Fic: You Birthed It, Chapter 5
Title: You Birthed It
Chapter Title: McCoy: Some of My Best Friends are Baniks
Author: katiemariie
Artist: azuremonkey
Mixer: jactrades
Mixer: pearlstar178
Beta: Renn
Fandom: Star Trek: TOS/Farscape
Word Count: 4261
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Strong language, substance abuse
“Dr. McCoy, Mr. Spock and I will handle this.”
“Without me, Jim? You'd never find your way back.”
-Kirk and McCoy, “For the World is Hollow and I Have Touched the Sky”
-
McCoy has got to admit he's a little nervous about serving aboard the Enterprise. He'd be crazy not to, especially after the talk he had with Chris Pike.
"Admiral, I'm thankful for the opportunity," McCoy said, "but isn't there someone more experienced for this position? I mean, goddamn, it's the flagship. I've only been in Starfleet for a few years. I've never even served on a starship before."
"I'm confident you're the best man for the job," Pike said. "You are by far the most experienced xenobiologist clinician in the fleet. The Enterprise will have more non-Humans serving on her than any other Starfleet vessel. That makes you the only man the admiralty could trust with the position."
"Thank you, sir."
"You're welcome." Pike maneuvered his wheelchair away from his desk, sidling it up against McCoy's chair. He pivoted, facing McCoy head on. "You no doubt are aware of my special relationship with Mr. Scorpius."
"Yeah. He's quite a little prodigy, isn't he?"
"He is. Scorpius-the Starchild-is incredibly important both to me and Starfleet. And perhaps even to the Federation itself. The maintenance of his health is of utmost importance. If he were to perish during this mission, the ramifications would be dire. Do you understand?"
"I do. I'll do my best to keep Scorpius alive and well."
"I'm afraid you don't understand the gravity of what I'm saying. You will not 'do your best to keep Scorpius alive.' You will keep him alive. At any cost."
"I will, sir."
"Very good. You're dismissed."
Jesus.
Oddly, though, the perhaps impossible task of keeping alive and in good health a man whose own genetics are conspiring to kill him isn't what daunts McCoy the most. When he says he's nervous about serving aboard the Enterprise he means he's nervous about serving aboard the Enterprise. As in, on a starship up in outer space only accessible by transporter beam or by another little spaceship with a rinky-dink engine.
They say getting there's half the battle. They weren't lying.
McCoy is sweating bullets as he waits for his group's turn on the transporter. He's never used one of these things before, but he's spent enough time reading about malfunctions in medical journals to know that he doesn't want anywhere near it. McCoy's also spent enough time reading about phobias in medical journals to know that he probably has one.
He's not the only one, apparently. The ship chaplain-the metal-faced fella who's supposed to play home health aide for Pike's pride and joy-holds up their transporter group with one helluva tantrum.
“No! I can't! It's not-I will be lost forever, disassembled into a frillion disparate atoms, separated eternally from the Goddess, futilely attempting to pull myself together for the rest of time! Do-you-understand?”
“Sir,” the transporter technician says, “the transporter process is completely safe. Your atoms will be reassembled properly aboard the Enterprise.”
“Yes, yes-in this realm. But what about mine? Does this contraption work in Banikera? Have you even heard of Banikera?”
“Stark,” Scorpius admonishes, placing a firm hand on Stark's shoulder. “Just get on the transporter pad. You'll be fine.”
“I'll be fine, I'll be fine. I'll be dead! I'll be worse than dead-I'll be completely insane!”
“Imagine that.”
“Sir.” The transporter tech sighs. “Sir, if you do not get on the transporter, I'll be forced to call security.”
“Call them! Call security!” Stark yells, gesticulating wildly. “I don't care. I have seen more horrors than your worldly, secularist, patriarchal Starfleet security force could ever hope to deliver. Unless they have a budong. Do they have a budong? No, no budong. No transporter! No!”
The transport tech rolls his eyes, reaching for his comm. “Security to-”
“Ensign,” McCoy says, stepping forward. “Let's hang on for a minute. This man-Stark, is it?-is obviously highly disturbed by the idea of using the transporter. He's whipped himself up into a lather over it. Now, far be it for me to tell you how to do your job, I'm just an old country doctor, but wouldn't it be easier to call for a shuttlecraft than to force him onto that pad-or even, god forbid, throw him in the brig over it? If you get him a shuttlecraft to the Enterprise, I'll personally escort him and make sure he doesn't give you or your friends any more trouble.”
And that's how McCoy avoids using the transporter-for the time being, anyway.
The shuttlecraft isn't much better, mind you. Stark likes it more than the transporter; he's stopped raving about other dimensions. But McCoy-the moment they clear Earth's atmosphere, he feels the walls of the vessel closing in on him. The air gets hot and thin-the gravity heavy and unreal.
He unclips his seatbelt. “I gotta-I gotta... Jesus...” He grabs at his throat, feeling it close. “I need to get outta here.” He stumbles toward the emergency exit, using the empty seats to keep his balance.
The Starchild looks up from his padd. “What are you doing?”
“I need air.”
“You're insane.”
“Ugh...” McCoy throws himself on the emergency release lever, but before he can push down, Scorpius throws him across the craft and into Stark. As McCoy struggles to get back to the door, Stark wraps his arms around him, pulling him to the deck.
“Shh, rest, doctor.”
“No.” McCoy twitches against Stark's hold. “Gotta get that door open.”
“Here.”
McCoy feels a light flood down onto his face and then- He's in the middle of a giant greenhouse, surrounded by hundreds of flowers-tall and uniform in their beauty. The air is fragrant, sweet, smelling full of life and possibility. “What is that? What did you show me?”
