A/N: When a shuttle carrying Spock and McCoy crashes on a hostile world, things don't look good for them. Can the Enterprise find them in time?
This is a continuation of my chapter from 'Moments' called 'Trek Tech,' and is dedicated to all of you who asked me "what happens next?" This was a story that had never occurred to me, but fits snugly within my own canon. Thank you all for drawing this out of me.
This fits into the 'Learning Curve' arc and falls between 'The Ties That Bind' and 'Six Degrees of Separation.'
Into the Lion's Den
Damn! He'd been so excited that, for once, he wouldn't have to have his atoms scattered to the four winds and then reassembled in what he hoped was a reasonable facsimile of his former self. For this landing party duty it had been determined that they'd need to take a shuttlecraft. An unknown inert gas in the planet's atmosphere simply reflected the transporter beams, effectively rendering the device useless.
At least, he had been thrilled until thirty seconds ago. Not a pilot and totally unfamiliar with the techniques for navigating a small craft, the screech of alarms had first alerted him to the fact that there was a problem. That, combined with the sudden change in pitch, had nearly caused him to lose his seat, not to mention his lunch.
"What the hell's wrong with this boat?" he had bellowed, but the question was lost in the deafening roar as the craft's navigation console exploded in a shower of sparks. Only the Vulcan managed to remain in his seat at the helm as his co-pilot was tossed aside like so much flotsam and jetsam.
"Brace for impact!" were the last words he heard before the world went dark.
oooOOOooo
He couldn't breathe. Pushing himself to an upright position he tried to clamber to his feet but a sharp pain in his right leg brought a halt to that notion. He squinted, trying to see something – anything – through the thick, black smoke filling the confined space.
"Spock?" he called, the word ending in a paroxysm of coughing. He tried again. "Andreyo? Knowles? Chowdiah? Is anyone there?"
"I am here, Doctor," a voiced rasped. It belonged to the first officer. He heard footsteps approaching; felt a heavy weight lifted off his leg. Strong hands seized him under the armpits; tugged him to his feet.
"No," he argued, trying to shrug off the support. "Help the others first."
"I have already retrieved the other members of the crew. You are the last," Spock assured him, one arm looped about the doctor's waist as they made for the door to the tiny craft. "We must hurry," the Vulcan urged, steering him toward the bright ray of light cleaving through the darkness. He leaned heavily on the Vulcan, holding up the injured leg and hobbling on the other.
Spock helped him through the damaged exit, supported him as they beat as hasty a retreat as they could muster from the twisted wreckage of their vessel. They collapsed among the remainder of the crew, stretched out thirty meters from the craft as it burst into flames, burning bits of plastic and fabric raining down from above.
Instinct took over as McCoy's eyes and gentle hands began roaming over the other three injured crewmen. Sadly, Lieutenant Andreyo was already dead. He had been sitting in the co-pilot's seat. Severe burns and lacerations covered a good portion of his body. McCoy felt for a carotid pulse; found none.
Closing the lifeless eyes, he switched his focus to Yeoman Chowdiah. She had been sitting directly behind Andreyo and while her external burns weren't as severe as his had been, her labored breathing and the dark streaks around her mouth and nose attested to the fact that she had inhaled a good portion of the toxic smoke given off when the instrument panel blew up.
He swatted at his hip; was distressed to discover that his medikit was no longer there. "Spock, do we have any medical supplies?" he asked, glancing over at the Vulcan. Spock was bent over the third injured crewman, Ensign Knowles from security. The first officer had removed his blue uniform shirt and was pressing the wadded-up article of clothing into a deep abdominal wound in an effort to keep the man from exsanguinating. McCoy did his best to keep his features neutral as Spock turned his head, meeting the doctor's eyes. He noticed the same tell-tale black smudges on the first officer's face; only now became aware of the harsh wheeze that accompanied each breath drawn by the Vulcan. McCoy quickly assessed his own lungs. They hurt when he breathed, but not terribly so. He'd been seated behind Spock, nearest to the door. He'd been on the floor while unconscious – the best place to be to avoid the destructive smoke, and a good bit of the fumes must have cleared when the Vulcan opened the hatch. He'd been lucky.
Spock's voice returned his focus to the present. "Negative. My goal was to remove all personnel first. Once the craft became engulfed in flames they prevented me from retrieving any additional items."
"She's suffering from chemical burns to her lungs," McCoy announced, his gaze flicking briefly to the injured woman before returning to Spock. "There's nothing I can do for her without medication. And it's not like we can use a tourniquet to control Knowles' bleeding." McCoy chewed his lip in consternation. "Do you have a communicator?" he asked at last. "Is there any chance we can contact the ship?"
"Negative," came the defeated reply.
"Can't they beam us up? Surely they'll be looking for us?"
"As the transporter was unable to penetrate the atmosphere in order for us to beam down, it is only logical to assume that the reverse is also true – that the ship would be unable to lock onto us and beam us aboard," the first officer supplied, his voice weak, the words forced out in an unnatural cadence.
"Then surely they're searching for us. Once we lost contact with the ship Jim would've immediately mounted a rescue mission."
"Protocol would dictate ruling out a catastrophic failure of the comms system before initiating a rescue, but more to the point, we were seventy-five point two kilometers off course. The atmosphere reflected our scans from the Enterprise as well, hence the need to assess the surface visually," the Vulcan responded in a hoarse whisper. "They will not be able to use the ship's scanners to locate us."
"But once the shuttles get below the upper levels of the atmosphere they can scan for us, right?"
"The scanners were functioning on our shuttle. The hindrance will be that initially they will be scanning in the wrong location. It will be necessary to initiate a search pattern, beginning from the coordinates where we intended to touch down and radiating outward in ever-increasing concentric circles. Even if the captain dispatched a search party at the moment communications were lost, at best, I estimate it will take the rescuers one point seven hours to locate us."
