A/N: When Spock is injured on a landing party gone wrong, it becomes a race to save his life. Against Kirk's wishes, McCoy comes up with an unconventional solution to the problem which may cost him his life as well. Written for the 'Cures and Their Diseases' challenge at Ad Astra.
This is an expansion of my chapter from 'Moments' entitled 'Under the Weather.' I've managed to incorporate most of that short into this piece.
Beta: Sam Pengraff and T'Paya did much to help get this piece up to speed.
Call of Duty
God damn it! Why do you always insist on doing this? I'm a big boy; I can look after myself. He must have repeated that sentiment to himself at least a dozen times in the last hour. This was not where he wanted to be; not how the survey mission to this planet was supposed to have gone at all, but being anywhere else at the moment was unthinkable.
If the figure lying deathly still on the biobed before him didn't make it, didn't manage to shake this off and pull through as he'd done so many times in the past, he'd never forgive himself. Hearing the unnatural hiss of the respirator only added to his mounting dread. He knew it was only a matter of time before machines would not be able to extend this man's life. He wanted answers, alternatives; a way to beat the odds. Climbing to his feet, he stalked off to find the one man who could provide him with the information he sought.
oooOOOooo
Eight hours earlier.
The day had started much like any other. He'd met Spock and McCoy in the mess for a bit of breakfast before alpha shift. As he made his way to the food synthesizer, he spotted the doctor and his first officer, seated together in a corner. And by the looks of things, they were already thoroughly engaged in their favorite sport – a heated verbal battle was well underway. McCoy was waggling a finger in the Vulcan's face, emphasizing the words he was speaking by short, controlled nods of his head.
Spock seemed to be taking it all in stride, his right eyebrow raised in a manner indicating mild confusion, or condescension. Kirk permitted himself a small sigh of resignation, absently rubbing his forehead. It was gonna be one of those days.
Well aware that McCoy had been displeased with his weight during last week's annual physical, he opted for coffee and a bran muffin today, eschewing the scrambled eggs and sausage of which he was so fond. No point in adding to what appeared to be his CMO's already dour mood.
As he approached, snippets of the conversation fluctuated in and out amid the chaotic din of other voices. Depositing his tray on the table, he plopped down in the chair next to McCoy, and across from Spock, picking up on a contentious debate already in progress.
"—you've seen with your own eyes the trouble that can be caused when man messes with Mother Nature," McCoy was arguing passionately.
"That represents a necessary risk, inherent in all struggles where mankind has endeavored to comprehend theories and ideas that were previously beyond his reach. It is this quest for knowledge that allows humans, or any species for that matter, to grow and evolve."
"Yes, but you've gotta admit there's a fine line between understanding and interference," the doctor contested hotly.
Unfazed, Spock continued calmly. "Had man not sought to find the answers to the mysteries of the universe, humans to this day would continue to believe that Sol orbits the Earth, or would not have acquired the skills necessary to invent vehicles to carry them beyond the bounds of their planet and into the vast expanses of space."
"He also wouldn't have developed the hydrogen bomb, or old-style nuclear weapons. How many millions did those types of devices kill, before we came to our senses? How often is it that technology that was intended to inspire good is hijacked, repurposed; perverted into something to do the bidding of evil? Care to comment on that?" McCoy's tone had a distinct sarcastic edge to it.
"Breakthroughs in these areas also led to technological advances and innovative medical procedures which served to vastly improve the human condition."
"Yes, but the flip side is that while technology can be used to help mankind, more often it is used to hurt. That which was created with the best intentions winds up being used in the most destructive manner imaginable instead."
"And what would you cite as an example, Doctor?"
"Well, what about the genetic engineering experiments in the late 20th century that gave rise to Khan and his followers?"
"Ah yes; genetic engineering breakthroughs which led to cures for a number of debilitating diseases and conditions, and allowed for hybrids, such as myself, to be within the realm of possibility?" The Vulcan favored McCoy with a smug, satisfied look.
"Yes, I agree – there were most definitely positives that came out of such research, but what about the dark, seedy side; where clones of people were made with the sole intention of harvesting their organs as replacements for the 'real person's' damaged ones? Chemical and biological weapons created only for the purpose of destroying human life?
"What about parents who were given the option to select traits for their unborn child, right down to eye color and intelligence, or natural talents like musical or artistic ability? Even you have to agree that this is wrong; that fate, or God, or whatever it is that you believe in, should determine the unique set of qualities that make up an individual, not some science geek with a test tube and a pipette." The sarcasm had been replaced by outright irritation.
"Laws were quickly put into place and implemented, governing the ethical application of such information. There have been no occurrences of the examples to which you are referring for one hundred twenty-seven point six four years, on any Federation world."
"Well, we seem to be constantly fooling around with all kinds of plant and animal life. I'm all for finding solutions to resolve the sweeping issue of hunger for a number of planets and populations. Increasing the yield and/or nutritional content of various foodstuffs has its benefits to be certain, but while it has contributed to helping to ease food shortages, most notably with the development of quadrotriticale, don't forget it was a case of bioengineering gone bad that gave rise to the blight that wiped out the entire food supply on Tarsus IV over twenty years ago."
