Spock took in his primitive surroundings with something less than enthusiasm. A day of slogging back and forth through the icy drizzle of Trigalia, collecting data, had left the landing party tired, cold, and hungry. They needed warmth, they needed rest—but the crude accommodations offered to them by their grinning native host were not likely to provide much of either. The place was nothing more than a shack.
"Tight roof," proclaimed the little Trigalian with absurd pride, "solid wall. Wet stay out good." His pudgy four-fingered hand fluttered at the unwashed group of fellow guests ogling them from a dim corner. A universal translator slung from Captain Kirk's neck interpreted the throaty sounds. "Plenty good company. You like?"
Kirk signaled his crew with a nod and the five of them huddled in closer, their raingear dripping water over the warped, dirty floorboards. "Well," he said wryly, "if nothing else, here's another fine opportunity to experience the Trigalian culture firsthand."
Spock glanced at his wife, the medical representative of the group. Lauren was shivering. So, for that matter, was he—despite the warming suit he wore under his uniform. "Captain—" he began.
"Fine pads to sleep," the Trigalian shouted happily, "fine blankets, plenty good food to buy."
To buy? It was becoming quite apparent that hospitality was not a Trigalian virtue. No one had offered them food or drink all day.
"Captain," Spock repeated, "this is hardly suitable…"
Kirk's eyebrows climbed. "What do you suggest, Mister Spock? This is how they provide for honored guests."
"Some small concession to privacy," Spock said, "for the sake of the women. A simple curtain would suffice."
Kirk relayed the request. After a moment of gap-mouthed confusion, the Trigalian gave a knowing wink and chortled, "Curtain—yes. Ha, ha!"
Within a short time they sat on their grimy sleeping pads, wrapped in less-than-clean blankets behind a hastily strung barricade. The raingear hung over it formed a bizarre backdrop as they ate food from their packs and talked.
Anya Dovnoska of anthropology told a rambling, off-color story that was no doubt meant to be humorous. Spock thought it unseemly for a woman and was displeased when Lauren broke up laughing, and even the captain joined in.
Spock gave them both a severe look. He had lost his sense of tolerance and equanimity several chilly hours back in the mud of this forsaken planet. Could it be that he was getting too soft for this sort of mission? His muscles ached and he was having some difficulty controlling the pain. The persistent sniggering from beyond the curtain grated on his nerves.
Though he felt like throwing down his food tray, he set it aside half-eaten and glowered at the captain. "Do you not hear them? Do you not realize what they are thinking?"
Kirk's eyes glimmered as if he were actually enjoying himself. "Of course, Spock. It's the gear dangling from that curtain of yours. They think we're having an orgy."
Dovnoska and Cabe Hudson of Xeno-politics chuckled. Lauren laughed out loud, and receiving a fierce look from Spock, tried to stop. And laughed even harder.
Spock failed to see the humor.
Sobering, Lauren gently said, "Spock. Let them think whatever they want. What harm will it do?"
"May I remind you," he replied stiffly, "that we are representatives of the Federation."
Sometime later, Spock lay in the darkness listening to the steady breathing of his companions. What little dinner he had managed to eat was not sitting well. The Starfleet provisions felt leaden in his stomach, but it was probably preferable to hunger—if it stayed down. Now the local fleas were starting to feast on his exposed skin. The pests only seemed interested in green blood. While he twitched and scratched, Lauren the other members of the landing party slept on. Turning, he gazed at his wife in the cramped space beside him. He did not understand why the captain had chosen Lauren for the away team. Initially he had been pleased, but her presence had quickly become a distraction. For that matter, why had Kirk placed himself in charge? It was against standard procedures, and Spock had reminded him of that fact only to be overruled—as usual. A captain belonged aboard ship. Was it the thought of adventure that lured Jim…or did he think Spock incapable of commanding a simple fact-finding mission? One thing was certain. Spock would not have settled for such shoddy accommodations.
Annoyed, he slipped into his rain gear, took a translator, and stepped outside. The drizzle had finally stopped. Clouds, driven by a bitter wind, blew raggedly across the night sky. Spock shook with a sudden chill and drew into his coat as he stood looking about the settlement. Light shone from a little tavern. A faint, curious sound of alien music carried to him on the wind. Trudging through the mud, he ventured inside.
