When the call comes from the bridge in the middle of his sleep, George Kirk has to admit he's slightly annoyed. His shift had ended only a few hours before; sleep is something he takes for granted, and then some. He turns over on his stomach and lets out a small noise of protest, not wanting to answer the comm that seems to be getting louder by the second. Beside him, Winona grumbles her own thoughts and rolls over onto her side. He has to agree with her - neither of them has slept much in the last few weeks.

The comm whistles again, and George reaches out to smack it. "Kirk," he grinds, voice still rough from sleep.

"Mr. Kirk," Captain Richard Robau's voice floats through the speaker on the comm. Even through his sleepy haze, George can tell Robau's voice holds no traces of his usual good humor. "You're needed on the bridge as soon as possible."

That sounds ominous. George sits up and rubs his eyes. "What's going on?"

"A matter that requires the attention of my first officer. Report to the bridge." Without another word, Robau cuts the communication, and leaves George blinking sleepily at one of the walls.

Silence envelopes the room, save for Winona's soft breathing. She makes a small noise as George pulls himself from the bed, and one of her blue eyes blinks open slightly. "What's going on?" she asks, her voice laced with sleep. He leans down and brushes his lips against the top of her hair, pushing a few locks away from her face. The eye closes again, and she curls into the pillow.

"Nothing to worry about," he assures her, tracing one hand down her cheek. "Stay here and sleep."

The snore that answers tells him that his wife has no problems with this.

When George arrives on the bridge, Robau's eyes are glued to the view screen. They shift in his direction, acknowledging his entrance, but return to the screen just as quickly.

George takes his place at his post, situates his headgear, and waits for orders.

Across the bridge, helmsman Michael Johnson speaks up. "It's a Federation vessel, sir," he says, gesturing to the view screen. "But the numbers don't match anything found in our registry, and Starfleet isn't even acknowledging. By all accounts, the ship doesn't exist."

"Obviously, it does," Robau corrects him, and rests a hand on his chin. His eyes are focused and narrowed at the ship in front of them. George follows his gaze.

The ship is unlike anything he has seen before, and is beautiful beyond any doubt. Physically, she's larger than the Kelvin, and holds an air of authority that commands respect. He checks the monitor again, then gazes heavily at the communications officer. She shows no signs of alarm, too busy gawking at the ship as well.

Robau isn't taking any chances. "Shields?"

"Up."

"They've shown no signs of aggression," Johnson offers. The look Robau shoots him clearly says that the comment isn't appreciated. Johnson frowns, but says nothing. Robau continues trying to win the staring contest between himself and the mysterious ship.

"Are communications open?" he asks.

"Communications are open, sir."

The screen goes fuzzy for a few seconds, usually a sign of a hail being received. Seconds later, the face of a young human male appears on the screen. He blinks rapidly, and his blue eyes shift to what George assumes is the rest of his crew. "Good evening," the young man says. His voice is carefully controlled.

Robau nods in reply. "Good evening. My name is Richard Robau, Captain of the USS Kelvin. May I ask to whom I am speaking?"

The eyes flicker to the side again, before they focus on the screen. The man smiles. "This is Captain James Morrison of the USS Enterprise. You'll have to forgive us for the strange state of affairs, but our ship seems to be having a few . . . difficulties. Any assistance your engineers could provide would be greatly appreciated."

"Are you a Federation vessel?"

"Yes, sir. You'll find us under the registry number." Morrison rattles off a long series of numbers.

Robau looks to his left; Johnson shrugs at him. "We must admit that we can't find you in our systems. Care to explain?"

Morrison shrugs. "I could, but I have to admit it'd be a little complicated. It's really one that requires getting to know myself and my crew first. Just so you know we're not crazy." He paused. "Perhaps we could have this discussion over dinner?"

It isn't uncommon for captains to meet one another over dinner, but something in Morrison's voice sends a shiver through George's body that he can't place. He checks the sensors again; he wants to be sure the other ship hasn't suddenly locked a torpedo. Nothing yet, but George is still suspicious. Years of listening to his father's stories may have made him a little more than paranoid, though.

Robau answers while George is still lost in his thoughts. "I think that would be appropriate. We would be glad to have you aboard our ship. When shall we meet you?"

Morrison holds up one hand and turns to what George assumes is his first officer. They talk quietly together, both making eyes toward the screen. After a few seconds of this, Morrison turns back to the screen and grins at the bridge. "We can be ready in about three hours . . . if you think that will give your cooks enough time to have a meal prepared?"

