Trek TOS story: (part II)
***
Somewhere, water was dripping. Spock could hear it - a steady liquid cadence, far more steadfast and predictable than the frenetic, thready pulse fluttering under his fingers, or the irregular, shuddering breaths that sounded harshly in the darkness.
This was not good.
He shifted his touch, found a shoulder in the dim light. Squeezed gently. “Captain…”
“Sp…o…k.” Kirk sounded weak. Even without a tricorder, Spock could ascertain that the captain was fading. Spock had done all he could to treat those injuries he could see, but he suspected there was internal damage that required the facilities of Sickbay and Doctor McCoy’s version of ‘beads and rattles.’
And the pain was obviously getting worse. Kirk no longer tried to suppress the panting half-gasps tinged with misery - the groans and feeble spasms when something inside cramped and twisted. In the weak illumination from his helmet light, Spock could see Kirk’s cheeks were damp with the moisture of tears leaking from beneath tightly clenched lids. Another wave of agony hit, and Kirk convulsed under Spock’s touch, fingers clawing at the dirt, body thrashing as he tried to flee the searing scourge. A low groan, wrenched from deep inside, echoed off the walls of the collapsed mining shaft. “Ah…gods… Sp…ock!”
Recoiling slightly under the onslaught of Kirk’s emotional turmoil, Spock came to a decision. Not an easy one for him, but one that he deemed necessary under the circumstances. “Captain, the pain you are experiencing is diminishing your ability to endure the physical injuries your have sustained.” He paused for a moment, gathering his control. “With your permission, I can utilize Vulcanian mental techniques to help you establish some control over the unpleasant sensory input you are experiencing.”
Kirk drew a few faltering breaths before replying, “You can… stop the pain?”
“I can…” Spock considered his phrasing, seeking to be accurate, “…reduce the level of discomfort you are experiencing.”
Kirk started to reply, then broke off with a groan as another wave of torment swept through him. He gritted his teeth, and hissed, shaking with reaction. His fingers clawed again at the rocky soil, nails already crusted and torn from previous efforts to deflect the searing sensations racking his body.
In the face of his captain’s suffering, Spock’s grip on Kirk’s shoulder remained gentle and soothing. However, his other hand, resting upon on his own thigh, tightened into a taut-knuckled fist, nails cutting crescents into the flesh of his palm.
After agonizing moments that seemed to stretch beyond the temporal, Kirk recovered enough to wheeze, “Using… a… mind meld?”
“Yes.”
“No… Spock.” Kirk took a few shallow gulps of air, gathering his strength, wanting to be clear. “I know how… disturbing melding is… for you… under the best of… circumstances.” A hint of shame shadowed his final words. “I have no wish… to subject you… to my current… mental state.”
A flash of amusement, totally illogical under the circumstances, kindled in the depths of Spock’s dark eyes. Yes, foolish and precious, this beguiling one. “Jim…” he countered, rich tones flattened to hide all hits of levity. “I assure you, the establishment of a meld would cause me much less… disquiet than continuing to watch you suffer without being able to offer assistance.”
Silence. Then a tentative, “That so?”
“Indeed.”
A soft sigh. Relief? “Well… we can’t… have… that. Meld away, Mister Spock.”
Spock shifted closer, his slender fingers seeking and finding the appropriate contact points against Kirk’s feverish skin. His composed voice murmured somniferously in the dark. “Relax. Jim. I am here. Open your mind. Feel my thoughts. My mind to your mind. My thoughts are your thoughts...” His voice stumbled then broke for a moment, as the full force of Kirk’s pain slammed into him. Mental images formed out of the ether, pictures that sought to create reason out of emotion. Jim Kirk, naked, wrapped in razor wire, his vulnerable flesh torn open by the sharp, wicked barbs. On his knees, he struggled to break free… his body slick with blood.
Fighting past the horror, Spock reached, mental hands seeking to untangle the wire. Barbs sliced though his fingers, slashed his palms to the bone and green blood flowed to mix with red. “Feel me with you,” he intoned, setting himself against the illusory pain in his mind. “We are one. Release the pain. Release.” Even as he pulled the barbed wire away from Kirk, the images shifted. Chains erupted from the stone floor, twisted tendons of raw flesh and bone that entwined themselves around Kirk, bearing him to the floor. He cried out, thrashing in their grip. Resolute, Spock ventured onward, fingers ripping at the living bindings. “Feel me with you,” he gritted, as he pulled chunks of dripping flesh and splintered bone away from his captain. “We are one. Release the pain. Release.” He reached the phantom Kirk, cradled the tawny head firmly between his hands. “Let your body float free!” he demanded, staring into tormented eyes. “There is no more pain.”
The dazed golden gaze met his own, cleared slightly. Pale lips moved, soundlessly, but Spock read the unspoken words, “No pain?”
“No pain,” he repeated. “Let go, Jim.”
And under his hands, Kirk’s whole being sighed. His eyes fluttered closed. Together they sank into sunlight.
***
Mouth pursed in slight distaste, McCoy eyed the two uberwyrms undulating across the floor of the mine shaft. When he’d heard the term “worm” he’d pictured something like an earthworm; slender, grayish-pink and moist, but these colossal creatures were thick-bodied, prickly and dry to the touch. At least they looked dry to the touch. He hadn’t actually worked up the nerve to find out, especially after being told they could secrete acid from their quills. They were close to four meters long and over a meter in diameter, and as far as he could tell, they had no discernable eyes, noses, or ears, just a large maw lined with rows and rows of sharp spikes that might be considered teeth. They were, he decided, quite disgusting. But he was willing to overlook their lack of charm, if they could help locate Jim and Spock.
Hjelmfelt and Rocas were crouched beside pair of the beasts, Hjelmfelt awkwardly trying to balance with her immobilized knee thrust out to the side. The two were busily fitting the uberwyrms with specially designed wireless-relay harnesses, which would feed signals back to monitors being set up to process the information. Apparently, this was a common practice for the wyrms did not seem the least bit perturbed by the equipment collars being slung around their blunt… front ends?