"Ah, Starfleet friend!" beamed a squatty local perched behind the bar. "Come warm. Come buy drink. Money welcome."
Spock crossed to a crackling wood fire in the central hearth and held his hands over the flames until his sleeves steamed. Then he slipped off his coat and laid it on the hearthstones to warm. Except for one Trigalian customer snoring softly at a table, the place was empty.
Spock went over to the bar. "Andorian pondoh tea," he ordered, "black and hot."
"Pon-do-tee?" frowned the barkeep. "Not know this tee. Have plenty warm borag. Very good. You like."
Spock gave himself a mental shake. Trigalia was in the early stages of contact with the Federation. It was not logical to ask for a product that could be obtained only through interplanetary trade. "Very well," he said. "I will try some…borag."
The beverage was as golden as Saurian brandy and smelled agreeably spicy. Cautiously Spock took a sip and let its stinging warmth roll over his tongue. He swallowed and the full impact of the brew struck an instant later. Shaken, he set down the cup and left it there.
The barkeep grinned. "Good stuff. No? Drink plenty borag. Maybe friend like, too?" He aimed one of his four fingers at the door.
Spock turned and found Lauren standing near the entrance, watching him. The undercurrent of irritation that had been simmering inside him flared up and he crossed the room with a quick, angry stride.
Switching off the translator, he demanded in a low voice, "What are you doing here?"
She searched his face with a troubled expression. "Looking for you. Spock—"
"This is not the Enterprise," he cut in tersely, "nor is this Earth. It is not safe for you to be wandering alone in the night on a strange world."
"On Trigalia?" she said, astonished. "There's no crime here, remember? That's one of the reasons we're studying it."
He did not need anyone to remind him of the mission's purpose. It seemed yet another allusion to his less than perfect memory since the fal-tor-pan ritual on Vulcan, and he unleashed a lecture. "It is never safe to make assumptions, no matter what you may have heard about this or any other planet. If you cannot follow simple landing party procedures, I will recommend to the captain that you not be included on any future away teams."
"Yes, sir!" Lauren bristled. "But may I point out that you were also—as you put it—'wandering around alone on a strange world'."
"I am Vulcan," he reasoned.
From her face, it was obvious that she failed to grasp the important difference between them. Turning on her heel, she strode out of the bar.
Spock stood staring after her for a long moment, his heart pumping hard, his thoughts in turmoil. He had not meant to upset Lauren. He did not understand the impulse that had driven him to treat her so harshly. He was heading outside, one hand on the door latch, when the bartender cried out to him. Pausing, Spock switched on the translator.
"No you go!" the Trigalian repeated, arms flailing. "Pay up! Pay up borag, now!"
Spock fumbled in his pocket for a silver Trigalian glit, then went over and slapped it on the bar before leaving the establishment. At the frigid bite of the wind he hesitated, realizing that he had left his raincoat on the hearth. Steeling himself, he went on. The thick mud pulled at his boots as he searched the darkened streets. Lauren was still out here somewhere—he could sense her nearness through their bond, could sense the pain his thoughtless words had inflicted.
Rounding a dim corner, he glanced inside a lean-to and found Lauren standing in the shelter amid some gardening implements. Spock stepped inside, and the rude walls provided some relief from the wind.
She would not look at him. Sniffling, she wiped a coat sleeve over his face and struggled to control her tears. "Well, Commander," she said in a thick voice, "it seems I'm out 'wandering around' again. Am I up for insubordination?"
As Spock moved nearer, the starlight flooding in from the doorway struck her face, giving it an ethereal beauty. "I should not have spoken so bluntly," he apologized. "I was only concerned for your safety."
"You've been concerned about my safety before, but you never acted like that. I was so happy when the captain chose me for this assignment. I actually thought it would be nice working with you."
"I was also pleased," he said.
She turned and looked at him, the blueness of her eyes made purple by the shadows. "What's wrong, then? You've been behaving strangely."
The accusation disturbed him. Had the others noticed, as well? He was growing more and more aware of that troubling "strangeness" in himself.
Lauren put her hand on his face. It felt very cold, and he shivered as she said, "Spock, I don't understand what's happening."
