Night 46: M41-50 Hallway
[from here]
622 headed down to the last door in the cell block corridor, keeping alert for anything that might already have set itself up in the hall. There usually weren't any ambushes this early in the night, but better safe than dead.
He knocked on the door to M41, waiting slightly back from the door for the Commander to open it.
622 headed down to the last door in the cell block corridor, keeping alert for anything that might already have set itself up in the hall. There usually weren't any ambushes this early in the night, but better safe than dead.
He knocked on the door to M41, waiting slightly back from the door for the Commander to open it.
While maybe not the preferred measure in twenty-third-century medicine, the sutures binding the four deep slash marks were neatly done, and with a minimum of bleeding. There was nothing about the state of the injuries which would've caused an M.D. concern - at least, not an M.D. who hadn't seen the same wounds open and bleeding just last night. Kirk's injuries already looked a week old.
Kirk of course didn't know any of this, and wasn't even trying to get a look as McCoy inspected him, as his mind had returned to the thought he'd been forced to put on hold. "Who knows if the gun works, or even where they'd get actual bullets, but it definitely didn't look like a toy. It's the first firearm I've seen in this place... but not the first weapon. I can believe an asylum would have pipes and baseball bats hidden somewhere, but swords?"
He tapped his hands against the mattress, remembering the battle atop the drill platform.
"It almost makes me wish Sulu was here. I bet he'd know how to get his hands on a sword."
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"No mental institute I've ever seen is run like this one," McCoy pointed out as he gently probed the wound edges. He'd never seen one without the appropriate paperwork and bureaucracy in place, much less one that let patients roam unsupervised. "Either it's one of the worst cases of malpractice I've ever seen on a mass scale or it's not actually an accredited medical facility."
McCoy's eyes narrowed as he studied the wounds and surrounding epidermal tissue. He was looking at an actual set of stitches and sutures, just like the old textbooks. If he didn't know better, hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he'd have thought these wounds were from a week ago. He might've expected this thing from Mr. Spock, but not from a human being. Kirk might have a remarkable way of jumping back, most of it will, no doubt, but he was as human as he was.
Unless this man isn't human, McCoy thought and instantly regretted it. Without a tricorder, he really didn't have any way to be absolutely sure right now. It was possible: a life form masquerading as another. Now it planted that seed of doubt. McCoy was inclined to believe otherwise, mostly because there was plenty pointing otherwise and because he didn't want to believe that this wasn't his friend. How a stranger would know this much about Jim's personality, despite the small changes here and there, or other crew was beyond him. No alien could perfect that particular smile Kirk used. Much less use it like he did.
There were also a number of other potential explanations. McCoy resisted going down those roads for now. Right now he needed to continue the partial exam, see if Jim was mentally fit to resume command, then he could worry about it later. The accelerated healing rate was something he'd have to bring up to Spock.
If it wasn't Kirk, then how would it know Sulu was interested in fencing? It wasn't something too widely known. Although McCoy couldn't say he was entirely comfortable with the idea of their helmsman with a sword. The last time he'd heard of Sulu picking up a sword had ended with him gallivanting up to the bridge and waving the blasted thing around. It was a damned miracle no one had been injured. McCoy also hadn't been able to get Lieutenant Reilly's rendition of 'I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen' out of his head for over a month after that.
McCoy had to agree all the same. He hadn't witnessed that bridge incident personally, but Sulu had managed to locate a fencing foil in record time. "I'm sure he would. I'm just not sure a single sword or gun would solve our problems here."
He gentled touched a suture, noted the scabbing and faded bruises. If he had access to his sickbay, he could have taken care of this in under an hour. Under these conditions, with only the stitches and the body's ability to repair itself, he'd normally set an estimated full recovery at a week or two. At this rate, who knew? It could be tomorrow.
"Your wounds are making excellent progress," McCoy said conversationally. He managed to keep the apprehension out of his voice. "Do you remember who treated you or how?"
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In his limited reconnaissance of the building, Kirk had taken for granted that its appearance, if not its mission, closely mirrored that of a real mental asylum. In his first year, his program had included an elective which discussed the reformations of penal colonies into hospitals, possibly to make someone on the Academy Board feel better about granting him a waiver for his criminal record. To Kirk's surprise, he'd been fascinated by what he'd learned about Dr. Tristan Adams and his methods, and had wondered more than once if that's where his life might've led him had Pike not stepped into that bar in Iowa. Of course, later it turned out that Adams was doing mind experiments on the inmate-patients in his hospitals. Kirk wouldn't be surprised if Landel had a neural neutralizer of his own stashed somewhere.