Holland Carter leaned in, grabbing McCoy’s elbow in excitement. “You see? It’s ingenious really. The wyrms burrow through the dirt and rock, and we monitor their progress on the computers. We generally use them to locate mineral deposits, but there is no reason they can’t help find your missing crew members.”
McCoy studied the creatures with a skeptical eyebrow at full-staff. “How do you get them to do what you want?”
“Simple reward training, Doctor. They use a scent pattern we establish to track down the necessary minerals, and they get a reward.”
“I see,” McCoy watched with some bemusement as Hjelmfelt reached out and scratched one of the uberwyrms around the folded ridges of skin set behind its mouth - or what he assumed was a mouth. The fact that Hjelmfelt was wearing heavy, protective gloves did not make the show of apparent affection any less remarkable. “Positively reinforced operant conditioning. What’s the reward?”
“Atakatite,” Carter enthused. “It is a by-product of our dyminiumite processing. Useless to us but apparently very tasty to the uberwyrms. They love it! It is a perfect partnership, Doctor.” He clapped McCoy on the back, hard. “I wish I could take credit for discovering the usefulness of the wyrms, but to be honest, I just considered them a nuisance until Lara and her team figured out how to utilize their abilities. As a result, productivity has increased almost 30 percent!”
McCoy couldn’t quite dredge up the same level of zeal Carter seemed to have for the critters, but he did offer a heartfelt, “Well, if they can find the Captain and Mister Spock, I will personally pin a ribbon of valor to their…” He paused and harrumphed, gesturing vaguely towards the pair, unsure wear one would pin anything on their tough, bristly exteriors.
Hjelmfelt lopsidedly lumbered in their direction as she favored her injured knee. “We ready are. Have items with to smell, Doctor?”
McCoy nodded, and unwrapped the parcel he had arranged to have beamed down. Fleet uniforms were synthesized aboard ship, using current crew measurements and department affiliations. Most of the clothing was recycled at the end of the work period, though Kirk had been known to go through multiple uniforms in a shift. Still, because they were re-manufactured frequently, a uniform was not useful to establish a scent marker. However, most crew members also had a few personal items that were laundered in an old fashioned manner as needed, and returned to the rightful owners. McCoy had instructed Kirk’s current yeoman, an Ensign Walsh, to hunt down such items for both the captain and the first officer. His bundle contained a worn pair of jeans and a heavy cable-knit sweater that McCoy had seen Kirk wear occasionally while on shore leave. For Spock, Walsh had chosen a meditation robe in a sensuous black fabric that for a Vulcan seemed practically decadent, and McCoy fervently hoped he would have the opportunity to tease the austere Mister Spock about it. He handed them both to Hjelmfelt. “See if these will work.”
She shook the clothing out and grunted, giving the items a quick once over. Deciding they might fulfill the requirements, she carried them over to the uberwyrms and held them out to the creatures all the while cooing in the high-pitched babble-speak that seemed universal when addressing small children and adorable life forms, though McCoy could see nothing remotely adorable about the uberwyrms.
He muttered to himself while once again assessing the items in his medical kit. It was the third time he’d checked his supplies, and nothing had changed, but it gave him something to do. “How long do you think this could take?” he grumbled at the Galaxcon CEO. “Every minute they remain trapped means less chance of survival.”
Carter shook his head, looking genuinely regretful. “I really don’t know, Doctor. I assure you, we are doing everything we can to expedite the recovery of your personnel, but I really just don’t know.”
And that was the real problem, McCoy lamented. They didn’t know anything. How much air did Kirk and Spock have left? How much time? What types of injuries might they have sustained? How were they going to get them out? And were they even alive? They didn’t know anything, and so they had to be prepared for everything.
McCoy completed the recheck of his medical equipment, and contacted sickbay on his communicator confirming that they were set up for all possible contingencies. Head nurse, Christine Chapel, assured him (for the third time) that they were standing by, prepared for everything short of a supernova. And he knew they were. He had a good team, perhaps the best in Starfleet. But even the unrivaled Enterprise sickbay could do nothing without a patient, and so they waited - something McCoy had never found easy to do.
***
Spock had never been to Iowa where James Kirk had spent much of his childhood. It was a place Kirk spoke of on occasion, sometimes with wistful nostalgia, and at other times with the relief of someone who’d escaped some monotonous drudgery. More than once, he had threatened to drag Spock there on the next Earth based shore leave. Spock had always secretly anticipated the opportunity to visit, to see for himself the place that provoked such confused reactions in his captain, but the chance had never arisen. Always one more mission, one more destination. No time.
However, Spock was fairly certain that it was Iowa he was experiencing now, or at least the version of Iowa that existed within the confines of his friend’s mind. He and Jim Kirk were curled in a large, white rocking chair on the porch of a somewhat timeworn farmhouse. The house was painted in a cheery yellow, but the paint on both the house and rocking chair was beginning to peel, revealing grey, weathered wood beneath. They were facing acres of golden, oat fields that shifted in the breeze, rippling as though alive under the blazing light of Sol. The Earth sky was a brilliant, endless azure; a cool, gemlike color that never ceased to surprise Spock, being used to, as he was, the changeable Vulcanian skies of saffron, dun, and brown. Spock was holding Kirk on his lap, his arms wrapped tightly around the Human. It was a liberty he would not have taken outside the meld, and indeed demonstrated a level of physical intimacy he likely would find exceedingly uncomfortable. However, here, he had chosen to allow Kirk’s mind to set the parameters. Apparently, in his present state of distress, this close touching was something Kirk craved. And Spock would hardly deny his captain anything he desired at the moment, for outside this place and time, James Kirk was dying, and Spock knew it.
Kirk’s head lolled restlessly against Spock’s shoulder. His breathing was labored, his skin pale, almost translucent - mental reflections of his weakening state. Sometimes, his weight bore down on Spock, melting against him, a demanding burden of flesh and bone and need; at other times, he seemed to fade, slipping towards insubstantial, his form bleeding away even as Spock tightened his grip, struggling to hold on, crying out, “Jim! Don’t go! Stay with me!”
