S1E10: The Corbomite Maneuver, Stardate 1512.2
Today, a miracle occurred. He called the captain in for his quarterly physical check... and the man came. He'd dragged the captain in by his hair the last two times, by threat of reporting to Starfleet Medical and Lord knows who else that the captain of the USS Enterprise would not submit to the checks required of all officers of the line.
Star-mapping must be an uncommonly boring procedure.
He was almost done when, out of the corner of his eyes, he notes a flashing. Deep red, blood red, a very unwelcome color on this ship. But there's nothing over the intercom, so they aren't actively under attack... and Lord knows when he's going to get Kirk down here willingly ever again.
"Just a little bit more." He assures Jim, and he really can't help the smirk that rises from his captain's growled 'You're killing me, Bones'. Goddamn, if Kirk thought this was bad, saints keep him from the nastier sorts of drills performed on those trying to come back on to active duty after a severe injury. Compared to those, this is just a stroll in the park. Pointedly ignoring the alarm flashing, he studies Kirk's vital signs, noting that Kirk does seem to be a little off his game - a few less games of 3-D chess with Spock and a few more trips to the gym wouldn't do him any harm.
"Stop!" He nearly laughs when Kirk sighs in relief. "Winded?" He asks solicitously, and he supposes it would be better bed-side manner if he wasn't still smirking, but frankly, Kirk earned the look. If he came in regularly, as he was supposed to, this wouldn't be so bad.
"You'd be the last one I'd tell." Kirk grumbles, and he laughs, acknowledging the hit. Then his captain's face loses a little of it's open, relaxed expression, and McCoy mentally curses, but doesn't stop Kirk from heading to the nearest computer terminal.
Turns out they've been brought to a standstill by some bizarrely luminescent thing, something even Spock couldn't properly identify, and of course that meant the captain should be on the bridge. McCoy's power to keep the man here only extends so far, and a potential crisis beats out a routine physical any day of the week.
"You could see the alarm lights from there McCoy, why didn't you tell me?" Kirk's voice holds the warning grumble of a command officer feeling his rank a bit trampled, but McCoy refuses to flinch - not that it matters, Kirk is already striding towards the door, his command-gold tunic draped over his shoulders.
"I had to finish the physical on you, didn't I? What am I, a doctor or a moon shuttle conductor?" McCoy calls after him, pitching his voice to carry the querulous complaint into the hallway, to pursue his erstwhile captive. Raising an eyebrow, he continues his notes.
"If I jumped every time a light came on around here, I'd end up talking to myself."
_________________________________________________________________________
If he'd known then what he knows nearly a day later, he would have put his foot down and had them finish the damn physical. Eighteen hours, alternately spent pouring over data from the sensors trying to make sense of the bizarre thing blocking their path or sitting, listening to reports just as unhelpful as his own, on the railing surrounding the command deck. For a change of pace they take themselves into a conference room and try to bludgeon their tired brains into working properly again with coffee and yet another round of The Facts As We Know Them. At least, he's bludgeoning that bit of exhausted grey matter between his ears, and many of the others look whipped... no bets on Spock though. He's probably fresh as a daisy and wondering how these idiotic jumped-up apes managed to make it to the stars to begin with. Right now, he wishes they hadn't. He wishes he could convince himself to go take a breather at that bar at the end of the universe, maybe get Olya's take on all of this... but he knows he wouldn't be able to stand the idea that the whole time he was there, they'd be here, still stuck.
So he stays. And he drinks coffee that never had the benefit of once being plant matter. And he bites his tongue to avoid making sarcastic comments when they reach the decision to attempt to end-run their obstacle, come hell or high water.
________________________________________________________________________
He returns to his post, to his little mini-kingdom, to wait for the inevitable wave of injured. He can hear the engines revving, even in here, the heart of the ship, ramping up to the point that they are screaming, the deck plates vibrating under his feet. He spares a thought to pity Scotty, who must be catching it hot from a frustrated Kirk just about now. Alarms are starting to go off around sickbay, radiation warnings - whatever else that thing is, it's hot and pouring that sick heat right at them as it continues to baffle them.
