Spunau bolayalar t’Wehku bolayalar t’Zamu il t’Veh.

Mike had to force his eyes to open. He was awake, and he was alive, but it took almost every ounce of strength he had just to pray his eyelids apart. When he did, he was treated with the bright and surgical light of a Constitution-class starship’s sickbay which seemed to slice straight into his retinas with searing speed. Mike tried to groan in pain, but the best he could manage was a strangled yelp. Finally, his eyes adjusted, and he did his best at taking stock of the surroundings.
“Well, he’s finally coming round.”
Mike shifted his eyes and saw the face of an older man. He was wrinkled, and gray-haired, and something about the lines of his face said that he had done a lot of scowling in his lifetime. Yet when he talked, there was a warmth and kindness in his Southern drawl that immediately put Mike at ease.
“You sure kept all of us waiting,” he remarked sarcastically.
“I think I met the devil,” Mike muttered, still a bit delirious, “and I think he was from Boston.”
“I’d believe that,” the man replied. He pulled off a pair of examination gloves and straightened his brilliant red Starfleet uniform. Mike noted the insignias on the uniform and did the closest thing he could to a gasp of awe.
“Are you…?”
“I’m this ships’ resident Doctor, yes.”
“No, I mean…”
He attempted to raise his head in protest, but found himself unable to move. After a few more short experiments, he found he was almost completely paralyzed from the neck down.
“…Why can’t I move?” he asked, his mouth going dry and panic starting to set in, “is something wrong?”
“No,” the doctor replied, “you’re just fine. You’re coming out of  sensory inhibition therapy. It’s a standard practice when several bones have been broken… or other catastrophic injuries.”
“Did I break any bones?”
“Hardly,” the doctor scoffed, coldly, “although after I heard what you did, I might be liable to break a few of them myself, son.”
Little by little, Mike thought over his past actions. No wonder a doctor would want to give him a beating.
“Sneaking on-board a space station, jumping out of an airlock, and enduring a jump to warp, all while suffering from an acute case of Panthrax Fluidra. Boy, you should just be dead.”
Mike forced his lips into what he hoped was a cocky grin.
“Then why aren’t I?”
The doctor jammed an injector the size of a warp nacelle into his leg. Mike didn’t feel a thing.
Leonard McCoy looked down at Mike, helpless in this state, with an expression that was nothing but serious.
“Because I’m a damn good Doctor, that’s why.”
“You don’t need to tell me that,” Mike replied with a sigh, “My Dad never shut up about you.”
“Oh? And who was your old man, then?”
“Dr. Smith.”
“Very descriptive. Did he have a first name, then?”
“Oh, uh…” Mike actually had to think for a moment. He’d always been “Dad” or “Dr. Smith” to him, “Well, his first name was Ephraim, but he usually just went by Jack.”
“Dr. Ephraim Smith, that should sound familiar,” Dr. McCoy replied. He circled his patient, tapping an instrument about the size of a flashlight from one hand into the other palm, “did he ever serve on the Farragut?
“And the Dauntless, sir. Chief medical on both.”
“Ah, yes. Good young doctor… always had such a sad face, though. Like someone always died.”
“He was one of the cadets who survived the Siege of Calgary, sir.”
“Oh, really?” Dr. McCoy’s face shifted to show a little surprise and shock beyond his normally taciturn features, “well, that explains a lot… and you’re his son, then? My documents say I’ve got a Mr. Seamus Pyke in my care… would you care to explain that?”
“”I’ve got proper ID in my locker back on the Churchill,” Mike replied, “the nice thing about having PF is that your blood is almost impossible to trace.”
“So are you Mike, or are you Seamus?”
“Just Mike, I promise.”
“Mike Smith, son of Calgary survivor and Starfleet medical officer?” McCoy asked, now standing over the young man.
“You got it.”
Dr. McCoy rapped lightly on Mike’s head with the instrument he was carrying.
“Ow!” Mike shouted, more out of reaction than any feeling of pain, ‘What was that for?”
“To make sure you’re still properly anesthetized,” Dr. McCoy gave a small, nasty smile, “and because you deserved it. Son of a Starfleet doctor, pulling that stunt… son, if my rap on the head is all you get, consider yourself lucky! That isn’t half the whipping your father should give you.”
There was a small beeping noise, followed by a female voice that seemed to come out of the ceiling.
“Dr. McCoy?”
“Go ahead,” the grumpy surgeon replied.
“Your patient has visitors. Shall I admit them?”
Dr. McCoy looked back down at Mike.
“You really don’t deserve this,” he turned back to the direction of the voice, “Let them in.”
The door opened with its characteristic sliding noise, and Mike was greeted with a heart-warming sight: Cynthia Harvey, smiling broadly; Humak, at attention as always, and another man in the red Starfleet Uniform Dr. McCoy had been wearing. He was nearing middle age, that much was certain, but still a certain charm and satisfaction hung around his sparkling eyes. He made the room electric with a cock-sure strut that carried him to Mike’s bedside more rapidly than the others. He stuck out his hand with all the gusto in the galaxy, only to laugh nervously and immediately withdraw it. Mr. Smith wouldn’t be shaking any hands anytime soon. Instead, he simply rested his hand on Mike’s shoulder, a gesture Mike couldn’t feel, but appreciated nonetheless. The man tilted his head when he spoke, and odd affectation, but one that seemed to match his status as a man of action and of boundless energy. His lips parted for a moment, pausing before speaking in the most peculiar way, but something about it seemed so very warm, genuine, and human. Finally, with a deep voice that was equal parts bravado and compassion, he uttered:
“Kirk, Enterprise.”

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