Their surroundings occasionally flickered and drifted out of phase, jumbled images transposing themselves over each other, sensations clashing… leaving them momentary disarranged. The sun would flare and white out the world and for an eternity all would be burning light and flaring pain. Then with a stutter, or a sickening lurch, the world would resolve itself again, and they would be back on the porch of Kirk’s childhood. These episodes of displacement were becoming more frequent as Kirk slowly lost control of his mental faculties. Increasingly, it was Spock’s own mind that was holding their ephemeral realm steady, recreating the memories he’d found in Kirk’s past.
Already, they were past the point at which Vulcanian healers would have advised Spock to pull free of the meld to avoid the risk of being pulled into death along with Kirk. But he would not leave. Could not leave. It was now his breathing that filled Kirk’s lungs. His heartbeat that pumped Kirk’s blood. His will that held Kirk back from final darkness. To go would certainly condemn Jim Kirk to death, and that was unacceptable.
No, he would not leave his friend and captain to die alone here, even at the risk of his own life.
***
Lara Hjelmfelt had named the larger of the two uberwyrms, Commander D’Shen Twall, after her favorite character from “Space Adventurers,” a childhood entertainment televid. Its mate, the smaller of the wyrms, she called Ishina, after Commander Twall’s avian pet cupock-te. When Lara had been nine, the televid had been cancelled following the discovery that the show’s main star had been helping fund an Orion smuggling operation. Lara, too young to understand the controversy at the time, had been deeply disappointed. As an adult, she still loved the old episodes and kept a copy of them on disk. She had long ago concluded that people could let you down, even televid stars could end up being slave traders, but galactic heroes on entertainment vids rarely disappointed.
As for the uberwyrm, it had no opinion on the matter one way or the other. The name meant nothing to it. It contained a sense of “self” but needed no label to distinguish itself from “others.” It merely was, and they were not.
Now it stopped and tested the rocky soil close around it, sampling a portion. It sensed… yes. In the small pockets of air between the soil particles. The trace scent.
Grinding together the hard, boney plates set in its jaw the uberwyrm sent out an ultrasonic message to others of its kind, including its mate.
Information: Target. Action: Found. Location: Here.
From somewhere not too distant came a thrumming reply.
Query: Where.
Location: Here.
The uberwyrm sent its communications again, then began tunneling downward, toward the open cavern it sensed below. Towards the target.
***
“McCoy!” Holland Carter yelled loudly, and slapped Lara Hjelmfelt on the back as she monitored the incoming data from the uberwyrm uplink. “We’ve got them!” He turned to the doctor with a triumphant grin.
McCoy hurried over from where he’d been peering over Del Rocas’s shoulder while he tracked the second uberwyrm. “You found them? Let me see!”
Hjelmfelt shifted her broad shoulders slightly to one side, so McCoy could see the screen. “Twall them located has.” She pointed to some read-outs scrolling down the side of the monitor. “Coordinates here are.”
McCoy frowned at the vid images on the screen. The main feed showed grainy footage of two faintly lit figures, but they appeared to be off center and canted. McCoy couldn’t quite make heads or tails of what he was seeing until Hjelmfelt adjusted something, reorienting the image. Apparently, the live transmission from the uberwyrms was not horizontal. Once the image settled into something more recognized, McCoy realized one figure was crouched beside the other, someone lying prone and difficult to see amid the rubble. He was somewhat surprised he could see anything at all, but an intact hardhat illum-panel was providing a minimal amount of lighting. Both figures were far too still for his liking, and he bent closer, seeking movement or other signs of life. He took some solace in the infrared-image in one corner of the screen. It showed two glowing thermal signatures, and where there was heat, there might still be life. The crouching figure was most likely Spock he concluded, based upon the flaring yellows and whites indicating a higher body temperature. Unless Kirk was running a very high fever. Either way, the figure belly-down on the ground had him very worried. Too many pools of blue and green, indicating a dangerous lowering of body temperature for a Human, possibly fatal levels for a Vulcan. He refused to entertain the thought that the second figure might already be dead, and what he was seeing was just the natural cooling process.
“We have to get to them!” he snapped. “You said you had the coordinates. Let me beam in there!”
“As soon as we get coordinates from the second uberwyrm,” Carter soothed, “That way we can triangulate the location precisely. If we are wrong, Doctor, you could end up beaming into solid rock.”
“Well, how long is that going to take?”
“Data from Ishina arriving now are,” intoned Hjelmfelt calmly, as she correlated incoming data on her monitor. “Coordinates for beaming have… now!” She indicated the read-out on her screen, and McCoy whipped out his communicator. Contacting the ship, he read out the indicated beaming location to Scotty. “Get me in there fast, Scotty,” he demanded, voice gruff with worry.
“Can’na we just beam them out?” Commander Scott’s voice sounding small and tinny over the communication device.
“I don’t want to risk moving them till I know what I’m dealing with.” McCoy gripped his medi-kit close, as though concerned he might lose hold of it during the beaming process. “Give me a minute to get in there and assess the situation. And stand by to beam down any medical equipment I might need.”
He had time to offer one little prayer that Lara Hjelmfelt and her uberwyrms were accurate before the transporters whisked him away. If they weren’t, he supposed he’d never know.
***
McCoy materialized in close darkness, with a sense of the earth pressing menacingly down from above. The first thing he noticed was the thick, stale quality of the air. He tried drawing a deeper breath, but the heavy dust sent him into a fit of coughing. He cursed himself for an idiot. Of course the air would be stagnant. Jim and Spock had been trapped in this confined, unventilated space long enough to deplete the oxygen. He unhooked his communicator, and made his first request - three breather masks. The idea that he might not need all three was quickly shoved to the back of his mind.