He shivered again, with a sudden hot chill that made him want to seize hold of his wife and never let her go. His heart ached with love for her fragile humanness. His throat tightened at the thought of watching her grow old and die, and finding himself thrust back into a solitary existence. "Never leave me," he said, and kissed her.
The sweetness of her mouth stirred him to deeper passion, and he crushed her close. Lauren sucked in her breath, surprised, but she did not resist. At this point Spock saw only one possible outcome. Not landing party procedure, but somehow at this moment even the Prime Directive paled in comparison to the more urgent directive of his own needs.
oooo
Lauren was more puzzled than ever. The rushed, furtive encounter in the tool shed was scarcely over when Spock drew back from her and retreated behind his Vulcan mask. It was almost as it he were angry. At her? At himself? It had never happened like this before. Intimate encounters had fit naturally into their lives, with no sense of awkwardness afterward.
Spock escorted her back to the landing party before going his own way—supposedly to fetch his coat from the tavern, but he was gone a long while. Lauren was on the verge of waking the captain when Spock finally returned and settled onto the sleeping mat beside her, eyes closed. She touched his hand and had the distinctly painful feeling that he wanted to pull away. But he didn't. And as she lay there, still touching him, she remembered how unusually hot his body had felt in the shed. Now she was almost certain. He was running a fever.
Her first instinct as a doctor was to turn on a light, grab her medscanner and examine him immediately, but she was also his wife and knew how he disliked that sort of fussing. They had kissed in the shed. What if he was infectious? That could put her in imminent danger. Worried, she drew closer to him and whispered, "You're sick, aren't you?"
He stiffened and pulled away as if she had insulted him. "There is nothing wrong with me," he whispered back, "that I cannot deal with in my own way."
"Then," she pressed, "there is something wrong."
"It is not contagious," he said and turned his back toward her.
oooo
The landing party rose at dawn. Almost before Lauren could rub the sleep from her eyes, Spock was gone. After a brief meal, she and the remaining crewmembers went out into the village. Dovnoska joined up with Hudson and began interviewing the ever-cooperative locals. The captain went off by himself, leaving Lauren in charge of collecting medical data. In the past she had found the whole process of planetary investigation challenging and exciting, but today her mind was elsewhere.
It was past noon when Spock reappeared at the captain's side, tricorder in hand. Lauren briefly considered telling Kirk about the fever, but Spock seemed to be managing well enough. Just a few more hours and she would get the stubborn Vulcan into sickbay. Failing that, she would at least get him to take a rest.
By late afternoon their work was finished and their Trigalian host wandered off for the customary siesta. The landing party talked over their preliminary findings as they gathered their gear in the warm sunshine. Obviously there was poverty here, and rampant ignorance, but the absence of crime in an environment of complete anarchy remained a mystery. Everyone agreed—except for Spock, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet on the subject.
The captain's eyes gleamed with humor as he turned to his first officer. "Well, Spock, what do you make of it? Even your peaceable Vulcan society is established on the solid foundation of government."
Lauren prepared for one of her husband's pithy comebacks; she could think of a couple of good ones, herself. But Spock looked disinterested and even a bit annoyed, as if he would rather not have been bothered.
Rousing himself, he said, "Why ask my opinion? You are in charge here. Surely you can reach your own conclusions regarding this miserable, flea-ridden planet."
Lauren dropped her equipment pack. The entire group went silent.
Kirk stared at the Vulcan, his expression slowly hardening into the look of command. "Mister Spock, we will discuss this later…"
oooo
Spock exited the turbolift in the officers' section and walked beside Lauren to their quarters. With each step he could feel his concentration deteriorating, his mental and physical control slipping away.
Once inside the cabin, Lauren pulled out her medscanner and approached him, her face determined. "Alright, you don't want to go to sickbay. I respect that, but you have to let me run a diagnostic scan. I've already been remiss in my duty as a medical officer. There's always a chance that you picked up something on Trigalia. Maybe from those fleabites."
Spock shook his head. "You know as well as I—the transporter net would have registered the presence of any alien microorganism."
Lauren gave him a probing look. "Spock, why are you resisting me on this?"
He sighed. "Very well, then. Go ahead if you must." While the scanner hummed in his wife's hand, he worked at regulating his physiology. She was standing very near. The floral scent of her perfume seemed unusually intense and provocative.