Then the ship lurches, like a drunkard missing the step off a curb, and sends the lot of them sprawling - over beds, chairs, desks, rolling onto the floor without a shred of dignity. McCoy rubs at the shoulder he jammed up against a door frame and listens to the desperate whine of the engines die down, watches as the red-alert light stops flashing.
Well. Who'd've thunk it? They actually got around the damned thing. As soon as he sets his staff to dealing with the injured crew members that come in (fell off a ladder, injured by broken glass, knocked himself unconscious against the edge of a computer console) he heads towards the bridge, to make sure no one is playing hero.
_______________________________________________________________________
He sidles onto the bridge to find Kirk dressing down the helmsman and navigator, both looking sheepish and uncomfortable under the barrage. No, correction - the helmsman seems comfortable in his own skin, at least, but the navigator looks as jittery as a treed polecat. He remembers that one. Bailey, a recent promotion to the alpha crew, a recent promotion to the navigator's chair, young and, to McCoy's mind, greener than fresh-cut alfalfa. Kirk turns to leave the bridge, and McCoy falls in a half-step behind.
"Your timing is lousy, Jim." He mutters just loudly enough for Kirk to hear as they sweep into the turbolift. "The men are tired..." But Kirk's talking over him, his stubborn confidence over-ruling McCoy's concern. He waits with all the patience he can grab in both hands until it looks like Kirk might be quiet a moment, but it isn't to be.
"Aren't you the one who always says a little suffering is good for the soul?" Kirk asks with a grin, a teasing grin that makes him irrationally grumpy.
"I never say that." He grumbles, glaring at his captain. "I'm especially worried about Bailey - the navigator's position is rough enough for a seasoned man..." And once again Kirk is talking over him, dismissing his concerns with a wave of his hand.
"I'll think he'll cut it." McCoy rolls his eyes.
"Oh? I'm not so sure. Maybe you spotted something you like in him? Something... familiar, like yourself? Say... about, mmmm... eleven years ago?" He risks a side-long look, and knows he has struck gold in the Captain's exasperated gaze.
"Why doctor, have you been reading your books again?" He refuses to give in to the anger that Kirk wants - it will only distract him.
"Don't need textbooks to know you promoted him too fast - just listen to that voice..." The turbolift stops, and McCoy trails Kirk, unwilling to give up the argument just yet.
_________________________________________________________________
Captain's quarters, and McCoy pours them both a hefty dose of the whiskey Kirk keeps there (at McCoy's insistence, settling himself into the chair on the opposite side of the desk from Kirk.
"What's next? They're not machines, Jim?" Kirk sounds resigned, like he's humoring a over-worried mother hen.
"Why not? After what they've been through..." Again he's talked over, and it's getting old.
"Now Bones, I've heard you say that man is infinitely superior to any machine." McCoy's brought up short... because he has said that. Repeatedly. Usually while glaring at Spock.
"I never say that either." He grumbles, retreating a little to gather force for another sally... but then they are interrupted. Those damn efficiency drills, and they've done well - 94%, better, he knows, than most ships of the line on a good day. Kirk orders them to go for 100%, and McCoy glares, takes immediate umbrage on the crew's behalf.
That argument doesn't go too far either - they're interrupted again, this time by the Yeoman with the captain's supper. That, he has to admit, is damned funny. Seeing Kirk being efficiently put in his place by a mere strip of a girl is worth any number of arguments.
He commences giving Kirk hell about it, but the third interruption pays for all - there's another emergency, and the captain is needed on the bridge. McCoy finishes his drink and heads back to Sickbay - if the bridge needs a captain, sooner rather than later the sickbay will need its CMO.
____________________________________________________________________
He finds his crew working efficiently, prepping for disaster while hoping that nothing of the sort happens, stowing experiments brought out during the brief lull, locking down anything that might fly loose during evasive maneuvers.
Then something makes the whole room (and he suspects the whole ship) buzz like a live wire, consoles flashing on ad off at random. Then nothing - no explanation from the bridge, no further instructions. Warily they continue prepping, everyone moving as if the slightest untoward noise might bring the whole ship down on their heads... even him, damn it. These are times he hates this space travel and all of its opportunity for Death to come grab them at its leisure.
