Chapter 314: Kirk's Mourning
When the members of the Council saw the preliminary technical report—endorsed by numerous authoritative scholars and explicitly pointing out that its theoretical cornerstone originated from the otherworldly Magos, Ryo—their perception of this mysterious visitor finally crystallized from a "cross-dimensional lifeform possessing unknown technology" to a "powerful scholar possessing a subversive knowledge system."
Emotions of amazement and awe spread among the higher-ups.
"Merely through a single academic exchange, he was able to propose viable directions for improving the core technology we take such pride in..." a senior councilor muttered to himself, his tone filled with disbelief.
"If he comes into contact with more of our technological fields, would it produce a similar catalytic effect?" another official in charge of technological affairs couldn't help but wonder aloud, his tone carrying a trace of anticipation and hidden concern.
This almost "Midas touch"-like academic ability displayed by Ryo cast an even deeper and more powerful veil over the unknown otherworldly civilization he represented in the minds of the Federation's higher-ups.
This was no longer just a technological gap; it was an overwhelming sense of superiority in the level of thinking and the efficiency of knowledge application.
Consequently, some officials who already leaned toward active contact took the opportunity to propose an even more ambitious suggestion: "Could we consider inviting Mr. Ryo to participate, in a limited capacity, in some of our other non-core research and development projects that are also facing bottlenecks? For example, the exploration of new materials, or energy efficiency optimization?"
This proposal was extremely tempting.
Having an "external brain" capable of quickly grasping the essence of technology and proposing breakthrough insights intervene in other projects could very likely bring unexpected harvests.
However, after careful discussion within the Council, a more prudent opinion gained the upper hand.
"We have already seen the value and potential of Mr. Ryo. But precisely because of this, we need to be even more focused and cautious," the Speaker chairing the meeting summarized. "Currently, pooling the wisdom of both our side and Mr. Ryo to push the improvement plan for the warp drive from a theoretical model to practical verification is the project with the highest priority, and the one that best reflects our cooperative sincerity and efficiency.
"Biting off more than we can chew is unwise; let's keep our feet on the ground and jointly complete the research right in front of us first. Other possibilities for cooperation can be discussed afterward, based on the success of this collaboration and the foundation of trust."
Ultimately, the Federation Council reached a consensus: temporarily refrain from expanding the scope of cooperation, concentrate all relevant resources and the scholars' energies, and prioritize perfecting and verifying the warp drive improvement plan based on Ryo's concepts.
They realized that cooperating with such an existence required demonstrating matching focus and efficiency. A successful, breakthrough cooperative project would be the best cornerstone for establishing long-term trust and deeper cooperation.
Pressure and anticipation simultaneously fell onto the shoulders of Ryo and the Federation scholars fighting on the academic frontlines.
During the exact same period when Ryo was maneuvering freely in the halls of academia with top Federation scholars, leading warp drive technology toward new possibilities, James T. Kirk was trapped in a completely different, deeply personal spiritual purgatory.
He had returned to Earth, back to his familiar San Francisco apartment. Outside the window was the tranquil bay and the iconic Golden Gate Bridge; the scenery remained magnificent, but in Kirk's eyes, everything seemed draped in a gloomy veil.
Spock had already been laid to rest according to Vulcan rituals and Starfleet's highest honors—or rather, his remains had been sent into the newborn Planet Genesis.
The official memorial services had concluded, colleagues had expressed their condolences, the press had published obituaries, and all procedural mourning had ended.
But for Kirk, that unforgettable sense of emptiness only grew clearer and heavier.
Spock was not just his First Officer and Science Officer; he was a partner who was like both a brother and a friend. He was the voice of reason that had used calm logic to pull him back from the brink of impulse countless times during crises. He was the partner Kirk could trust without reservation, entrusting his back and even the entire Enterprise to him.
That bond, transcending ordinary camaraderie, had been eternally branded deep into his soul the moment Spock resolutely walked into the radiation chamber, initiated a final mind meld through the glass with his glove, and said, "Remember me."
In the days since returning to Earth, Kirk had tried to numb himself by filling his time with paperwork, routine reports, and even long, solitary walks around the Bay Area.
But he would often involuntarily walk over to the Science Officer's station on the bridge, as if he could still see that figure in the blue uniform with pointed ears standing there, reporting scan results in a steady tone. Or late at night, he would subconsciously want to open that familiar internal comms channel, just to hear the other's Vulcanly rigorous answer to some trivial question.
He became somewhat absent-minded; his reactions were occasionally half a beat slow, and his eyes often lost focus, staring into the void. During meetings discussing matters related to Ryo, he would sometimes suddenly fall silent, his thoughts clearly drifting far away.
All of this was seen by his old friend, Dr. Leonard McCoy, who was keeping a close eye on him.
The doctor, famous for his grumpy temper and deep care, had come knocking on his door more than once.
"Jim! Look at the state of yourself!" McCoy unceremoniously pointed a medical tricorder at him, the instrument emitting a displeased hum. "Irregular heartbeat, cortisol levels ridiculously high, and your brainwaves show your sleep quality is terrible! This isn't mourning; it's slow suicide!"
McCoy furrowed his brows tightly, his tone full of worry and even a trace of anger: "That green-blooded hobgoblin Spock chose to sacrifice himself so that you could live, continue leading the Enterprise, and explore that damn planet where he's finally resting!
"Not so you could wander around here like a ghost and torture yourself to death!"
He even stated seriously: "I'm warning you, if this continues, I will have to report to Starfleet Command and recommend mandatory psychological intervention and a leave of absence evaluation. Your mental state is no longer fit for an immediate return to command!"
Kirk knew McCoy was right, but he couldn't control the coldness and emptiness spreading from the bottom of his heart.
He tried to squeeze out a smile to tell the doctor he was fine, but that smile appeared incredibly pale and weak.
"Bones... I know." Kirk's voice was hoarse. "It just... takes a little time."
But he knew clearly in his heart that this pain of losing a piece of his soul might never be completely smoothed over by time.
He stood before the apartment window, looking up at the starry sky. That was once the boundless frontier he and Spock had explored together, but now it only held endless longing and a heavy realization about life, friendship, and sacrifice.
In stark contrast to the hustle and bustle and academic fervor of the outside world, Admiral Kirk was alone, chewing on this silent, profound grief that belonged to a hero.
(End of Chapter)