"Consider it done," Robau answers. Morrison nods his approval, and the transmission is cut. Half a second of silence passes before Johnson cuts in.

"Sir, do you really think it's wise to invite these people to board our ship? We don't have any idea who they are!"

"Isn't that the purpose of our mission, Johnson? To explore and evaluate?" Robau snaps, standing from the chair and turning on his heel. As he turns, he shoots a look at George, which clearly states, "follow me".

George follows him to the turbo lift. "I assume I'm to join you for this dinner?"

Robau lifts an eyebrow at him. "You'd be correct. They seem friendly, but there's something off about the way Morrison talks. I'm not sure I trust him quite yet."

"I'm glad I wasn't the only one who had that feeling."

"Just make sure the dinner consists of just you and I. I don't trust Johnson to keep his mouth shut." Robau looks amused for a moment. "You do know this requires dress formals, don't you?"

The very thought makes George groan, and he nods. "Yes. I'm sure Winona will get a kick out of them."

"She's always far too amused at you in a formal." Robau gives George a sympathetic smile as he boards the turbo lift. "I'll see you for dinner."

As Robau predicted, Winona is amused at the dress formals. She sits on their bed, providing unnecessary commentary while George gets dressed. She herself has no reason to talk; she is wearing a pair of medical scrubs she hijacked from sickbay and a loose-fitting shirt that George suspects is one of his own. He turns to stick out his tongue. "Hush," he says. "You have no room to talk."

"No, I look comfortable. You, however, look ridiculous."

He has to agree with her. While no incarnation of dress formals have been or ever will be comfortable, these are fashioned in a way that almost looks like a jump suit that rides too high in the crotch. "God, I hope these change soon."

"Not in our lifetime," Winona quips. She sucks in a deep breath. "He's active tonight."

"The baby?"

Winona gives him a look that he completely deserves. "No, George. The puppy we brought home. Yes, the baby. He's doing jumping jacks in my uterus." She rests one hand on her stomach and cringes. "Sam didn't act like this. This one . . . he'll be the trouble maker."

"At least let the kid be born before you start complaining about him," George says, walking over and sitting next to her. She leans over and places her face next to his, scrunching it all up in the way he finds so cute. He kisses her nose a second before Winona basically tackles him, pushing him down onto the bed and pinning him. George nuzzles her neck for a few seconds before he puts his hands on her shoulders. "I have to go."

Winona pouts. "I know."

It always pains him to leave his wife, even though he knows he's only going across the ship. George has always been a paranoid and superstitious man, and he's very good with feelings. After finding out she was pregnant, Winona had started taking suppressants - something that would hopefully keep her body from going into labor until they reached Earth in the early part of March. It wasn't the safest route, medically speaking, but Winona was a nurse who was under constant supervision of her supervisor. With the doctors watching her like a hawk, George knew she was going to be in the best capable hands.

George leans over and gives his wife one last kiss before leaving the room.

Morrison and Robau are already waiting in the captain's private dining room when George arrives. Morrison stands to greet him, giving him a brilliant smile and sticking out his hand. George sticks out his own, blinking quickly.

"James Morrison," the man says; his handshake is firm. "This is my first officer, Commander Spock."

The man beside Morrison nods in greeting.

"Vulcan," George says without thinking. Three pairs of eyes turn to look at him, and George's face burns. "I just . . . it's rare to see a Vulcan as a crew member aboard a starship. I meant no offense."

"None taken," Morrison says, and shoots a quick, sharp look toward Commander Spock. Spock says nothing in return, but nods. Robau nods toward the table and all three men sit. Morrison reaches over and snags a stray apple sitting on the table, but never takes a bite of it. "First, I must apologize for any inconvenience my ship has caused yours."

"What caused the damage?"

"Honestly? We're not sure," Morrison quips. "At first, we thought it might have been an ion storm, but everything's always an ion storm. Besides, we've gone through those before with no issues." Morrison rolls the apple in his hand and stares at it almost intently, before finally taking a bite of it. He chews for a second, tilting his head to the side, and swallows before he continues talking. "We were more than a little surprised we crossed paths. It isn't like that happens on a regular basis."

Robau nods. "You must forgive us for being cautious. Our ship is merely one for exploration. We aren't really used to meeting others."

Morrison looks up, surprised. "Really?"