Then it comes again, louder, whole sections... whole rooms going dark momentarily before flickering back towards normalcy.
And then a voice.
A cold, steely voice he finds he doesn't like one little bit, and he can see the naked fear it evokes on the faces of his staff. Premonition (or just old-fashioned know-how about how the human mind works) is like ice down his spine, ad he hares off to the nearest turbolift. If there isn't a message from Jim hot on the heels of this voice, they won't have to wait for the owner of that voice to destroy them. They'll destroy themselves in their own terror.
__________________________________________________________________________
He steps onto the bridge, his eyes immediately drawn to the ship shown on the viewscreen - it looks ominous, though it looks like nothing more than like a especially ugly lampshade. Carefully he eases up next to the captain, continuing to watch the ship like one watches an angry snake.
"Balock's message was heard all over the ship." He warns, softly, knowing Kirk will understand - the risk of mutiny is always a frighteningly close one.
Deity, or deities, or some such thing, eh? He sends a thought at Olya, wondering if she'd hear it - sorry. Sorry, but I can't just run out on them. If he survives this, he's pretty sure he'll be catching hell for that for a long time, but that's fair, he supposes.
In the course of the next few minutes, he watches two things - a minor miracle, and the disintegration of a young boy's will. Kirk sends a message over the ship's intercom that would put the spine back into the most frightened crew member, even if McCoy doesn't believe a word of it - staring at that ugly-ass ship, he doesn't think that this bit of alien life can recognize them as friends. His own nerves are beating a rapid tattoo, urging him to run, or fight, or something other than stand here and pray that someone will find a way out. He manages to at least look impassive, long years as an emergency surgeon standing him in good stead.
But he isn't the only one who doesn't believe. Bailey suddenly gasps, and starts, and falls apart in pieces. He screams, horrified cutting words at the captain, at his friend Sulu, at all of them - are they machines? Don't they care? What is the use of military regulation if they are all going to die? Why aren't they fighting?. McCoy's afraid it is going to come to blows, that their last few minutes of life are going to be spent fighting this young man into submission. But Kirk's will is as strong... no, just a little bit stronger than Bailey's terror and exhaustion, and the boy backs down in the face of that will. He allows McCoy to herd him off the command deck, into the turbolift, and finally allows himself to be handed off to an orderly.
McCoy watches them go down the hall for a minute, watching the slump of the poor boy's shoulders. Fully enraged on the boy's behalf, he storms back to the bridge.
He is met squarely, his anger and the captain's frustration clashing and raising nearly visible sparks. He will log all of this in his medical notes, that is no idle threat. He may not be able to salvage Bailey, but he'll be damned if he'll let Kirk drive other familiar young men beyond the point of their own bravery. They both retreat, a little sheepishly - now is not the time. Later, perhaps, but not now, so close to the end. If they have to die, they shouldn't bickering about something already done.
This has been a week for miracles, and another occurs - Kirk is suddenly animated by a stroke of brilliance, bluffing out an impossible gambit - with two minutes to spare, it's worth the risk as he spins a completely ridiculous story about Corbomite, the fictitious material that may save them all. In the silence that falls after that inspired pack of lies, McCoy steps behind Kirk's chair again.
"Doc." Kirk looks up briefly, but not for long, keeping a weather eye on that ugly ball of destruction. "Sorry."
It's not what he expected to hear, it's more what he expected to say, and he hastens to match it.
"Not your fault, you had other things on your mind." He grins, a wry grin, but he's looking at that ship too, not at his long-time friend. "I really don't know how you kept from punching me in the face." A less patient captain might have, or worse.
The countdown reaches one minute, and they draw closer, as if their closeness could keep them from dying at the hands of this unknown foe.
The bridge doors open. Bailey, looking drawn but resolute, steps on to the bridge, in as perfect military form as any drill sergeant could want.
"Request permission to return to post." Goddamn. Kirk saw it, even if he didn't, that core of steel that might, one day, make a brilliant captain if encouraged enough.
He still thinks the boy was worked too hard, too quickly, but maybe he can tone the language down a hair in the medical notes.
The countdown ends.
Nothing happens.
