Do Not Go Gentle

Before the dying of the light…

Where had he heard something like that? And why think of it now, of all times?

The dying of the light...

Plenty of light on this rock pile. The glare from that damn star was enough to fry your eyeballs. He thought of bringing a hand to his face just to wipe away the sweat, but nothing happened. Twisted girders from the catwalk had him all tangled up. Trapped. Yes, that was it. Otherwise he could have moved.

He did not like being out of the game. Where was Picard, anyway? It shouldn't take the captain of the Enterprise this long to save the universe. Things had certainly changed.

The dying of the light…

Let's see. Think. Think. Spock would know. And Spock was still alive, out there somewhere—Picard said. Not that fake Nexus-Spock he had dreamt up whenever he felt like a little Vulcan companionship. No. The real article.

What would Spock say about this? He tried to picture him—old at last, wrinkled and gray—standing right here, gazing down at him. With such pain in his eyes!

Pain. Pain. That was the question. Why was there no pain? He had fallen all that way, with a catwalk heavy enough to crush him.

Summoning his strength, he tried once more to move a hand. A leg. A toe. Anything.

The dying of the light… Come on, Spock! Help me here!

"'Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night'. Dylan Thomas, 1951."

It did not matter that the voice was only in his head. It had been Spock's voice, and Jim smiled. Perhaps…after all…he would not die alone.