The Kelvin was mortally wounded. George Kirk could hear it groan deeply, like a living thing about to die, as another barrage of torpedoes hit home.
The “lightning storm” seemed to burn space itself, forming a halo around the enemy ship that was so bright that even with the viewscreen set to maximum polarity, the newly promoted captain had to squint and shield his eyes.
His muscles were clenched. His heart was pounding, but his fingers were steady and skilled over the navigation controls, doing the work and calculations of an entire bridge crew.
The bridge was abandoned except for him. The science station, the command chair, the helm, the communications chair, were all empty. Broken consoles reflected back flares of orange light. “Autopilot Disabled” flashed a steady red on the NAV console.
Alone, he stared down the monster ship that had attacked the Kelvin. Alone, he set his shoulders back in defiance.
He wished he had more time. The timer at the helm counted down the seconds to collision, the rest of his life flashing before him in blood-red numbers. Each digital tick spoke of a hundred dreams, loves, and kisses unfulfilled, of life unlived. Oh, how he wished he had more time.
A newborn’s cry cut through the noise of battle. Even in the midst of urgency, he stilled to hear that first, precious cry.
George Kirk was overwhelmed with relief, but also a deep sorrow that went beyond the fear of his impending death, the sorrow that he would never live to see his child. “What is it?” he asked hoarsely.
“A boy,” came the voice of his wife over her personal communicator, breaking off on a sob.
“A boy? Tell me about him.”
“He’s beautiful. He’s got your eyes. Oh George, you should be here.”
He should have been there. He wanted to be there.
But the monster ship was looming ahead of the Kelvin, only seconds to impact. He stared steadily forward, back ramrod straight, arms gripping the bridge’s supports. He forced himself not to cry, to throw every ounce of strength he had left in keeping the perfect, dignified posture of a Starfleet officer, a captain.
“Sweetheart,” he said, hoping with all his heart that she would hear the conviction in his voice, that she would understand how much he meant it, “I love you, I love you, I love y-”
Captain James Kirk woke up sweating and shaking.
His lips were parted around his father’s final “I love you.” Even against his closed eyelids, he saw the Romulan ship speeding towards him like impending death. His mother’s scream echoed in his ears.
He inhaled, exhaled, and ran a hand over his face.
Automatically, he reached out to Spock’s side of the bed and felt the firm, comforting roundness of his husband’s pregnant belly. The baby’s kick against his palm felt good. So did the familiar thrum of the Enterprise’s impulse engines, the feel of filtered, temperature-regulated air over his skin.
“Another bad dream?” Spock murmured softly.
“Good morning, love, I’m sorry I woke you,” Jim replied, evading the question. The vision of the dream was already slipping away like the soil on a riverbank.
He was not on the Kelvin. He was on the USS Enterprise, years and miles away.
Jim yawned and turned on his side to look at Spock, who was reclining calmly on a nest of pillows. For someone who was into his last month of pregnancy, Spock looked serene. Then again, he was Vulcan, and Jim was sure that Vulcans went through childbirth the same way they did everything else, logically and calmly and with as little fuss as possible.
“No need to be sorry,” said Spock. “I was already awake.” Smiling with his eyes rather than his mouth, the Vulcan held out his index and middle fingers. Jim touched his first two fingers to Spock’s in reciprocation and smiled back in his own human way.
They shared a quiet, loving moment, still unwilling to give up the comfort of bed for the start of a new day.
“And how’s my beautiful little girl?” said Jim, sitting up and pushing aside the covers, exposing Spock’s bulging midsection. He indulged in one of his favorite activities, laying both hands on the pregnant belly and pressing kisses all along the warm curve, occasionally nibbling and making little “nom nom” noises.
Spock felt a tender flutter of emotion as he watched the dashing, intrepid captain of the Enterprise coo and play-bite at the moon of his belly, rather like a puppy playing with an overlarge ball. A typical Vulcan would have shrugged off this undignified behavior, but Spock lay back and humored his human husband, smiling secretly and just as secretly enjoying the affection that Jim lavished on him. His husband’s behavior might have been childish, but it felt good. It felt… right.
A few months ago, Spock might have argued with Jim’s statement. “There is no certainty that our offspring will be aesthetically pleasing,” he might have said. “Though it is a genetic possibility, she may or may not be within acceptable deviations of what is conventionally considered ‘beautiful.’”