"You, as a scientist, should be well aware of the fact that spontaneous mutations appear in nature with predictable regularity, Doctor," Spock stated matter-of-factly, unruffled by the vehemence in McCoy's tone.
Unfortunately, some things never changed. That these two would argue merely for the sake of arguing was a given. Kirk chose this moment to intervene. "Gentlemen, at ease; it's a good thing I take my coffee black, otherwise the cream would surely have curdled by now." The captain favored each man in turn with a bemused look of barely-concealed exasperation.
"Aw, stow it, Jim. You're just trying to get me to clam up now that Spock's on the defensive," McCoy countered testily.
The Vulcan's eyebrow made a beeline for his bangs. "Indeed, Dr. McCoy? I was not aware that providing a sound, logical counterpoint was indicative of 'being on the defensive.'"
McCoy's eyes flashed with indignation, the doctor drawing breath for a rebuttal, and Kirk sensed this would continue ad nauseam unless he figured out a way to put a stop to it. Both of his friends were stubborn to a fault, and nothing would alter the current point of view being touted by either man. They simply did not share any common ground where this topic was concerned; or, more accurately, delighted in the chance to air their differing opinions. He opted instead to change the subject altogether; to steer it toward the tasks of the day. Spock was never able to resist the call of duty.
"Do you have an analysis for me, Mr. Spock, of the planet we'll be surveying later today?" he interjected hurriedly, effectively cutting off McCoy's heated reply.
The Vulcan switched his attention to his commanding officer. "Preliminary scans have indicated a wide variety of flora and fauna," Spock began, in full-fledged science officer mode now, all traces of the earlier conversation completely forgotten. "Of course, as a prelude to colonization, it will need to be established as to whether or not any of these native species pose a significant threat to the life forms destined to settle there."
"In other words, the landing party will spend several hours wandering about in grass, fresh air, and warm sunlight, taking it all in," McCoy added. Kirk smiled to himself. If there's one thing he'd learned during the first two years of this mission, it was how to manipulate these two men to do his bidding without being overt about it.
McCoy's litany continued. "It might as well be shore leave for those on the surface." The CMO sighed wistfully. "Sounds like just what the doctor ordered, Jim. Too bad I won't be joining you."
"Oh? You have a better offer, Bones?" he asked, mildly surprised.
"I wish. I have to get ready for the upcoming inspection of my medical facilities by the Surgeon General at Starbase 7. You know me – duty before pleasure."
"Since when?" Kirk said facetiously.
Spock could not resist the temptation to interject his own perspective with regard to that statement. "You once ascribed to the description of yourself as a sensualist. That is the very definition of someone who advocates 'pleasure before duty,' Doctor."
Kirk hurriedly swallowed the dregs of his coffee, rising to his feet, tray in hand. "C'mon, Spock," he said, collecting the Vulcan with a nod, once again interceding before McCoy had a chance to respond. "Let's get to the bridge and hammer out the personnel assignments for today's landing party."
Spock climbed to his feet as well, and the two men headed for the door, depositing their trays in the waste receptacle on their way out.
oooOOOooo
The landing party found themselves in a small clearing ringed by a dense, tropical forest, the air thick with birdsong and the heady perfume of flowers.
Kirk filled his lungs, the dampness and humidity only serving to emphasize the marked difference when compared to the dry, sterile air aboard the ship. Landing party duty always had its inherent danger, but Bones had hit the nail on the head when he stressed the bonuses in this particular case.
Kirk quickly surveyed the faces around him. He and Spock had decided on two botanists and two geologists. The captain and the science officer himself would be collecting information about the native fauna during today's excursion.
The remaining four crewmen wasted no time getting to work, tricorders humming all around. They dispersed somewhat within the open area, each assessing a different location.
"Reports, gentlemen," Kirk asked after a minute or so.
The lead botanist, Ltjg Davis, was the first to respond. "Scans show a wide variety of native plant life, sir. I am getting readings point four five kilometers from here of a high concentration of fruit and nut-bearing trees and shrubs. Permission to investigate?"
"By all means; after all, that's what we're down here for." He smiled warmly at the lieutenant. "You and Ensign Kellerman may proceed. Check in via communicator every fifteen minutes. Rendezvous back here in one hour."
"Yes, sir." The two botanists began moving off at a leisurely pace, pausing to take readings and collect samples as they went.
"Captain?" this from one of the geologists.
"Yes, Lieutenant Reynolds."
"I'm getting readings of a number of different types of soil within several kilometers of this location."
"And I'm showing numerous mineral deposits, including tritanium, cormaline and nitrium," Ensign Adams added.
"Then carry on, gentlemen. Same goes for you – check in every fifteen minutes and meet back here in one hour."
The two geologists set off in the opposite direction of their team members.
Spock already had his tricorder out, trained on a dense thicket. Kirk took a moment to evaluate their surroundings.