The humming stopped. Lauren studied the scanner readings and frowned. "All your bodily systems are registering slightly above upper norm. You are running a moderate fever…but I don't detect any sign of infection."
"Environmental stress," Spock said, "can sometimes have such an effect." Distancing himself from her, he began to unpack. "I think my warming suit was not functioning properly."
"You should have said something." Coming up beside him, she took his gear out of his hands. "I'll take care of this. Go get a shower and lie down."
"There is no need for bed rest," he insisted.
"I believe there is," she said firmly. "Now I know you don't want me to call in Doctor McCoy…"
Spock sighed a second time and went into the shower. He hoped Lauren would be gone by the time he finished, but when he came out she was waiting to see him into bed. He lay down to appease her, but stayed only until she left the cabin. There was work to be done. Rising, he put on a robe and downloaded his Trigalian data to the science department, making provisions for additional research and analysis. It was all he could do to keep his thoughts on the simple, routine procedures. As soon as he finished, he returned to bed.
He could no longer ignore what was happening to him. Over the years he had experienced slight flare-ups of this kind, but they had never been very troublesome. Surely this would also go away. In the name of everything he held precious, he had to believe.
As he lay resting, his fevered mind wandered back to the dark tool shed on Trigalia. He had lapsed badly there. He had let the demands of his body overwhelm all sense of proper behavior. And what if Lauren had refused him? Would he have been able to stop? He should have found the memory of that encounter appalling. Instead, he was stirred by it. Cursing aloud, he closed his eyes. With all his remaining strength he worked to center himself in rudimentary Vulcan discipline, and achieved a reassuring degree of success. For a time he was able to sleep.
An attack of chills awakened him. Rising, he threw on his robe and paced, trying to escape the relentless surges of agitation. Moving helped ease the discomfort and calm him. The shaking had almost entirely subsided when the entry chime sounded.
Spock stopped and stared at his cabin door. He did not want to see anyone when his control was this uncertain, but refusing to respond would only arouse more suspicion. Arranging his robe, he said, "Come."
The captain entered and did a little double take. "Aren't you supposed to be in bed?"
Spock repressed a chill and kept silent. As he had hoped, Kirk went on.
"Lauren told me you were a little under the weather." He gave a tight smile. "After that snappy remark you made down there, I figured maybe you were hiding out."
Spock was confused. "Remark, Captain?"
Kirk gave him a skeptical look. "Oh, come on, Spock. You're not going to get off the hook that easily. What you said was completely inappropriate."
With a rising sense of alarm, Spock searched his mind. He did not know what the captain was talking about, but it would hardly be wise to admit that. Finally he said, "Of course, Captain. Inappropriate. You are right."
Kirk studied him through narrowed eyes. "Is something the matter—I mean, aside from a little fever?"
Spock's thin thread of control stretched tight. Sudden anger boiled up, and he found himself saying, "Why does everyone keep questioning me? There is nothing wrong—I only want to be left alone!"
A hush fell over the cabin. Kirk stared at him, then backed off with a pained, bewildered expression. "Sure, Spock…alright. I'll leave."
Spock fought to regain command of his rioting emotions. It was becoming more and more difficult to maintain even a semblance of control. If it should worsen…
He watched the captain turn for the door, and said, "Jim—"
Kirk swung around, his face open and trusting.
Spock recalled that wrenching, shameful occasion years ago when he was forced to reveal personal difficulties of this nature to his friend. It was no easier now. He loathed his Vulcan body for the way it was betraying him, betraying Lauren and their entire future together after only three months of marriage. For the first time in his life, he wished he were entirely human.
"Captain," he began again, but his throat tightened and he felt in imminent danger of breaking down completely. He simply could not say it. "I will rest now," he somehow spoke. Retreating to the bed area, he struggled to hold his tears in check until he heard Kirk leave. But then they overtook him.
oooo
Lauren had not meant to be away from the cabin so long, but she had lingered in the medical department to read up on the causes and effects of fever in Vulcans. It was nearly 1800 hours, ship's time, when she let herself into the first officer's quarters and checked on Spock. She was relieved to find him resting quietly in bed, and did not disturb him. In truth, she was glad that she did not have to deal with him just now. His increasingly erratic behavior was making her nervous. On her way here she had met Kirk in the corridor, and he claimed that Spock had almost shouted at him.