But his pregnant body was supplying him with a good dose of endorphins, and Spock was feeling a deep sense of lethargy and contentment. So instead, he said, “Baby T’Nimi is well.”
“Good,” Jim said cheerfully. He planted one last kiss on the bumpy protrusion of Spock’s bellybutton, hopped off his side of the bed, and went around the room looking for clothes and shoes. “So, what are you and baby Mandy going to do today?”
He stepped into the ensuite bathroom. Spock heard the toilet flush, the shower start.
Spock replied, “As planned, we will take breakfast in the mess hall, then I will retire and read T’Nimi the Fujikawa theory on quantum entanglement. Then I will perform the stretching and breathing exercises that Dr. McCoy recommended, before taking a short rest, meditating, eating lunch, and reading her a transcript of one of Surak’s early speeches.”
“Are you trying to turn our daughter into a bookworm?” Jim called over the sound of running water.
“One can only hope,” said Spock. “I try to counter your fondness for singing nonsense songs to her. Without my interference, she will no doubt be more influenced by Chubby Bunny rather than Surakian logic.”
Jim stepped out of the bathroom freshly washed, shaved, and dressed in Captain’s gold. “Hey, Chubby Bunny is a classic. Ask anyone.”
With loving devotion, he helped Spock attend to his own morning ablutions. Not that he would admit to needing assistance. Though the Vulcan was very pregnant, he still carried his weight with grace. Jim got the impression of an elephant going about its business, ponderous yet majestically graceful in its natural environment.
However, Spock didn’t protest when Jim supported the small of his back while he brushed his teeth, or held his arm for balance when he bent over for a pair of socks.
Jim helped Spock to dress in stretchy pants, a shirt that fell loosely over the swell of his stomach, and a dark-colored Vulcan wrap that hung around Spock’s shoulders like a shawl. The Starfleet insignia clasped the wrap at Spock’s left shoulder, a visual reminder of his power and rank, despite his delicate condition. Jim had Spock recline on the bed while he gave the swollen feet a gentle massage, before fitting on a pair of loose deck shoes. The boots of the standard Starfleet uniform had long been abandoned.
“I should like to visit Mr. Scott in Engineering Lab 3 this afternoon,” said Spock, watching Jim unfold and power on Spock’s hoverchair, his main mode of transportation for the past few weeks. “He is currently experimenting on a portable transwarp device and has developed a new model based on his latest findings. The blueprints are fascinating to say the least.”
“Oh no you won’t,” said Jim. “You’re supposed to be off your feet and resting, not traipsing around the most dangerous part of the ship.”
Spock favored him with a sour look. “I am hardly an invalid,” he said. “And as I have already relinquished my normal duties as First Officer to Lieutenant Thelin, as per your wishes, there can be no harm in simply-”
“Commander,” Jim said with unusual sternness. “I won’t have you endanger your health or the health of our child. That’s an order.”
Spock opened his mouth as if to argue, but then closed it, words unspoken. He looked curiously at his husband, but not reproachfully.
Jim helped Spock into the hoverchair in silence, then adjusted the controls to achieve the best tilt, dip, and temperature for his back. He unfolded a fleecy blanket from the drawer and spread it over Spock’s lap, fastidiously tucking in the corners. But Spock took his wrists when he moved to straighten the silky hem of the Vulcan wrap.
They gazed at each other for a long moment, connected by their hands. Finally, Jim sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Ashayam,” Spock said softly. “Your thoughts are troubled.” Tell me what’s wrong, was the silent invitation in the lift of his eyebrow.
Jim hesitated. His hands were sweaty and he pulled away to wipe them dry on his shirt. For a moment, he was also wiping away the ghostly touch of the Kelvin’s NAV controls. Unbidden, the dream came upon him again: the monster of a Romulan ship with its protruding spikes piercing space itself, the ship burning around him, the scream of a baby. When he moved around the chair so he could embrace Spock from behind, he was trembling.
“Was it the dream?” Spock surmised.
“The same one I’ve been having for weeks now,” he said. He kissed the top of Spock’s head, more for his own comfort than his husband’s. “I was reliving that night, when Nero attacked the ship my father was on. It’s like I was there.”