George catches the confused glance Robau sends him, and lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "We assumed you were an exploration vessel as well."

"We are, in a sense," Morrison replies, and his eyes turn to focus on George. "We're sent to explore different alien cultures, and learn and gather what data we can. Most times, we're the first contact these people have had with the Federation. It's kinda fun."

"Certainly not something that could be accomplished in a year mission?"

"We're two years into a five year mission."

The look Commander Spock shoots his captain clearly says that Morrison has said too much, at least in the Vulcan's opinion. "Is there a problem, Mr. Spock?" George asks, and Spock's gaze sets on him. His eyes are black, calculating and yet another reminder why Vulcans make George incredibly uncomfortable. He meets Spock's gaze and raises one eyebrow. Spock breaks the eye contact and focuses on Morrison, who is busy searching for a spot on his apple to eat.

"Spock's still a little wary," Morrison explains, glancing up to grin at the two waiters who have begun placing food around the small table. "Thanks. Spock doesn't trust most people further than he can throw them -"

"Which is quite a bit further than you can," Spock says, raising an eyebrow.

Morrison stops mid-sentence and blinks at Spock, who says nothing. He cracks a small grin, shaking his head. "He is also prone to humor, although he'll deny it to the day he dies."

There's something about Morrison that George can't put his finger on. Something that doesn't quite grate on his nerves, but is slowly poking him in the back of his skull, as if trying to remind him of something important. If Robau is feeling the same way, he doesn't show it much, though his eyes are narrowed. In a year of serving as Richard Robau's first officer, George has learned his captain's quirks - Robau is definitely irritated at Morrison.

"How long do you think it will take to do the necessary repairs on your ship?"

"We have one of the best engineers Starfleet has to offer aboard our ship," Morrison states, and George has to respect the look of pride that crosses over his face. He likes a man that respects his crew. "If Scotty can't get it fixed, no one will."

"Would he appreciate help?"

"I'm sure he wouldn't turn it down."

"I don't feel right leaving a fellow ship stranded," Robau comments. "If our engineers can be of any help, do not hesitate to ask. Maybe we can get you in and out of here in a few days, rather than a week or longer."

"We'd be in your debt," Morrison says, and he smiles at Robau again. "Shall I alert our crew to expect visitors for the next few days?"

Robau nods, and George finishes his meal. A glance across the table shows that Spock hardly touched his plate, save for the salad that was offered as an appetizer. 'Right,' George thinks. 'Vulcans are vegetarians.' Morrison, on the other hand, has completely cleared his plate as well as most of the leftovers around him. Impressive for a man of his size. George blinks as he realizes he's zoned out once again during the course of the conversation, and berates himself mentally. 'Really, Kirk. You should get that checked out.'

They all stand and shake hands awkwardly over the table. Robau makes promises to send his engineers over as soon as possible. Morrison nods, and both he and Commander Spock take their leave. As soon as they are out of earshot, Robau lets out a breath and all but collapses in a chair. "I'm not good at this," he complains.

"I thought you did well."

Robau gives him a look that might have been, 'Are you kidding?' He lets out a snort. "They seem tame enough, but there's something about them that bugs me. Like they're hiding something."

"You noticed that too," George says.

"Three engineers. That's all I'm sending," Robau says, as he nods toward the door of the small dining room. "We don't need everyone all over the place, and the less people have in contact with their ship, the better."

And in truth, everything goes perfectly for the first couple of days - Morrison accepts Robau's terms, agreeing that keeping the two ships separated is the best idea. "The fewer contact between our respective crews, the better. I have no intention of holding you up any longer than necessary. I can't tell you how grateful I am for the help."

Personally, George thinks this is little on the paranoid side, but he isn't going to argue the point with either captain. He still has a strange feeling about Morrison - one he can't quite put his finger on. He lets it slip to the back of his mind and continues with his duty, only seeing the captain during official meetings, which are few and far in between. By the end of the third day, everything looks as though Morrison's ship will be warping out in no less than two hours.

That is, until engineer Lt. Marcus Leahey is found dead.

A crewman from the Enterprise found him, George was told, and the man was dead by the time they reached medical bay. Both Robau and Morrison had demanded an autopsy in an attempt to rule out foul play. It's the last thing the crew needs, but George knows he's about to be thrown head-first into a full-fledged investigation. He sighs to himself as he walks through the corridors and pauses near the conference room. Voices, loud voices, can be heard through the walls.