Except... for the fact that Kirk didn't know about the neutralizer or what happened - would happen? - on the Tantalus colony. Bill. This was something Bill remembered from his television show. "Goddammit," Kirk muttered under his breath, but flashed a sheepish smile before McCoy could read anything into it. Maybe the doctor would think he was reacting to the poking and prodding of his injuries, which more itched than hurt now.
"And yeah," he said quickly, "you're probably right about the weapons, but a sword would've still been better than my flashlight against that creature last night. If we meet another one, and I'm betting we will..." Kirk let the thought hang. In their group, only he and Spock were proficient in combat, but even the two of them couldn't do much against giant monsters with one baseball bat. Kirk wasn't exactly a master swordsman, but he was determined to learn in a pinch if it really was the only way to protect his crew.
Kirk put those worries out of mind for now. "No," he said in response to Bones' question, not bothering to try racking his brain. He'd spent the entire day trying to remember, and no amount of effort yielded answers. "It was just like every time I've woken up here: in the hallway one minute, in my bed the next, fixed up and wearing new clothes. Aside from you, I don't think I've even seen an actual doctor in this place."
He suddenly looked up, meeting McCoy's gaze.
"But I might know someone who has. Admiral ZEX, my roommate, the one who was experimented on. He agreed to meet with you."
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McCoy hadn't missed that muttered curse and this time he wasn't fooled by that look. He frowned at him. He was used to hearing his captain complaining at him, not swearing suddenly to the air like that. He hadn't agitated the wounds either, which suggested it was caused by something else.
The doctor set the bandages back as they were. Regardless of what he thought of the professionalism displayed here (or lack of it) by the staff, or the level of technology and antiquated medical practices, the job was actually a good one. At any rate, it looked like the dressings didn't need his work on them. Jim was pulling through just fine on his own.
"Give me his information later and I'll see if I can track him down," McCoy said. He didn't know a thing about what a 'VUX' was supposed to be like, physiologically, but maybe he could try and help him all the same.
He couldn't say he liked Kirk's answer to his question. It sounded like last night's black out was a regular feature here. Unless he managed to locate a doctor, it wasn't going to be easy finding out who took care of Jim's wounds, how, or why it looked like the healing was accelerated beyond the human norm. It looked like this line of questioning had hit its dead end for now. Which meant it was time to start on the more difficult questions.
McCoy sat down, partially because standing around hovering didn't lead to a relaxed conversation with a patient, and partially to just get himself off feet that were starting to ache. They were throbbing again, just like his hand earlier, all pins and needles in the tight boots. He couldn't go taking them off in front of a patient either, so the doctor tried to make the best of it. He tapped a finger on the edge of the notebook, more to focus his attention back on it rather than on the sudden paresthesia.
Throughout the entire exam, McCoy had been keeping an eye on Jim's attitude, behavior and appearance. He hadn't found anything too off about it, other than that single, minor outburst just now. No strange tics, Jim met his eyes often enough and steadily enough except when he tried to avoid the issue of whether he was eating enough. That in itself wasn't too unusual. McCoy was used to something like that.
Patient's overall mood is relatively euthymic. Speech is clear and well articulated. McCoy wrote in the margins. Whatever had affected Jim yesterday wasn't showing any sign of negatively affecting his speech production. No abnormalities of activity. Steady eye contact.
The captain was about as cooperative as he'd ever seen him, their rapport a surprisingly comfortable one despite coming from different realities. It made judging Jim's behavior on that factor alone questionable just when the conditions were so different. The overall conclusion at this time was that Jim was very lucid.
McCoy crossed a leg over the other, resting the notebook on it. He'd confront him on that outburst in a bit. But for now- "I'd like you to describe what yesterday was like for you. Even if you think a detail's too small or unimportant, I'd like to hear it."
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But it wasn't the fear of not being able to protect the crew which was getting to him. Well, it was, but that fear was less immediate than what Kirk was feeling from Bones. He'd spent his entire childhood constantly trying to gauge the moods of the people around him, and even allowing for all the possible differences in their universes, Kirk's instincts told him that something was bothering McCoy. What, Kirk couldn't tell.
