"
"No, you don't understand. It's my fault."
"What is?" Jim asked, dumbfounded.
"He had commed me last week. He told me he was struggling heavily with depression. I thought, 'hell, everybody's struggling with depression after the Narada. Everybody lost someone. Some days it's worse than others.' I didn't pay enough attention to what he was trying to say. And then, two days ago, he said he wanted to meet with me, but that he was very nervous. He asked me out to lunch and I chose not to go because I had other plans."
"You didn't tell this to Nurse Chapel?"
"I didn't go. I'd only known Jason for 6 months. I was just starting to get to know him."
"It's not your fault, Uhura. You have to know that."
She shook her head and looked away.
"You don't understand. I thought…I thought that he was interested in me. Asking me to dinners all the time…. And I wasn't interested in him, not really. But I liked the game, you know. I liked being pursued, for once. So when he told me he was having troubles, I brushed it off. I should have reported it, or talked to him, asked him to seek out help…."
"Uhura, no. Don't beat yourself up over this, seriously."
"Look the reason why I'm telling you this is to be forthcoming pursuant whatever consequences await me."
Jim was taken aback. "Consequen—Uhura, I'm not going to charge you with anything. Jason Kudros chose to take his life; you had no part in it."
"I showed willful disregard for the wellbeing of a fellow crewmember, which resulted in his death. That falls under Breach of Ethics, regulation 62.2."
"Uhura…you just told me that you didn't know how seriously he was depressed, and you probably hadn't even known him long enough to comment on whether his behavior was unusual or not. That's not 'willful disregard'."
"But Captain—"
"I'm not charging you with anything, Uhura, so forget it."
Frustrated, Uhura actually stamped her foot, then covered her mouth and slid down the wall to sit on the floor.
Kneeling beside her, Jim absently began to pick at flaking paint on the wall.
"Look, I know what you're going through," he sighed. "I've been through the exact same thing."
She gave him incredulous glare. "The exact same thing," she repeated, disbelieving.
He just nodded. "In high school, my best friend was a guy by the name of Alfonzo…called him Al. I mean we did everything together, and he stuck with me. He's really what kept me sane after…well, after a really rough time in my life. And one night senior year, a week before graduation, he contacted me and just started pouring his heart out to me. Man I mean…he'd been depressed, and I had no clue…and I had something else going that night, so I was in a hurry. Can't even remember what it was I had to do. But I cut him off, and I left. I just didn't take it seriously, I guess. And he committed suicide that night."
Jim shifted uncomfortably, his eyes suspiciously filled, and he blinked furiously to regain control.
"I'm sorry," Uhura managed, fresh tears running down her ebony cheeks.
Jim shrugged. "All that to say…I know what you're going through and you have to let it go or it'll drive you crazy." He had a momentary flashback of the day Pike found him drunk, broken and bleeding in that Riverside bar.
It had been four years since Alfonzo's death, and Jim had since then lived the life of a half-crazed drunken brawler. Many nights he thought he might die, either by alcohol poisoning or an accident from racing his motorcycle while drunk or picking a fight with the wrong guy—it had only been a matter of time. Then Pike showed up, and it was almost as if God Himself had reached down and gave him permission to end his penance.
He'd spent that entire morning at Al's grave, asking permission to move on. He found it was hardest to forgive himself, but thought that maybe he could take the guilt and regret, and turn it into something that Al would approve of. Maybe this was that something. And around 5 a.m., when he drove to the dock to stare at the massive ship being built there, he knew it was right.
"How?" Uhura asked softly, breaking him from his thoughts.
"Well…it sounds cheesy but I think the best thing you can do is take the good parts of Jason and try to emulate them in yourself. And to learn from your mistakes, but not let yourself drown in guilt." He shrugged again.
She nodded. "I'll think about that. Thanks, Kirk."
"No problem," Jim replied. "Oh…just make sure that you take time off to work through this okay? You're gonna need it. And that's an order if it needs to be."
Uhura smiled faintly, "Yes sir. Thank you."
Epilogue:
In the end, with Uhura's testimony and Spock's investigation, the admiralty was satisfied with Jim's report.
The suicide was filed away—just another document for Starfleet's records.
The funeral for Jason Kudros was held in space, with his parents attending via vid. screen.
Jim spoke of how Kudros was a fine technician, dedicated to his work, to his co-workers, to the mission.
After his speech, Mrs. Kudros broke down sobbing.
Some of Jason's closest friends spoke as well, and Jim could empathize with their profound pain. They spoke of his willingness to help anyone who needed it; his intelligence, kindness, and goodness. They said he loved people, and he loved his family. That was the way he lived.
It all rang hollow to Jim, until Bones got up to speak.
He held a paper loosely in his hands, clearing his throat several times before speaking.
"I knew Jason to be a truly brilliant young man. I know his parents to be hardworking, intelligent, compassionate people who loved their son dearly. He was loyal to his friends, his family, and his co-workers. He was nothing less than a pleasure to be in company with. He was a good son, a good man, with loads of potential, and his whole life before him."
McCoy paused. "But one thing no one is saying is that Jason was sick. It had to have been a sickness, for this boy to have gone to such extremes. And I can't help but think that some good has got to come from this. Everything has a reason, or so the old proverb goes; and I guess I'm just an old-fashioned country doctor, because I still believe it.
I want all of you to look around this room. See how full it is. I want you to feel the pain, the confusion, even more than you already do. And I want you to think of all the love and friendship that Jason's friends and family have spoke of him. And all of that represented in this room full of almost a-hundred people. And I want you to remember, because some of you are going to end up in situations that seem hopeless.
Some of you may end up getting sick like Jason. But if you ever do, I want the memory of this moment—of what it feels like to be left behind—to come back to you. And instead of walking down that same dark road, maybe you'll try to reach out just a little bit more; to hang on for one more day."
He swallowed hard before continuing. "But some of you won't ever experience that sickness. And still, I want you to remember this moment. Because maybe if we all tried a little harder—walked a little slower, showed a little more compassion, paid a little bit more attention, and took more time instead of hurrying off with our busy little lives…well. Maybe there'd be fewer stories in the world that end like this.
All I know is that people's lives, your life, Jason's life; all our lives are worth more than the worst that we do or experience. And if we'd all believe that…well, maybe some good can come out of this after all, I don't know."
He stepped off the podium to utter silence in the room. Jim walked up to pull his friend into a tight embrace.
"You did good, Bones," he whispered.
And when he felt his friend's shoulders begin to shake with long held-back sobs, Jim knew.
Bones would heal. They all would.
It was only a matter of time, and a willingness to move forward.
The End.
A/N: I have been working on this fic literally all summer. Tweaking and re-tweaking it...I'm still not totally happy with it. This story came from the heart, and as honest as I could make it. Reviews would be greatly appreciated.