She showered and dressed in casual clothes. Ordering a sandwich from the cabin dispenser, she ate at the computer while going over the backlog of messages. She was viewing a com from her mother when she heard a noise and looked up.
Spock stood just outside the bed alcove, bracing himself a room barrier with one hand. He had put on some clothes, but his face looked flushed and his eyes burned with a fire that she found strangely stimulating. Now why would she be thinking of sex at a time like this? Worried that his fever had worsened, she grabbed her medscanner and headed toward him, but he gestured abruptly with his arm.
"Get that thing away from me," he snapped.
She stopped in her tracks, too stunned for the moment to do anything but return his stare.
"Why do you have on that revealing dress?" he demanded.
It was the last thing she had expected to hear. She glanced down at the Denebian skycloth she was wearing. Her taste was quite conservative—by no stretch of the imagination could such a dress be considered too immodest for a husband's eyes. "I…thought you liked it," she said, her heart slamming. She knew for a fact that he did like it. Why was he acting as if he didn't?
Strange emanations were coming at her through their bond, but they had been joined such a short time. Was she reading him or reading her own emotions? Now, her continuing research on Vulcan plakir-fee led her to a deeply troubling thought. Could Spock be suffering a relapse? Was such a thing even possible?
In its initial stage, plakir-fee attacked the brain. True, Spock's body had been rejuvenated on Genesis, but what did anyone really know about that process? Spock had been poked and probed by the best medical minds on Vulcan, and in Starfleet, and they all agreed that genetically his present body was identical to the one that had died. Even the blood Lauren used for her research still contained traces of antibodies from the disease that nearly killed him. Had some undetected element of plakir-fee also been left behind?
When he spoke again, it was with a deliberate gentleness that seemed to cost him a great deal. "Lauren…aisha…I must ask you to leave the cabin. I need to be…by myself."
The words tore at her heart. "You need to be in sickbay."
"No," he said emphatically. "You must do as I say. You must go."His eyes flamed hotter and he was shaking with chills. Lauren stood rooted to the spot, the doctor in her struggling against a very unprofessional fear. Barely pulling herself together, she turned and reached for the intercom. In a flash her arm was in his viselike grip. She gasped.
With tears in his eyes, he released her. "Leave," he demanded, his voice breaking. "Don't you hear me? Get the hell out of here!"
oooo
Spock watched the door close behind his wife. Bending over, he clutched the edge of the desktop and fought for self-mastery. His body trembled; he forced it to be still. But once more the shuddering surged up beyond his ability to control, and he cried out in frustration. He was losing Lauren. He was losing himself. He could not let her see him descend into an animal. He could not inflict himself on her in this state.
With a fierce effort he sat down at the computer, where he voided Lauren's cabin clearance and double-locked the door. That would keep her out. But when his survival instinct became fully engaged, he knew he would do anything to reach her.
oooo
Still dressed in Denebian skycloth, Lauren tore through the Enterprise looking for Doctor McCoy. Though her garb attracted stares, she did not want to use the intercom system. She did not want to risk anyone overhearing the call, and she was not sure her voice was even steady enough to function. She tried McCoy's quarters, sickbay, and the officer's mess. Someone had seen him on the observation deck, and there he was, off by himself, gazing at the stars beyond the wide steelglass windows.
He heard her coming and turned around. His eyes widened. "Laurie," he smiled, but one good look at her face, and his smile faded. "Lord, woman, you look like you've seen a ghost."
"It's Spock," she blurted. "Something's wrong with him—you have to come. I…I think he's going insane." She was acutely aware that the abrupt accusation made her sound crazy. Maybe she was. At this point she was no longer sure of anything.
McCoy grasped her by the shoulders. "Whoa now, hold on, calm down a little." Guiding her to a couch, he sat her down beside him. "Now, what's this all about?"
Lauren quickly recounted the tale of Spock's unpredictable behavior and her fear that he was suffering a relapse. "He won't let me near enough to examine him. In fact, he threw me out. I'm sorry, I know I'm not handling this very well, but you've got to believe me."
She knew that McCoy respected her as a doctor. She could tell by the solicitous look on his face that he was taking her seriously. But she was not prepared for his embarrassing question.