Morrison is already in the room when George arrives, and is red-faced from arguing. Beside him, Commander Spock stands with his arms behind his back, staring coolly at Robau. Robau's demeanor is calm, but his body is tight like a panther ready to pounce. He's just as worked up and upset as Morrison. Both look at George as he enters the room. "Sorry, I'm late," George offers shyly. Spock's left eyebrow raises, and he almost looks relieved.

"Look," Morrison says, turning his attention back to Robau and running his hands through his hair. "I know my crew. I don't know about you, but I have personally met all four hundred people on my ship. I may not know them personally, but I have spoken with them, I have interviewed them. No one on that ship would have murdered your man, especially out of malice."

"I understand that," Robau snaps. "Whether or not someone on your crew killed Leahey isn't the point - we have a man dead, and I don't believe it was from natural causes. Leahey was in fine condition three days ago."

Morrison's jaw tightens, but before he can answer, knock at the door makes everyone jump. Robau's eyebrows knit together, and he all but smacks the door's release button. A tall, young man enters the room in blue scrubs and all but tosses his PADD at Morrison. Morrison raises a questioning eyebrow. "Those are the medical reports you asked for," the man drawls, but there is a slightly bitter edge in his voice. "There's nothing unusual. No toxins, everything was in perfect working condition. . . save for his heart."

"His heart?"

"That's just it. He wasn't murdered."

Robau walks over to glance at the PADD and Morrison turns it his direction. He looks up at the strange man. "Who are you?"

"Doctor Leonard H. McCoy," the man says, sticking out a hand, which Robau takes. "I'm Chief Medical Officer aboard our ship. I preformed the autopsy myself, Captain, and ran the tests myself. This man didn't die of foul play, I can guarantee it. He died of a heart attack."

"But . . . ." Both Morrison and Robau stare at the doctor in confusion. "That doesn't make any sense."

"It makes perfect sense. There's no other explanation for it."

"How does a perfectly healthy man die from a heart attack?" Robau demands.

McCoy turns to give Robau a look, raising one eyebrow in a manner that reminds George of the Vulcan. "There are a dozen ways it could have happened - all of them pointing at different directions. The one thing we can rule out is poisons. There was nothing in his body that wasn't there naturally, save a little alcohol. Certainly nothing that would have caused something to that degree."

Spock turns to Robau. "Leahey had not been acting differently, had he? No trips to the medical bay?"

"We're not for certain," George answers him, and he feels Spock's gaze as it lands on him. Damn, the man has a heavy glare. "We could ask the doctors. They should have any record of complaints he may have presented. . ."

"Any close friends that might want him gone?"

"He died on your ship," Robau reminds.

"I am aware of that, Mr. Robau," Spock answers calmly.

Morrison is pacing; he has his arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowed to slits. "Murder isn't exactly uncommon aboard starships. When you stick over four hundred people in a pretty small space for five years, you're going to have fights. There are going to be people who are going to have an intense dislike for one another."

"Usually those disagreements doesn't end with someone dead."

"Usually," Morrison admits. "But not always." He continues pacing around the room until he passes McCoy, who lays a hand on his shoulder. The two exchange glances and Morrison heaves a small sigh, then turns to Robau. "I'd like your permission to have some of my men conduct an investigation. There isn't a single person aboard this vessel that I don't trust, and I won't have my people accused without reason."

Robau doesn't bat an eyelid. "The investigation goes both ways. One from my team and one from yours?"

"Mr. Spock and . . . George?" Morrison's gaze shifts to George, who nods.

McCoy is looking at his captain like he's crazy, but he keeps his mouth shut. At a nod from Morrison, McCoy leaves the room, followed quickly by Morrison himself. Spock lingers behind after Robau leaves, and looks expectantly at George. He's a little taken aback - for one, he's never worked with a Vulcan before, and two, he has the uncanny feeling Spock expects them to start this investigation immediately.

He is right.

"I have already asked the witnesses who found Leahey earlier this morning." Spock says, standing still with his arms crossed behind his back. "All of them are engineers, who were coming to relieve Leahey of his duties."

"Anything unusual?"

"Not that I could see."

"It wouldn't be one of those investigations where the killer just reveals himself, and we all go home happy?"

Spock's left eyebrow lifts in a manner that suggests amusement. "I believe, Mr. Kirk, those types of endings are only found in human movies."