Masks in hand, he began crawling towards the still, shadowy figures a short distance away. “Spock,” he rasped, as he drew abreast the two, for he could now see it was indeed the Vulcan bending over the decumbent form of James Kirk. However, Spock did not react to McCoy’s presence. Noting the placement of Spock’s fingers along particular facial pressure points of his injured companion and the look of intense concentration upon the Vulcan’s long features, McCoy concluded that the science officer was deeply immersed in some sort of mind trance with the captain. Swiftly, he donned his own breather, then positioned masks on both Spock and Kirk. As he gently slipped the mask over Kirk’s mouth and nose, he was relieved to note the clear plasti-form fogging with breath. Alive then, both of them. The tricorder confirmed it, but also informed him that, in Jim’s case, that status was precarious at best.
Working quickly, he rummaged through his medi-kit and administered a concoction of drugs to counteract the most critical of Kirk’s symptoms. He had to get the man on a surgical table stat. It appeared the captain was partially trapped under rubble from the collapsed mine, and McCoy had no way of completely assessing the severity of his hidden injuries. However, the tricorder was quite forthcoming about the broken bones and internal bleeding. There was little choice. They certainly couldn’t take the time to dig Kirk free, not with the unstable readings McCoy was getting on his tricorder. They would just have to beam him out and deal with the consequences as they arose.
Spock appeared to be holding his own, though the Vulcan’s functions appeared dangerously low. With a quirked eyebrow, McCoy noted Spock’s shallow breathing and slow heartbeat seemed perfectly matched to that of Kirk. Most peculiar. Even their brain wave patterns were in near sync. Whatever was going on, McCoy was reluctant to disrupt it. He might not know a great deal about Vulcanian mind fusion techniques, but he had the distinct impression that, at the moment, Spock was literally keeping Jim Kirk alive. Separating them might prove fatal for Jim.
Contacting the ship again, he request three to beam up, “And Scotty,” he added, glancing worriedly at the Vulcan. “Spock is in some kind of meld with the captain. I think he’s in pretty deep. Try to beam them up together, I don’t want to break that contact till I have Jim stabilized on board.”
“Aye. Will do,” came Mister Scott’s reassuring reply. “Medical teams are standing by, Doctor. We’ll have you all aboard in no time a’tall.”
“Lord willing, and if the creek don’t rise,” McCoy was muttering under his breath even as the dancing lights of the transporter effect coalesced around him.
***
For McCoy and his team, the next twenty-four hours were the stuff of nightmares, ones that, McCoy had no doubt, would feature prominently in his imagination for many nights to come. Beaming Kirk free of the debris had revealed the full extent of his injuries, and a pretty sight it was not. McCoy was used to putting Kirk back together after one mishap or another, but sometimes the trauma was worse than others. This was one of those times. James T. Kirk was respected by his crew as an exceptional commanding officer, but he was also well liked as a person, and although his staff conducted themselves with complete professionalism, McCoy saw more than one suspiciously moist eye.
His own control was tenuous at best and not for the first time, he questioned whether he should be serving on the Enterprise. Nothing quite like being up to your elbows in a friend’s blood, literally holding his life in your hands while his vitals plummeted time and time again, to remind you there were good reasons most doctors refrained from treating those close to them. But who else in Starfleet would he trust with Jim Kirk’s health? And if there was anyone else who knew as much about Spock’s crazy hybrid physiology as he did, he hadn’t heard about it.
They got Kirk stabilized and prepped for surgery before McCoy even considered trying to pull Spock free of the meld. He expected breaking the mental connection between the two might prove difficult, and wasn’t surprised that took a trio of well muscled medical techs to wrestle Spock away from Kirk’s side. He was, however, somewhat shocked when Spock actually started to growl, lips pulled back in a primal snarl. While the tech’s struggled to hold onto the flailing Vulcan, McCoy delivered a series of sharp slaps, trying to snap Spock out of the meld. His efforts proved unsuccessful, and when Spock threw one of the medical into a wall with enough strength to knock the man unconscious, McCoy resorted to a sedative. He darted in with the hypo, and Spock folded, going limp in the remaining techs’ hold.
A mistake in retrospect.
They had foreseen that the severing of the meld would have a detrimental effect on Kirk, and were ready when nearly every monitor on his bio-bed erupted in a cacophony of alarms. What they hadn’t prepared for was the complete shutdown of Spock’s functions. When placed on a second bio-bed, it became apparent that the Vulcan had no pulse or respiration. To a layman, the next few minutes might have appeared to be total pandemonium, but McCoy’s people knew their jobs. Although things got a bit chaotic, they had the injured medical tech situated, Spock hooked up to life sustaining equipment, and Kirk into surgery with record efficiency.
After that, it was hours of touch and go emergency medicine… dealing with one crisis situation after another as medical personnel scrambled to keep both Kirk and Spock alive. McCoy didn’t understand why, but somehow the captain and first officer’s well being had become inexorably linked. Every time they came close to losing Jim, Spock’s vitals fluttered and sank into the danger zone. McCoy quickly realized he was fighting to save, not only Jim Kirk, but the Vulcan as well.
“Spock, what the hell have you done this time,” he muttered under his breath as Kirk’s readings took another dip, and the clamoring alarms on his monitor were echoed by those on Spock’s bio-bed in the next treatment room. If he managed to pull them both through this, he reflected, he definitely deserved to pop open that bottle of Romulan Ale he’d been storing for a special occasion. And if he didn’t save them… well, he’d probably be opening the bottle anyway, for entirely different reasons.
***
Hours later found an exhausted McCoy in his office, head pillowed on his arms, snoozing - an open bottle of Romulan Ale and a half empty glass sat on his desk. Nurse Christine Chapel slipped in, a PADD with the latest readings on both the captain and Mister Spock cradled in her hands.
“Len?” Her voice was rough with fatigue, her long face drawn, her blue eyes bruised, and her usually tidy blonde coiffure hanging limp.