"Then these people aren't gonna make it, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it," McCoy stated grimly.
"So it would seem," the Vulcan replied quietly, intent on his efforts to staunch the flow of blood from Knowles.
McCoy let fly a forceful string of invective. He turned his attention back to the young woman. She was semi-conscious now and obviously in pain. He grasped her hand, gently caressing her cheek with the other.
"It's okay, Yeoman," he soothed, his tone the polar opposite of moments before. "We're here with you. You'll be fine," he assured her, all the while knowing it wasn't true.
"Doctor, I can't breathe. Help me, please," she pleaded.
McCoy felt tears prick his eyes. What he wouldn't give for one functioning hypo, or to feel the familiar tingle of the transporter, despite his widely-known distaste for the device. He squeezed her hand tenderly. "I know. Here, let me give you something to help with that," he said. Hurriedly his eyes scoured the ground beside him, settling on a small stick. He grasped it, pressing the end to her arm, knowing she couldn't see what was in his hand. "This is a powerful bronchodilator," he informed her. "It'll take a few minutes to start working, so you just relax and let the medicine do its job."
She nodded, closing her eyes. McCoy watched in awe as her distress seemed to ease somewhat. Her grip on his hand relaxed ever-so-slightly. Who says there's nothing to the placebo effect, he mused silently, but will it be enough to get her through till they find us? he fretted. He was snapped out of these thoughts by a thud. Glancing over his shoulder he saw that Spock had collapsed.
"Yeoman," he said, gently extricating his hand from hers, "I have to check on Ensign Knowles and Mister Spock. I'll be right back, okay?"
"Okay, sir," she whispered, eyes still squeezed shut.
He dragged himself over to where Spock lay crumpled beside Knowles. It was then that he noticed the waxen pallor to the Vulcan's skin, his breathing rapid and shallow, a green stain spreading down the first officer's arm and chest from a jagged laceration now visible through a rent in the black fabric at his shoulder. McCoy peeled off his tunic, tearing a strip of cloth from the bottom and bandaging the injury as best he could. When he was finished he glanced at Knowles. The abdominal wound still oozed intermittently, but the chest no longer rose and fell. He was gone.
Oh God, the doctor breathed silently. Please let me find a way to help them. Don't let anyone else die on my watch. A strangled cry erupted from Chowdiah, rousing McCoy from his momentary despair. She was choking; drowning in fluid. He dragged himself back to her, ignoring the pain in his leg. He rolled her onto her side, but after one hitched breath she drew no more. The damage to her lungs had been too severe.
Damn it! He cursed silently. If only I had the proper equipment I could have saved her. Sliding back over to the Vulcan he eased the man onto his back; drew the dark head into his lap. The first officer's breath was now coming in harsh, irregular gasps. Blood had already soaked through the makeshift bandage on his shoulder. McCoy added the pressure of his hand to the saturated dressing. "Don't you dare die on me, too you green-blooded son of a bitch," the doctor railed angrily, glancing skyward. He strained his ears to catch even the slightest sound of engines. As much as he was generally at odds with technology, at present it represented his only hope.
Seeing and hearing nothing, he dropped his eyes to the Vulcan again, trying mightily to swallow his fear. "Don't leave me here alone," he choked out, surveying the barren landscape before him. It would be dark within the hour. The air temperature was already beginning to drop. I have to find some way to keep him warm if I want any hope of keeping him alive. He looked to the burning hulk of the shuttlecraft. It had to be throwing off a considerable amount of heat; however he couldn't even stand, let alone carry Spock over to it. Besides, what if the thing exploded? It would be in their best interest to be as far away from it as possible in that eventuality.
He sought another solution. Numerous pieces of flaming wreckage lay scattered about the vessel, but how to get them? His right leg was essentially useless. Judging by the pain, he suspected the lower portion of his tibia was fractured. He could drag himself over to the craft and retrieve a smoldering bit of debris, but then he'd need to find a source of fuel to keep the fire going. It would also mean a considerable amount of time away from Spock. Direct pressure on the wound was working—blood was no longer dripping liberally between his fingers—but would that be the case if the pressure was removed?
"Spock, can you hear me?" the doctor asked, shaking the slim form slightly.
No response.
The Vulcan was still breathing, but only just. "Spock, there's nothing I can do for you without my equipment," McCoy admitted miserably, "and we're in a bit of a pickle. It's starting to get cold, and if I don't find a way to keep us warm there won't be anyone left to rescue when the search party gets here. We've already lost the rest of the crew and I'll be damned if I'm gonna lose you, too. Don't worry about me—I'm fine," he lied, "just a sprained knee, but you've gotta help me. Your lungs are a mess and you're bleeding, Spock. You've already soaked through one bandage. If I don't keep pressure on the wound you'll bleed out. If you can hear me, you'll have to put yourself into a healing trance, or at least do that trick you did on Beta Arcida IV to keep your bleeding in check after the giant ants sliced open your back."* He knew Spock had refused to use the Vulcan form of self-healing on Uriman V when he thought Kirk's life was still in danger, and the first officer had nearly died because of it.** It was imperative that McCoy convince him that was not the case now. "Once I know you're all right I can concentrate on making us a fire. At least that will give us a fighting chance to survive until help arrives."
He watched the Vulcan's face carefully but couldn't tell if his words had been heard or understood. For the moment there was no change in Spock's breathing, and he was reluctant to remove his hand from the first officer's wound lest it start to bleed in earnest again.