They had materialized on the edge of a large plateau, the vegetation dwindling away to nothing as the sheer slope of the hill fell away before him. Glancing back at the lush ring of trees behind him, most were at least thirty meters tall. Thick vines covered with flowering plants trailed in great numbers from the highest boughs, giving the impression that the mighty giants had been upended, their roots dangling in mid-air.
Birds were plentiful, cavorting noisily among the small branches making up the canopy. There seems to be a significant insect population as well he thought, brushing at the side of his head as a large, flying beetle strafed his ear.
He also noticed a tiny dragonfly-like creature, soft, shaggy red fur covering its thin body, its three sets of iridescent wings beating faster than a hummingbird's. Scores of bright, multi-hued butterflies, as big as a man's hand, flitted past him, carried along on gossamer wings by the gentle breeze.
As he moved to join Spock at the edge of the clearing, he was struck by the spongy mass of decaying leaves and branches that made up the forest floor visible under the umbrella of the trees. A plethora of small, hairy animals darted in and out of this natural debris, disturbed by the sound of his footfalls. He could also see larger, more well-defined paths disappearing into the dense underbrush. Game trails, his mind supplied.
Inhaling deeply again, the rich, loamy scent of the moist, organic matter filled his nose.
"It's too bad Bones didn't come with us," he said, sidling up to his first officer, hands clasped loosely behind his back, "This place is right up his alley."
Spock looked up from the readout on the tricorder in his hands. "Yes, I believe the doctor would find the location most interesting," his second-in-command said absently, holding the instrument out before him and moving it slowly from side to side, the clicks and pings changing pitch as a particular subject was isolated and scanned.
Kirk got the distinct impression that the Vulcan was merely humoring him. Nothing sparked Spock's innate sense of curiosity like the opportunity to examine a species he had never encountered before.
Kirk wandered a little ways away, a large blossom, the color of burnished gold, catching his eye. As he approached the flower, one of the oversized butterflies chose to alight there, unwinding a long, electric-blue tongue which it thrust deep into the petals. He watched the insect drink its fill before fluttering off. Another soon followed, and another after that.
As he reached for the bloom, one of them landed on his forearm, apparently mistaking his gold sleeve for an extension of the flower.
Calling out softly, he turned and headed toward Spock, the unique specimen still perched just above his wrist, but the look on the Vulcan's face wasn't one of subdued amusement; it bordered more on sheer panic.
The next set of events seemed to take place in agonizingly slow motion.
"Jim!" his first shouted hoarsely, followed by an outstretched hand impacting Kirk's chest, throwing him off balance for an instant.
Kirk saw something that was a mottled, verdant shade of green shoot out from a nearby shrub and latch onto Spock's thigh in a flash. Without missing a beat, the captain whipped out his phaser, the pinpoint ruby beam fully encompassing the small, thin creature. It released its hold immediately, dropping to the carpet of soft grass at Spock's feet.
Before Kirk could draw breath to ask Spock if he was all right, the Vulcan was pitching forward, eyes rolled into the back of his head. It was all Kirk could do to catch him; his first was a dead weight as the tall, lean body tumbled into his arms.
Easing himself to a kneeling position, cradling Spock against his chest with one arm, he fished for his communicator with his free hand.
"Kirk to Enterprise."
"Enterprise, Uhura here, sir."
"We need an immediate beam-out. Mr. Spock's been bitten by some type of snake," he informed her, eyeing the small reptile where it lay on the ground. "Call Chief Kyle and give him our coordinates, have Dr. McCoy meet us in the transporter room with a medical team, and recall the remaining members of the landing party. I don't want anyone else down here until we know what we're dealing with."
"Yes, sir," came the crisp response. He closed the device, replacing it on his hip, his attention now focused on the man in his arms. Spock's breathing was shallow and rapid, all color gone from his face, his eyes wide but unseeing. "Spock, can you hear me?" Kirk asked, shaking the narrow shoulders slightly, but his first didn't – or couldn't – respond. Was it strictly due to the bite, or could the Vulcan be suffering from the residual effects of a phaser stun at close range, Kirk wondered. His next question died on his lips, one arm pressing Spock securely to his chest, his other hand closing around a thin, scaly body as the whine of the transporter filled his ears.
oooOOOooo
McCoy was waiting at the base of the transporter platform as he and Spock materialized on the pad. Grasping the Vulcan under an armpit, the doctor helped Kirk maneuver the unconscious man onto the waiting gurney.
"Did you see where it bit him, Jim?" the doctor asked, thoroughly ensconced in CMO mode, his attention focused on the instrument whirring in his hands.
"His right thigh," Kirk responded immediately. "I did stun it to get it to let go. Could that account for some of his current symptoms?"
"No, it's more involved than that," McCoy answered without meeting the captain's eyes.
Chapel began slicing open Spock's pant leg from base to crotch, exposing the limb for an unfettered view of the wound. It was already swollen and angry-looking, a transparent, greenish fluid seeping from the twin puncture marks.
"Is that some of the venom leaking out?" Kirk asked.