His own nerves feel as near to breaking as Bailey's had been moments before, but suddenly Kirk looks cool as a cucumber. What follows is as pretty a piece of poker playing as he's ever seen... though the results aren't quite what one would hope. They are being hauled to a planet, there to be kept until they die, evidently. Kirk orders a waiting game, and McCoy settles into his accustomed perch on the command deck's railing. Eventually (and it is a very long eventually) Kirk makes his move, slowly easing the engines into reverse to try and break the hold Balock's ship has on them. The ride gets rough, and he hopes like hell everyone's hanging on. Their engines are overloading, and he tries not to think of the Engineering crew blown to hell, of the whole ship blown to hell as the massive reactors this ship is built on overload and destroy them all.
Then they are free, and he wants to jump for joy, and somehow manages not to. He expects a fast retreat... and doesn't get it.
Balock's ship is in trouble. There's precious little change anyone besides their own sweet selves heard the call for help. And Kirk is determined to go help them. McCoy tries to protest (you don't go over and pet the dog that just tried to savage your throat) but he's rapidly reminded just how long the last few days have been in the sharpness of Kirk's answer. For his pains, he's detailed to come along on this little rescue mission - him, Kirk... and Bailey.
Maybe those medical logs will be full of fire and brimstone after all.
_________________________________________________________________________
They have to use transporter beams to go ship to ship, something he makes sure Kirk is completely clear on his aggravation over. They have to crouch to fit the tight quarters of the alien ship. They are cautious and careful, chills ruing down his spine when they spot Balock, the harsh features just as rigid ad fearsome here as they were on the viewscreen.
...
Rigid. That is the word for it, alright - this Balock is a dummy, a fake, and they could have knocked him down with a feather when they found the real one - the only one, it seems, one alien to test ad probe their intentions. And damned if he doesn't look like a slightly demented child. Through the horribly awkward interview that follows, he keeps expecting someone to announce this has has all been a very long, very unfunny joke, but it's not. An alien who looks like a child and talks like they have no right at all to be angry for being bullied for the last three days manages to charm the captain into allowing Bailey to stay on board, as a 'cultural exchange'.
All he knows is he really hopes, next time he goes to the bar, there won't be any bald-headed children there. He isn't sure he'd live down the girly screams.
Star-mapping must be an uncommonly boring procedure.
He was almost done when, out of the corner of his eyes, he notes a flashing. Deep red, blood red, a very unwelcome color on this ship. But there's nothing over the intercom, so they aren't actively under attack... and Lord knows when he's going to get Kirk down here willingly ever again.
"Just a little bit more." He assures Jim, and he really can't help the smirk that rises from his captain's growled 'You're killing me, Bones'. Goddamn, if Kirk thought this was bad, saints keep him from the nastier sorts of drills performed on those trying to come back on to active duty after a severe injury. Compared to those, this is just a stroll in the park. Pointedly ignoring the alarm flashing, he studies Kirk's vital signs, noting that Kirk does seem to be a little off his game - a few less games of 3-D chess with Spock and a few more trips to the gym wouldn't do him any harm.
"Stop!" He nearly laughs when Kirk sighs in relief. "Winded?" He asks solicitously, and he supposes it would be better bed-side manner if he wasn't still smirking, but frankly, Kirk earned the look. If he came in regularly, as he was supposed to, this wouldn't be so bad.
"You'd be the last one I'd tell." Kirk grumbles, and he laughs, acknowledging the hit. Then his captain's face loses a little of it's open, relaxed expression, and McCoy mentally curses, but doesn't stop Kirk from heading to the nearest computer terminal.
Turns out they've been brought to a standstill by some bizarrely luminescent thing, something even Spock couldn't properly identify, and of course that meant the captain should be on the bridge. McCoy's power to keep the man here only extends so far, and a potential crisis beats out a routine physical any day of the week.
"You could see the alarm lights from there McCoy, why didn't you tell me?" Kirk's voice holds the warning grumble of a command officer feeling his rank a bit trampled, but McCoy refuses to flinch - not that it matters, Kirk is already striding towards the door, his command-gold tunic draped over his shoulders.