"ZEX will be easy to spot," he said, watching Bones write whatever he was writing in his journal. Kirk was both damnably persistent and too curious for his own good (two traits Bones had attributed to him during one of his many annoyed rants), but there wasn't anything to gain by poking around in McCoy's affairs, not if he trusted him. And Kirk did. He trusted that if Bones didn't tell him what was on his mind soon, the doctor couldn't be that put out when Kirk started poking in earnest. "He's around your age, blond hair with a hint of green, part of it shaved off to show an obvious scar. Brain surgery, I guess. His left eye has a bandage taped over it." Tomorrow, he'd leave the admiral a message telling him to expect McCoy.
When Bones asked him to recount the events of yesterday, Kirk let out a breath in a long exhalation. He'd known this was coming, and hadn't relished giving voice to the unsettling memories in his head. And really, did he have to? Sure, the extra knowledge kept filtering into his thoughts, but it hadn't yet impaired his ability to act or reason. At worst, it took Kirk an entire second to realize that the memory was a false one. More likely, this was just one more attempt to break their spirits and make them doubt themselves.
No, Bones didn't need to know - not yet, not until Kirk knew more about it. Besides, there were still plenty of other things to tell. "It was... weird," Kirk answered, both accurately and inadequately. He couldn't think of a better word to describe the way Bill Shatner's memories fit into his head, never mind their actual content. "I know everything which happened yesterday. I know it was me, even if I thought I was someone else at the time. When I- when he woke up that morning, he remembered everything I'd gone through, but he thought most of it was a hallucination. He believed he'd been delusional for weeks, and had only snapped out of it right then. And he was so sure of himself. No matter what anyone said, he knew he wasn't James T. Kirk."
He smiled wryly at Bones.
"And don't say it was just my stubbornness coming through. I feel the same way about his memories. In a lot of ways, they were familiar: his brother looked like my brother, and his mother looked like mine, and his father..." Kirk rubbed absently at his dressings, and the persistent itch underneath. "But his memories feel different in my head. Fake. I mean, I really don't think we're in any danger of having Bill pop back up."
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Maybe he was just finally getting old.
It wasn't exactly the most optimistic thought. He wasn't that old at all. McCoy could run all over the galaxy and back with Kirk and Spock, outlasted a number of the new recruits half his age when it came to hauling all over the place, getting shot at and getting knocked around by hostile aliens: not bad for forty. But there wasn't any acting like he was still in his teens. All the same, he'd considered himself healthy as a horse, especially for his age.
Maybe it's catching up, he thought bleakly. Having occasionally numb extremities recently seemed a strange way to show it though. He'd certainly never heard of it being too common either.
McCoy nodded silently and wrote down this 'ZEX's description down in the corner, along with what Jim had told him about yesterday. He'd want to have a look at that scar certainly. Jim wasn't showing any obvious scars himself, so he had to wonder why this other patient would. Maybe they were attempting different procedures on accessing the brain.
Jim's answer was enlightening, to a point. It sounded like he'd been somehow delusional but also somehow aware of self to some degree. From the sound of what little he'd told him so far, it was as if someone had just planted this other life in his brain and he'd believed it completely. The worst part was that McCoy had heard of it being performed before.
A neural neutralizer? McCoy jotted down with some unease. The Tantalus Penal Colony was long behind them, with Dr. Adams dead and Dr. Van Gelder seeing to the destruction of that contraption. He'd been keeping an eye on the news from both the Federation and the medical community after that. After the Tantalus incident and his report, there was a heavy push to ban any further devices or practices.
He hadn't ever heard of a spontaneous recovery either. Jim had required a few weeks of counciling and a number of visits to sickbay, a myriad of tests and scans, to make sure he recovered from that incident. You didn't just pop back to yourself the next day. McCoy eyed the man before him quietly. Jim had tried to offer a smile, and if he'd been anyone else, he might have been fooled by it. He might've even been derailed by Jim guessing he'd just been about to mention the captain's occasional pigheadedness. Not this time. McCoy watched as he unconsciously rubbed at the bandages. It was a nervous gesture.
He hadn't known this version of the captain for long. They were similar enough that McCoy felt like he could make some good guesses on his behavior. Enough to know when that smile might be halfhearted. And even if he hadn't known the man, or some incarnation of him he'd known for years, McCoy had an eye for patient behavior. He was hiding something.
