Thanks to my beta reader, Djinn1, for all her time, encouragement, support and inspirational stories. The characters aren't mine but this story is.

Empty

It is dark and something is wrong.

Wrong but he can't immediately say why. He doesn't feel in danger. There's no memory of an imminent threat. No memory...?

Where is he?

It's ok. He's noticed it happens more often now - that disconnected feeling on waking. It will go. He just has to wait a minute - for the dreams to dissolve and reality to crawl down the check list. First...

Planet or ship?

Answer - ship. His ship. That hum as comforting and familiar to him as his own heartbeat. Plus one then.

Next - injured? Is this sickbay?

He's learned to stretch gingerly when regaining consciousness. Too often that first movement brings pain, jaw-clenching pain, even when muffled by meds. He's half listening for McCoy - the worried, "Jim?" But not this time. No pain. Plus one again.

Actually he feels great. He hasn't slept this well for months. Doesn't usually sleep this well unless...

Does he have company?

"Lights."

No, he is alone. And in his quarters. The usual. Minus one.

He grins to himself. It would have been good to wake up next to someone feeling this buzz, this alive - he knows exactly what would have happened next. For a moment he can almost sense the warmth, the connection. It's been far too long. He recognises the familiar ache - a need that extends further than the physical. Although that's there too...must be morning then. Alpha shift.

But something is wrong.

The lights should have come on with the chrono alarm. He shouldn't be this rested. And why can't he remember what's happening today?

He rolls up and onto his feet. He's dressed, in his uniform - has he slept like this?

And the ship - she doesn't sound right. It's so instinctive, so integral this connection that he doesn't question it, just knows. Something is out of kilter. No, not out of kilter. Something is too in kilter. The hum is right but the upper irregular notes are missing - there's a lack of sibilance and no...randomness.

He shakes his head - strides over to the comms unit.

"Kirk to Bridge."

Nothing. Not even static. Damned unit must be malfunctioning. He ignores the inner voice telling him that's unlikely. Maybe it's just comms to the bridge that are out.

"Kirk to engineering. Scotty?"

Nothing. Must be the unit. Swearing softly, his early morning joie de vivre fast dissipating, he heads for the door and the corridor comms unit. But before he can get his finger on the button, he stops.

Something is very wrong.

The corridor is deserted. If this is alpha shift then everyone has overslept. Even on gamma shift, it's never this quiet. And again those missing notes at the top of the hum.

Slowly he lifts his finger, presses the button. Already suspects this is more than a broken comms unit.

"Kirk to bridge. Spock - respond."

Silence.

He turns away, thinking. Sets off towards the turbo lift. Still no-one.

He's frowning but the shift from frustration to controlled calm, to a lightning rundown of the possibilities, is almost instant. He's had years of this - years of dealing with the unexpected from a standing start. Revels in it - that's what they say. Command comes as naturally to James T. Kirk as breathing.

He's heard them say it - read it in the Star Fleet commendations. Yet he feels no pride in what he hears, no sense of superiority. After all he knows what they don't say, what they don't see.

They talk about the decisions that went right. They choose to forget all the times the decisions went wrong. No. All the times he went wrong. And his mistakes cost lives. They don't know the price he's paid for life in the centre chair. The whispers of uncertainty in his ear that he has to ignore to do his job.

And the whispers are there now as he runs through the scenarios - turning the corner into the empty mess. His crew - 430 men and women - they rely on him to keep them safe, they're his responsibility... And they're nowhere to be seen.

-oOo-

Captain's log. Star date - unknown.

"I am alone on the Enterprise. The entire crew appears to have left the ship - or been beamed off by some unknown entity, some force now no longer apparent."

His voice seems to echo around the bridge. Lights winking by vacant chairs. An empty view-screen. Who the hell is he talking to?

"It sounds bizarre. Ridiculous even. But there are no signs of a struggle. No damage to the Enterprise far as I can determine although all communication channels are dead. I have been unable to contact Starfleet Command. As my first officer is so fond of saying, when one has ruled out everything that is possible, whatever remains, however impossible, must be the truth."

He pauses.

Reluctant to confront the other possibilities. Decides they must be recorded.

"There are alternative explanations for the situation I find myself in. I still have little memory of the day before I awoke. I may be under the influence of an alien substance, an unknown drug given to me for some purpose I do not yet understand."

Another pause. He hasn't forgotten Gideon. The fake Enterprise - Odona - how they'd manipulated him.

"Alternative possibility - this Enterprise could be an illusion - generated to persuade me to reveal sensitive information. Or to extract something from me."

He glances over his shoulder. The doors to the turbo lift stay closed. There are no faces in the view screen. Not this time.

"And of course there is a third option - I may have lost my mind."

He stops recording. Does he feel crazy? It wouldn't be the first time he's lost his marbles. Or half his marbles, in the case of that transporter accident which gave the whole crew a chance to ogle their captain's split personality. Then there was the Psi 2000 virus, the neutraliser on Tantalus penal colony - he should recognise the signs of mind meddling by now.

But this feels different. Different even from those hours on Gideon. He hadn't really believed in that Enterprise from the moment he stepped off the transporter. She'd never sounded right. This time she's real. A little off her game but real. He can feel the connection.

Omicron Ceti III. That was the closest comparable experience. That moment he beamed back to the ship only to discover they'd all left without him. The plant spore mutiny they called it, when they felt ready to joke about it. Took him a while to see the funny side. It was mutiny after all - vacuous smiles couldn't disguise the fact they'd ignored their captain's orders. Even though he knew there was a chemical explanation, it rankled.

If McCoy were here he'd be able to explore how he's feeling about this - his empty Enterprise. Lighten the mood with a quip or two about the loneliness of command.

If Spock were here, they'd be well on the way to a rational explanation by now.

But he has to examine how he's feeling without their help. And what he feels is unexpected.

Yes, he's worried - they are his crew after all. But he can't shake the conviction that they're ok. That this isn't about them.

The morning energy hasn't left him. He's still buzzing from a good night's sleep. And buzzing from something else. The conundrum facing him is offering focus; he's completely engaged, determined to solve this mystery. He's not bored.

And there's no immediate danger. There's no decaying orbit, no relentless countdown as life support dwindles, no landing party facing extinction if he doesn't act, or if he does. The helm is showing the Enterprise is merely drifting forward in space. In the absence of a tangible threat, everything can run on automatic for days, weeks even.

"That's my girl," he murmurs, patting the command console on his armrest. Doesn't even have to pretend the way he usually does when he talks to his ship - there's no-one around to see. He finds he's grinning. It's... exhilarating, liberating, baffling in equal measure. But it's not a no-win scenario.