"I had to finish the physical on you, didn't I? What am I, a doctor or a moon shuttle conductor?" McCoy calls after him, pitching his voice to carry the querulous complaint into the hallway, to pursue his erstwhile captive. Raising an eyebrow, he continues his notes.
"If I jumped every time a light came on around here, I'd end up talking to myself."
_________________________________________________________________________
If he'd known then what he knows nearly a day later, he would have put his foot down and had them finish the damn physical. Eighteen hours, alternately spent pouring over data from the sensors trying to make sense of the bizarre thing blocking their path or sitting, listening to reports just as unhelpful as his own, on the railing surrounding the command deck. For a change of pace they take themselves into a conference room and try to bludgeon their tired brains into working properly again with coffee and yet another round of The Facts As We Know Them. At least, he's bludgeoning that bit of exhausted grey matter between his ears, and many of the others look whipped... no bets on Spock though. He's probably fresh as a daisy and wondering how these idiotic jumped-up apes managed to make it to the stars to begin with. Right now, he wishes they hadn't. He wishes he could convince himself to go take a breather at that bar at the end of the universe, maybe get Olya's take on all of this... but he knows he wouldn't be able to stand the idea that the whole time he was there, they'd be here, still stuck.
So he stays. And he drinks coffee that never had the benefit of once being plant matter. And he bites his tongue to avoid making sarcastic comments when they reach the decision to attempt to end-run their obstacle, come hell or high water.
________________________________________________________________________
He returns to his post, to his little mini-kingdom, to wait for the inevitable wave of injured. He can hear the engines revving, even in here, the heart of the ship, ramping up to the point that they are screaming, the deck plates vibrating under his feet. He spares a thought to pity Scotty, who must be catching it hot from a frustrated Kirk just about now. Alarms are starting to go off around sickbay, radiation warnings - whatever else that thing is, it's hot and pouring that sick heat right at them as it continues to baffle them.
Then the ship lurches, like a drunkard missing the step off a curb, and sends the lot of them sprawling - over beds, chairs, desks, rolling onto the floor without a shred of dignity. McCoy rubs at the shoulder he jammed up against a door frame and listens to the desperate whine of the engines die down, watches as the red-alert light stops flashing.
Well. Who'd've thunk it? They actually got around the damned thing. As soon as he sets his staff to dealing with the injured crew members that come in (fell off a ladder, injured by broken glass, knocked himself unconscious against the edge of a computer console) he heads towards the bridge, to make sure no one is playing hero.
_______________________________________________________________________
He sidles onto the bridge to find Kirk dressing down the helmsman and navigator, both looking sheepish and uncomfortable under the barrage. No, correction - the helmsman seems comfortable in his own skin, at least, but the navigator looks as jittery as a treed polecat. He remembers that one. Bailey, a recent promotion to the alpha crew, a recent promotion to the navigator's chair, young and, to McCoy's mind, greener than fresh-cut alfalfa. Kirk turns to leave the bridge, and McCoy falls in a half-step behind.
"Your timing is lousy, Jim." He mutters just loudly enough for Kirk to hear as they sweep into the turbolift. "The men are tired..." But Kirk's talking over him, his stubborn confidence over-ruling McCoy's concern. He waits with all the patience he can grab in both hands until it looks like Kirk might be quiet a moment, but it isn't to be.
"Aren't you the one who always says a little suffering is good for the soul?" Kirk asks with a grin, a teasing grin that makes him irrationally grumpy.
"I never say that." He grumbles, glaring at his captain. "I'm especially worried about Bailey - the navigator's position is rough enough for a seasoned man..." And once again Kirk is talking over him, dismissing his concerns with a wave of his hand.
"I'll think he'll cut it." McCoy rolls his eyes.
"Oh? I'm not so sure. Maybe you spotted something you like in him? Something... familiar, like yourself? Say... about, mmmm... eleven years ago?" He risks a side-long look, and knows he has struck gold in the Captain's exasperated gaze.
"Why doctor, have you been reading your books again?" He refuses to give in to the anger that Kirk wants - it will only distract him.
"Don't need textbooks to know you promoted him too fast - just listen to that voice..." The turbolift stops, and McCoy trails Kirk, unwilling to give up the argument just yet.