McCoy ignored his question for the moment, turning to Chapel instead. "Nurse, he's having difficulty breathing. Administer five cc's of Tri-ox."
The hypo hissed against Spock's arm, and the Vulcan's gasps for air eased slightly.
"I'm showing a high concentration of a powerful neurotoxin. We need to get him to sickbay stat, before it spreads as far as his lungs."
Chapel responded with a sharp intake of breath, but Kirk didn't fully understand the ramifications of that statement. "Why? What will happen if it does?" he asked, feeling an unexplained rush of panic.
"Neurotoxins affect the autonomic nervous system. It can severely suppress his breathing, making it difficult – or impossible – for him to breathe on his own." McCoy had grasped the end of the gurney, making for the transporter room doors.
"Dammit," the surgeon cursed under his breath, a frown darkening his face. "It's too bad we don't have the animal that bit him. Without it, I'll be shooting in the dark to find an antidote."
"I brought it with me," Kirk said hurrying through the doors in order to keep pace with McCoy. "I thought you might need it," he said, holding up the motionless, emerald-colored creature. In the heat of the moment, he'd forgotten that he had it, clutched tightly in his right hand.
"Well, you'd better grab it by the base of the head," McCoy threw over his shoulder as they raced through the corridors at breakneck speed. "If it wakes up before we can get it into a specimen container, I sure as hell don't want it biting you, too – I've got enough on my hands at the moment."
Kirk shifted his grip on the iridescent body. Thirty long seconds later they burst through the doors to sickbay. "First off, get rid of that snake. Specimen boxes are over there," McCoy said, pointing to a cabinet, but Chapel was already at Kirk's elbow, holding a container out before her. He dropped the little reptile, which thankfully was still knocked out, into the small, clear box.
"Help me get him on the table, Jim," McCoy said, grabbing the Vulcan's arm and tugging him to a seated position. Kirk hurried to comply.
"Nurse, get that portable ventilator over here, NOW!" McCoy barked out as he and the captain deposited the limp form on the diagnostic bed.
The panel above came to life in a shower of sights and sounds. Kirk knew enough to understand that the readings registering there did not bode well for Spock.
"He's still breathing, but just barely," McCoy commented grimly as he settled the machine Chapel had brought onto a platform to the side of the head of the bed, covering Spock's mouth and nose with a clear mask, and positioning a tiny device, which would provide electrical stimulus to help initiate the breathing reflex, on the Vulcan's chest.
Satisfied for the moment, McCoy ran his hand-held scanner over the prostrate form. "No signs of tachycardia, that's a plus at least. Of course, not that I'd be able to tell – his damn heart rate is so fast to begin with," McCoy said sullenly. "At least it's not the other extreme – beating too slowly for him." Kirk knew the crustiness evident in the doctor's voice was often meant as a way to cover a much deeper concern.
McCoy spared a glance at Chapel, and the two of them started for the door to the doctor's office.
"Where are you two going? Surely that's not all you're going to do for him?" Kirk's tone was rife with anger, and worry.
"I've done all I can for the moment, Captain. I daren't give him anything else, in case it would have an adverse interaction with the poison already in his system. The next step is to figure out exactly what's in this venom, and hopefully find a way to counteract it. Nurse, get things prepped in the lab so we can start collecting some of this venom," McCoy instructed, grabbing the clear container housing the little reptile as he hurried after her.
"Bones," Kirk said, falling into step beside the surgeon.
McCoy stopped, grasping Kirk's forearm. "Look Jim, I know you're worried about Spock – so am I – but there's nothing you can do in the lab. Let me and Christine work; I'll let you know as soon as we find out anything." His gaze flickered back to the Vulcan. "We got him on the ventilator, so he'll be okay for a while at least. If it'll make you feel any better, go ahead and sit with him."
McCoy raced off to the lab behind his office.
Unsure of what to do; unaccustomed to being helpless, useless, Kirk fell back on what he did know. He crossed the room, activating the comm unit on the desk.
"Kirk to bridge."
Bridge here, Sulu, Captain."
"What is the status of the remainder of the landing party?"
"All four crewmen accounted for, sir. They were beamed up several minutes after you and Mr. Spock, and suffered no casualties or injuries."
"Good. Keep her in a standard orbit, Mr. Sulu. I'll be up when I can. You have the con until further notice. Kirk out."
"Aye, sir."
Left with nothing else to distract him, he wandered back over to Spock's bedside. His first was still deathly pale, and a hesitant touch to a sallow hand revealed it to be cold and clammy. That instantly set off warning bells. Spock's normal body temperature was higher than his; the Vulcan always felt warm to the touch.
He walked into the main ward of sickbay, returning with a thick blanket. As he was about to cover the unconscious form, his eyes were drawn again to the bite on Spock's thigh.
Now, instead of being swollen, the wound appeared to have sunken somewhat, tiny fissures in the skin radiating out from the center, getting shallower as they stretched farther from the bite mark. Skin, which only ten minutes before had been a dark, teal color, was now gray and lifeless-looking.
