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It took surprisingly little time to rig a giant underwater tank inside sickbay, but of course, Mr. Scott is, as Captain Pike so delicately puts it, “a miracle worker.” When Spock arrives in the rear observation lounge, Dr. McCoy is still bent over the controls, climbing waist-high up the glassy side, alight with a number of different monitors keeping track of the simulation. The oceans of the world below, after all, are more than just mere water, though the Federation’s been assured they’re completely safe to swim in.
Now if only they can get the same assurance from the natives for the landmasses of the planet, where a group of human colonists is arduously insisting they settle. The Federation, of course, doesn’t just take over inhabited worlds; permission from the locals must be one hundred percent secured. Which is why there’s an alien swimming through the large tank, looking as much like a fabled merman as the colonists said. Indeed, the alien looks right out of an old Earth storybook: human from the waist up—a trim, blond, peach-skinned man with his back currently turned to Spock—and a long green fish tail from the waist down, the bottom fin fanning delicately out like butterfly wings.
As Spock approaches the tank, Dr. McCoy straightens up to look at him, and the merman completes his circle of the tank, turning to lock eyes on Spock’s.
For a split-second, Spock’s steps falter. He recovers hopefully faster than Dr. McCoy would catch, but the lapse still happened; the alien’s bright blue eyes seem to pierce right through Spock’s skull. His own gaze quickly takes in the handsome cut of the alien’s face, the plush, pink lips curled in a smile, the strong, ripe body arching out towards him, the powerful, graceful movement with which the other being swims to him. Spock doesn’t stop until his knees hit the console and he’s frozen only a few centimeters from the glass, the alien swimming just as close. Spock’s met many other aliens, of course—his current crew is a mishmash of Federation species—but there’s something about this one that strikes him as... particularly special.
Beside him, Dr. McCoy grumbles, “I still say this is a bad idea.” He’s referring, naturally, to the captain’s orders: Spock is to mind meld with the alien prince, all other communication attempts having proven inadequate. Now that they’ve shared their world and technology with the aliens’ representative, as requested, Spock is free to ask that they be allowed to explore the aliens’ home and open discussion for a possible Federation colony on their planet. Spock doesn’t bother to assure Dr. McCoy that he knows what he’s doing, because mind melds with new life forms are always risky—though he had a short meld with an emissary of this species on the planet—and it would be absurd to say that for some completely unfounded reason, he has the uncanny... intuition... that this time, it’ll all go smoothly.
Forced to have the wall between them, Spock presses his hand into the glass, fingers sliding into the Vulcan salute to aid a better mental flow. The alien, eyes unwaveringly trained on Spock’s face, does the same. His slightly-smaller hand aligns with Spock’s, fingers parting the same way, and somehow, Spock is sure this will work even through the barrier. Their connection has already started.
Spock, tentative and careful at first, presses forward just enough to lap at the alien’s mind, to carry his good intentions and promises that this is meant to be only communication, nothing invasive, nothing informal. He can feel his message soak into the other being’s brain, and there’s a small lull.
Then the tide turns, and the gentle thoughts are reflected back at him, carried on a wave: My name’s Jim. Jim Kirk. I can speak for my people.
Spock, resisting the catch of his own breath, answers, It is good to meet you, Jim Kirk. I am called Spock, and I have been authorized to speak for mine as well.
The alien—Jim—smiles wider, his beautiful lips curving up at the corners, and through their rapidly building bond, Spock can tell that it’s a similar expression to humans: one of pleasure, of friendship. Their connection solidifies so easily, thick and poignant, bypassing the barrier completely. It wasn’t like this with the emissary on the planet Spock first melded with; that was tenuous at best, an only brief exchange, surface. It’s strange to Spock, almost shocking, how different this is, how easily his and Jim’s minds flow together. No meld has ever gone quite so smoothly. Spock catches flashes of the other underwater creatures, of Jim’s role as a prince to them, of Jim’s personal memories, and Jim’s likely soaking in the same of Spock’s. It takes Spock a full second to gather himself, to focus his control enough to ask, I am to request you and your ruling council consider allowing a human colony to stay on the surface of your planet, subject, of course, to your permission and any conditions you may have.
As soon as Spock’s finished, he feels distinctly like he needn’t have asked at all; Jim already knows.
Jim is studying him. Jim’s mind is probing at his, past the simple question, working into the depths of Spock’s personhood, reaching far beyond the plain Federation agenda. Under any other circumstance, Spock would break the contact, jerk away from the glass—Vulcans are a private people, and they’re not to be... touched... in this way. But for some bizarre, intangible reason that Spock doesn’t understand, it feels right to have Jim inside him, and he allows the search to go on. He finds himself even opening up for Jim, subconsciously allowing more and more of them to touch, and as he does so, he gets a sense of the pleasure beneath Jim’s smile; Jim is a courageous person, a joyous person, full of humour and life and an almost frightening intelligence, a thirst for exploration and an unconditional kindness, strength and warmth and the potential to do anything. It’s so easy to drown in it, and for a long while, Spock simply basks in the glow of their connection. The world around him has faded away to the two of them, now melded far beyond their minds.