“That is illogical and impossible,” said Spock. To a Vulcan, cold, practical logic was often the best comfort. “At that point in time, you were only a newborn infant and can therefore retain no memory of what transpired. Furthermore, you are not George Kirk and have no access to his memories, and therefore cannot ‘relive’ that night from his perspective.”
“But it felt soreal,” Jim insisted. “I felt everything he felt. I don’t mean what he saw, or the smells and sounds, but what he actually felt. His emotions. He was afraid, Spock, not just for himself but for his wife and child. My mother was in labor. She had to give birth in a shuttlecraft while trying to escape, and he was so scared she wouldn’t make it. And when he finally heard the baby… heard me being born, he was so relieved and sad and happy all at once. He loved her so much, up until the very end. I see the ship coming closer and closer, one second away from impact and then…. I wake up.”
His arms were wrapped tight around Spock’s shoulders. His blue eyes had gone unfocused and he blinked until he could see Spock’s face clearly again. “It feels like a premonition. A warning. I know,” he said, forcing a chuckle. “Not logical.”
“Illogical perhaps,” replied Spock, “but not entirely irrational.” He held up two fingers, and Jim touched them with his own.
“You are anxious about the birth,” he supplied.
“And your subconscious mind drew parallels between our current situation and the events of your own birth,” Spock continued. “Your anxieties created the dream of yourself in your father’s place because you fear the same thing happening to us: an untimely labor, danger, separation, death.”
Spock slid his two fingers in a soothing circle around Jim’s, then entangled his hand with his husband’s. “Don’t be anxious, Jim,” he said softly, his voice suddenly more human than Vulcan. “I’m fine. We’re both fine. Dr. McCoy himself declared the baby healthy. And by this time tomorrow, we’ll be on earth on leave until T’Nimi is born.”
Jim smiled, then bent down so they could kiss. Spock’s lips were soft and pliant under his, lacking the hungry passion of pon farr this late into the pregnancy, but still loving and warm.
He stepped around the chair so he could kneel between his husband’s knees, face nuzzling into the pregnant belly.
“You’re right,” he admitted, his voice muffled. “Maybe I am being a little overprotective. But still… Spock, I don’t want to take any chances. Not when you’re so close to delivering. I don’t want you to go to Engineering today.”
“Get Scotty to brief you over video link or something. The thought of you down there, with all those metal parts and tools, not to mention if the radiation shields fail…”
“Captain, I assure you-”
“Promise me, Spock.” Jim’s voice was almost pained. Spock swallowed, then nodded.
“I promise I will spend the afternoon in our quarters,” he relented.
“Thank you,” whispered Jim. He reached up to palm Spock’s cheek and kissed him again. “You must think I’m being too human, as always,” he murmured against Spock’s lips
Spock deepened the kiss, then trailed two fingers lovingly over Jim’s brow and temple. “But it’s because you’re too human, Captain,” he whispered, “that I love you.”
The moment was broken when Spock’s stomach uttered a demanding growl. Jim laughed.
“Sounds like Mandy’s hungry,” he crooned, patting the baby bump. “What’s that, Manda-Panda? You want pancakes? Ok, let’s go get some.”
He stood and maneuvered Spock’s hoverchair out the door.
“T’Nimi would not be opposed to plomeek soup and mushrooms,” countered Spock.
Spock ended up having all three on his tray at the mess hall, as well as toast, cheese, and hot chocolate. Jim sat next to him with his own stack of pancakes and read the latest Federation news aloud from a PADD, but his attention was mostly on Spock, smiling as he took in the sight of his Vulcan husband, watching him eat, moony-eyed as if he was falling in love all over again.
“Good morning, Captain, Commander,” Scotty said as he joined them. He had a cup of deadly strong coffee in his hand and a PADD that was glowing with engineering schematics.
“Morning, Scotty,” said Jim, still smiling.
“That’s a… strange choice, Mr. Spock,” said Scotty, watching Spock grate cheese into a cup of hot chocolate. He angled the PADD so that Spock could see the latest design for his ETT, Engineer’s Transporter Tool. “Can’t wait till you see this beauty in person. I’ve got her all set up in Lab 3. Now, I’ve tweaked the EM coil a wee bit and streamlined the FEED for a better-”
“I’m sorry to have to disappoint, Mr. Scott,” said Spock. “I will not be keeping our appointment this afternoon.”