She stepped closer to McCoy with the intention of shaking him by the shoulder, but stopped, knowing he was even more spent than she. Instead, she quietly set the PADD on his desk and turned to go. At the door, she paused again and glanced over her shoulder. With the swift movements that bespoke an impulsive decision, she reached out, snatched the tumbler off the desk, and tossed the rest of the ale down her throat. With a wry smirk, she turned the glass rim down and left it sitting on the desk next to the PADD.
***
McCoy sometimes wondered if the person who first proposed that Vulcans could not lie had actually met any Vulcans. They certainly hadn’t met Mister Spock. McCoy had developed a fairly accurate shit-detector, and he knew he was being bamboozled.
“Don’t tell me it isn’t relevant, Spock! You nearly died. Several times. And I want to know why!” He faced off with the Vulcan across the bio-bed where Spock was slipping his long limbs into a clean uniform. “Your injuries weren’t that serious. A few lacerations. Some hypoxia. You should have been fine.”
“I am fine, Doctor,” Spock replied in an infuriatingly calm voice as he tugged the hem of his blue velour outer shirt into place. “As you can see.”
“Spock!” McCoy roared and across Sickbay a newly assigned medical technologist jumped in surprise, dropping the charts she was carrying. “You are not leaving my Sickbay until I get some straight answers!”
Spock turned and studied McCoy with impassively. “Doctor, with the captain incapacitated, I am currently in command. As I have already informed you, the explosion in the mines at Galaxcon One was not an accident. I must meet with Secretary Twong and Mister Carter to discuss the situation as soon as is expedient.”
McCoy slammed his hand down on the side of the bio-bed, “Well, it isn’t expedient, Mister Spock. As CMO of the Enterprise, I can have you back in this bed so fast it will take a week for your pointy-eared logic to catch up with you!”
Bland reproach. “Really, Doctor.”
“Don’t you ‘really doctor’ me you overgrown elf!” McCoy snapped. “When it comes to the health of this crew, my word is law, and you know it!” He shook a warning finger. “I mean it. I’ll quote the rule book, chapter and verse, and have your ass in a sling.”
Spock’s lips compressed into a thin line, the only indication that he was affected by McCoy’s threats.
McCoy subsided a modicum, trying for a different tack. “Look Spock. My people wore themselves to the quick keeping you alive. Jim is still critical, and you want to go running off to confront someone who tried to kill both of you? And I am supposed to just ignore the fact that your body systems kept shutting down without any medical reason I can ascertain?” He spread his hands in frustration. “Dammit man, give me something!” Lowering his voice to a more intimate level, he admitted, “I’m worried about you, you stubborn hobgoblin!”
Spock considered this, one eyebrow quirking. “I assure you, I am not in any danger of a relapse. Your own instrumentation determined I am fully recovered.”
McCoy’s expression grew shrewd. “Recovered from what? What was wrong with you? It had something to do with Jim, didn’t it? Somehow you two were linked.”
Spock stiffened and swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing as his gaze sliding to a spot over McCoy shoulder.
Gotcha! McCoy crowed silently, leaning closer. “What was it Spock. I’ve never seen a meld work like that. I’ve never even heard of it, and I’ve did some pretty extensive research on Vulcanian mind techniques after the first time you linked with Van Gelder.”
Spock’s brown eyes flickered to McCoy’s face, and there was something glacial and bleak lurking behind them. “I do not know.”
That raised eyebrows, literally. “You don’t know? What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I…” Spock shifted his stance, looking not unlike a child caught with a hand in the proverbial cookie jar. “I have never experienced anything comparable. It was far deeper than any meld I have established before. I believe I may have compromised the captain’s mental integrity.”
“His mental integrity?”
“The captain was dying. I took control of his mind. To do so… it is considered a violation among my people.” Spock swallowed heavily again, and his gaze dropped to the floor. “I did not feel I had a choice. If I hadn’t… Jim would be dead.”
“Well, you’re not going to get any complaints from me,” McCoy granted kindly. “Or from Jim, I imagine. But are you okay?”
“I am… undamaged.”
“And Jim?”
Spock looked up once again, glancing towards the doorway to the room where Jim Kirk lay. The desolation in the Vulcan’s eyes had spread to stain his whole countenance, and his voice sounded harsh as he conceded, “That, I do not know…” McCoy caught the slight tremble that swept through the Vulcan’s slender frame as he continued, “I have reason to suspect there may be serious repercussions to my actions.”
That started McCoy and raised unwelcome concerns. “What kind of repercussions?”
“That I cannot determine at this time.” With that, the inscrutable mask was firmly back in place. “And now, Doctor, it would be most propitious to the efficient operation of this ship and to the successful conclusion of our current mission should you agree to release me from Sickbay.”
Judging from the sour purse of his mouth, McCoy didn’t think much of their ‘current mission’. “Well then,” he groused waving a hand at Spock as though he were a noisome fly. “Go on then, get out of here. But if you experience anything out of the ordinary, you high tail it back up here. I didn’t spend all that time fighting to keep you breathing just to have you drop dead because you’re too stubborn to admit you aren’t indestructible.”
“Understood.” Turning smartly on his heels, the lanky first officer of the Enterprise strode swiftly out of Sickbay.
***
“So Rocas confessed to setting the explosives in the mine?”
Leaning with calculated nonchalance in the doorway, McCoy watched with a critical eye as James Kirk discussed the current situation on Ruel with his first officer. Propped up in his bio-bed, the captain was pallid, his movements leaden and cautious, but the exchange with Spock had him far more animated than McCoy had seen in the last few days.
“Yes,” Spock continued his recitation. “It was his intention to use the resulting collapse of the mine to force the Federation to give credence to the miner’s complaints and side with them in the dispute against the Galaxco Corporation.”
“And Galaxco’s stance on the matter?”
“Holland Carter attempted to use Rocas’s actions to suggest that the miner’s complaints were invalid, solely the result on an ongoing campaign of sabotage meant to discredit the facility. He suggested the miners intended to extract needless concessions from the corporation in the form of unnecessary and expensive new safety measures and perhaps higher wages.”