"Has he displayed any…sexual behavior…that you'd call…unusual?"
She had deliberately left that part out. "Yes," she now admitted with a blush. "Why?"
He rose immediately and they headed for Spock's quarters. When the door no longer opened at Lauren's touch, fresh fear tingled down her spine. "Now he's locked me out!" Engaging the entry speaker, she said, "Spock, open the door!"
An officer passed by, eyeing them. Lauren and McCoy did their best to look casual, as if appearances still mattered at this point. Then McCoy met Lauren's eyes and his jaw set. Pressing the speaker button, he said, "Spock, it's Doctor McCoy. Now, I don't know what's going on here, but unless you open this door right now, I will call Security and have them tear it down."
The silence stretched. Suddenly Spock's voice came over the speaker. "Hold on," he said, sounding more than a little annoyed.
A moment later the door hissed open, revealing an interior as dusky and hot as a Vulcan cave. Spock hung back in the shadows, poised like some flesh-eating night predator about to attack. His eyes bored into Lauren, and she felt as if her heart were tearing out of her chest.
"I'm coming in," McCoy said and took a step.
oooo
Spock had known this moment of truth was coming, and the portion of him that still clung to rationality even welcomed it. He was tiring of the constant struggle to maintain control. Now that McCoy was here, impenetrable walls and force fields would replace the disintegrating chains of self-discipline. Soon he could let himself sink into complete madness, knowing Lauren and his shipmates would be safe.
The door closed, shutting off his view of Lauren. He felt as if he were on fire. Tearing off his shirt, he threw it to the floor as he walked over to the unmade bed and collapsed on it. He heard McCoy following him, and curled away from the doctor's intrusive presence.
Abruptly the cabin lights brightened.
Spock threw his arm over his face. "Turn it off! It bothers my eyes."
"Sorry," McCoy said in a careful tone. "I have to see what I'm doing here."
A medscanner hummed over Spock's prone form. He grit his teeth. "Save yourself the trouble, Doctor. I already know what is the matter."
"This will only take a moment," McCoy said.
The humming stopped. Certain of what the readings had revealed, Spock burned with shame.
"So…" Pain and compassion mingled in McCoy's voice. "It's happened."
Spock saw no reason to acknowledge what they both already knew.
"Spock, is this the first time since—"
Spock broke in. "Over the years…there have been…minor difficulties."
"Is this what you would consider a 'minor difficulty'?"
Breathing heavily now, Spock rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.
"Spock, you're scaring Lauren half to death."
"Don't you think I know that?" he flared.
McCoy hesitated. "Correct me if I'm wrong…but Lauren is your wife. Shouldn't she be in here, helping you through this?"
Spock lunged partway up and confronted McCoy. Liquid fire coursed through his veins, just knowing that his bondmate was as near as the corridor. He was falling deeper into the blood fever called plak-tow. It would have taken very little stimulus for him to drag Lauren into the cabin. He had almost reached the point where he would see her as nothing more than an object of crude physical satisfaction. He did not even want to consider what might lie beyond that point. "The brig will hold me. Doctor, you must put me away—for her sake, for the sake of everyone aboard this ship."
McCoy touched him, fingers cold as ice on the fevered skin of his shoulder. "Spock. You're asking me to let you die."
Spock slumped back on the bed and shuddered in agony. "You cannot let her know. You cannot let her come to me—like this. You know what I would do to her. Surely you remember Ensign Weller."
"That wasn't your fault!" McCoy fairly shouted. "The Symbiant forced you—forced Jim and me, too. C'mon man, you're not thinking rationally."
"My point exactly," Spock countered tiredly. "I am no longer rational. Doctor, I am pleading with you. Do not let her know."
McCoy shook his head. "Then what the hell do you expect me to tell her?"
"You are human," Spock said. "Lie. Tell her anything, but put me away. There is little time left. Lock me away now."
oooo
Lauren jumped at McCoy as he exited the cabin. The doctor looked as if he had just taken a tour of hell. "What did you find out? Did you get a good look at him?"
"Yes," McCoy said quietly, "I did a scan."
"And?"
McCoy slowly walked to the turbolift. "It's not plakir-fee."