“The memory of a place I saw when I was a boy.”
“One helluva place.”
“It's not there anymore.”
McCoy reaches up, tracing his fingertips along Stark's mask. “You're really alien, aren't you?”
-
In his line of work, McCoy's met a lot of aliens, but none of 'em quite match up to Stark, who isn't just from another planet, he's from another plane of reality. He wasn't kidding when he compared Stark to an angel-he's literally a creature of light.
Up until meeting Stark, McCoy thought of aliens mostly as, well, Humans with strange cultural beliefs and remarkable physiologies. His sensitivity training at Starfleet Academy taught him that much. But Stark... he's proof that we're not all the same. Stark is different. And not just because he was taught to believe different things than McCoy when he was growing up or because his body works differently than a Human's. He is not of this world.
Stark is not life as McCoy knows it and he truly defies any attempt to jam him into the Federation system of classifying life forms.
Life on the Enterprise is like good science fiction, but Stark is something straight out of fantasy-or mythology.
It's not just the telepathy. Many species-including a few Humans-have psionic powers, but Stykera use theirs to traverse realities and there's no scientific explanation for any of it. Not that the remaining Baniks-the handful of refugees living on a compound in Australia-have been very open to scientific inquiry. It seems they're afraid of turning into the Federation's newest lab animal. (McCoy can't blame them, considering what Starfleet Medical did with the Starchild.)
“Back when you were, uh, living under Scarran rule,” McCoy starts, “did they ever try to figure out the science behind you folks?”
“The science?”
“You know, a... a worldly explanation for how that light of yours works?”
“No, I don't believe so. The Scarrans and the Peacekeepers are only interested in studying something if they can weaponize it. Baniks, by our very nature, are creatures of peace. I suppose that's why we were so easy to enslave.”
Stark is also prone to saying things like that-sad things belying generations of trauma-without giving them much significance. Still, even with those depressing non-sequiturs, Stark manages to be more spirited than most of the Humans on board, especially the ones closer to McCoy's age. He realizes that those crew members had their own trauma-the war, for one-but outside of his role as a doctor, he just wants to tell them to lighten up. As chief medical officer, he knows he should cultivate a close personal relationship with the captain to better understand his emotional state to know when he needs to be relieved of command, but Kirk pulls away whenever McCoy tries to get him to talk about anything more personal than what he had for breakfast that morning. And, really, he should be getting close with the top rungs of the chain of command to know if any of them are fit for command when the captain is not, but getting emotionally intimate with a Vulcan is like trying to burn water and Scotty...
Scotty is a good man. The Federation owes a lot to Scotty. But he's a ridiculously high-functioning alcoholic who McCoy would put on immediate medical leave to dry out if the admiralty would let him. Whenever he brings up Scotty's addiction to the admiral in charge of rehabilitation, McCoy gets a load of bull about Scotty having earned being allowed to have "a few drinks" after what he did during the war. The war might have given Scotty alcoholism, but he sure as hell didn't "earn" it. And he doesn't deserve the enabling jokers on the rehabilitation board excusing him, like getting treatment is some kind of punishment. That viewpoint is one of the many problems with the organization of Starfleet medical services. Treatment for addiction is under the purview of the disciplinary arm of the admiralty instead of part of Starfleet medical. So high command hands out rehab referrals like they're prison sentences rather than prescriptions for medically necessary treatment. McCoy devotes too much energy trying to get Scotty help to spend his off hours making friends with the guy. Which is a real shame because he's a nice guy. Although that might be the booze.
Lonely and a little scared, McCoy grafts himself onto Stark-the first friendly (half-)face he met in the crew. Stark seems to appreciate McCoy's friendliness, as well, spending most of his free time lounging about in sickbay, like he's waiting for something. McCoy's honestly a little flattered until their first casualty dies on McCoy's operating table under the light streaming from Stark's face.
"What the hell was that?" McCoy snaps, coming out of the operating room.
"What do you mean?" Stark asks.
"That! What you did in there to Hines."
"I eased him into the next life. That is my purpose."
"Is that why you've been hanging around here?"
"Yes."
"You've just been waiting for someone to die? Like a damn vulture?"
"Not like a vulture. I don't eat them. I assist them. I make it easier for them to reach the next realm."
"You help them die?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes."
"I don't know if you know this, but folks in the Federation have been dyin' without Stykera for a long time. They don't exactly need your help to get dead."
"I don't kill them. I-You wouldn't understand; you've never died."
"Yeah, and I don't plan on doing that anytime soon, so maybe you should try to figure out a way to explain it to me."
"It... Dying can be very scary."
"I've gathered that on my own."
"No, not a fear of death. The process itself-the process of leaving the body for the next destination-it can be very confusing and scary. Like getting lost in an airport."
"But you help them get to the right terminal?"
"Yes. Exactly."
"Do you plan on doing this every time someone in this crew dies?"
"Whenever I can. My responsibilities to Mr. Scorpius come first."
"Scorpius comes before your purpose. Your higher calling?"
"Scorpius needs my help. He comes before everything."
"You had a little chat with Pike, too, didn't you?"
Stark ducks his head. "Yes, but now... Scorpius is my best friend. I'd be at his side in an instant anyway."
"You're a sweet kid, Stark." McCoy doesn't know the Starchild too well, but he doubts whether he's worthy of the kind of loyalty he inspires in Pike and Stark. "You can, uh, do your thing in here whenever you want."
"Thank you. I thank you. The dead thank you."