He shifted his focus to the problem at hand. If the Vulcan had been right—had he ever been wrong about such a thing?—their rescuers would not arrive for close to two hours, perhaps longer. He needed a plan of action, and needed it fast. His eyes skimmed over the terrain before him. They were in a harsh, arid region littered with rocks and small boulders. Sparse, stunted vegetation dotted the parched red dirt, including a large number of twisted tangles of vine-like plants which seemed to be sprouting from the ground like grotesque, shrunken heads. Spherical in shape, more than anything they resembled the tumbleweeds of North America's plains. Much denser and more compact, they ranged in size from a grapefruit to twice that of a large coconut. Some were sprinkled with a smattering of tiny, yellow foliage, giving the appearance of thinning, short blond hair; others were bare and brittle; shriveled-looking, as if they'd been left to bake in the sun without relief for weeks on end. He suspected the latter ones would burn, but for how long?
He looked at Spock again. The Vulcan's breathing seemed to have improved infinitesimally. Carefully he removed his hand from the shoulder wound. He waited a minute or so, but no fresh blood leaked out from the bandage.
Well, that's a good sign. Maybe he listened to me for once. Gently sliding the dark head off of his lap the doctor leaned across to Knowles' body, retrieving the remnants of the tunic he, McCoy, had dropped. He added another layer to the bandage, spreading out what was left of his uniform top over the Vulcan's torso. Hopefully it would serve to keep the encroaching chill off the first officer until he was able to find an alternate heat source.
Resolutely he began crawling toward the nearest bit of dried-out vegetation. I'll need to get fuel first, he reasoned. No sense in bringing over a burning ember from the shuttlecraft without a way to keep it going. Upon reaching the plant he tugged mightily. It came free of the dry soil—roots and all—with almost no effort. It was heavier than he anticipated; a good sign that it would burn for longer than a few minutes. The misshapen branches were covered with a thin, stringy bark that peeled off easily. It would make excellent kindling. Satisfied, he moved off to gather more and started back toward Spock when he had amassed half a dozen, rolling the circular growths along before him.
Collecting some of the numerous rocks strewn about the area he made a ring a meter or so from the Vulcan, depositing the 'tumblerunts,' as he was now calling them, inside the enclosed space and setting off to gather more. When he had two dozen he paused momentarily to check on his remaining patient. There was no fresh blood on the new layer of bandage, and while Spock's breath still rattled in and out of him like a stiff autumn breeze blowing through long, dry grass, at least he was no longer gasping for air like a fish out of water.
Brushing a hand across his forehead, McCoy wiped away the beads of sweat that had accumulated there. His leg was throbbing. He looked to the remains of the shuttle, thirty meters distant. It would be a long, arduous crawl, and his lungs were beginning to ache from the previous exertion. It seemed he had inhaled more of the acrid smoke than he'd initially thought. There's nothing else for it, he admonished himself. Without a fire he surely won't make it. He began the long, slow journey, sliding along on his elbows and pushing with his good leg, dragging the useless one behind him.
Ten long minutes later he hobbled back, maneuvering a smoldering bit of plastic on the ground before him. A scavenged piece of the wreckage served both as a crutch and a means to move his prize over the dusty ground without burning himself. He lowered himself gingerly to the ground next to the fire pit, his bad leg stretched out before him like a narwhal's tusk. He removed the tumblerunts and positioned the glowing debris within. Stripping off thin slivers of bark from one of the plants he sprinkled them over the ember, small handful by small handful, blowing gently on the growing pile after each addition until finally it burst into flame. He added fuel, one dried tumblerunt at a time, until he had a warm, steady blaze going.
He sat back and surveyed his handiwork. At least I haven't lost my touch. It had been many years since he'd been camping, and more than a few had passed since the survival course at the Academy. The closest thing had been that week he and Spock had been stranded on Beta Arcida IV. But while fire had been their lifeline then, too, the responsibility for starting them had fallen mostly to Spock. Plus, they'd had state of the art ignition devices at their disposal; hadn't had to rely on their survival skills—or lack thereof. Even though he was out of practice, he'd gotten this one going in record time. Luck seemed to be on their side now, even if it hadn't been earlier; if it would just stick with them for a little while longer.
He glanced skyward. It had gotten considerably darker. That would mask the smoke from his small fire as well as the steady column rising from the wrecked spacecraft. I sure hope Spock was right and that the scanners on the shuttles will work. Otherwise finding us will be like zeroing in on a miniscule comet from among the billions present in the Oort cloud. He checked the Vulcan once again. Spock's breathing was about the same—no longer in immediate danger but far from normal. However, he did notice the occasional shiver ripple across the lean form, timed to the gusts of intemperate wind that swept indiscriminately across their crash site. I guess Vulcan voodoo can't cure everything, much as Spock likes to flaunt that he's superior to us mere humans in every way. He's still cold though, and so am I. The fact that both men were only wearing their regulation black undershirts didn't help matters any. Lying down on his back next to the Vulcan, McCoy pressed himself to the first officer's side. Might as well conserve and share our body heat. With nothing else left to do, he once again scoured the heavens for a glimpse of a ship. C'mon, Jim, we're counting on you. After several minutes he couldn't keep his eyes from closing due to sheer exhaustion. Nonetheless he kept listening for the sounds of an approaching vessel, but gradually that faded away, too as the adrenaline rush wore off and fatigue finally overwhelmed him.
oooOOOooo
Something touched him. He started awake, reaching for his makeshift crutch, prepared to defend the Vulcan with all the strength he could muster. Instead he found himself staring into the worried eyes of his CO. He thrust himself up on both elbows, cracking a wide smile. "Jim! You're a sight for sore eyes."
"Bones, are you all right?"
Kirk helped him to a seated position; draped a warm blanket about his shoulders. The doctor tugged it close, grateful for the respite from the bone-chilling cold. "I'm fine; just a broken leg. How's Spock? He's the one you should be worried about," McCoy said, panic seizing him when he realized the Vulcan was no longer beside him.
Kirk's expression melted into one of profound relief. "He's unconscious, but alive. Security's got him. They're taking him to the shuttle."
"That might be my fault, Jim—I pretty much gave him an ultimatum; told him to enter a healing trance or else. He was suffering from smoke inhalation, and I had no medicine or equipment to help him. I was afraid those desert-bred lungs of his would simply give out if he didn't."