The news did little to relieve Lauren's worry. The grim set of McCoy's face made it abundantly clear that Spock's condition was serious. "What then?" she demanded. "Tell me what's wrong."
The lift doors opened. "In here," McCoy said, and she followed.
"Doctor," she pressed.
McCoy faced her. Gently taking hold of her hands, he said, "Laurie, Spock is…your husband is…experiencing a state of mental and physical crisis peculiar to Vulcan males. It's…perfectly natural. Unfortunately, it is also quite dangerous."
Blood rushed in Lauren's ears. She could barely hear herself think, but nevertheless, the thoughts moved insidiously. "Dangerous. To him…or to me?"
"To both of you."
Looking aside, she desperately searched along the bond connecting her to her husband. It seemed she could feel him wanting her, resisting her, blocking her with a stubborn prideful strength that was fast failing. "The pon farr. He…thought it wouldn't happen. Not like this."
McCoy nodded. "I wanted to give you a little chance to think things through before I tell the captain."
"Jim?" Lauren fought for composure. "Does he have to know?"
McCoy looked as if he was not happy with the idea, either. "Spock is the executive officer aboard this vessel. Yes, Laurie, I'm sorry. The captain has to know."
oooo
For privacy's sake the windows of Doctor McCoy's office had been opaqued, but even so, Lauren found the briefing acutely embarrassing. Sitting there in clingy skycloth was bad enough, but this "case" was a personal matter between her and her husband. She belonged with Spock, not here. But McCoy insisted they first air the whole business in front of the captain.
Kirk took the news very quietly. Frowning, he sat back in his chair. McCoy scarcely gave him a glance and went on talking as if Kirk was not present. Even in her stressed state, Lauren could not help but notice McCoy's behavior, but she had no energy to waste wondering about the strain between those two.
At last Kirk leaned forward and said, "Are you sure?"
McCoy eyed him coldly. "Think I would have called you in here if I wasn't? As captain, you have a need to know."
Kirk's temper flared. "As his friend I have a need to know!" With a visible effort he brought himself back under control. "How bad is it?"
"It's the real thing—worse even than the first Time."
"I don't understand," Kirk said. "The night before the wedding he told me he'd never been bothered by it since—" He stopped short and glanced at Lauren.
"I know about T'Pring." Rising, she began to pace. "It's been years and years. Spock thought it would never happen again."
"It must have been the marriage," McCoy conjectured, "and the bonding process that followed. All that must have triggered some hormonal response—it was long overdue."
Lauren stood still and forced her voice steady. "What he's experiencing is a natural process. I'm his bondmate, so there shouldn't be any problem."
McCoy spread his hands on his desktop and looked down at them. "Maybe. But right now he doesn't want you there. He's made that abundantly clear—to both of us."
"I don't care what he says!"
McCoy's eyes rose up and met hers. "Laurie, I'm not sure you understand. I meant it when I told you this is dangerous. Why, in the state he's in, with his Vulcan strength—" His voice faltered. "Back there…in the cabin…he mentioned Reesa Weller."
"Weller!" Oh, now she was good and angry. "Just the sort of thing he'd bring up. Have you forgotten? He could have killed me then, too. But he didn't…because his feelings for me overpowered the Symbiant's demands. Doctor, I've dealt with Spock in dangerous states before. I'm going to him. Right now."
"Doctor Fielding," Kirk said in the tone of command.
McCoy shot him an ungrateful glance before turning his attention back on Lauren. "I'm not going to put this delicately. If Spock's condition continues to deteriorate, he will not respond to any kind of reason. At the very least, he will rape you and he will hurt you. Guaranteed."
Lauren swallowed hard. Yes, she had enough sense to be afraid, but she dared not let it stop her. "Without me he'll die. How can I let that happen? How could I go on living?"
McCoy rose up and confronted her. "I want Spock to live just as much as you do. But do you really understand what it'll take to try and save him? Not minutes, not hours. I'm talking about days, Laurie—and even then there's no guarantee it will work. After all, you're not Vulcan. You're not even half Vulcan."
"Neither is Spock's mother," she shot back, "and the last I saw of Amanda and Sarek, they seemed to be doing nicely."
McCoy sighed. "You've got me there. Alright, I suppose it's your decision."
"It always was," Lauren said quietly.