“But he didn’t count on Secretary Twong.”
A beat… Then, “People have been known to… underestimate the secretary.” The delivery was perfectly dry, deadpan Vulcanian, but that didn’t keep McCoy from recognizing a slap on the wrist when he heard one.
And apparently, Kirk did as well, judging from the resulting wince. “Touché, Mister Spock.” A faint, embarrassed grin to show no offence taken.
“She has agreed to remain on Ruel to continue functioning as mediator between Galaxco and the mine workers.”
Kirk considered that. “I take it she is not willing to simply dismiss the miner’s concerns?”
“Negative. In fact, her findings indicate an ongoing pattern of safety issues being ignored and dismissed at Galaxcon One. There is further evidence that budgetary funds earmarked for safety upgrades have been redirected into other categories, including some rather questionable ‘personal items’ for Mister Carter. I believe there was some discussion of an office suite fashioned of hand carved of saphor wood set with moonglow stones, and the purchase of an original Picasso for decorative purposes.”
Kirk whistled long and low. “Ouch. I suspect Mister Holland may soon be in search of a new job.”
“Indeed.”
Then Kirk hitched forward just a fraction, not enough to tax his healing body, but definitely conveying heightened interest. “Now tell me again… that part when you confronted Rocas. You presented your deductions and then?”
McCoy noted with satisfaction the twinkle in Kirk’s eyes and the hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Seated at the captain’s bedside, Spock steepled his fingers and began to reiterate key events with the same dispassionate voice he would employ while enumerating the value of Pi, but McCoy was not fooled. He was well aware that the Vulcan’s account elucidated and embellished upon those events that had initially sparked amusement in the captain.
“Faced with the overwhelming evidence against him, Foreman Rocas attempted to flee. He took possession of a weapon from the security guard and seized Lara Hjelmfelt, presumably in an attempted to use her as a hostage.”
Kirk’s smile grew wider, “And she…?”
“Ms. Hjelmfelt took exception to being taken captive. Mister Rocas was apparently unaware that Miss Hjelmfelt has extensive training in judo.”
An open grin now. “Apparently. Go on.”
“She disarmed him using the Kodokan Goshin Jutsu forms of self-defense, breaking his wrist in the process. She then grasped him by the testicles and rendered him…” a slight pause, one that could be dismissed as unintentional, if you didn’t know better “…impotent.”
McCoy knew better. While Kirk snickered wickedly, McCoy rolled his eyes and reflected that it was likely the same clueless experts who claimed Vulcan’s couldn’t lie who also said they had no sense of humor.
“Well, Mister Spock,” Kirk chortled. “I’d say Ms. Hjelmfelt had the situation… well in hand, wouldn’t you?”
“Indeed.”
The laughter dissolved into a fit of coughing and McCoy moved in. He was a firm believer in the curative aspects of a good laugh, but not when one is recovering from lung damage. “All right you two. No more of that. You’re corrupting my nurses.” He placed a hand gently on Kirk’s shoulder. “Easy, Jim. Stop talking now. Keep your breathing shallow if you can. You want something for the pain?”
Kirk waved a dismissive hand, face flushing red as he tried to keep from coughing. “Mister Spock,” McCoy grumbled as he poured Kirk a glass of water. “You’re agitating my patient. Give me a good reason I shouldn’t toss you out by your pointy ears.”
“Doctor,” Spock responded with a touch of indignity. “I assure you, I was merely delivering my report as requested by the captain. It is my duty as first officer to make sure the captain is informed of all…”
McCoy held up a hand to forestall further grandiloquence on the part of the Vulcan. “Spare me.”
Spock paused, then seemed to skip ahead to another point in his lecture. “However, I believe I have fulfilled my obligations in that area.” Rising from his chair, he adopted a formal stance, with hands tucked behind his back. “The captain does appear somewhat fatigued.”
Kirk’s eyes went wide and somewhat frantic. Shaking his head, he opened his mouth to offer some retort, but was silenced by a sharp look from McCoy.
“Captain, if you will excuse me.” Offering both Kirk and the doctor a decorous nod, Spock turned and exited the room.
Kirk visibly slumped in the bio-bed, mouth set in what could not be mistaken for anything but a pout.
McCoy gave him a sympathetic pat on the arm. “Jim, I know you hate being cooped up like this, but the more you rest the sooner you will heal and the sooner I can release you.”
Kirk shot him a dark look, and McCoy drew back. “I heard that!”
***
McCoy found Spock waiting for him outside his office. He graced the Vulcan with a friendly smile and nodded back towards the room where Kirk was recovering. “You did good in there. Just what the doctor ordered.”
As expected, Spock cocked his head in affected innocence. “I do not know to what you are referring. I was simply keeping the captain updated on relevant events.”
“Sure you were.” McCoy’s indulgent smile said he didn’t believe a word of it, but would allow Spock the chicanery. He gestured towards his office. “Come on in. I doubt you’re hanging around here just to pass the time of day.”
Spock followed him into the small space. “I would like to inquire as to the captain’s condition.”
This brought a look of slight surprise. “I know you’ve been reading my medical log. You’ve flagged the updates to be sent directly to your terminal.”
“The log does indeed provide me with sufficient factual information concerning the captain’s current fitness. However, I had hoped for a more… intuitive assessment.”
McCoy broke into a broad grin, “Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit! Are you asking for an emotional evaluation, Spock?”
A flicker of consternation disturbed the usual unflappable stoicism. “You have shown yourself to be uniquely… perceptive when it comes to the health of your patients, Doctor. I would value your professional opinion.”
McCoy rocked on his heels, enjoying himself immensely. “Why, Mister Spock. I do believe I detected a compliment somewhere in there.” Then taking pity on the discomfited first officer, he dropped into his chair and shifted to professional mode. “Well, you know as well as I do, that reigning in a sick Jim Kirk is a bit like corralling a wet cat. He’s mobility is still compromised, and he’s doesn’t like that. He’s in pain and won’t admit it. His energy levels are low, so he pushes himself too hard and ends up even more exhausted. He’s irritable, annoyed, bored and depressed and he’s driving my nursing staff to distraction.” He cocked an eyebrow at Spock. “About the usual, I’d say.”