"Well, that may have saved his life," Kirk announced with certainty.
And just how the hell would he know that? McCoy wondered. Before he had time to consider the remark the captain took charge of the current situation.
"Here, let me help you," the CO said, grasping the doctor about the waist as McCoy struggled to clamber to his feet. "Lean on me," Kirk instructed, supporting the surgeon and steering him toward the open hatch of the shuttlecraft.
"No, wait." McCoy stopped, gripping his CO's upper arms for support, both physical and emotional. "The others are here, too, Jim." He swallowed reflexively. "They didn't make it," he said in a tremulous voice.
"I know, Bones," the captain admitted softly, his words thick and heavy, like mud in a Louisiana bayou. "Security's getting them, too. C'mon, let's get you inside—you're freezing," Kirk added gently, once more heading for the little ship.
Once they reached the vessel strong arms pulled the doctor up from within as Kirk steadied him from below. Soon he was out of the biting wind; carefully settled into a padded chair. The captain was a step behind him. A comforting hand skimmed across McCoy's back as the CO slipped past, making for the rear of the craft.
McCoy reached out, grasped Kirk's forearm. The captain stopped, his single-minded determination interrupted for the time being. He tried to reassure McCoy: "It's okay, Bones, we're heading back to the ship now. I'm just going to check on Spock."
The doctor climbed shakily to his feet, the foot on his bad leg hovering just above the floor. One hand rested on the back of the chair, providing much-needed support. The other was latched onto the blanket, securing it about him. "Then help me get back there. I might be able to do something for him."
"You shouldn't be moving around on that bum leg," the captain supplied hesitantly, at first dropping his eyes to the floor and then slowly meeting the doctor's gaze. McCoy could only stare mutely. Something was very wrong. Why didn't Jim want him to monitor Spock? He had expected the captain to insist on it. "Besides," Kirk continued, "we'll be back on board the Enterprise in just a few minutes. M'Benga and Chapel are waiting for us. They'll take care of Spock."
"Jim," McCoy ground out. His voice was hard, steely. "I just want to make sure he's stable. Don't you want to know how he's doing, because I sure as hell do," the doctor argued. He observed the captain closely.
Kirk opened his mouth to protest, but quickly closed it again. "All right, Doctor, if you insist." An unexplained moment of apprehension flickered briefly in Kirk's eyes. The captain offered an arm to his CMO. McCoy grasped it readily as the two headed for the aft compartment.
Security had settled Spock on the floor, covering him with a thick blanket as well. The two guards headed for the door as the two senior officers entered the confined space. The Vulcan's lungs were still working overtime to draw in enough air. Kirk eased McCoy to a seated position beside the first officer. The captain then disappeared, returning momentarily with a spare medikit which he handed to the CMO. The doctor tugged it open; retrieved the scanner which he ran over the prone form. "As I suspected, his lung function is down to about forty percent, but his shoulder wound has stopped bleeding."
He looked to Kirk as a shadow passed over the captain's face. "Will he live?" the CO wanted to know.
"I'm confident of that," McCoy answered immediately, dialing up a dose of Tri-ox and pressing the hypo to Spock's arm. "The shot I just gave him will keep his blood oxygenated until we get back to the ship. He'll need six hours or so on a vent with some tetratromium bromide, but between that and his uncanny ability to heal, we should be able to reverse the damage."
Kirk nodded his head, a sigh of relief escaping compressed lips. "Thanks, Bones." The captain reached out a hand; smoothed down the blanket on his first's chest.
"Thank you, Jim. We'd both be goners if you hadn't found us so quickly."
Kirk lifted the hand to McCoy's shoulder; squeezed gently. Their eyes met.
They were interrupted as one of the security guards popped his head around the corner. "Sir, we're preparing to enter the hangar bay."
"Okay, thank you, Ensign. I'll be right there." He turned to McCoy. "Take care of him, Bones," the captain instructed, climbing to his feet and heading to the forward compartment. Now that's more like it McCoy thought to himself, turning his attention to his patient. But that lingering feeling of unease simply refused to die.
oooOOOooo
When the hatch to the shuttlecraft opened, M'Benga and Chapel were waiting with a medical team and two gurneys in tow. The injured men were quickly transferred to the wheeled beds, McCoy explaining Spock's condition and the medications he had already administered to M'Benga while en route to sickbay. Once they arrived, M'Benga began barking orders: "Corpsman, take Doctor McCoy into the other room and get him settled into a bed. Get the portable bone knitter and have it ready to go. I'll be over to deal with his leg as soon as we're done with Mister Spock. Nurse Chapel, you're with me. Set up the ventilator and program it to deliver 60mLs of tetratromium bromide per hour—" was the last bit McCoy heard as he was whisked into the main ward of sickbay.
He could hear muffled voices from the other room—sometimes M'Benga, sometimes Chapel and even once or twice the low, questioning voice of Kirk—but couldn't make out what was being said. He seethed at his current state of inadequacy; he should be helping, doing something. And yet, M'Benga had interned in a Vulcan ward. McCoy knew without a doubt that Spock couldn't be in better hands.
He even toyed with the idea of asking one of the junior nurses who were setting up the bone knitter to have the captain come over and fill him in, but he was reluctant to do so. Despite Jim's unexplained behavior on the shuttle, he knew his CO was worried about the Vulcan—worried about both of his friends, in fact—but Spock's prognosis was still touch-and-go, at least as far as Kirk knew. Best to let Jim find out the status of his second-in-command first. McCoy knew the captain would be over to see him as soon as Kirk knew that Spock was out of danger.
As if on cue, or inexplicably privy to his CMO's thoughts, Kirk strode around the corner, pulled up a chair and settled it next to McCoy's bed. "M'Benga says he'll make a full recovery. His assessment was the same as yours—six hours or so on a vent with medication will repair the damage to Spock's lungs." A wry grin broke over Kirk's face like the slow rising of a full moon. "Just thought you might like to know, Doctor."
