*Gone. He’s gone. Oh Lord, how will I live through this day? And, after that,
another. Then another. Years without him. Will it always hurt like this?*
James T. Kirk sat on the edge of his bunk, utterly defeated. Although it was
just after midnight, ship’s time, and he knew that he should try to get some
sleep, he was still wearing his uniform. He just didn’t have the strength, or
the will, to do anything, not even the simplest task.
Finally, he pulled off his boots and stretched out on his bed. That was just the
best he could manage, and it would have to do. The bed was mussed, having not
been made today, but that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Besides, if
he didn’t make the bed, then he didn’t have to unmake the bed. Two less things
to deal with.
Cursing himself for being maudlin but unable to resist the impulse, Jim bunched
the covers up in his hands and brought them to his face. He closed his eyes and
inhaled, deeply. With a sudden convulsion, he buried his face in the bundle of
soft fabric, fighting back the tears.
*It still smells like him. God help me, we said goodbye to him today, sent his
body off into space and then I entered my final commendation into his record,
closing that chapter for eternity, but the traces of him linger on. I will never
touch him again, but will I see him, smell him, hear him, forever?*
Dropping his arms to his chest, he lay there and stared at the ceiling until
finally, exhausted, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. The rumpled sheets
were still clutched in his hands when he awoke the next morning.
Nearby, Leonard McCoy was also having a bad night. He’d guzzled down a couple of
bourbons too quickly, earlier, and that, combined with the stress of the past two
days, had left him dizzy and disoriented. He had excused himself from the dismal
gathering in the officers’ lounge and returned to his quarters, flopping down on
his bed, still in uniform, just like Jim.
Unlike Jim, though, he fell asleep almost immediately. He’d awakened less than
an hour later, sweating and breathing heavily, his heart hammering in his chest,
and bolted upright in his bed from the force of the images that had been running
through his mind.
*It’s just a bad dream, that same dream again, Len, calm down.*
He ran a hand over his face and gingerly stretched back out on his bed. What had
frightened him? After a moment’s reflection, he realized that he hadn’t been so
much frightened as just shaken. Like he was trying to do something really
important, but had been unable to. He concentrated, and was able to recapture a
few hazy impressions.
He’d been walking, quickly, down an endless hallway. He must have been on the
ship, yes, that’s it, he was walking down one of the corridors, but he couldn’t
see the end of it ahead of him, and somehow he knew that if he turned around, he
wouldn’t see the end of it behind him, either. Although he was calm, and in
control, he felt a sense of urgency.
Suddenly, with the vivid disorientation of dreams, he was at his destination, the
engine room door. Slowly, so slowly, the door slid open, and he saw not the
familiar scene that he had expected, but a bedroom. He tried to make it to the
bed, but he couldn’t. It was right in front of him, and there was someone in the
bed, but, no matter how far he walked, he couldn’t get any closer. Finally, in
his dream, he had called out in frustration, but only succeeded in waking himself
up.
How odd. McCoy couldn’t make sense of it. Last night, in this dream, he’d just
walked and walked, and never reached a destination. He’d awakened exhausted this
morning, as if he had truly been walking all night. This one was different. Why
the engine room? Groaning, he wondered if it had something to do with the
unthinkable events that had taken place there recently.
His chest tight, he could not keep his thoughts from returning to Engineering.
He remembered again how awful it had been when he was finally allowed to enter
the radiation chamber. Spock had been dead for over an hour by then, and Scotty
had called McCoy from sickbay, where he was tending to the injured. He would
never forget the look on Jim’s face when those doors opened, and he and Jim were
finally able to gently reach out to their friend, his solemn face and elegant
hands horribly burned but his soul beyond caring.
McCoy closed his eyes and forcibly emptied his mind. Soon, he found himself back
in the corridor.
Again, he was walking. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the
other, again and again, but the end of the corridor never appeared. It didn’t
bother him, though, because this time he knew that he would get there,
eventually. Sure enough, the engine room door appeared abruptly in front of him.
When he stepped through the door, he expected to already know what he would see.
This time, though, it was subtly different. The bedroom was not quite as dark,
lit instead with a strange reddish hue. It was warmer, too, but the heat was not
uncomfortable. It actually felt good. His eyes moved to the figure on the bed.
With a start, he realized that the person on the bed was not sleeping, but was
waiting. For him. He tried to go to the bed, but he couldn’t. He wanted to move
his feet, more than anything he’d ever wanted before, but it was as if they were
attached to the floor. He reached out with his arms, but the figure on the bed
was too far away. Nothing he did would bring him and the other person together.
He was crying, now, sobbing, calling out as if his heart were breaking, but,
somehow, he also knew that his cheeks were dry and that he had not uttered a
sound.
When he thought that he could not stand it a moment longer, the shadowy figure
rose and came to him. Yes, yes, come to me, join with me, I need you, I want
you. The figure was almost within his grasp…
With a start, he woke. His cheeks were wet, his pillow soaked. The tears had
been real.
He did not try to sleep again that night.