"Tell the dead they're welcome."
-
McCoy gets his first real trial as a CMO-his Kobayashi Maru, if you will-fairly early on in the five year mission when the Enterprise visits Psi 2000, a planet nearing collapse, to investigate the deaths of Starfleet personnel there. The investigation isn't too difficult-a little inexplicable as to the reason why they're all dead-and most of that is outside McCoy's department. It's what results from the investigation-some green-as-grass lieutenant taking his glove off in a contaminated area and bringing god-knows-what back aboard. Truly god-knows-what, because McCoy doesn't have a clue. But whatever it is, it's making everyone who's contaminated by it act like they're drunk, losing all inhibition and doing whatever their deeply-seated desires would have them. Which, for some of the people on the planet, meant taking a shower with their clothes on. McCoy is a live-and-let-live kind of guy, understanding a wide variety of hopes and dreams in his fellow man, but for the life of him, he can't feel anything but pity for whatever poor sap was going through life passionately desiring to shower with their clothes on. He doesn't have any objections to people showering with their clothes on, but for that to be the first thing someone does when they lose all inhibition? That's just sad.
Sulu, at the very least, had a rather imaginative and fanciful spree following his infection, running around like one of the Three Musketeers stranded in the 23rd century. Unfortunately, Sulu's little role play had the effect of infecting almost all the crew when some of his sweat made it's way into the ship's ventilation system. McCoy guesses that what's happened. Being the head of the department, Sulu would have been in the botany bay where the ship's ventilation system sucks up oxygen from the plants and distributes it around the ship. Sulu's sweat must have gotten mixed into that oxygen.
But how? The ventilation system filters the oxygen out of the air from the botany bay. It should have filtered out the contaminant. Unless... Unless...
The ship rocks, sending McCoy into a bulkhead. "Jesus!”
McCoy tries his comm again. "Sickbay to bridge! Anyone there?"
There's a few minutes of static before an answer. "Er, yes, er... Stark here."
"Stark? The hell are you doing on the bridge?"
"I don't really know. I was trying to find Scorpius. He and Braca were on the bridge and they got in the turbolift without me and then-then the lift stalled and-and now I'm stuck."
"Is there anyone else up there with you?"
"No. I'm all alone."
"Jesus."
"No, not even him."
"Uh, goddamnit. Can you tell me why we're rocking about like a boat in a storm?"
"Er, I don't know how to read any of the instruments, but from the viewscreen, it looks like we're crashing into a planet."
"What?"
"Yes, it very clearly looks like we're all going to die."
"My god! You've got to do something! Can't you... turn us around?"
"I don't know how! I've never flown a starship before!"
"But you've passed over people who have. Can't you... I don't know!"
"I could... I could, in theory, access their knowledge, but that would be... It would be..."
"What? What would it be?"
"It would be very dangerous."
"You telling me you could get hurt?"
"No. I would be fine, but everyone else... they might not be so lucky. My light could overpower them psionically."
"I think everyone on board would prefer being overpowered psionically-whatever that means-to crashing into a planet."
"Okay. I'll try. But if people are angry about it later, you have to tell them it was your idea."
"Will do, kid. Now, go do your thing."
"Stark out."
"Acting Captain Stark out," McCoy corrects.
"Right. Acting Captain Stark out."
McCoy realizes that he just handed over the Enterprise to a guy who he finds asleep in a cupboard at least twice a week. "God help us," McCoy mutters, turning back to his work. "What was I..." Right, the ventilation system only allows for the distribution of oxygen. That isn't quite right. McCoy remembers a few weeks ago when there was a hose burst in the botany bay. The whole ship got muggy from the water sucked in by the ventilation system. So, that's two things: water and oxygen. Neither of which can get people drunk. Usually. McCoy runs the sample of Sulu's sweat again. “What the...” Polymerized water. There was polymerized water in Sulu's blood panel earlier. It's the only thing that's off with either of those samples. That has to be it. And, by god, isn't that easy to fix?
McCoy's injecting Sulu with a hypospray when Stark comms. “McCoy here. Hold on a second.” He holds the comm away from his face. “Sulu, how are you feeling?”
“I feel fine,” Sulu says. “What happened?”
“I'll tell you later. I need you to take those hypos over there and start jabbing as many people with 'em as you can, you got me?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Stark, what's going on?”
“Doctor,” Stark says, “I'm getting the Enterprise to pull out of the planet's orbit, but I... I have to know. Did you feel anything when I...?”
“Not a damn thing.”
“Good. That's good. Er, you might want to hold onto something.”
“Hold onto-” The ship lurches, pressing McCoy up against a biobed. “Stark! What the hell was that?”
“Um, I appear to have sent us backwards in time.”
“How the hell did you managed that?”
“I have no idea.”
“You're something, Stark.”
-
McCoy's closer to Stark after that-he supposes you can't save a starship together and not end up being good friends-spending time off-duty together. Just talking. It's nice. To have someone to talk to. Stark doesn't do much talking himself. Just lets McCoy ramble on, listening intently, really feeling what McCoy has to say. And McCoy maybe says more to Stark than he does to anyone else on this ship combined. The words come easily and carelessly.
"Georgia's just gorgeous this time of year. My hometown-Augusta-this time of year, it looks just like Gone with the Wind. Uh, the first part of Gone with the Wind, not the Civil War stuff."
"Gone with the Wind?"
"It's an old movie. A classic, really. You oughta watch it sometime."
