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Chief Medical Officer’s Log, Stardate 4221.5
As a result of a ceremonial ritual mandatory for successful First Contact negotiation on the planet Insontis, our fearless (and stupidly gullible) captain is now a squalling twelve-month-old. The Insonti can give me no definite re-transformation instructions or even an estimate as to how long the condition will last, other than the inconclusive “He will return to his former state when he has learned the lessons for which the Regenratron was created.”
“Do you realize how that sounds?” the physician fairly wailed, gesturing to the recording machine after pausing the tape.
“Like you’re on crack, Doctor?”
“Button it, Sulu!”
“Gentlemen,” Acting Captain Spock intoned, attempting to refrain from the human exhalation known as sighing. “This antagonism is hardly productive. The fact remains that the doctor’s logs are correct, and that situation must now be dealt with as best we can. Starfleet Command will no doubt have many questions as to the events on the planet below.”
“The chief of which won’t be is Jim okay, just did he get the dam-danged dilithium mining contract,” McCoy hastily corrected himself as he remembered the child in the room. “Why did the idiot agree to undergo that Regenratron ritual anyhow?!”
“Because it was that participation which won him the aforementioned contract, Doctor,” Spock said patiently. “Refusal constitutes an extreme offense in the Insonti culture; the damage to the negotiations would be irreparable.”
“It could’ve been something that would’ve killed him, and he just went and said ‘yes’ without a second thought!”
“Lower your voice, Doctor,” the Vulcan warned, eyeing warily the slumbering scrap of blanket-bundled humanity which currently rested, snoring softly, in his arms. “Do you wish a repeat of his…performance, in the Transporter Room?”
James T. Kirk had a command voice even at age twelve-months; he had screamed bloody murder from the moment of his re-materialization in a small bassinet, loud enough to be heard in the turbolift at the opposite end of the corridor. Spock had never seen such a tiny being produce such a discordant cacophony; it should be physically impossible, and yet evidently was not. All of McCoy’s cajoling, soothing, and unintelligible ‘baby-talk’ had been to no avail against the force of a tiny fist-flailing Kirkian tantrum (Spock did not think much of the doctor’s fathering skills, after this).
Spock, beginning to fear that his sensitive eardrums would soon begin rupturing, finally had unceremoniously plucked the shrieking infant from the doctor’s hands and had held it gently at eye-level.
“That is quite enough, Jim,” he said sternly, and whether it was the difference in position or the sound of his voice, or possibly a subliminal recognition of a faintly telepathic connection, the infant had hiccupped unhappily for a moment and then subsided, sniffling and rubbing a small fist against its eyes. The rest of the Transporter Room’s occupants’ jaws dropped in shock (and in McCoy’s case, indignation).
“Well, I never,” the physician growled, hauling himself to his feet. He booted the basket out from underfoot, just for good measure.
Large hazel eyes blinked unwavering at Spock’s, eerily reminiscent of the adult version of this small human. Then a tiny finger reached out and experimentally poked his nose. Spock heard Nurse Chapel’s coo of delight from somewhere behind the ‘aww’-ing medical team, who had been summoned on general principle after an away mission gone awry.
The infant hiccupped and beamed up at the Vulcan’s impassive features with a charm that was far too familiar.
McCoy grinned evilly. “Look who’s landed himself baby-sittin’ duty for the next few days, everybody?”
The doctor was, as the humans said, a dead man.