When the members of the Federation Council saw the preliminary technical report, which gathered the approval of numerous authoritative scholars and explicitly stated that its theoretical foundation originated from the otherworldly Magos Osiris, their understanding of this mysterious visitor finally materialized from "an interdimensional life form possessing unknown technology" into "a powerful scholar with a subversive knowledge system."
Amazement and reverence spread among the high-ranking officials.
"To be able to propose feasible improvements to our proud core technology just through an academic exchange…" a senior councilor murmured, his tone filled with disbelief.
"If he were exposed to more of our technological fields, would a similar catalytic effect occur?" another official responsible for technological affairs couldn't help but wonder, his tone carrying a hint of anticipation and hidden worry.
The almost "alchemical" academic ability displayed by Osiris cast a deeper and more powerful veil over the unknown otherworldly civilization he represented in the minds of the Federation' high command.
This was no longer just a technological difference, but a crushing sense of superiority in terms of thought level and knowledge application efficiency.
Thus, some officials who were already inclined towards active contact seized the opportunity to propose a more ambitious suggestion: "Could we consider inviting Mr. Osiris to participate, to a limited extent, in some of our other non-core but equally bottlenecked research and development projects? For example, new material exploration, or energy efficiency optimization?"
This proposal was extremely tempting.
Allowing an "external brain" capable of quickly discerning the essence of technology and offering groundbreaking insights to intervene in other projects could very likely lead to unexpected gains.
However, after careful deliberation within the Federation Council, the more cautious opinion prevailed.
"We have already seen Mr. Osiris' value and potential. But precisely because of this, we need to be more focused and cautious," the speaker presiding over the meeting concluded.
"Currently, concentrating the wisdom of both Mr. Osiris and ourselves to advance the warp drive improvement plan from theoretical model to practical verification is the highest priority and the project that best demonstrates our sincerity and efficiency in cooperation.
Don't bite off more than you can chew. Let us first be down-to-earth and jointly complete this current research. Other cooperative possibilities can be explored later, based on the success and trust established by this cooperation."
Ultimately, the Federation Council reached a consensus: for now, not to expand the scope of cooperation, but to concentrate all relevant resources and the efforts of scholars on prioritizing the perfection and verification of the warp drive improvement plan based on Osiris' concepts.
They realized that cooperating with such an entity required demonstrating commensurate focus and efficiency, and a successful, groundbreaking collaborative project was the best cornerstone for building long-term trust and deeper cooperation.
Pressure and anticipation simultaneously fell on the shoulders of Osiris and the Federation scholars who were fighting on the academic front.
—
At the same time that Osiris was maneuvering among the Federation' top scholars in the halls of academia, leading warp drive technology toward new possibilities, James T. Kirk was in a completely different, personal spiritual purgatory.
He had returned to Earth, to his familiar San Francisco apartment, where outside his window lay the tranquil bay and the iconic Golden Gate Bridge. The scenery was still magnificent, but to Kirk, everything seemed to be veiled in a thin, gray gauze.
Spock had been laid to rest according to Vulcan rituals and Starfleet's honors—or rather, his remains had been sent to the nascent Genesis Planet.
The official memorial service had concluded, colleagues had expressed their condolences, the press had published obituaries; all procedural mourning was complete.
But for Kirk, the deeply ingrained sense of emptiness became even clearer and heavier.
Spock was not just his First Officer, his Science Officer, but also his partner, a brother and a friend. He was the voice of reason who had countless times pulled him back from the brink of impulsiveness with calm logic during crises, the companion he could trust unreservedly, to whom he could entrust his back and even the entire Enterprise.
That bond, transcending ordinary camaraderie, was eternally etched into his soul the moment Spock resolutely entered the radiation chamber, performed his final mind-meld through his gloves, and said, "Remember me."
In the days since returning to Earth, Kirk had tried to fill his time and numb himself with paperwork, routine reports, and even long solitary walks in the Bay Area.
But he would often involuntarily walk to the Science Officer's station on the bridge, as if he could still see the pointed-eared figure in the blue uniform standing there, reporting scan results in a steady tone; or late at night, he would subconsciously want to connect to that familiar internal communication channel, just to hear the other's strictly Vulcan answer to some trivial question.
He became somewhat dazed, his reactions occasionally a beat slow, his eyes often losing focus, staring into the void. During meetings discussing matters related to Osiris, he would sometimes suddenly fall silent, his thoughts clearly drifting far away.
All of this was observed by his close friend, Dr. Leonard McCoy, who was watching him closely.
The doctor, known for his fiery temper and deep concern, had come knocking more than once.
"James! Look at yourself now!" McCoy unceremoniously pointed his medical tricorder at him, and the instrument buzzed with dissatisfaction. "Irregular heartbeat, absurdly high cortisol levels, and your brainwaves show your sleep quality is terrible! This isn't mourning, it's chronic suicide!"
McCoy frowned deeply, his voice filled with worry and even a hint of anger: "That green-blooded bastard Spock chose to sacrifice himself so that you could live, continue to lead the Enterprise, and explore that damned planet where he finally rests!
Not so you could wander around here like a ghost, tormenting yourself to death!"
He even sternly stated: "I'm warning you, if this continues, I'll have to report to Starfleet Command and recommend mandatory psychological intervention and a leave of absence evaluation for you. Your mental state is not fit to immediately return to command!"
Kirk knew McCoy was right, but he couldn't control the coldness and emptiness spreading from the depths of his heart.
He tried to force a smile, to tell the doctor he was fine, but the smile appeared incredibly pale and weak.
"Bones… I understand." Kirk's voice was hoarse. "It's just… it needs some time."
But he knew in his heart that this pain of losing a part of his soul might never be fully healed by time.
He stood by the apartment window, gazing at the starry sky, which had once been the boundless frontier he and Spock had explored together. Now, only endless longing remained, and a heavy realization about life, friendship, and sacrifice.
In stark contrast to the external clamor and academic fervor, Captain Kirk was silently and profoundly digesting this lonely sorrow that belonged to a hero.