It isn't until ten o'clock that evening that McCoy realizes he recommended Gone with the Wind to a former slave. He hops out of bed, pulls on some clothes, and heads down to Stark's quarters. But it's too late. The damage has been done. Stark stares at the vidscreen, frowning, as the end credits roll.
"Stark..."
"Is that what you think of me?"
They don't talk anymore after that. Stark haunts sickbay the same as ever, but it's not the same. He doesn't talk. He waits.
For six months, McCoy is on his own, barely holding on. The only person he talks to-really talks to-is his daughter-and even then that's over subspace and only once a month (not to mention that Joanna spends most of their face time talking about planning her mother's impending nuptials). Then one day Stark approaches him. "You want my forgiveness."
"Yes." It's an awful time to be having this conversation; there was just an awful fight in the mess hall. Three ensigns beaten something awful by the Starchild and his boytoy.
"I will forgive you, but you have to do something for me. A favor."
"Now?"
"Yes, now."
"Can it wait? I'm up to my ears-"
"I need you to help Scorpius and Braca."
"Help? Not even an act of god could help them right now. They're sunk. Their Starfleet careers are over."
"Not if you tell Kirk what really happened."
"What would that be?"
“When Scorpius saw his mate being threatened, he went into a Scarran blood rage.”
“Scarran blood...? There's no such thing as a Scarran blood rage!”
“There could be.”
“I'm the pre-eminent expert on Scarran biology and-”
“That's why Kirk will believe you.”
“You want me to lie to the captain? Risk my career? Sorry, kid, I don't need friends that badly.”
“If you won't do it for me, do it for them.”
God damn it.
McCoy does it-of course, he does it-because he knows what is on that recording, what everyone has now seen, and what Loren said. What Scorpius and Braca did wasn't right, but there's no justice in punishing them after what they went through. McCoy's never been one to let professional ethics get in the way of his personal morality.
And, somehow, despite himself, he's become one of those people doing whatever they can for Scorpius.
-
For all that, Stark doesn't forgive him. He tries. He spends more time around sickbay. He listens to McCoy the way he used to, but he's not really there. He's cagey, on edge.
“Is something wr-” McCoy reaches out to touch Stark's shoulder, but he flinches away, shielding himself like he thinks McCoy is going to hit him. “Jesus, Stark.”
“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” Stark is groveling. This being of pure light-this impossibly powerful person is groveling to McCoy like he is-like he is... He can't even think it.
“Stark, it's all right. I'm not mad.”
“Okay.” Stark nods, pulling himself away from McCoy.
“Are you afraid of me?”
“I try not to be, but I find it hard to trust you. It's hard to trust a person when a major part of their personality is nostalgia for a time and a place when their people owned slaves.”
“Stark... slavery was a long time ago.”
“It wasn't for me. You could own me today if you wanted.”
“I don't and never would.”
“I know, but...”
“You can't trust me.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know this when you said you'd forgive me?”
Stark nods. “I'm sorry I lied to you. I thought I could at least pretend to-”
“Stand being around me?” McCoy shakes his head. “Why would you set yourself up for something like that?”
“Scorpius and Braca were in trouble and they're my friends. I wouldn't expect you to understand.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“You're not a man with many friends, Dr. McCoy.”
“We were friends once.”
“Were we?”
-
“You ever have any troubles with the other one?” Kirk asks McCoy. “I know he likes to hang around here.”
“Stark? No, he's good kid. A little squirrelly, but he's good with the dying. Makes it easier on them somehow. Although, now that you mention it, I do find him hiding in the supply cabinets sometimes. I don't know what that's about.” McCoy's had more trouble with Stark than he can bear to talk about, but he knows couldn't even begin to consider telling the captain about it unless they're both completely soused.
Luckily, he has a bottle of single barrel bourbon in his cabin.
“Jim...” He lifts his head up (with a little effort) and looks at Kirk. “Can I call you Jim?”
“Yeah, but you've been doing that for a while.”
“Well, now I have the captain's permission.”
Jim barks a laugh at that, which gets McCoy going, which wakes up Spock, who was dozing with his head on McCoy's shoulder. Spock reaches out, his eyes still closed as he paw at Kirk's face. “Stark,” he mumbles.
McCoy groans. “Don't get me started on Stark. I don't think two people have screwed up a relationship that badly since I got divorced.”
Spock's eyes blink open. “You were in a relationship with Stark?”
“Oooh,” Jim coos. “Was the good doctor playing doctor with my chaplain?”
“Naw. Nothing like,” McCoy says. “It was nothing like that. We were friends. I thought we were friends, but I messed things up. Or he messed things up. I'm not sure. It's complicated.”
“That's the problem nowadays. It's all so complicated. I used to be able to go to bed at night knowing I did the right thing, but now ever since the war... Do you get what I'm saying?”
“No.”
“I understand, captain,” Spock says. “Jim. The Scarran Conflict irrevocably changed my perception of myself and the universe.”
McCoy snorts. “The war ended fifteen years ago. Get over it already.”
“Get over it?” Kirk repeats. “You weren't there, Bones. You were-you were-I dunno where you were, but you weren't there. You didn't have to kill anyone.”
“Neither did you.” That earns McCoy a shove off the couch. “Ow.”
“You have no idea what you're talkin' about.”
“So, tell me, oh wise one.”
“Okay, fine...”
Following a pact made the next morning, McCoy isn't allowed to share what happens next, but, to give you an idea, it involves a lot of crying and ends with all three of them falling asleep in a pile on the floor.
McCoy comes into sickbay the next morning desperately hungover and looking like death. Stark says as much. “What happened to you? You look like Death.”
“I made friends.” McCoy rubs his forehead. “It was awful.”