The grin told McCoy much more than the words ever could. He found he was able to breathe again. He cleared his throat; tried to cover his own relief. "Seriously, Jim, the lengths that man will go to to be excused from duty," he groused in his best cynical voice, gesturing toward the other room.
McCoy's half-hearted attempt at disinformation didn't fool Kirk in the least. "Yeah, I'm pleased to know that he's going to be okay, too." A beat. "And it seems he did follow your advice. M'Benga said he sees every indication that Spock entered a healing trance…he also said Spock wouldn't have made it if he hadn't, or if you hadn't had the foresight to build that fire and keep him warm." Kirk rested a hand on the doctor's forearm. "You did well, Bones."
McCoy looked away at that; closed his eyes against the image of Chowdiah's terrified face. "But not good enough. Three people still died on my watch."
"You can't beat yourself up for that. I have no doubt you did everything in your power to help them, too."
McCoy harrumphed loudly. "That's the point—there wasn't a damn thing I could do. No equipment, no medicine. Hell, I couldn't even walk!"
"And yet you were able to gather wood, start a fire, and save Spock. To me, that doesn't sound like a man who did nothing. To me it sounds like a man who did everything he could, given the circumstances."
Before the CMO could respond M'Benga entered the room, coming to a stop beside McCoy's bed. "Mister Spock should make a full recovery, Leonard. That was quick thinking to get him to enter a healing trance and starting that fire. You most surely saved his life."
Out of the corner of his eye, McCoy noticed that Kirk was wearing a smug I-told-you-so look.
The CMO focused his full attention on M'Benga again. "—so we're going to keep him on the vent for another four hours, check his progress and then make a determination as to when to take him off of it." He turned to Kirk. "And now, sir if you'll excuse us I'd like to set Doctor McCoy's leg and possibly get him on a vent for an hour or so—his lungs weren't damaged nearly as bad as Mister Spock's, but he's suffering from the residual effects of smoke inhalation as well."
Kirk took the hint. "I've got to get to the bridge, anyway. I'll be back to check on you and Spock at the end of shift, Bones." And with that he was gone.
oooOOOooo
He awoke to the soft clicks and trills of equipment. He was breathing on his own now—M'Benga had said he would only need seventy-five minutes on the ventilator—and his leg was mercifully pain-free for the first time in hours. Glancing down, he saw that his right leg was strapped into place on the bed, the bone knitter hard at work over the lower third. He looked across the room. Spock was in the biobed along the far wall, a small ventilator mask still over his mouth and nose. McCoy watched the narrow chest rise and fall with a measure of satisfaction, the rhythm smooth, easy, evocative of a restful sleep.
A soft voice to his right nearly caused him to jump out of his skin. "Welcome back, Doctor," Chapel said, coming to stand at the side of his bed. "Your lungs are completely healed and your leg will be, too in another three hours."
"Christine," he breathed, gesturing toward the other bed with his chin, "how's Spock?"
Her eyes flicked across the room for a moment. "He's making excellent progress, considering the extensive insult to his lungs. Between the medication we're delivering via the vent and the healing trance, he should be well enough to breathe on his own in another hour and a half."
"Well, at least he made it," McCoy said softly, licking his lips and looking away. He couldn't help but think of the other three crewmen who hadn't been so lucky.
"About that," Chapel said, resting a hand on his shoulder, "I know how you are about losing people—you tend to take it personally. I just want you to know that Doctor M'Benga did autopsies on the other three and given what you had to work with, none of them had a chance. Andreyo's neck was broken, Chowdiah's lungs were so bad it's doubtful she would have survived even with immediate treatment, and Knowles' liver was basically severed in half. No amount of direct pressure would have kept him alive.
"Mister Spock's fate was up in the air as well, and he's still with us thanks to you. Take some comfort in that—you did manage to save the one life that was salvageable, and with no equipment and your own injuries to deal with. If you ask me, I'd call that a good day's work."
"Maybe for a day in Hell," he muttered under his breath.
Chapel quickly changed the subject. "How about if I bring you something for lunch? You must be starving, and Doctor M'Benga did ask me to make sure you ate something."
He glanced away. Food was the last thing on his mind.
"I'm sure I can coax some Southern comfort food out of the synthesizers," she cajoled.
He shouldn't take it out on her—it wasn't her fault, and she was only trying to help. "Thanks, Christine; that would be nice."
"Any requests?" she asked.
"Surprise me."
"Okay. I'll be back in two shakes," she promised, heading for the door.
oooOOOooo
He was up propped comfortably by a heap of pillows—Chapel had insisted when she'd returned with his lunch. He'd nibbled at his plate for a minute or two—long enough to satisfy the nurse that the Enterprise's worst patient was following medical orders. She excused herself, informing him that she was working on an experiment in the lab that required her immediate attention, with strict instructions to page her if he needed anything.
Once she left, he deposited the barely-touched tray of food on the table next to his bed, swinging over the arm with the video interface to the ship's database. On a hunch, he'd spent the last hour trying to research Vulcan mental bonds, but information on the subject was about as plentiful as waterfalls in the Sahara. Part of the issue was even though he knew some kind of mental link existed between his two friends, he had no clue what the damned thing was called, supposing there was a name for it. He could ask M'Benga—odds were their resident human expert on all things Vulcan would know—but that was likely to open a whole new can of worms—namely why McCoy wanted to know about it in the first place. After their ordeal at the hands of the Gorn he'd spoken briefly with Spock on the subject—pumped the Vulcan for information, to be honest—but he'd only gotten the severely-abbreviated version of what this link was all about. Nevertheless he had trusted his two friends to come to him if there were problems, and had promised not to mention it in his medical log or to anyone further up the chain of command.
