Ad Astra :: Star Trek Fanfiction Archive ^{Beam me up, Scotty.}

Chapter Text

2267

All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must seem inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near. Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder, and crush him.
- Sun Tzu

Collins hated being an engineer.

He had grown up under the belief that the real service of the Empire didn't fall within the realm of thinkers, but within that of warriors.  That to become a hero of the Empire, one had to fight bravely.  He had read of the great heroes who had come before; men of vision who had saved the Empire from certain chaos.  Men who had courageously defended the people under the Empire's protection by battling countless unseen enemies with honor and valor.

Needless to say, by the time that he was in Starfleet, the ideals had given way to the reality.  And the reality of it was that the enemies were often far outnumbered and outgunned, that the Empire worlds enjoyed prosperity by giving up freedoms for their safety against powerful foes that didn't actually exist.

Collins didn't really care that much, though.  What he did care about was promotion.  Rank accorded a certain degree of freedom and security; he had seen the bodyguards of some of the senior officers, and imagined what it would be like to have his own.  He had seen the Captain's woman, first belonging to Kirk, then to Spock.  He had seen the decadent dinners that the officer's mess served.  He wanted that.  The security, the women, the dinners.

But first, he had to put himself into a position to get it.

His target had no body guards.  In fact, Collins had to sincerely wonder how the Enterprise's chief engineer had gotten his reputation.  The man might have been smart, but he was half-mad, or wholly mad, and aside from being a hardass about his department, generally seemed to be harmless.  In fact, he was humming some kind of children's song, obscenely cheerfully, as he worked at a panel.

Collins had watched for a month, ever since he came aboard with the latest group of engineers assigned, and he was ready to make his move.  Phasers weren't allowed in Engineering; too much delicate equipment could end up damaged if a fight broke out, but he had a dagger under his clipboard and was confident at how easy it would be.

He never had a chance to drop the clipboard and wield the blade.

The moment he stepped within two feet of the chief, he saw only a flash of red, black and gold, and the last thing he remembered was terrible pain in his chest, blinding pain.

He didn't even really have the chance to realize that he was dying.

The two medical assistants were laughing it up.  Sickbay was quiet; the only occupancy consisted of those two, an again drunken Doctor Leonard McCoy and the corpse of technician Collins.

Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott of the ISS Enterprise watched them for a moment, thoughtfully.  They didn't know he was there; they were too busy acting like idiots.  Teasing McCoy, asking for some bourbon, making fun of the body bag that would end up, in all likelihood, flushed out an airlock.

After another moment he spoke up, not bothering to raise his voice above a normal speaking level.  "Out."

They both jumped slightly, spinning and reaching for their phasers before they realized who it was.  He raised an eyebrow; they dropped their hands.  And then, grumbling, they gave him a very wide berth on either side before hurrying out the door.

"I really hate you," McCoy said, without any preamble, pushing himself to his feet from behind his desk.

Scott didn't bother answering that.  He'd heard it all before.  Instead, he just stepped forward and dropped the bag he'd brought on the desk.

"No, I really do," McCoy reiterated, slumping back down into his chair.  He glared at Scott, then at the bag, then poured himself another drink. "One a month, give or take?  I'm getting really damn sick of writing these peoples' families, dammit."

Three sheets to the wind.  It was an almost normal state for the CMO.  Not quite to the level of incompetence, but toeing the line of it.  Then again, McCoy was one of the few people onboard this ship who could afford to get drunk.  No one was stupid enough to try to kill the best doctor onboard, or piss him off too much.

This scene had played out before, and Scott was sure it would again.  So he just stepped backwards from the desk and clasped his hands behind his back.  There was another good thing about McCoy's relative immunity -- the doctor talked.  Could afford to talk.

"'Dear Missus...'" McCoy stopped there for a moment and eyeballed the paperwork on his desk, taking a moment to read it in his state before continuing on, "'...Collins.  Your son died bravely in the service of the Empire.'  Someday, I wanna tell them the truth.  'Dear Missus Collins.  Your son died because our chief engineer stabbed him in the heart.  If you have another baby boy, raise him to have half a brain in his head.'"

Collins had been, in Scott's opinion, another one of those that he labeled to himself as beyond hope.  Raised to believe in the glory of the Empire, entered Starfleet and then was pushed through vicious training to be a good soldier.  Fight for the glory.  Then he'd fallen into the true nature of Starfleet over the years in the ranks; corruption and ambition.

Then he fell to a blade.

Scott didn't really feel any regret over it.  This scenario had played out so many times over so many years that he just didn't think much of it anymore.  The only certain thing was that he'd end up having more of his staff beg to transfer out, and within three or four months, not a single one of the faces in Engineering now would be the same.

Except for his.

McCoy was still going on, drunken rambling for the most part, and Scott listened without a good deal of thought about it.  Most of it was just complaining about having to write those damned letters, about those damned idiots, and how it was a damned waste, all of it, all the time.

Finally taking a brief break from his tirade, McCoy gestured to the bottle. "Wanna drink?"

Scott shook his head.  While he sincerely doubted that anyone else would take a shot at him for now, he knew far better than to touch anything that would dull his reflexes.  The last time he'd touched alcohol was his seventeenth birthday; he wasn't about to start again now.

"I think Spock's gunnin' for you," McCoy said, as casually as if he were talking about the weather. "He was askin' me for all the records I had on you yesterday."

It was a foregone conclusion that McCoy had complied.  Likewise a foregone conclusion that Spock wouldn't find anything there.  It was just another move in this never-ending game.  It had been going on for nearly five years now; the only thing noteworthy about McCoy's admission was that Scott knew Spock counted on him hearing about it.

"You got a family?  What am I gonna tell them, huh?"  McCoy didn't wait for an answer, just picked up his glass and took a sip, then continued, "You know, my Dad was a 'fleet doctor.  Used to write home about how great it was, how he was doing a great service."  The doctor muttered a few things that could only be cursing said father for it.  "I don't know how he coulda lied about it like that.  I don't know how he coulda... coulda..."  There was a pause, and McCoy looked into his glass, then finished with a sort of tired sorrow, "Coulda."

Despite himself, Scott shook his head, though he didn't move otherwise or bother to speak up.  Just listened, watching the drunken doctor as he wrestled with himself.  With everything.

"I don't... I do.  I do know, 'cause I write Joanna and I tell her that I'm doin' a good thing.  I tell my baby girl that I'm saving lives."  McCoy looked back up then, and asked a question that Scott knew he could never answer. "What kinda man does that make me?"

"Ye'll want to send that to his mother.  Collins, I mean," Scott said, gesturing to the bag.  McCoy was still looking at him, but he didn't have anything else to say; at least, not anything that would make any real difference.

"Get outta here."

Scott nodded, though he didn't move for a moment.  Then he did think of something, though he doubted that Leonard McCoy would ever understand it, or even believe it.

"Your father was a good man, McCoy."

And then he turned around and walked out.