Draping the blanket over Spock, he went in search of McCoy, passing through the doctor's office to the lab beyond. As he entered, he noticed that the little snake had come to, and was slithering around the confines of its box, a pale yellow tongue flicking out occasionally. It appeared to be testing the strength of the lid, raising itself up and pushing against it with its head.
McCoy and Chapel were busy setting out the various equipment they'd need – the table before them covered by a hodgepodge of small test tubes, beakers and analytical instruments.
"Bones, I think you need to come have another look at Spock's wound; it looks different than it did before," Kirk remarked in an almost normal voice.
"Worse?" McCoy instantly sensed the underlying urgency in the captain's tone.
"No, just different; not swollen like it was, and the color has changed, but it's not significantly bigger. It just doesn't look normal."
"Okay, Jim. Nurse, get a stasis field ready, and whatever you do, don't open that box until I get back."
"Yes, sir," Chapel replied, fishing around in one of the cabinets.
McCoy's eyes traveled to the diagnostic panel as he and Kirk approached Spock's bed. "He seems to have stabilized for the moment." Glancing down, he turned to Kirk. "Where'd this blanket come from?"
Kirk felt himself flush slightly. "He just seemed cold – you know? He prefers the temperature higher than we do," the captain finished uncomfortably.
McCoy touched his arm. "Relax, Jim – we'll figure this out. Right now, he's not in any immediate danger."
"But what about the wound?" Kirk asked, steering things back to the reason he had gone to retrieve the doctor in the first place.
Lifting the blanket, McCoy instantly began chewing his lower lip – a sign, Kirk knew from experience, that things were worse than his CMO was letting on.
"Bones?" Kirk prodded, after several long seconds of silence had gone by.
Looking up from his Feinberger, the blue eyes that met Kirk's were clouded with uncertainty. "The wound is starting to show signs of necrosis," McCoy announced finally.
"Will it spread, or is it localized to the area of the bite?"
"I'm not sure at this point – it's only been twenty minutes since he was bitten – but given the severity of the signs I'm already seeing, if this is spreading, that could spell trouble."
"What kind of trouble?"
"Obviously, the farther it progresses, the more tissue it will involve. Right now, it's localized to an extremity, but if it spreads to his trunk, it could start to damage a number of internal organs, leading to multiple organ failure, and ultimately death."
"Can you stop it?"
"That's what I need to find out, Jim. I need to get that venom analyzed as soon as possible." McCoy hurried back toward the lab.
oooOOOooo
Kirk had pulled a chair alongside Spock's bed, his mind racing in a dozen different directions. He'd been sitting here for close to forty-five minutes now. Chapel had appeared periodically to check the wound, and while she hadn't reported her findings to him directly, one look at her face told him all he needed to know. The constant whisper of the respirator only added to his growing unease. His impatience getting the better of him, he jumped to his feet, heading for McCoy's office. He needed some answers – now – and there was only one place to find them.
As expected, McCoy and Chapel were still hard at work in the lab, huddled over the body of their tiny captive. Although it was still alive, the creature was immobilized by a stasis field at the moment, a pipette pressed to one of its fangs.
Not wishing to disturb what was obviously delicate work, he waited in the wings, shifting impatiently from foot to foot.
At last McCoy acknowledged his presence. "I've analyzed the first sample of venom, Jim, and while we've been able to isolate the neurotoxin, nothing we have on board, either in the form of antivenin or pharmaceuticals, will completely counteract the element causing the necrosis."
"Meaning?" Kirk asked, feeling an unwanted pounding start in his temples.
"It means that while I'll be able to give him something so that he'll be able to breathe, without the proper antidote, I'll have no choice but to amputate Spock's leg in order to halt the progress of the necrosis."
"Can't you formulate an antidote? You have the snake," he said, gesturing to the small reptile.
"I'll need a test host; something I can infect with the venom, and then harvest the antibodies to make antivenin," McCoy explained in a rush.
"You can't synthesize it?"
"It's an unknown toxin; my biocomps aren't equipped to deal with that. We'll have to make antibodies the old-fashioned way."
"Then what's stopping you? We have numerous lab animals aboard."
"All we have are rats and mice from the biolab, and they're all too small. Given the amount of venom I'd need to introduce into their system to guarantee the production of antibodies, even diluted, the concentration of neurotoxins present in the snake's venom would inhibit their breathing long before that process had time to begin. Besides, given their small blood volume, I'd need at least fifty of them to come close to making the amount of antivenin we'd need."
"Then what about something larger; say a human incubator?"
"Are you out of your mind? I'm not gonna subject any member of this crew to that poison. Preliminary tests have shown it's extremely deadly to humans. It would be highly unethical – the type of thing that could get my license revoked." McCoy was incensed.
Kirk responded with his own brand of ire. "Ethics will have nothing to do with it – I volunteer," he snapped.
"Are you off your rocker? I have no idea what that would do to you." McCoy's eyes softened with mutual concern and compassion. "I know you want to save Spock, Jim – so do I – but not at the expense of another life."