So why is it bothering me now? he asked himself. If the link had played a part in their rescue, he should be dancing a jig of thanks to bizarre Vulcan psionic quirks, not determined to find reasons to call it into question. Sighing heavily he snapped off the viewer, shifting the device back to its quiescent position along the wall; scrubbed at tired eyes with balled fists.
Muffled, firm footfalls drew his attention as Kirk entered the main ward of sickbay. He headed directly for Spock's bed as if he'd been summoned there. The captain stopped beside it, his back to McCoy. The CO glanced first at the monitor above Spock's head. Seemingly satisfied with what was registering there, he dropped his gaze to the Vulcan's face. McCoy couldn't see Kirk's expression, but the captain's palpable relief fluttered about the room like a highly-acrobatic flock of birds.
McCoy would have expected no less.
Kirk's hand clasped the Vulcan's shoulder briefly, and the doctor could have sworn that he saw Spock twitch slightly, as if responding to his friend's touch.
After a few moments Kirk dropped his hand. He glanced quickly about the room, as if only now comprehending where he was. His gaze came to rest on his CMO.
"Bones, I didn't realize you were awake," he commented, covering the distance to McCoy's bed in a few short steps.
"I'm not," McCoy quipped, settling back against the pillows and closing his eyes. "It's all in your head, Captain, sir." A beat. "Besides, this is the most rest I've had in weeks."
"Malingering, Doctor? I didn't think you had it in you."
"Shows what you know," McCoy retorted before he cracked up.
A hearty laugh escaped from Kirk as well. He slipped into the chair beside McCoy's bed. His eyes slid to the tray of partially-eaten food, then back to the doctor. "Someone didn't make a happy plate. Tsk, tsk," he admonished, waggling a finger at McCoy. "Now you'll have to deal with the wrath of Chapel."
"Well, it would have all disappeared if I'd had something stronger that sweet tea to wash it down with," McCoy fired back without missing a beat.
Kirk grinned widely at that. "Later, Bones—I promise." Suddenly his expression grew serious. "How are you feeling?"
"Lucky to be alive, if truth be told. I'm still amazed that you found us before we froze to death. How long were we down there?"
"Just shy of two hours."
A chill ran down his spine. "Funny. Spock said if you left right away, you'd find us in under two hours. He also said you should've ruled out instrument failure first, which would have delayed your departure for a time." That niggling feeling of unease was back.
"What happened to the shuttle, Bones?" Kirk continued, seemingly oblivious to McCoy's heightened agitation—or perhaps he was just trying to sidestep the issue. "Was it a storm, did you hit something, or was it due to mechanical failure?"
McCoy played along for now. "Damned if I know. You're asking the wrong guy, Jim. You know technology and I have a love-hate relationship—as in I love to hate it. All I know is that for whatever reason, the instrument panel exploded. The next thing I knew Spock was pulling me from the wreckage. He pulled us all out, Jim. Despite his own injuries he did everything possible to make sure the rest of us were safe."
But Kirk appeared lost in thought, a million light-years away from the conversation. "That explains why we lost communications with the shuttle," he said, more to himself than the doctor.
The CMO pushed himself to a seated position; tried desperately to catch Kirk's eye. "Then how did you know there was something really wrong, besides just a routine comms problem?" Warning klaxons had started to sound in McCoy's head. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but what made you start an all-out search right away?"
By way of answer, Kirk looked down at the floor.
"It has something to do with that link thing between you two, doesn't it?" the surgeon pressed.
He already knew the answer.
Kirk cleared his throat—a dry, hollow sound like sand rumbling through his vocal chords. He tried and failed to mask his discomfort. His eyes moved to and lingered on the prone form in the far bed. "I knew the instant things went south—I could sense it," he confessed. "That's how I knew to send out the search parties immediately, but it doesn't work the same for me as it does for Spock—or at least I'm not nearly as proficient at controlling it as he is." He swung his gaze back to McCoy. "I wasn't able to use it to locate you, like he did when the Gorn took me captive, but I knew he was still alive," Kirk finished haltingly. The doctor sighed inwardly. In this instance, getting the whole story from the captain would be like coaxing a stray dog to eat out of your hand.
McCoy digested that bit of information in silence. Neither the captain nor the first officer had seen fit to discuss the link with him once the doctor learned of its existence when the three of them had been taken prisoner by the Gorn. Once on the enemy ship the captain had been separated from himself and Spock; tortured to within an inch of his life. Only Spock's mental link to Jim had allowed the Vulcan and the doctor to locate the captain before it was too late.*** Suddenly, everything became as clear as transparent aluminum. "That explains why you weren't overly concerned about him when he was unconscious in the shuttle—you knew he would make it," McCoy surmised.
"Not entirely, Bones. I knew he wasn't in any immediate danger—would be fine for the few minutes it would take to return to the ship—but had no idea what his long-term prognosis would be. During the search I could feel him fading, but then he stabilized, started to improve ever-so-slightly. That must have been when he entered the healing trance." His eyes locked on the surgeon. "You alleviated that fear; that uncertainty as to whether or not he would live or die, both by convincing him to take care of himself while the two of you were down on the surface, and by insisting on examining him on the shuttle. I owe you for that."
"Well, you can pay up by making me a promise."
"Name it."
McCoy hesitated; raked a hand through his hair, watching Kirk carefully. The doctor lowered his voice, mindful of the Vulcan ears in the bed across the room, unconscious or not. "This link thing between you and Spock scares me, Jim—" he started.
"Now hold it," Kirk interrupted, a low chuckle rumbling up from within. It matched the condescending smile the captain was wearing. "Don't you think you're being a little overly-dramatic, Doctor?"
"Am I? Am I really? You tell me."
He could see Kirk balk at that, working to repress, suppress…something. Finally the captain responded. "Yes, I think you are. This link led you and Spock to me when the Gorn would surely have killed me if you hadn't found me. It let Spock know I was still alive when I was trapped in Tholian space, and let me know today to start looking for the shuttle right away. It saved each of us, and you, too I might add. How can that possibly scare you?"