Previous Chapter Next Chapter
Chapter Title: McCoy: Some of My Best Friends are Baniks
Author: katiemariie
Artist: azuremonkey
Mixer: jactrades
Mixer: pearlstar178
Beta: Renn
Fandom: Star Trek: TOS/Farscape
Word Count: 4261
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Strong language, substance abuse
“Dr. McCoy, Mr. Spock and I will handle this.”
“Without me, Jim? You'd never find your way back.”
-Kirk and McCoy, “For the World is Hollow and I Have Touched the Sky”
-
McCoy has got to admit he's a little nervous about serving aboard the Enterprise. He'd be crazy not to, especially after the talk he had with Chris Pike.
"Admiral, I'm thankful for the opportunity," McCoy said, "but isn't there someone more experienced for this position? I mean, goddamn, it's the flagship. I've only been in Starfleet for a few years. I've never even served on a starship before."
"I'm confident you're the best man for the job," Pike said. "You are by far the most experienced xenobiologist clinician in the fleet. The Enterprise will have more non-Humans serving on her than any other Starfleet vessel. That makes you the only man the admiralty could trust with the position."
"Thank you, sir."
"You're welcome." Pike maneuvered his wheelchair away from his desk, sidling it up against McCoy's chair. He pivoted, facing McCoy head on. "You no doubt are aware of my special relationship with Mr. Scorpius."
"Yeah. He's quite a little prodigy, isn't he?"
"He is. Scorpius-the Starchild-is incredibly important both to me and Starfleet. And perhaps even to the Federation itself. The maintenance of his health is of utmost importance. If he were to perish during this mission, the ramifications would be dire. Do you understand?"
"I do. I'll do my best to keep Scorpius alive and well."
"I'm afraid you don't understand the gravity of what I'm saying. You will not 'do your best to keep Scorpius alive.' You will keep him alive. At any cost."
"I will, sir."
"Very good. You're dismissed."
Jesus.
Oddly, though, the perhaps impossible task of keeping alive and in good health a man whose own genetics are conspiring to kill him isn't what daunts McCoy the most. When he says he's nervous about serving aboard the Enterprise he means he's nervous about serving aboard the Enterprise. As in, on a starship up in outer space only accessible by transporter beam or by another little spaceship with a rinky-dink engine.
They say getting there's half the battle. They weren't lying.
McCoy is sweating bullets as he waits for his group's turn on the transporter. He's never used one of these things before, but he's spent enough time reading about malfunctions in medical journals to know that he doesn't want anywhere near it. McCoy's also spent enough time reading about phobias in medical journals to know that he probably has one.
He's not the only one, apparently. The ship chaplain-the metal-faced fella who's supposed to play home health aide for Pike's pride and joy-holds up their transporter group with one helluva tantrum.
“No! I can't! It's not-I will be lost forever, disassembled into a frillion disparate atoms, separated eternally from the Goddess, futilely attempting to pull myself together for the rest of time! Do-you-understand?”
“Sir,” the transporter technician says, “the transporter process is completely safe. Your atoms will be reassembled properly aboard the Enterprise.”
“Yes, yes-in this realm. But what about mine? Does this contraption work in Banikera? Have you even heard of Banikera?”
“Stark,” Scorpius admonishes, placing a firm hand on Stark's shoulder. “Just get on the transporter pad. You'll be fine.”
“I'll be fine, I'll be fine. I'll be dead! I'll be worse than dead-I'll be completely insane!”
“Imagine that.”
“Sir.” The transporter tech sighs. “Sir, if you do not get on the transporter, I'll be forced to call security.”
“Call them! Call security!” Stark yells, gesticulating wildly. “I don't care. I have seen more horrors than your worldly, secularist, patriarchal Starfleet security force could ever hope to deliver. Unless they have a budong. Do they have a budong? No, no budong. No transporter! No!”
The transport tech rolls his eyes, reaching for his comm. “Security to-”
“Ensign,” McCoy says, stepping forward. “Let's hang on for a minute. This man-Stark, is it?-is obviously highly disturbed by the idea of using the transporter. He's whipped himself up into a lather over it. Now, far be it for me to tell you how to do your job, I'm just an old country doctor, but wouldn't it be easier to call for a shuttlecraft than to force him onto that pad-or even, god forbid, throw him in the brig over it? If you get him a shuttlecraft to the Enterprise, I'll personally escort him and make sure he doesn't give you or your friends any more trouble.”
And that's how McCoy avoids using the transporter-for the time being, anyway.
The shuttlecraft isn't much better, mind you. Stark likes it more than the transporter; he's stopped raving about other dimensions. But McCoy-the moment they clear Earth's atmosphere, he feels the walls of the vessel closing in on him. The air gets hot and thin-the gravity heavy and unreal.
He unclips his seatbelt. “I gotta-I gotta... Jesus...” He grabs at his throat, feeling it close. “I need to get outta here.” He stumbles toward the emergency exit, using the empty seats to keep his balance.
The Starchild looks up from his padd. “What are you doing?”
“I need air.”
“You're insane.”
“Ugh...” McCoy throws himself on the emergency release lever, but before he can push down, Scorpius throws him across the craft and into Stark. As McCoy struggles to get back to the door, Stark wraps his arms around him, pulling him to the deck.
“Shh, rest, doctor.”
“No.” McCoy twitches against Stark's hold. “Gotta get that door open.”
“Here.”
McCoy feels a light flood down onto his face and then- He's in the middle of a giant greenhouse, surrounded by hundreds of flowers-tall and uniform in their beauty. The air is fragrant, sweet, smelling full of life and possibility. “What is that? What did you show me?”