Jim wasn't telling him everything. It was something McCoy felt he needed to face, especially if they were going to see how much it'd affected him, how much it might still be affecting him and what they could do to help him recover.
"You acted like you recognized us," McCoy offered. "You keep speaking of who you thought you were as if it was a complete person. What kind of person did you think you were?"
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But Bones knew, or at least had picked up a general idea from the occasional drunken, careless comment, and had never once treated Kirk differently for it. For anything, even. If there was only one person he could trust with this insane story, it was Bones. Kirk looked over at him, lips parted to confess, only to recall with a discomforting jolt just how he'd recognized the doctor last night. Unlike with Spock and Chekov, Bill had known at once that the man was Leonard McCoy. Why? The eye colour was different, sure, but for some reason, it hadn't at all occurred to Bill that this was an older version of his best friend. The only other possibility he'd thought of had been an actor, not a doctor.
Shit. That definitely sounded crazy. No way he could tell Bones all of this. Kirk pushed himself to his feet, too agitated to remember to grab his shirt first. "William Shatner was a construct, that I'm certain of," he asserted, pacing in the small space, "but whoever created his memories knew way too much about me, about my life. It's like they cracked my head open and changed all the names around. I recognized Spock because Bill knew a guy who looked and acted just like him, except his name was Aidan. And he knew you. Or... he knew the other you, the one who's like you in every way."
Kirk made a face, realizing that this explanation was bordering on the incoherent and possibly suspicious. God, no wonder he was in a mental hospital. His life had way too many Spocks and McCoys for any sane mind to deal with.
"That is to say, the Doctor McCoy from my reality. He had a different name too, but I - Bill - still called him Bones. However, I didn't know Chekov because Bill's memories stopped right after the disciplinary hearing. Apparently, the board chose to expel him, this caused him to have a mental breakdown, and he... turned into me. Captain Kirk," he said, echoing the comical reverence Bill would've used for his hero. "That's the story they put in my head, anyway."
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Aside from not being Kirk, not having the captaincy, that brainwashing didn't seem too different. That was if Jim was telling him everything and McCoy sensed he wasn't. A case like this was never as simple as it seemed. But the altered reality for Jim? Wasn't actually too far off from reality. Maybe that was where the deviousness of the story really lay. Keep it rooted in reality just enough and it wouldn't seem off at all to a patient. It'd certainly be easier to accept. Now the question was why go through with all that? What were their captors hoping to accomplish? And why let Jim break out of it so easily the next day?
And how was he going to get Jim to open up and tell him everything? The captain was a tough one, or that was what McCoy was used to at least. The more obviously you prodded, the more he threw up shields. He couldn't handle Jim the same way he'd handle any other patient. Jim required a little more of a tactful approach when he started getting stubborn. Go too softly and he'd realize it and clam up. Go too obvious and hard and he'd push back.
That nervous gesture had translated itself to Jim rising and walking the length of the small room. It was the body language of someone instinctively looking for a way out: a way out of the room, a way out of the facility, even a way out of the doctor's line of questioning. McCoy grimly took note of it. Yes, he was definitely on about something.
"Jim, you're pacing like a caged tiger," he grumbled. He reviewed the notes he'd written down rapidly while the captain had answered. There were things that weren't quite adding up. "Now, it's just a theory but if there's any actual sanity behind this facility's methods, it sounds like they may have wanted to see what you would've been like with one major event altered. Maybe how you'd function if you'd never had command."
McCoy didn't usually start dropping theories left and right so early to a patient, but it was partially to get Jim's mind thinking about the possibility, and partially to get him distracted from being so careful about whatever other details he was being so blasted stubborn about. It was a damn dirty tactic. McCoy preferred a direct approach himself. But Jim had a way of being as obstinate as he was.
He'd come back to the exact details of this 'William Shatner' when Jim dropped his guard. McCoy decided to press on.
"You're right about how well they know you. Could be telepathy." Which wasn't his realm of expertise. He'd have to bother Spock about it. The doctor flipped to a new page. He shifted tracks just slightly. "Have you been experiencing any flashbacks, or anything of the sort, since morning?"