“Wha?” said Scott, taken aback as if Spock had ditched him on a first date. “What for?”
“It’s my fault,” Jim admitted. “I wanted him to rest. Sorry, Scotty. Captain’s orders.”
He finished his coffee and stood, pausing to peck Spock on the cheek. “I’m due on the bridge. I’ll see you later tonight, ok? Take care of yourself and our little girl too.”
Scotty stared. “I never thought I’d see the captain more smitten with you than he was on your wedding day,” he said, watching Jim walk to the turbolift with a spring in his step. The look on the chief engineer’s face was mixed amusement, amazement, and slight queasiness. “But there he goes.”
“The captain is not ‘smitten,’” said Spock, sipping his cheese-and-chocolate mixture contemplatively. “He is naturally concerned for the welfare of our child.” The words were spoken in the calm Vulcan cadence, but the human part of him triumphed at every tender look Jim threw his way, every caress that lingered longer than necessary, every stolen kiss, that yes, his Jim was still smitten with him, still desired him, even though his body had bloated up like a balloon in the past months.
“Mr. Scott, am I correct that you will be traveling to Lab 3 in fifteen minutes?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Don’t like to leave work undone. It’s like leaving a babby alone at home. You know what I mean.”
“Indeed. I shall accompany you.”
Scotty didn’t have Spock’s skill in raising one eyebrow as smoothly as if it was oiled, but he tried valiantly. “Eh? I thought Captain Kirk specifically said-”
“I made a promise to my spouse that I would remain in our quarters this afternoon,” said Spock, pushing back his empty tray and cup. He pushed a button on the hoverchair and it hummed to life, levitating about six inches off the floor. “I made no such promise about this morning. And as the human colloquialism goes, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
“Captain,” said Lieutenant Uhura, swiveling in her chair to face him. “Incoming subspace transmission from the USS Hawthorne.”
“Right on time,” said Kirk, smiling. “On screen, please.”
The velvet blackness of space on the main viewscreen was replaced by the lined, yet elegant face of a blonde woman in Starfleet uniform.
“Captain Kirk,” she greeted.
“Captain Kirk,” he returned warmly.
The bridge crew exchanged a few glances, then looks of comprehension dawned on them as they recognized the similarities between the two captains’ facial features.
“It’s good to see you,” said Jim. “I missed you.”
Winona Kirk lifted her hands in a resigned sort of gesture. “You could call more,” she said wryly, and he laughed.
The bridge behind her matched the main components of her son’s bridge, but Hawthorne was an older, more worn version the Enterprise and its cool sleekness. It was a faded version of the flagship, in every way including the captain that commanded her. Winona’s hair was a faded yellow compared to Jim’s vibrant blondness, her skin pale, nearly translucent from years spent aboard a ship with little exposure to the sun. Even her shirt in captain’s gold seemed faded. But the strength of her eyes and the gray streaks in her hair spoke of survival, resilience in the face of loss.
“How far away is the Hawthorne from our position?” Kirk asked.
“We’ll be within shuttle and transporter range in 30 hours,” she replied. “I look forward to having you aboard.”
The Hawthorne was an old, almost antiquated science vessel without a warp core or transporter capabilities. When many of her kind had been gradually upgraded over time, she had remained a simple, inter-system ship that was mainly used for monitoring and observing anomalies within the Sol system, a relic of an earlier age. Winona Kirk had been appointed as her captain for one last mission, observing cloud fluctuations in Neptune’s atmosphere. This mission was more ceremonial than anything else, a last voyage before Hawthorne would be decommissioned. It would be Winona’s swan song as well; she would be retiring with the Hawthorne.
That voyage was now coming to a close and the ship was returning to earth. As a side mission, she would pass within transporter distance of the Enterprise once she broke Neptune’s orbit and pick up two passengers, her son and his pregnant Vulcan husband. The transfer would be timed exactly when the two senior officers would be released for paternity leave. They would all return to Earth as one happy family, where Spock was due to give birth in a week.
“And how’s the Ambassador?” asked Jim, referring to Sarek, Spock’s father, who had boarded the Hawthorne a few days ago to accompany Jim and Spock on their trip to Earth.
“Jet-lagged and sleeping it off,” she replied. “I’d say he’s excited to see you, but I’m not sure he’s capable of excitement. I have no idea what he’s thinking half the time. How is Spock, by the way? I haven’t seen him since the wedding.”