And eventually, Jim pulls back a fraction, announcing through their bond, I trust you. I trust your intentions. So long as they treat our world well, respect our sovereignty, and keep open communication with us, your settlers are free to our air-continents.
Spock answers for his people, I am sure they will find those conditions acceptable. A successful mission. Almost too easy. Spock was expecting this to take much longer, hours in fact, hours he’d need to spend pressed against the glass, locked in with Jim in an intimate, shared consciousness. ...But Jim’s given him all he wanted so easily, and there’s nothing left for Spock to say but Thank you.
Before Spock can pull away, Jim surges against the glass. His forehead nearly connects with it, his short hair swaying in the water, both hands now flattened against the barrier, one firmly fixed to the silhouette of Spock’s. Jim’s tail has curled at the bottom, and Spock can’t help but wonder what it would feel like wrapped around his own legs—he can sense, through Jim’s mind, how much better it is to swim with a long tail. His eyes seem to drill deeper into Spock’s being, his lips parting slightly, though they make no sound. Almost fiercely, he says, ...And I’d like you to be that envoy of communication.
Something in Spock’s body goes faintly numb. He’d... he might like that. Jim is obviously a fascinating creature, his species surely equally as invaluable—what a scientific opportunity. And this bond between them... he doesn’t want it severed. But he tries to explain, I am the first officer on this ship. I don’t have the liberty of departing on such short notice. But it happens all the time, doesn’t it? Crew members staying behind on missions for observation, for Federation aide, for singular assignment? When he looks at Jim, his blood pressure seems to spike, a racing almost frighteningly like pon farr. Perhaps it would be wise to break the contact now, but he finds that he can’t. We can... we can send you another Vulcan.
For the first time since their meld, Jim’s eyes waver. They drift down Spock’s body, back up again, sizing Spock up like Spock did to him. Jim licks his pink lips, a gesture impossible to decipher in an alien, but the bond tells him that Jim finds this... joining... as intense as Spock does. I would consider it a personal favour if it were you to stay. It doesn’t have to be forever. But Spock has the uncanny feeling that if he were to follow Jim, he would never be able to leave again. Didn’t humans, in those ancient legends, have mermaids pulling unfortunate men below the waves to drown?
There’s none of that in Jim. He wants Spock to stay for the same reason that Spock wants to stay. It would, of course, benefit the colony greatly to have their communicator under the prince’s approval. Perhaps it would be wise for the Federation. Perhaps another Vulcan, a full Vulcan, wouldn’t even be an option; Jim is too beautiful, too emotional, for a purely logical being to handle. Perhaps only a half-Vulcan, already compromised, would stand any chance of being able to communicate with such a compelling, emotionally-driven creature.
Jim whispers, Yes. You’re... I don’t know. I want it to be you.
Spock wants it to be him. This meld is draining. He’s becoming more and more emotionally compromised by the second, and he gets the feeling that if he were a full-Vulcan, his brain would’ve short-circuited out by now. Assuming, of course, that him being a different person would still give them this same connection.
Finally, he manages to say, I must confer with my captain.
Your captain... Jim muses, for now.
For whatever reason, Spock doesn’t argue. He can’t. If this species, sentient, clearly intelligent, were to take to the Federation and space travel, Jim would likely make an excellent captain. ...Albeit one requiring either a tank on the bridge or a wheel chair and breathing apparatus, both of which are more than feasible. Picking up on Spock’s thoughts, Jim smiles wider.
Jim withdraws his hand and his mind, sinking back into the depths of the tank, and Spock lets his own fingers fall away, unable to shake the feeling that he’s losing something. Jim’s presence doesn’t completely fade from his mind; their bond lingers in a thick thread that seems to have no intention of going anywhere. Perhaps he’ll have little choice but to stay after all, if Vulcan myths of predestined t’hy’la have any basis in reality.
As Spock steps away from the tank, Dr. McCoy asks, “What happened?” And it almost is strange for Spock to hear Federation Standard again; they were communicating on a plane with no language. Dr. McCoy’s attention is pulled away before Spock can answer; Jim, back to the glass, is making a gesture with his hands in what Spock thinks is Federation Standard Sign Language. Spock had assumed telepathic methods would be the best way to work with such vastly different, Universal Translator-incompatible species. But Dr. McCoy’s solution seems to work well enough for the speechless prince. Dr. McCoy, in answer to Jim’s signed ‘food,’ is adjusting the tank controls again, doubtless about to release a cloud of colourful plankton that Jim’s species considers a delightful delicacy.
There is a part of Spock that wonders, if the species took to sign language so quickly and easily, why his mind meld was immediately necessary. But as he leaves sickbay, Jim’s warm presence still glowing in him, he knows exactly why.