Spock tugged at his lower lip with his teeth, a near imperceptible nuance that set off McCoy’s inner alarm system. “What is it, Spock? Has he said something to you?” It bothered him that Kirk might have mentioned some symptom to Spock that he had kept from his own doctor, but the captain and the Vulcan were quite close.
“No, Doctor. The captain himself is unaware of the situation. However, there are certain… circumstances about which you should be informed as they could have a bearing upon the captain’s full recovery.”
That was even more worrisome. Had McCoy and his staff missed some important change in the captain’s condition? “What circumstances?”
“You will recall I mentioned the possibility that my actions on Ruel might have compromised the captain’s mental coherence.”
A very nasty feeling began stirring in McCoy’s gut. “Yes. I remember, but you hadn’t mentioned it again. I thought…”
“I could not be certain until the captain had recovered sufficiently for me to make a more thorough evaluation. But it appears my initial concerns were justified. In establishing a meld of the depth and intensity of the one I performed to insure his survival, I have inadvertently produced a mental resonance within the captain’s mind. I have, in essence, modified his brain wave signature.”
McCoy found himself leaning forward, hands tightening around the edges of his desk. “Are you saying you’ve somehow altered his BCP?”
Judging from his rigid expression, Spock didn’t seem to like the implications anymore than McCoy. “Conducting a current hyper-encephalogram would certainly explicate matters, but I believe so, Doctor.”
“That’s impossible, Spock!”
“Not impossible. You will recall the events involving Lieutenant Romaine and the survivors of Zetar.”
“But they were trying to take over her mind! Are you saying you’ve taken control of Jim Kirk’s mind?”
Spock frowned and considered for a moment. “Not precisely.” His brows drew together in chagrin. “I find it difficult to convey the particulars of the situation accurately to someone who has no experiential knowledge of the mental arts.” He crossed his arms, and continued. “I currently have no command of his thoughts or actions. However, during the crisis on Ruel, I was, for a period of time, essentially in authority over both his mind and his body. Apparently, that prolonged, close mental contact continues to reverberate within the captain’s mind, intensifying his telepathic… voice, if you will.”
McCoy shook his head, perplexed. “Telepathic voice? But Jim isn’t telepathic. His telepathic aptitude scores are within the average range, no more.”
“Not telepathic, no. But the Captain does rate high in empathic potential, insight, and intuition, indicative of stronger than average parapsychological skills.” A slight cock of the head conveyed a touch of irony. “I trust you do not need to have melded with the captain to agree with me that he has a very dynamic mind, and presently that mind is broadcasting rather loudly.”
“So what are you saying, Spock? Is Jim Kirk compromised? Do I declare him unfit for command?”
“I doubt that will be necessary. Essentially, there should be no effect on the captain’s behavior. His… condition, if you will, is imperceptible to anyone without telepathic abilities. I am, of course, aware of the situation, but I am also able to shield my mind and so it is of no particular consequence to me either.”
McCoy tugged thoughtfully at his lower lip. “Well, I guess that explains Paul Fenje.”
It was Spock's turn to look perplexed. “Who?”
“Fenje, one of my medical techs, and generally very efficient, but lately he’s turned into a walking disaster area. Distracted, dropping things, forgetting his duties and highly agitated. Very unlike him. He’s generally a very mind mannered fellow. I finally had to rotate him down to the med-lab just to get him out from underfoot.” He snapped his fingers, “And do you know? It seemed to be worse when he was on nursing shift with Jim!”
Spock’s eyebrows climbed. “I speculate that if you check Mister Fenje’s records, you will find he has a high rating for telepathic abilities.”
“I don’t have to check, Mister Spock. He does. Highest on my staff.” He glanced at the Vulcan. “I know my people.”
There was a moment of silence as the two of them considered the implications of their discussion.
“So what do we do now?” McCoy finally ventured. “If you’re right, and the hyper-encephalogram does show a change in Jim’s telepathic powers, Starfleet is going to want more than your assurances that he’s fit for command. Especially after what happened to Gary Mitchell and Doctor Dehner when y’all crossed the galactic barrier.”
Spock looked faintly disapproving. “That was due to changes in esper-ability, Doctor. Quite different than telepathy.”
“There all considered parapsychological talents. Do you really think the talking heads at Starfleet are going to differentiate? Mitchell practically appointed himself Lord of the Universe, as I recall.” McCoy graced Spock with a rueful smile, as though somewhat apologetic at having to explain the realities of Fleet politics to the Vulcan. “Not everyone at Fleet Command is enamored of our James T. Kirk. There are plenty who think he’s too big for his britches already. Can you imagine what they’ll say when they find out about this? There are some who would just love to try and use this to pull the rug out from under Jim.”
The Vulcan’s expression didn’t even attempt to disguise what he thought of such unreasoned absurdity. “That would be highly illogical.”
McCoy shrugged, not in disagreement. “That’s politics.”
“Then perhaps you should also include in your medical report that, in my opinion, a mind healer might be able to repair the damage I have unwittingly caused the captain.”
“A mind healer?” McCoy’s eyes narrowed. “You mean like on Vulcan?”
“Precisely.”
“Are you suggesting we take Jim to Vulcan?”
“I am suggesting he could benefit from an evaluation by a Vulcanian mind healer, whether on Vulcan or elsewhere.”
“And that will fix this… this mental dissonance he’s experiencing?”
“It is his best option.”
McCoy tapped his fingers on the top of his desk. “I’ll have to talk to Jim about this.”
“Of course.”
“He’s not going to like it.”
“You are, in all probability, correct. However, the situation does exist and must be dealt with.”
McCoy harrumphed, and glared at Spock. “This is your doing. I should have you explain it to Jim.”