"It's just not natural," McCoy fumed. "We humans aren't meant to have an alien presence swimming around in our heads."
"Spock's mother has been bonded mentally to Sarek for over forty years." Kirk paused, as if to lend emphasis to his next words. "Forgive me if I'm wrong, but she seems pretty normal to me," the captain finished smugly.
"Agreed, but that's a different type of bond," the doctor countered.
"So it is," Kirk conceded. "A closer one if I'm not mistaken."
"Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. It's just close in a different way."
He could see that Kirk was starting to get angry. The muscles along the captain's jaw line appeared to be doing calisthenics. "All right, Doctor—make your point."
"My point is I don't know what this might do, to either of you. Yes, it most definitely has its good points, especially between a captain and first officer. I'm sure it'll come in handy in lots of situations, not just those when one of you is missing." He struggled for the right words—words that Kirk would hear, and understand, and most importantly heed. "All I'm saying is be careful, Jim. Don't get so caught up in the positives that you turn a blind eye to the negatives. Be wary, and be alert for hidden dangers."
"I think if it came to that Spock would inform me at once," Kirk said hotly, instantly coming to his first's defense.
"Yeah, because he has such a stellar track record about filling you in on these types of things in the past," the CMO threw out, angry now as well.
Kirk swallowed his retort, pressing his lips into a thin line. His look became sullen, focused inward, and McCoy knew that the captain was thinking of Pon Farr, of the fact that the Vulcan Ambassador and his wife were Spock's parents—all things his first had seen fit to keep from Kirk until it was almost too late.
The doctor softened his tone. "I'm not saying he'd do it intentionally, but what if he doesn't recognize the danger, at least to you? He sure as hell didn't when he invited you to his wedding."
Kirk started at that, his eyes aflame with an inner resentment. The doctor was unsure whether it was directed at him or Spock. McCoy took a breath; worked to quell the desperation that was creeping into his voice. "Don't forget, Jim, much as you like him and trust him he's not human and therefore doesn't think like one of us."
Kirk's face darkened and McCoy realized he may have gone too far. He tried to salvage the conversation. "You know I'm only voicing these concerns because I care about you—about both of you, but, so help me, if you ever tell Spock I'll deny I ever said it until my dying breath." He started again. "You know you have a bad tendency not to look before you leap. I'm just asking you to keep your eyes peeled…for my sake at least, if not for your own."
The hazel eyes met his at last. Much of the anger had boiled off. What was left was the veiled affection and absolute understanding of men who know each other well; maybe too well. "I know you're only looking out for me—for both of us—Bones. I promise I'll be careful, and go into this with my eyes wide open. Will that fill your prescription?"
"It will." He settled himself back against the pillows, but once again the feeling of dread draped itself over him like a burial shroud. He was closer to these two men than any others in the universe, and at the moment all he could sense was impending disaster, but for the life of him couldn't fathom why. And the worst part was that Jim—who was usually on top of any given situation—couldn't see it coming, and there was nothing McCoy could do to change that, despite his best efforts.
Suddenly there was a gasping sound from the far bed as the small ventilator mask clattered to the floor. Kirk was beside his first in an instant. Chapel thrust her head into the room; immediately turned and bolted, calling for M'Benga. At Spock's muffled behest, Kirk pulled the Vulcan to a seated position. Began striking him in the face with the most forceful backhands he could muster. Blows rained down on the first officer—two, three, four. Finally Spock made a grab for the captain's hand; halted the onslaught just as M'Benga appeared with Chapel in tow.
"Thank you, Captain. That will be sufficient," the Vulcan proclaimed in a nearly normal voice. "I am fully functional."
"I don't doubt it, Mister Spock, but let me do an evaluation for myself all the same," M'Benga insisted. A scanner appeared in his hand. He passed it in front of the Vulcan's chest, and over his left shoulder. "Your lungs are clear, and the shoulder wound is completely healed."
"Then I shall return to my station," Spock stated blandly, rising off the bed.
"You are at your station," McCoy hollered from his bed across the room. Four pairs of eyes zeroed in on his. "Surely you aren't going to let him go, Geoff?" McCoy asked, the question directed at the other doctor in the room. "We should probably keep him under observation for an hour or so."
"I've no reason to hold him here, Leonard," M'Benga supplied. "Medically, he's fit for duty."
Kirk piped up. "Alpha shift ended half an hour ago."
"Then you're free to go to your quarters, sir," M'Benga said to Spock.
"See that you do, Spock," McCoy added. "Don't do anything to overtax those lungs for the next twenty-four hours, got it? No workouts, no handling and breathing in any dangerous chemicals—"
Mercifully, M'Benga came to the Vulcan's rescue. "Let me check the progress on your leg, Leonard," the African doctor said, moving to McCoy's bed. He flipped a switch on the bone knitter, activating the viewscreen that showed the internal view of the CMO's leg. "It's coming together nicely; should be completely healed in about two hours."
"That'll be just in time for dinner, Bones," Kirk said, eyes darting to the uneaten tray of food on the bedside table. "Spock and I will meet you in the main mess at 19:30. In the meantime, I need to get a report from Mister Spock as to what happened to the shuttle so I can send my final report to Starfleet Command. We'll see you in a few hours," Kirk threw over his shoulder as he and the Vulcan headed for the door to the corridor.
oooOOOooo
He had just stepped out of the shower—no sonics today. It never ceased to amaze him just how rejuvenating a genuine water shower could be. He entered his quarters, toweling off his hair and slipping into a clean uniform. The leg seemed to be holding up well. Aside from the occasional twinge—just muscle spasms, really—it felt fine. He glanced at his chronometer: 19:15—plenty of time to meet Jim and Spock for dinner. He ran a brush through his hair; started for the door to his cabin when the chime sounded.