“The memory of a place I saw when I was a boy.”
“One helluva place.”
“It's not there anymore.”
McCoy reaches up, tracing his fingertips along Stark's mask. “You're really alien, aren't you?”
-
In his line of work, McCoy's met a lot of aliens, but none of 'em quite match up to Stark, who isn't just from another planet, he's from another plane of reality. He wasn't kidding when he compared Stark to an angel-he's literally a creature of light.
Up until meeting Stark, McCoy thought of aliens mostly as, well, Humans with strange cultural beliefs and remarkable physiologies. His sensitivity training at Starfleet Academy taught him that much. But Stark... he's proof that we're not all the same. Stark is different. And not just because he was taught to believe different things than McCoy when he was growing up or because his body works differently than a Human's. He is not of this world.
Stark is not life as McCoy knows it and he truly defies any attempt to jam him into the Federation system of classifying life forms.
Life on the Enterprise is like good science fiction, but Stark is something straight out of fantasy-or mythology.
It's not just the telepathy. Many species-including a few Humans-have psionic powers, but Stykera use theirs to traverse realities and there's no scientific explanation for any of it. Not that the remaining Baniks-the handful of refugees living on a compound in Australia-have been very open to scientific inquiry. It seems they're afraid of turning into the Federation's newest lab animal. (McCoy can't blame them, considering what Starfleet Medical did with the Starchild.)
“Back when you were, uh, living under Scarran rule,” McCoy starts, “did they ever try to figure out the science behind you folks?”
“The science?”
“You know, a... a worldly explanation for how that light of yours works?”
“No, I don't believe so. The Scarrans and the Peacekeepers are only interested in studying something if they can weaponize it. Baniks, by our very nature, are creatures of peace. I suppose that's why we were so easy to enslave.”
Stark is also prone to saying things like that-sad things belying generations of trauma-without giving them much significance. Still, even with those depressing non-sequiturs, Stark manages to be more spirited than most of the Humans on board, especially the ones closer to McCoy's age. He realizes that those crew members had their own trauma-the war, for one-but outside of his role as a doctor, he just wants to tell them to lighten up. As chief medical officer, he knows he should cultivate a close personal relationship with the captain to better understand his emotional state to know when he needs to be relieved of command, but Kirk pulls away whenever McCoy tries to get him to talk about anything more personal than what he had for breakfast that morning. And, really, he should be getting close with the top rungs of the chain of command to know if any of them are fit for command when the captain is not, but getting emotionally intimate with a Vulcan is like trying to burn water and Scotty...
Scotty is a good man. The Federation owes a lot to Scotty. But he's a ridiculously high-functioning alcoholic who McCoy would put on immediate medical leave to dry out if the admiralty would let him. Whenever he brings up Scotty's addiction to the admiral in charge of rehabilitation, McCoy gets a load of bull about Scotty having earned being allowed to have "a few drinks" after what he did during the war. The war might have given Scotty alcoholism, but he sure as hell didn't "earn" it. And he doesn't deserve the enabling jokers on the rehabilitation board excusing him, like getting treatment is some kind of punishment. That viewpoint is one of the many problems with the organization of Starfleet medical services. Treatment for addiction is under the purview of the disciplinary arm of the admiralty instead of part of Starfleet medical. So high command hands out rehab referrals like they're prison sentences rather than prescriptions for medically necessary treatment. McCoy devotes too much energy trying to get Scotty help to spend his off hours making friends with the guy. Which is a real shame because he's a nice guy. Although that might be the booze.
Lonely and a little scared, McCoy grafts himself onto Stark-the first friendly (half-)face he met in the crew. Stark seems to appreciate McCoy's friendliness, as well, spending most of his free time lounging about in sickbay, like he's waiting for something. McCoy's honestly a little flattered until their first casualty dies on McCoy's operating table under the light streaming from Stark's face.
"What the hell was that?" McCoy snaps, coming out of the operating room.
"What do you mean?" Stark asks.
"That! What you did in there to Hines."
"I eased him into the next life. That is my purpose."
"Is that why you've been hanging around here?"
"Yes."
"You've just been waiting for someone to die? Like a damn vulture?"
"Not like a vulture. I don't eat them. I assist them. I make it easier for them to reach the next realm."
"You help them die?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes."
"I don't know if you know this, but folks in the Federation have been dyin' without Stykera for a long time. They don't exactly need your help to get dead."
"I don't kill them. I-You wouldn't understand; you've never died."
"Yeah, and I don't plan on doing that anytime soon, so maybe you should try to figure out a way to explain it to me."
"It... Dying can be very scary."
"I've gathered that on my own."
"No, not a fear of death. The process itself-the process of leaving the body for the next destination-it can be very confusing and scary. Like getting lost in an airport."
"But you help them get to the right terminal?"
"Yes. Exactly."
"Do you plan on doing this every time someone in this crew dies?"
"Whenever I can. My responsibilities to Mr. Scorpius come first."
"Scorpius comes before your purpose. Your higher calling?"
"Scorpius needs my help. He comes before everything."
"You had a little chat with Pike, too, didn't you?"
Stark ducks his head. "Yes, but now... Scorpius is my best friend. I'd be at his side in an instant anyway."
"You're a sweet kid, Stark." McCoy doesn't know the Starchild too well, but he doubts whether he's worthy of the kind of loyalty he inspires in Pike and Stark. "You can, uh, do your thing in here whenever you want."
"Thank you. I thank you. The dead thank you."