“I am willing to discuss the situation with the captain if you request I do so.”
“No, no,” McCoy shook his head. “I’ll take the brunt of it, but don’t think you’re getting off easy. If I know the captain, he’ll have some follow up questions for you, and they are bound to be doozies.”
“Doozies?”
“Just don’t go too far.”
Spock glanced at the ceiling, a clear indication that in his opinion the conversation had wandered into the realm of the nonsensical. “I fail to understand how I could ‘go too far’ while I am confined to a starship.”
***
Seated at the science console, Ensign Madhuri Chowdhury watched in growing sympathy as Lieutenant Uhura handled yet another call from Doctor Tarleton Nar-Qi, the Ithenite anthropologist on board for transport to planet Torrus.
“Yes, Doctor Nar-Qi. I understand, Doctor Nar-Qi. I realize your work is important, and I am certain the captain values your time as well.”
Chowdhury marveled that not a trace of irritation reached Uhura’s melodious tones as she continued to deal with the petulant anthropologist.
“I am sorry, but I cannot connect you to the captain at present. He is currently indisposed, but I will certainly inform him of your concerns.”
Just as she did the last three times you registered a complaint, Madhuri reflected sourly.
A flick of Uhura’s efficient fingers lowered the volume in her Feinberg receiver as the Doctor’s tirade continued unabated. “The extra time spent on Ruel was unavoidable,” she explained once again with the infinite patience of a seasoned professional used to dealing with civilian temper tantrums.
Unavoidable? Chowdhury shuddered. She hadn’t been aboard ship long, but unavoidable delay seemed such a benign comment on a situation that had come close to killing both the captain and first officer. She didn’t know the details. The senior members of the crew were being fairly close-lipped about events. Apparently, idle gossip was actively discouraged aboard Enterprise, but Madhuri knew enough of Human nature to realize the tight expressions and furtive looks among more seasoned members of the crew had denoted deep concern.
The Vulcanian first officer had returned to the bridge since the explosion on Ruel, so Chowdhury gathered he at least had recovered. However, he seemed as remote as always. People said he and the captain were close friends, but Chowdhury would never had guess it from the Vulcan’s apparent indifference. Not once did he address the captain’s condition, aside from a rather dry pronouncement that he was “recovering.” However, because she was currently shadowing the Vulcan’s science station as part of her bridge rotation, she knew for a fact that Mr. Spock had been almost obsessive about checking on the captain’s progress. It could just be the professional concern, but when Madhuri had mentioned it to Uhura, she’d gotten a small smile in response. “He’s worried,” was all Uhura would say.
Worried? A Vulcan?
Only recently had the tense demeanor of the more experienced officers begun to dissipate, a situation Chowdhury took to mean the captain was going to be okay. Now that she was actively looking, she also thought she had detected a slight change in the first officer, a loosening of his movements and the return of life to the eyes. Maybe there was something to that ‘friendship’ thing after all.
The essence of serenity, Uhura continued her attempts to placate Doctor Nar-Qi. Not that it would make any difference, Chowdhury supposed. The man seemed to view the delay resulting from events on Ruel as a personal affront. “We have contacted Ambassador Torru Gah Ka Ffsst'tah'preh'hoon to explain the situation, but have received no reply at this time.” The name of the Torran ambassador rolled off Uhura’s tongue like music, and, not for the first time, a daunted Chowdhury wondered whether she ever manage to live up to the expectations of this crew. When she’d expressed her concerns to her older brother, he’d laughed. “Maddy, you said you wanted the best, and you got the best. You don’t get assigned to Enterprise if you can’t cut it. Someone thinks you can do it. And you can. You’ve always pushed yourself to the top. I believe in you. Now, you have to believe in you!” She certainly hoped his faith in her wasn’t mistaken.
“As soon as we receive word from Torrus I will inform you.” Uhura absently tucked a loose curl of hair back into place and fielded a call from engineering and redirected an update from life sciences to medical while continuing to monitor Nar-Qi’s ongoing invective. “You are free to contact Starfleet Command if you feel it is necessary, Doctor Nar-Qi. Just have your assistants bring me a recorded message tape and I will include it in the next communications dump. No, you may not make use of the emergency channel. As I previously explained to your assistant when she made the initial request, the emergency channel is for use by Starfleet personnel only. As a civilian you will have to send any correspondence via the regular channels.”
Catching Chowdhury’s eye roll, she flashed the Ensign quick smile as if to say, ‘Yes, he’s an ass, but I can handle him.’ “Yes, Doctor. I realize you consider the delay to be an emergency, but Starfleet would not share that view.” Another pause, then Uhura apparently decided Dr. Nar-Qi had tied up her communications console for quite long enough. “I’m sorry, Doctor Nar-Qi, but I have an incoming transmission, priority Sigma Mu Sigma which I must deal with immediately. I am afraid I am going to have to cut short our conversation. Feel free to contact me again when you have that transmission tape ready to upload. Communications out.” Her finger came down decisively on the end-transmission button.
Chowdhury was watching her with wide eyes. “Ma’am?”
Another of those tranquil smiles. “Yes, Ensign.”
“I’ve already done my communications rotation, and I don’t recall an identifier Sigma Mu Sigma. Is it something new?”
The smile took on an edge, Chowdhury could not quite identify. “No Ensign. It’s nothing new. It was around when I was at the Academy, though it wasn’t what you might call, official.”
“What does it mean? Is it a Starfleet emergency signal?”
“Oh yes, it is an emergency identifier, all right.” A demure lowering of the lashes, and a playful curl to the smile that Chowdhury now recognized as mischievous. “It means, ‘Save My Sanity’ Ensign.” She toggled a power switch. “Save.” Twisted a dial. “My.” Then adjusted a tuner with more force than necessary. “Sanity!”
And with that, she returned to her duties, leaving Chowdhury with the impression that although she might never live up to the level of competency of this crew, she sure as hell was going to enjoy the challenge.
***
Link to Wider_Than_The_Sky: Part_III