"Come," he called, wondering who it could possibly be.
The door slid aside to reveal the captain and first officer. Spock was holding two covered trays. Kirk had a tray in one hand and a bottle of Saurian brandy in the other.
"What's all this?" McCoy asked. "I thought we were meeting in the mess for dinner?"
"It was Spock's idea," Kirk said, depositing his items on McCoy's desk and pulling over an extra chair. The Vulcan quickly followed suit. "He didn't want you to have to walk all the way to the mess in case your leg was still giving you a bit of trouble." Kirk's eyes twinkled. "And I figured if we ate here, I could bring you something to wash your meal down with."
"Well, thank you, Spock," he said with genuine appreciation. "My leg feels fine. Incidentally, the exercise would have been good for it, but I like the sound of that last bit," the doctor informed them, sinking into the chair behind his desk. He sniffed the air appreciatively, like a bloodhound catching the comforting scent of home on the wind. "So, what's on the menu?" he asked, rubbing his hands together.
"It's definitely a no-no in your book, but I took the liberty anyway. We have a lot to celebrate," Kirk stated. With much ado he lifted the lid on McCoy's tray. It contained a medium-rare cut of prime rib, an oversized baked potato swimming in butter and sour cream, and asparagus spears.
"Yep, definitely a heart attack on a plate, but I think we can let it slide just this once," McCoy said, grasping his knife and fork and starting in on the feast as Kirk filled two brandy snifters half-full of the alien liquor.
Kirk's tray contained the same, while Spock's had the same starch and vegetables, but a heap of brown lentils in place of the meat.
The three men tucked into their meals like monks who had just completed a week-long fast, Kirk and McCoy sipping at their brandy while Spock enjoyed a cup of herbal tea. When they were done, Kirk raised his glass. "Here's to good friends, and lost souls." The three drank in silence. McCoy knew the others were thinking of those crewmen who hadn't returned, as was he.
oooOOOooo
It had been a nice evening. They had talked for hours, he and Jim sharing many a laugh, while Spock looked on with a raised eyebrow and that look he wore when in the presence of humans—a curious mixture of confusion and condescension. The first officer had restrained himself admirably, though—not one comment all night about how illogical the doctor and Jim were, or a remark that something was 'fascinating.' McCoy smiled to himself. There just might be hope for his Vulcan friend yet.
His mood quickly sobered. Things had felt right, and normal, between the three of them but he still couldn't shake the feeling of imminent doom lurking just around the corner. Jim and Spock had left hours ago, but he continued to brood over the unconventional connection between his friends, a half-full bottle of bourbon on the table before him.
He hadn't raised the issue of the link during dinner or in the hours afterward. He had already expressed his fears and concerns to each man individually, and now it was time for him to mind his own business. They were grown men, after all. This was something that had to be worked out between the two of them, and yet that thought still gave him pause. This time the link had worked in their favor, but would that always be the case? As close as it brought Jim and Spock, could it somehow be turned against them? Bring about their ultimate destruction as well? Much as he wished it to be otherwise, that was the information all his personal sensors were supplying. Even if he didn't have any concrete evidence, that's what his gut was telling him. He cursed under his breath. There was still so much he didn't know; didn't fully understand. And he'd bet credits to navy beans that the captain and first officer didn't fully grasp the significance of what was happening to them, either. They were in uncharted territory, making up the rules as they went along—and that was never a good thing, especially for two men who had such a hard time sorting out anything of a personal nature between them.
He drained his glass.
But is there more to it than this? he asked himself honestly. Do I somehow feel threatened by this closeness between them? Am I feeling excluded somehow? Is my mistrust of this link motivated by jealousy? He reached for the bottle again; poured himself two more fingers of bourbon. He raised the glass to his lips; savored the pleasant, warm burn that spread across his tongue.
No, it was definitely not due to that. His friendship with Jim and even the weird two-step he did with the Vulcan were as strong as they had ever been; stronger, in fact. Yes, Jim and Spock were close; had grown closer over the last year, but that had no bearing on his own connection to Jim, or to Spock for that matter. Granted, he and Jim had a different kind of friendship than the captain shared with his first officer, which, in turn, was nothing like McCoy's unique rapport with the Vulcan, but each relationship was important and viable in its own right.
He had been totally serious when he told Jim humans weren't cut out to have alien presences in their heads. He shuddered slightly. As fond as he was of Kirk and as much as he and Spock had developed a mutual respect and affection for one another, he wouldn't want either one of them in his head 24/7; couldn't fathom how he'd ever manage to cope with a scenario like that.
Maybe that was the issue—he was imposing his own distaste of the situation onto Jim, but he and Kirk were very different people in that respect. And if Spock was nothing else he was very loyal to Jim. If anyone could temper that fearless personality, could rein in the captain and his sometimes reckless impulsiveness, it was the Vulcan and his stoic, steady calm. In many ways this could prove to be a good thing, and could go a long way to fulfilling the pledge he and Spock had made to each other after Jim was recovered from Tholian space—namely to protect Jim from himself.****
At this point there was nothing he could do but keep a close eye on them and watch for signs of anything untoward. Despite his obvious misgivings he doubted either would revisit the topic with him. It was in their hands now. They would have to sink or swim on their own. They'd have to decide if they could make the thing work to their advantage, and if not, take the necessary steps to remedy the situation—whatever those might be. He was on the outside looking in; could only plan for the worst and hope for the best. These were the thoughts that consumed him as he sat at his desk until the wee hours of the morning, the half-full bottle his only company, his silent confidant.
FINIS
* For more information on what happened on Beta Arcida IV see my story 'Lost.'
** For more information on what happened on Uriman V see my story 'His Last Breath.'
*** For more information on what happened with the Gorn see my story 'The Ties That Bind.'
**** For more information on this pledge, see my story 'Our Brother's Keepers.'