"Tell the dead they're welcome."
-
McCoy gets his first real trial as a CMO-his Kobayashi Maru, if you will-fairly early on in the five year mission when the Enterprise visits Psi 2000, a planet nearing collapse, to investigate the deaths of Starfleet personnel there. The investigation isn't too difficult-a little inexplicable as to the reason why they're all dead-and most of that is outside McCoy's department. It's what results from the investigation-some green-as-grass lieutenant taking his glove off in a contaminated area and bringing god-knows-what back aboard. Truly god-knows-what, because McCoy doesn't have a clue. But whatever it is, it's making everyone who's contaminated by it act like they're drunk, losing all inhibition and doing whatever their deeply-seated desires would have them. Which, for some of the people on the planet, meant taking a shower with their clothes on. McCoy is a live-and-let-live kind of guy, understanding a wide variety of hopes and dreams in his fellow man, but for the life of him, he can't feel anything but pity for whatever poor sap was going through life passionately desiring to shower with their clothes on. He doesn't have any objections to people showering with their clothes on, but for that to be the first thing someone does when they lose all inhibition? That's just sad.
Sulu, at the very least, had a rather imaginative and fanciful spree following his infection, running around like one of the Three Musketeers stranded in the 23rd century. Unfortunately, Sulu's little role play had the effect of infecting almost all the crew when some of his sweat made it's way into the ship's ventilation system. McCoy guesses that what's happened. Being the head of the department, Sulu would have been in the botany bay where the ship's ventilation system sucks up oxygen from the plants and distributes it around the ship. Sulu's sweat must have gotten mixed into that oxygen.
But how? The ventilation system filters the oxygen out of the air from the botany bay. It should have filtered out the contaminant. Unless... Unless...
The ship rocks, sending McCoy into a bulkhead. "Jesus!”
McCoy tries his comm again. "Sickbay to bridge! Anyone there?"
There's a few minutes of static before an answer. "Er, yes, er... Stark here."
"Stark? The hell are you doing on the bridge?"
"I don't really know. I was trying to find Scorpius. He and Braca were on the bridge and they got in the turbolift without me and then-then the lift stalled and-and now I'm stuck."
"Is there anyone else up there with you?"
"No. I'm all alone."
"Jesus."
"No, not even him."
"Uh, goddamnit. Can you tell me why we're rocking about like a boat in a storm?"
"Er, I don't know how to read any of the instruments, but from the viewscreen, it looks like we're crashing into a planet."
"What?"
"Yes, it very clearly looks like we're all going to die."
"My god! You've got to do something! Can't you... turn us around?"
"I don't know how! I've never flown a starship before!"
"But you've passed over people who have. Can't you... I don't know!"
"I could... I could, in theory, access their knowledge, but that would be... It would be..."
"What? What would it be?"
"It would be very dangerous."
"You telling me you could get hurt?"
"No. I would be fine, but everyone else... they might not be so lucky. My light could overpower them psionically."
"I think everyone on board would prefer being overpowered psionically-whatever that means-to crashing into a planet."
"Okay. I'll try. But if people are angry about it later, you have to tell them it was your idea."
"Will do, kid. Now, go do your thing."
"Stark out."
"Acting Captain Stark out," McCoy corrects.
"Right. Acting Captain Stark out."
McCoy realizes that he just handed over the Enterprise to a guy who he finds asleep in a cupboard at least twice a week. "God help us," McCoy mutters, turning back to his work. "What was I..." Right, the ventilation system only allows for the distribution of oxygen. That isn't quite right. McCoy remembers a few weeks ago when there was a hose burst in the botany bay. The whole ship got muggy from the water sucked in by the ventilation system. So, that's two things: water and oxygen. Neither of which can get people drunk. Usually. McCoy runs the sample of Sulu's sweat again. “What the...” Polymerized water. There was polymerized water in Sulu's blood panel earlier. It's the only thing that's off with either of those samples. That has to be it. And, by god, isn't that easy to fix?
McCoy's injecting Sulu with a hypospray when Stark comms. “McCoy here. Hold on a second.” He holds the comm away from his face. “Sulu, how are you feeling?”
“I feel fine,” Sulu says. “What happened?”
“I'll tell you later. I need you to take those hypos over there and start jabbing as many people with 'em as you can, you got me?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Stark, what's going on?”
“Doctor,” Stark says, “I'm getting the Enterprise to pull out of the planet's orbit, but I... I have to know. Did you feel anything when I...?”
“Not a damn thing.”
“Good. That's good. Er, you might want to hold onto something.”
“Hold onto-” The ship lurches, pressing McCoy up against a biobed. “Stark! What the hell was that?”
“Um, I appear to have sent us backwards in time.”
“How the hell did you managed that?”
“I have no idea.”
“You're something, Stark.”
-
McCoy's closer to Stark after that-he supposes you can't save a starship together and not end up being good friends-spending time off-duty together. Just talking. It's nice. To have someone to talk to. Stark doesn't do much talking himself. Just lets McCoy ramble on, listening intently, really feeling what McCoy has to say. And McCoy maybe says more to Stark than he does to anyone else on this ship combined. The words come easily and carelessly.
"Georgia's just gorgeous this time of year. My hometown-Augusta-this time of year, it looks just like Gone with the Wind. Uh, the first part of Gone with the Wind, not the Civil War stuff."
"Gone with the Wind?"
"It's an old movie. A classic, really. You oughta watch it sometime."
It isn't until ten o'clock that evening that McCoy realizes he recommended Gone with the Wind to a former slave. He hops out of bed, pulls on some clothes, and heads down to Stark's quarters. But it's too late. The damage has been done. Stark stares at the vidscreen, frowning, as the end credits roll.