_________________________________________________________________
Captain's quarters, and McCoy pours them both a hefty dose of the whiskey Kirk keeps there (at McCoy's insistence, settling himself into the chair on the opposite side of the desk from Kirk.
"What's next? They're not machines, Jim?" Kirk sounds resigned, like he's humoring a over-worried mother hen.
"Why not? After what they've been through..." Again he's talked over, and it's getting old.
"Now Bones, I've heard you say that man is infinitely superior to any machine." McCoy's brought up short... because he has said that. Repeatedly. Usually while glaring at Spock.
"I never say that either." He grumbles, retreating a little to gather force for another sally... but then they are interrupted. Those damn efficiency drills, and they've done well - 94%, better, he knows, than most ships of the line on a good day. Kirk orders them to go for 100%, and McCoy glares, takes immediate umbrage on the crew's behalf.
That argument doesn't go too far either - they're interrupted again, this time by the Yeoman with the captain's supper. That, he has to admit, is damned funny. Seeing Kirk being efficiently put in his place by a mere strip of a girl is worth any number of arguments.
He commences giving Kirk hell about it, but the third interruption pays for all - there's another emergency, and the captain is needed on the bridge. McCoy finishes his drink and heads back to Sickbay - if the bridge needs a captain, sooner rather than later the sickbay will need its CMO.
____________________________________________________________________
He finds his crew working efficiently, prepping for disaster while hoping that nothing of the sort happens, stowing experiments brought out during the brief lull, locking down anything that might fly loose during evasive maneuvers.
Then something makes the whole room (and he suspects the whole ship) buzz like a live wire, consoles flashing on ad off at random. Then nothing - no explanation from the bridge, no further instructions. Warily they continue prepping, everyone moving as if the slightest untoward noise might bring the whole ship down on their heads... even him, damn it. These are times he hates this space travel and all of its opportunity for Death to come grab them at its leisure.
Then it comes again, louder, whole sections... whole rooms going dark momentarily before flickering back towards normalcy.
And then a voice.
A cold, steely voice he finds he doesn't like one little bit, and he can see the naked fear it evokes on the faces of his staff. Premonition (or just old-fashioned know-how about how the human mind works) is like ice down his spine, ad he hares off to the nearest turbolift. If there isn't a message from Jim hot on the heels of this voice, they won't have to wait for the owner of that voice to destroy them. They'll destroy themselves in their own terror.
__________________________________________________________________________
He steps onto the bridge, his eyes immediately drawn to the ship shown on the viewscreen - it looks ominous, though it looks like nothing more than like a especially ugly lampshade. Carefully he eases up next to the captain, continuing to watch the ship like one watches an angry snake.
"Balock's message was heard all over the ship." He warns, softly, knowing Kirk will understand - the risk of mutiny is always a frighteningly close one.
Deity, or deities, or some such thing, eh? He sends a thought at Olya, wondering if she'd hear it - sorry. Sorry, but I can't just run out on them. If he survives this, he's pretty sure he'll be catching hell for that for a long time, but that's fair, he supposes.
In the course of the next few minutes, he watches two things - a minor miracle, and the disintegration of a young boy's will. Kirk sends a message over the ship's intercom that would put the spine back into the most frightened crew member, even if McCoy doesn't believe a word of it - staring at that ugly-ass ship, he doesn't think that this bit of alien life can recognize them as friends. His own nerves are beating a rapid tattoo, urging him to run, or fight, or something other than stand here and pray that someone will find a way out. He manages to at least look impassive, long years as an emergency surgeon standing him in good stead.
But he isn't the only one who doesn't believe. Bailey suddenly gasps, and starts, and falls apart in pieces. He screams, horrified cutting words at the captain, at his friend Sulu, at all of them - are they machines? Don't they care? What is the use of military regulation if they are all going to die? Why aren't they fighting?. McCoy's afraid it is going to come to blows, that their last few minutes of life are going to be spent fighting this young man into submission. But Kirk's will is as strong... no, just a little bit stronger than Bailey's terror and exhaustion, and the boy backs down in the face of that will. He allows McCoy to herd him off the command deck, into the turbolift, and finally allows himself to be handed off to an orderly.