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If sheer willpower was enough to make it so, this place would already be shut down and they'd all be in space right now. Kirk's shoulders slumped, but only fractionally - it had taken three tries and two months to beat the Kobayashi Maru. If he could be patient for that, he could be patient for this. And so could McCoy, at least until Kirk got a better idea of what they were dealing with when it came to this Star Trek thing.
"No. No flashbacks." He held up his hands to ward off Bones' incredulity. He had never lied to- well, okay, that was blatantly untrue. He didn't like to lie to Bones, even if he often neglected to tell him the whole truth of whatever great scheme he was concocting. "I'm serious. I have a life's worth of fake memories, sure, but there hasn't been a moment where I didn't feel like me, or know where I was or what I was doing. Well, as much as I ever know what I'm doing."
He grinned, and for once, it wasn't an attempt to distract Bones from a lie. The stories of the other Captain Kirk and his crew were more like strange trivia than vivid experiences, with the only worrisome aspect being their apparently fictional nature. If not for that, he might have believed that this was just a weirdly rendered glimpse into an alternate universe. This McCoy's universe, maybe.
Was it possible? He'd been so busy dismissing the memories as lunacy that he hadn't actually considered there to be a grain of truth to them. But why give him a glimpse of his career as a starship captain while simultaneously forcing him to experience a life without command? "I was wondering why I'd been pulled from earlier in the timeline than Spock or Mister Chekov," Kirk mused aloud. "Maybe you have a point about them wanting to see how I'd function."
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Chekov paused briefly in front of the door marked M41. He supposed this was Doctor McCoy's quarters, seeing as it wasn't the Captain's room. It was a good thing to take note of, at the very least. Knowing where all of his superior officers were held during the dinner period was necessary information, especially when designating rendezvous points without attracting attention. Even if Doctor McCoy had ended up being the one who had taken down Chekov's notes, it wasn't outlandish to assume that there might still be enemies of Starfleet in the prison.
He confirmed the door number, nodded to Commander Spock, and stepped aside so the Vulcan could announce their presence. Chekov had navigated to this point (at least halfway), but it wasn't his place to push ahead and possibly interrupt the doctor's assessment of Captain Kirk. He would leave that to someone with more authority to do so...
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For now, he would need to announce their presence. If the doctor still had matters to see to concerning Kirk, then they would patiently wait as long as necessary.
"Dr. McCoy," Spock spoke as he stood in front of the door. "This is Commander Spock. Ensign Chekov is with me. May we enter your quarters?"
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Patient is becoming increasingly agitated and uninformative when pressed about possible side effects and and further details about his experience. McCoy wrote. Maybe he felt this was personal. Or maybe he was afraid of what he'd think. He could feel Jim just shutting down; shields going right up. It might as well be a blasted red alert with him. Why did it feel like McCoy was fighting a tactical battle with him sometimes? Especially when it came down to his health.
"It's just a theory right now though. I wouldn't bet everything on it just yet," McCoy pointed out. The 'why' was a very good question. It was part of what he'd hoped to eventually uncover. At this rate, Jim was making it difficult. He started to go on, doggedly. "You want to talk about those memories?"
He didn't get much further. Getting around Jim's defenses was tricky. It required a certain hand at it, certainly, and all of McCoy's attention... and just to compound things, Spock's voice sounded from the other side of the door. Impatiently, McCoy rose, and cracked the door open. He'd written earlier about there being two constants to the universe: bureaucracy and death. There was a third constant. You could count on Spock being precisely on time or early, and Spock was early. Chekov was standing nearby like a second shadow.
As far as McCoy could see, his exam was far from finished. It could take hours at this rate. It all depended on how long it took to crack Jim.
"No you may not," McCoy said firmly. He didn't move from the door. "There's a little something called confidentiality. In simpler terms, that means I can't have you both gawking around at Jim. I'll file a medical report if one's necessary."
The captain could easily override it, but that didn't mean he wouldn't try first. Spock wanted him to see if he was fit for command at this time, but that didn't mean he had to be present for it. That was what the medical report was for. No matter the circumstances, patients had a right to privacy.
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"Bones!" Kirk protested. He schooled his features into a surprisingly good attempt at authoritative disapproval, considering it was an expression he'd used only on his combat students, and rarely at that. This lasted all of two seconds before curiosity got the better of him, and Kirk moved to stand behind McCoy, rising on his tiptoes look outside. "I'm fine. Come in, you two."
