It’s activating my motor neurons; I can’t make it stop. I’m sorry, Captain.
When I reach the halls of the hallowed dead, I will find your beloved and remind her that her husband is a noble warrior, and that he still loves no one but her. Goodbye, my friend. Live well.
LONG LIVE THE EMPIRE!
…well, so much for my dramatically romantic exit.
He expects the impossible!
I’ve got one of the medical wonders of the galaxy dying in my sickbay.
It could mean trouble.
Should I drop the antimatter, or wait for one of you?
That’s the short definition of “Captain.”
“Spock, with a beard.”
But according to your report, this entire calamity was all caused by one crew member.
The Counselor tells me that — at times like that — we might do the things that we’ve always wanted to do.
You can tell your threat ganglia to relax.
I only want what you have the luxury of taking for granted.
Klingons do not surrender their weapons.
That sounds like an illogical philosophy.
Enjoy your shore leave, Captain.
And — as I’m supposed to be dead — I’ll go and get some sleep.
My oath of celibacy is on record, sir.
We gotta move.
And the Enterprise will waltz right over and pulverize us.