“He’s doing well,” said Jim. “So’s the baby, last checkup.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“I can’t believe a week from now…” His voice caught. He cleared his throat to hid the worry in his voice. “I just hope everything goes well. Bones is a great doctor, but I feel better that Spock’s delivering at the Medical Center in San Francisco.”
“Hey, it’ll be ok,” she said, smiling to cheer him up. “You wanna talk about difficult births? You were a real doozy, kid. You came at the worst possible moment. If I could deliver you in a shuttle the size of an airbus while being jettisoned into space, I’m sure Spock will do fine.”
She stopped smiling as a shadow came over her face with the memory she invoked.
Jim shuddered inwardly. Her words had struck a little close to home. The dream, the nightmare, settled on him like a ghost. For a moment, he was back on the bridge of the Kelvin, and the thin wail of the baby echoed in his ears.
“Jim,” she said gently, and he was pulled back to the present. He unclenched his fingers from the arms of the captain’s chair, which he had in a death grip. He focused on the gold of Sulu’s shirt until the vision bled away.
“Hey,” said his mother. Slowly, he looked back up at her, half expecting to see a younger version of her face contorted in agony, sweaty tendrils of hair plastered to her forehead as she screamed out the labor pains and the grief, while his father died miles away on a doomed ship.
“It’ll be ok,” said Winona. But her strong survivor’s eyes were troubled, as if she too felt the ghost of that dream. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
The new ETT that Scotty presented with a flourish was the size and shape of a third generation phaser rifle.
“It looks like a gun,” said Chekov, who had followed them into Lab 3. He stood beside Spock’s hoverchair, staring at Mr. Scott with something akin to hero-worship. “How does it work, sir?”
“Like a gun,” said Scotty, grinning. He detached it from its supports and brought it over to them for inspection. “See this here trigger? It fires a beam, which locks onto and “tags” someone’s bio signature, say this gerbil here. Ahem, I’ve been prohibited from experimenting on anything larger than a rodent since that unfortunate Beagle Incident.”
He rolled his eyes but looked guilty all the same.
“This second trigger fires a beam that will lock onto the nearest available surface that matches the wee fellow’s body dimensions. I’ve altered it to only search out oxygen-rich areas, so there’s no question of being beamed into, say, a tank of water.”
Scott shuddered briefly.
Spock looked over the instrument with mild fascination. It was elegantly designed, and if it was really capable of site-to-site transwarp beaming, it would be a remarkable contribution to the engineering community.
But in truth, it wasn’t curiosity or defiance that prompted Spock to visit Engineering against Jim’s wishes. Most illogically, he was avoiding his personal communicator in case his father called.
Sarek had made no secret that he disapproved of Spock’s relationship with Jim. He had responded with courtesy when informed of the pregnancy, but Spock had seen that hidden displeasure that was only visible to other Vulcans. Soon, he’d have to face Sarek in the flesh when they were all transported to earth and face, with the proper stoicism, his father’s silent disapproval. In the meantime, though he felt craven for doing so, he was hiding for as long as he could.
“May I?” said Spock, arms outstretched to take the device.
“It’s a bit heavy, Commander. Are you sure you should be lifting anything?”
Spock raised an eyebrow. “I assure you, I am fully capable of lifting. But to put you at ease, Mr. Scott, I will set it on my lap and examine it without exerting energy.”
Scotty still looked skeptical, but handed over the ETT.
“Can I hold it next, sir?” said Chekov, nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Spock let the device rest in his lap. It was hefty, but lighter than a standard phaser rifle. Hardly heavy for a Vulcan.
“How did you manage to fit the targeting scanner into so small a space?” wondered Chekov, peering over Spock’s shoulder.
Scott shrugged. “Oh, I may have reverse-engineered the transwarp device we found in our friend Khan’s ship.”
Chekov eyes grew large. “I thought that was tier-one classified military property!”
Scott looked sheepish. “Yeah… so I’d appreciate if you didn’t... you know. Tell anyone.”
“I would newwer tell!” Chekov declared loyally. Spock glanced sideways at him. He surmised that the young ensign had done his share of rule-breaking during his Academy days, all in the name of scientific achievement, of course.