"What's the alternative, then – cut off his leg? I won't allow it. There's got to be another way."
"The best option we have now would be to get an animal that's indigenous to the planet – say one that's at least fifty kilos. We could use it to make the antibodies." McCoy snapped his fingers, on a roll now. "Hell, a native animal might already have some built-in resistance to this particular venom. That's our best bet Jim, if you want to save Spock's leg, never mind his life – and the longer we stand here jawing about it, the farther the poison spreads throughout his system."
"I'll call the bridge, have Chekov locate a suitable candidate, and have it beamed aboard."
"You can't do that, Jim," McCoy interjected. "What if the animal you lock onto is sick, or injured? We can't chance that its immune system might already be compromised. We'll have to beam down and make sure the animal we select is healthy."
That was all Kirk needed to hear. He crossed to the wall-mounted comm unit, depressing the switch.
"Kirk to Giotto."
"Giotto here, sir."
"I need you to assemble a three-man security team, and meet me in the transporter room on the double." Uncharacteristically, Kirk switched off the unit before Giotto could snap out an "aye, sir."
He turned once again to his CMO. "Realistically, how much time do we have?"
McCoy puffed out his cheeks, scratching absently behind an ear. "At the rate things are progressing, he's got about six hours before the necrosis spreads so far that I'll have to amputate if we want to save his life. I'll need at least three to inject the venom into the host, along with drugs to stimulate the immune system, and wait for enough antibodies to be produced. Another hour or so to harvest, spin down and concentrate all we'll need, and another half hour to introduce the antivenin via an IV drip. That leaves you an hour and a half to find a suitable candidate on the surface." The doctor had folded his arms across his chest; was bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.
"I'll do it in a third of that time, I swear." There was almost an audible click as the captain switched gears. "Bones, who's your best xenobiologist?"
"That would be Lieutenant Wasilewski."
"Then page him, and have him report to the transporter room as well." Kirk turned to leave.
"What about me? I'm coming with you, too, you know." The doctor had come to stand beside Kirk.
"You can't, Bones."
"Why not?" McCoy was indignant.
"Because I'm counting on you to keep Spock alive until we get back. Do you trust Wasilewski to accurately assess the animal's health?"
"Yes; that shouldn't be a problem."
"It's all settled, then. I'll be back in half an hour." The gold back retreated into the corridor before the doctor had a chance to argue.
Suddenly Chapel, who had taken in this conversation silently, was at McCoy's elbow. "But Doctor, who's to say that antibodies made from an alien species' blood would even be compatible with Mr. Spock's physiology?"
He chose not to reply, but the answer must have been clearly written on his face.
"You never intended to use the specimen the captain is going to retrieve," she said, comprehension dawning quickly. "All along you knew we'd need a human host." The blue eyes that met his were wide. "You planned to inject yourself. All this was just a ruse to get the captain out of here before he stopped you."
He turned his back on her and started to walk away, but she grabbed his arm. "That's it, isn't it? Well, I can't – I won't – let you do it, either."
He spun to face her. "And what other option is there? Huh, Christine? Do you want me to let Spock die, or chop off his leg?" He was angry, but they were running out of time. He knew the words hurt, but he simply didn't care; didn't have the luxury of trying to spare her feelings. He continued in a rush. "Wait for the captain to return and go through all the motions, only to find the serum won't work with that infernal green blood of his? There are some human elements in his blood at least. It's the only way we may have a fighting chance."
"You could use me," she offered, her tone dead serious.
"I can't do it, Christine, and you know it; can't do it for the same reason I refused Jim. It'll have to be me – it can't be anyone else." His voice had taken on a tenderness that had been lacking before, showing his appreciation for the sacrifice she'd been willing to make.
He watched as she wrung her hands, torn between her oath as a medical professional and her unrequited love for the Vulcan. He intervened before either one of them had time to come to their senses.
"I need you, Chris." His tone was pleading, but assertive. He grasped her shoulders, squeezing slightly. "I need you to help me, and if things go south, keep me going until we can harvest the antibodies from my blood."
"Mr. Spock would never allow you to trade your life for his; neither would Captain Kirk," she countered; but he knew he had won.
"That's where you come in. With Dr. M'Benga away on emergency leave, I'm depending on you to make sure it doesn't come to that. Trust me, that's not what I want either," he finished uneasily, favoring her with a wry grin. She looked away, uncertainty still clouding her features. "Please, Christine; I can't just let him die, and losing a leg would end his career in space; relegate him to a desk job, or a teaching position. I can't – won't – let that happen. I've gotta try something."
"Okay, what do you want me to do?" she agreed at last, a single tear sliding down her cheek. Absently, he wondered whether it was for him or for Spock.
oooOOOooo
They materialized in the same small clearing where Spock had been bitten. If they were going to find an animal that already had some natural immunity, what better place to start looking than in the reptile's back yard?