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He shrunk backwards for a moment, ready to apologize for the interruption and wait until his superior allowed him entrance. However, he was standing next to Commander Spock. Something told him that the older version of the doctor and his Commander would get along just as well as they had during the incident with Nero. Chekov wasn't one to gossip, but he also wasn't deaf after all.
Fortunately (and much to his relief), Captain Kirk saved them from what could have been a Vulcan-on-Doctor confrontation. Chekov's face broke into a grin when he caught sight of Captain Kirk over Doctor McCoy's shoulder--looking more or less better than he had last night. At least one of his niggling worries was assuaged.
"Aye, Keptain," Chekov responded promptly, waiting for Commander Spock to enter before he brought up the rear.
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Before he could answer McCoy, however, Kirk spoke and granted them permission to enter. If patient confidentiality was the doctor's main concern, it appeared as though Kirk had no issue with their presence, which indicated that it was indeed acceptable for them to be here. In this case, Kirk's wishes overrode McCoy's insistence that they remain outside. It was for that reason that Spock stepped into the room, silently moving past McCoy, flashlight and bat in hand.
Once inside, he took a moment to briefly study Kirk. He appeared alert and, aside from the injuries across his arms and the bandages covering his bare chest, in relatively good condition. Not only that, but it was apparent he was carrying himself with the same air of confidence he retained whenever he assumed control of a situation. Bill, on the other hand, had rejected his position as captain, and had even gone as far as to suggest that he and Mr. Chekov were merely products of some grand delusion. Yet when Spock looked at Kirk, he saw no visible traces of the man he'd been yesterday. Upon having the opportunity to witness the apparent recovery himself, Spock's otherwise rigid posture became slightly less tense, and he glanced away from his half-dressed commanding officer.
"It was not our intention to interrupt your discussion with Dr. McCoy, Captain," Spock quietly said. "However, I believed it was best to announce our presence now rather than later." The nighttime hours had a tendency to end abruptly, and his orders as they appeared on the bulletin board had been quite clear. Spock was certain Kirk was fully aware of both factors, though, which meant they were not worth mentioning at this time.
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He didn't like the idea of dropping confidentiality, even if it was certainly more convenient, anymore than he liked the idea of two potential distractions wandering in when they were hitting a crucial point in Jim's mental health exam. It was hard enough getting Jim to answer the questions in detail, much less in anything that might've resembled a straightforward manner. He also knew the moment his crew wandered into the equation was the moment McCoy'd probably lose him. Back where he was from, the Kirk he knew would do whatever he humanly could (and then some) to ensure the safety of his crew and the Enterprise.
Everything he'd seen so far pegged this Jim as being the same in that regard. Which meant that now he was going to have Jim potentially running himself exhausted in light of his crew's needs first. Never mind that his health was very much a part of that.
The doctor closed the door behind them and leaned against it. McCoy still didn't like it. Captain or not, right now, the man was still his patient. But if the captain's orders were to forgo his own right to privacy, McCoy had to follow them.
"Well I think you've done more than announce yourselves," McCoy said to Spock's back. He wasn't exactly being addressed here, but by now, he was used to Spock tunnel-visioning on Jim at times, and then taking some pleasure himself in publicly reminding the Vulcan that Jim wasn't the only person in the room. "I was in the middle of conducting the interview." He didn't call it for what it really was. Most patients didn't like to know that they were being evaluated on their mental health then and there.
So what to tell Spock? There wasn't much to tell him, at least not without more digging, equipment, and harder facts. Jim wasn't giving them up easily either. And even if Jim was unfit, he wasn't about to say it in front of Mr. Chekov. Matters of command, whether Jim was medically unfit or not, weren't something to be discussed lightly or openly. Ultimately that discussion would have to be just between the First Officer and himself.
McCoy looked meaningfully at Jim. Jim was hiding something, or at least, making it difficult, and McCoy wanted the captain to know that he wasn't fooled.
"Afraid I don't have too much concrete to tell you about what the extent or effects of yesterday are, just a few theories," he finally admitted. He really couldn't say if the captain was mentally fit or not right now. He appeared to be making a rapid recovery. McCoy was hesitant to accept that at face value, especially when Jim was avoiding several issues. Still waters ran deep, after all, and the devil lay beneath.
He shrugged slightly. "Jim's physically fine though. At his rate of progression, he could wrestle down a Rigellan ox and then even you."
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