“It’s only a prototype,” said Scotty, watching Spock’s graceful fingers examine the reinforced exterior of the ETT. “Lot of improvements to be made. Any insights, Commander?”
“None at the moment.”
Scotty seemed a bit disappointed. “Oh,” he said. “Last time you… well old you… were able to give me a few pointers on long-range transwarp theory. Helped me solve the central string problem within minutes. I thought…”
If Spock were human, he might have chuckled. Instead, his amusement shone through his eyes.
“Mr. Scott, that is a highly illogical thought. Though I and my alternate counterpart share many similarities, I hardly have access to his memories. Furthermore, I cannot be expected to have knowledge of things that have yet to occur in our timeline, such as future developments in transwarp theory. And even if I were able to… Oh!”
He cut off with a very uncharacteristic gasp. The ETT had fallen from his grip and hit the floor with a thunk.
Chekov squeaked and jumped, afraid it would accidently warp them all into space.
“Don’t worry, laddie,” Scotty reassured, bending to pick it up. “I haven’t powered it on yet. And no harm done, Commander. I told you it was a wee bit heavy. Wait, is that…?”
The engineer froze, staring at a rapidly growing wet spot on the floor of the lab. The liquid was blood-red but clear, and it was streaming from Spock’s pant leg. “Oh!” he echoed.
“Oh, chyort!” gasped Chekov, catching on.
“Vulgarity is not necessary or appreciated, ensign,” Spock said calmly. He adjusted the hover chair to a more comfortable angle, and the musky-sweet smell of birth wafted up from the folds of his clothing.
Scotty was already running across the room to the wall console, slapping the controls and shouting, “Scott to sickbay! Come in, Dr. McCoy! I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Mr. Spock’s water just broke!”
Chekov hovered around Spock, obviously unsure what to do. He looked like he was about to faint.
“There is no need for alarm,” Spock intoned, obviously the most composed person there. He directed the hoverchair towards the door, as regal as a visiting dignitary who wished to take his leave. “This is a natural and logical progression.”
“What?!” Kirk shouted, bolting upright from the captain’s chair. He practically sprinted to the turbolift. “Bones, you said he wasn’t due for another week!”
“Don’t blame me!” McCoy’s voice came over the communicator. “You’re lucky my prediction came even this close. Hell, I didn’t even know he could get pregnant in the first place. Pon farr… time of mating, time of fertility… who the hell knew? And him being only half-Vulcan at that.”
“Well, how’s he doing?” demanded Kirk, running out as soon as the lift doors opened.
“Keep breathing, Spock, you’re doing fine,” McCoy said in the background. “He’s alright, Jim. Everything looks good. Actually, we don’t really even need you here. He’s doing better than most of my patients, and that includes Hendorff when he got the Rigelian vomiting influenza. Purple projectile vomit, everywhere. Whew. This? This is a cakewalk.”
Kirk rolled his eyes and kept running.
The impact came when he was halfway down the corridor to sickbay. The floor suddenly disappeared under his feet and he was launched forward, falling painfully on his side.
Though he had the wind knocked out of him, his mind was already processing what was happening. The ship had rolled. Usually, this wouldn’t matter. There was no true “up” or “down” in space, but artificial gravity created an equilibrium within the vessel, which meant that even if the ship itself was performing barrel rolls, the people inside wouldn’t notice. But in this case, artificial gravity had temporarily failed. Which meant the ship had been impacted suddenly. Which meant they were under attack.
Time seemed to slow as he struggled to his feet. “Jim!” came Dr. McCoy’s voice over the communicator, sluggish, as if it were coming from underwater. “He’s gone into labor. Can you hear me? Spock’s gone into labor. Nurse, secure the patient and administer the sedative. Jim, the baby’s coming!”
A second later, the klaxon of a red alert blared out.
“Red alert!” came Uhura’s voice over the intercom. “We are under attack! All hands to battle stations! It’s… my God, it’s some kind of ship.”
Another impact had Jim staggering. He stood and forced himself to walk. His ears were still ringing. His mind was numb with muted horror.
The pieces were falling into place with terrible clarity.
The ship under attack. Spock, pregnant and gone into labor. A monster ship. The pitch and yaw of the Enterprise as it struggled to fight back. Like the Kelvin.
It was as if the hands of some horrible clock were now ticking into place, a clock that had been set into motion the moment he’d woken from that dream. The nightmare had become real.