"Stark..."
"Is that what you think of me?"
They don't talk anymore after that. Stark haunts sickbay the same as ever, but it's not the same. He doesn't talk. He waits.
For six months, McCoy is on his own, barely holding on. The only person he talks to-really talks to-is his daughter-and even then that's over subspace and only once a month (not to mention that Joanna spends most of their face time talking about planning her mother's impending nuptials). Then one day Stark approaches him. "You want my forgiveness."
"Yes." It's an awful time to be having this conversation; there was just an awful fight in the mess hall. Three ensigns beaten something awful by the Starchild and his boytoy.
"I will forgive you, but you have to do something for me. A favor."
"Now?"
"Yes, now."
"Can it wait? I'm up to my ears-"
"I need you to help Scorpius and Braca."
"Help? Not even an act of god could help them right now. They're sunk. Their Starfleet careers are over."
"Not if you tell Kirk what really happened."
"What would that be?"
“When Scorpius saw his mate being threatened, he went into a Scarran blood rage.”
“Scarran blood...? There's no such thing as a Scarran blood rage!”
“There could be.”
“I'm the pre-eminent expert on Scarran biology and-”
“That's why Kirk will believe you.”
“You want me to lie to the captain? Risk my career? Sorry, kid, I don't need friends that badly.”
“If you won't do it for me, do it for them.”
God damn it.
McCoy does it-of course, he does it-because he knows what is on that recording, what everyone has now seen, and what Loren said. What Scorpius and Braca did wasn't right, but there's no justice in punishing them after what they went through. McCoy's never been one to let professional ethics get in the way of his personal morality.
And, somehow, despite himself, he's become one of those people doing whatever they can for Scorpius.
-
For all that, Stark doesn't forgive him. He tries. He spends more time around sickbay. He listens to McCoy the way he used to, but he's not really there. He's cagey, on edge.
“Is something wr-” McCoy reaches out to touch Stark's shoulder, but he flinches away, shielding himself like he thinks McCoy is going to hit him. “Jesus, Stark.”
“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” Stark is groveling. This being of pure light-this impossibly powerful person is groveling to McCoy like he is-like he is... He can't even think it.
“Stark, it's all right. I'm not mad.”
“Okay.” Stark nods, pulling himself away from McCoy.
“Are you afraid of me?”
“I try not to be, but I find it hard to trust you. It's hard to trust a person when a major part of their personality is nostalgia for a time and a place when their people owned slaves.”
“Stark... slavery was a long time ago.”
“It wasn't for me. You could own me today if you wanted.”
“I don't and never would.”
“I know, but...”
“You can't trust me.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know this when you said you'd forgive me?”
Stark nods. “I'm sorry I lied to you. I thought I could at least pretend to-”
“Stand being around me?” McCoy shakes his head. “Why would you set yourself up for something like that?”
“Scorpius and Braca were in trouble and they're my friends. I wouldn't expect you to understand.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“You're not a man with many friends, Dr. McCoy.”
“We were friends once.”
“Were we?”
-
“You ever have any troubles with the other one?” Kirk asks McCoy. “I know he likes to hang around here.”
“Stark? No, he's good kid. A little squirrelly, but he's good with the dying. Makes it easier on them somehow. Although, now that you mention it, I do find him hiding in the supply cabinets sometimes. I don't know what that's about.” McCoy's had more trouble with Stark than he can bear to talk about, but he knows couldn't even begin to consider telling the captain about it unless they're both completely soused.
Luckily, he has a bottle of single barrel bourbon in his cabin.
“Jim...” He lifts his head up (with a little effort) and looks at Kirk. “Can I call you Jim?”
“Yeah, but you've been doing that for a while.”
“Well, now I have the captain's permission.”
Jim barks a laugh at that, which gets McCoy going, which wakes up Spock, who was dozing with his head on McCoy's shoulder. Spock reaches out, his eyes still closed as he paw at Kirk's face. “Stark,” he mumbles.
McCoy groans. “Don't get me started on Stark. I don't think two people have screwed up a relationship that badly since I got divorced.”
Spock's eyes blink open. “You were in a relationship with Stark?”
“Oooh,” Jim coos. “Was the good doctor playing doctor with my chaplain?”
“Naw. Nothing like,” McCoy says. “It was nothing like that. We were friends. I thought we were friends, but I messed things up. Or he messed things up. I'm not sure. It's complicated.”
“That's the problem nowadays. It's all so complicated. I used to be able to go to bed at night knowing I did the right thing, but now ever since the war... Do you get what I'm saying?”
“No.”
“I understand, captain,” Spock says. “Jim. The Scarran Conflict irrevocably changed my perception of myself and the universe.”
McCoy snorts. “The war ended fifteen years ago. Get over it already.”
“Get over it?” Kirk repeats. “You weren't there, Bones. You were-you were-I dunno where you were, but you weren't there. You didn't have to kill anyone.”
“Neither did you.” That earns McCoy a shove off the couch. “Ow.”
“You have no idea what you're talkin' about.”
“So, tell me, oh wise one.”
“Okay, fine...”
Following a pact made the next morning, McCoy isn't allowed to share what happens next, but, to give you an idea, it involves a lot of crying and ends with all three of them falling asleep in a pile on the floor.
McCoy comes into sickbay the next morning desperately hungover and looking like death. Stark says as much. “What happened to you? You look like Death.”
“I made friends.” McCoy rubs his forehead. “It was awful.”
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