McCoy watches them go down the hall for a minute, watching the slump of the poor boy's shoulders. Fully enraged on the boy's behalf, he storms back to the bridge.
He is met squarely, his anger and the captain's frustration clashing and raising nearly visible sparks. He will log all of this in his medical notes, that is no idle threat. He may not be able to salvage Bailey, but he'll be damned if he'll let Kirk drive other familiar young men beyond the point of their own bravery. They both retreat, a little sheepishly - now is not the time. Later, perhaps, but not now, so close to the end. If they have to die, they shouldn't bickering about something already done.
This has been a week for miracles, and another occurs - Kirk is suddenly animated by a stroke of brilliance, bluffing out an impossible gambit - with two minutes to spare, it's worth the risk as he spins a completely ridiculous story about Corbomite, the fictitious material that may save them all. In the silence that falls after that inspired pack of lies, McCoy steps behind Kirk's chair again.
"Doc." Kirk looks up briefly, but not for long, keeping a weather eye on that ugly ball of destruction. "Sorry."
It's not what he expected to hear, it's more what he expected to say, and he hastens to match it.
"Not your fault, you had other things on your mind." He grins, a wry grin, but he's looking at that ship too, not at his long-time friend. "I really don't know how you kept from punching me in the face." A less patient captain might have, or worse.
The countdown reaches one minute, and they draw closer, as if their closeness could keep them from dying at the hands of this unknown foe.
The bridge doors open. Bailey, looking drawn but resolute, steps on to the bridge, in as perfect military form as any drill sergeant could want.
"Request permission to return to post." Goddamn. Kirk saw it, even if he didn't, that core of steel that might, one day, make a brilliant captain if encouraged enough.
He still thinks the boy was worked too hard, too quickly, but maybe he can tone the language down a hair in the medical notes.
The countdown ends.
Nothing happens.
His own nerves feel as near to breaking as Bailey's had been moments before, but suddenly Kirk looks cool as a cucumber. What follows is as pretty a piece of poker playing as he's ever seen... though the results aren't quite what one would hope. They are being hauled to a planet, there to be kept until they die, evidently. Kirk orders a waiting game, and McCoy settles into his accustomed perch on the command deck's railing. Eventually (and it is a very long eventually) Kirk makes his move, slowly easing the engines into reverse to try and break the hold Balock's ship has on them. The ride gets rough, and he hopes like hell everyone's hanging on. Their engines are overloading, and he tries not to think of the Engineering crew blown to hell, of the whole ship blown to hell as the massive reactors this ship is built on overload and destroy them all.
Then they are free, and he wants to jump for joy, and somehow manages not to. He expects a fast retreat... and doesn't get it.
Balock's ship is in trouble. There's precious little change anyone besides their own sweet selves heard the call for help. And Kirk is determined to go help them. McCoy tries to protest (you don't go over and pet the dog that just tried to savage your throat) but he's rapidly reminded just how long the last few days have been in the sharpness of Kirk's answer. For his pains, he's detailed to come along on this little rescue mission - him, Kirk... and Bailey.
Maybe those medical logs will be full of fire and brimstone after all.
_________________________________________________________________________
They have to use transporter beams to go ship to ship, something he makes sure Kirk is completely clear on his aggravation over. They have to crouch to fit the tight quarters of the alien ship. They are cautious and careful, chills ruing down his spine when they spot Balock, the harsh features just as rigid ad fearsome here as they were on the viewscreen.
...
Rigid. That is the word for it, alright - this Balock is a dummy, a fake, and they could have knocked him down with a feather when they found the real one - the only one, it seems, one alien to test ad probe their intentions. And damned if he doesn't look like a slightly demented child. Through the horribly awkward interview that follows, he keeps expecting someone to announce this has has all been a very long, very unfunny joke, but it's not. An alien who looks like a child and talks like they have no right at all to be angry for being bullied for the last three days manages to charm the captain into allowing Bailey to stay on board, as a 'cultural exchange'.
All he knows is he really hopes, next time he goes to the bar, there won't be any bald-headed children there. He isn't sure he'd live down the girly screams.