"Okay, Dr. McCoy said we need an animal – preferably a mammal – that weighs at least fifty kilos," the captain said, addressing the members of the landing party. "Scans of the area showed a herd of medium-sized herbivores, and an equivalent pack of predators in the vicinity." He was interrupted by the incessant beep of his communicator. "Kirk here."
"Chekov, Captain. Sensors show a herd of the deer-like mammals congregated around a large water source half a kilometer to your south." In the background, Kirk heard Wasilewski's tricorder hum to life, sweeping the area.
"Confirmed, sir," the biologist interjected. "According to these scans, the water source is at the base of a waterfall that ends in a self-contained pool, with high rock faces all around. There's only one way in, and even if these animals are skilled at scaling almost vertical walls, we should still be able to get there and stun one before they all get away. The waterfall is about 450 meters in that direction," he informed his superior, gesturing to a well-trodden path weaving through the trees on the right. "If we hurry, they won't be able to slip past us. We should be able to get at least one of them either coming or going."
"Then that is our objective, gentlemen," Kirk informed them, already on the move. "Lieutenant Wasilewski, keep us abreast of the herd's movements, and all of you, keep your eyes peeled for any snakes," he said, addressing the security force. "I don't want anyone else to be bitten.
"Thank you, Mr. Chekov," the captain continued, speaking into the open communicator once again. "Await my signal and make sure the transporter room is ready for an immediate beam-out."
"Aye sir," came the tinny response. "Mr. Scott is at the controls himself, and a team from the biology department is already standing by, armed with stun guns and portable stasis pens. We're ready, sir."
Kirk smiled grimly to himself. They were all worried about Spock. "I see. Carry on, Mr. Chekov; Kirk out." He snapped the device closed, replacing it on his hip.
The others fell into step behind him, phasers at the ready, as they headed for the path that led to the pool.
oooOOOooo
Shortly after Kirk had left, they'd injected Spock with something to counteract the neurotoxin. To their great relief, he'd shown signs of improvement almost immediately, and within minutes they'd been able to take him off the ventilator. Now they were working on stage two of the problem.
"Okay, I think it's ready." McCoy had taken a few drops of the venom harvested from their specimen and mixed it with a diluent, drastically weakening the potent poison.
Chapel placed the liquid into a Chemical Analyzer, waiting for the readout. "It's still registering a high level of toxicity, Doctor. We should think about cutting the mixture again." She turned worried eyes on him.
"I don't think we can, Nurse; not and have it be strong enough to stimulate the rapid production of antibodies."
"But if it's still too strong, it could kill you." Doubt and fear were the predominant emotions registering on her face.
"It's a risk we'll have to take. Better it's a little too strong than not strong enough," he remarked, leaning over her shoulder to see the results for himself. He felt warm and flushed, a side-effect, he knew, of the powerful immunostimulant Leukinoxatine with which Christine had injected him twenty minutes ago.
He didn't want to admit it to Chapel, but he knew without question that Jim would make good on his promise. He'd be back any time now, and if McCoy hadn't already been infected with the watered-down version of the venom before the captain returned, Kirk would see to it that it didn't happen. It was now or never. He carefully loaded a hypo with the contents of the test tube and headed for the main ward of sickbay, Chapel following a few steps behind.
Handing her the hypo, he climbed onto the other diagnostic bed, peeling off his boots and socks, his resolve to save Spock stronger than the teeth-chattering fear niggling at the back of his mind. "Okay, let's get this over with," he said grimly, laying down and wriggling himself into what passed for a comfortable position.
Chapel hesitated, the hypo poised above his calf, the troubled blue eyes searching his face. They had decided on using his lower leg as the injection site in case it proved impossible to control the necrosis. It was the farthest spot from his core they could safely inject, and the abundance of tissue in that location guaranteed the ability to close any reasonable wound that might result. If it turned out they were unable to control the dying flesh, they would only need to amputate the lower portion of his leg – a much easier operation than the one Spock would need, and one that would allow the doctor to continue as a surgeon. For McCoy, losing a hand or an arm was not an option.
"It's okay, Chris," he said, empathy for her plight softening his features. "We have to do this, remember?" He tried to crack a reassuring smile; wasn't quite sure if he'd managed it. "Just be ready with that muscle relaxant, in case the concentration of venom is still too high and I can't breathe."
"Of course, Doctor." She flashed him what she apparently thought was a comforting grin, but it came off more like a grimace of pain, the hypo hissing loudly against his lower leg.
Despite the fact that the venom had been greatly diluted, McCoy instantly felt heat, followed rapidly by acute pain, spread from the injection site. He bit his lip in order to suppress the groan that begged to slip from his throat.
"Doctor, are you all right? You've gotten awfully pale." That was an understatement if ever he'd heard one. He'd felt the blood drain from his face, a cold sweat materializing on his brow, his limbs instantly numb. How had Spock stood it? McCoy had gotten a severely weakened dose of venom, and still thought it might do him in. He acknowledged a grudging respect for Spock's superior physiology and iron-willed control.
As if from a great distance, he heard a page come over the intercom. "Uhura to sickbay."
His co-conspirator hurried to answer it. "Sickbay, Chapel here."
"Is Dr. McCoy there? Message from the captain."
A pregnant pause as Christine scrambled for an answer. "He's working on the mixture to inject in the test subject," she lied evenly. "I really don't want to disturb him. Can I relay the message?" McCoy was impressed with how natural the request sounded.
"Just tell him the team did manage to stun and capture an animal. They'll be beaming up shortly. Dr. McCoy is to meet them in Biolab 6."
"Will do," she replied calmly, knowing full well that McCoy wouldn't be able to make the rendezvous. The doctor groaned inwardly. Now it was only a matter of time before Kirk came barging into sickbay, demanding to know why they weren't proceeding with the current plan of action. McCoy felt profound relief that the procedure was already underway; no amount of browbeating from Kirk could stop wheels that were already in motion. The CMO would do his best to save Spock, even if it killed him.
Suddenly, painful spasms wracked his midsection. With his diaphragm in a constant state of motion, he found it impossible to draw breath. In a room full of air he was suffocating; drowning.
He heard more than felt the hypo hiss again, and almost instantly, his cramped muscles started to relax. A ventilating mask was placed gently over his nose and mouth, and the sensation of drowning eased ever so slightly.
The hypo was pressed to his body a third time. "Try to relax," he heard Chapel say in her calm, soft voice, the words faint, as if she was speaking from across the room. The Robaxazine is working. I've also given you a shot of Tri-ox compound, and your O2 sats are steadily improving. Don't fight it," she instructed gently. "Let the drugs work for you."
McCoy concentrated on his breathing, and the air seemed to get thinner with each intake of breath, going from the consistency of the thick, chunky soup he'd been trying to inhale a short while ago, to a thin, watery gruel. It was still a challenge, but not nearly as difficult as it had been.
His extremities were still desensitized, leaden, but it was a start. He closed his eyes, exhausted with the effort to fill his lungs. A soft cloth touched his forehead. Christine was mopping the sweat from his brow, murmuring words of comfort and encouragement.
After several minutes had passed, he mustered enough breath for a question. "My leg; what's the status of the necrosis?"
She examined the injection site carefully. "The area is already showing signs of tissue death. So far, the lesion measures—" she paused to consult the instrument in her hand, "—two point six centimeters and growing."
"How long?" he wheezed out.
"It's been a little over ten minutes since you were first subjected to the venom."
He nodded, closing his eyes, his attention focused on his breathing once again.
"I'm so cold," he blurted out suddenly, a few minutes later.
Christine had stepped away from his bed momentarily, to retrieve a blanket, she'd told him, when the doors to sickbay swished open, admitting Kirk in a flurry of motion. The scene that met the captain's eyes caused him to stop dead in his tracks.
"Nurse, what the hell happened?" he said. McCoy heard him approach the diagnostic bed. He tried to open his eyes, draw Jim's attention away from Chapel, but found he didn't have the strength for it at the moment.
Despite her earlier ease, Christine was at a loss for words in the wake of her captain's unmistakable fury.
"Well, uh, you see, sir…" she stammered.
But Kirk already knew the answer. "Yes, I most certainly do see, Nurse Chapel," he ground out through clenched teeth. The captain dropped his eyes to the figure on the bed. "You stubborn, sneaky son of a bitch; you wouldn't allow me to act as the host, but yet you turned around and used yourself as a guinea pig instead. Nurse, how could you let him do it?" Kirk had shifted his irate gaze from McCoy's pale face to Chapel's flushed one.
"I didn't let him do it; it was his choice." By the sound of things, Chapel had come to stand at the other side of his bed. He felt a warm, soft weight settle over him, helping to banish the chills that had caused him such discomfort a short while ago. "Very similar to the choice you proposed before you left. Sir," she finished assertively, having found the courage to stand up to this man.
"That's exactly my point. He said it would be a violation of ethics to subject anyone to this."
"Anyone else, Captain," she countered, standing her ground. "One can be held accountable for experimenting on others, but not on one's self. He's perfectly within his rights."
Kirk shifted his eyes to the bed once again. "This is crazy. How can he possibly think this was the right way to go about this? Now instead of just Spock, I may lose Bones, too." That revelation must have hit the captain full force; his words trailed off at the end.
"That won't happen; Dr. McCoy made sure of that before he even started," Chapel assured him. Her gaze softened, and she touched Kirk's arm hesitantly. "He knew he couldn't put you through that. He was bound and determined not to. He's explained to me how to harvest his blood and extract the antibodies that will make up the antivenin. If that doesn't work, we can always fall back on amputation. We have two interns on staff, and Doctor McCoy feels they'd be up to the task if he doesn't make it. He's already guaranteed Mr. Spock's survival."
"But I'm not willing to lose McCoy in the process," Kirk responded immediately.
"Despite what you think, that wasn't part of his plan, either, sir. That's where I come in, Captain. We went over everything in great detail beforehand. So far, everything he suggested is working. With any luck, we'll pull them both through."
"That's not good enough, Nurse. If he dies, can you live with that; do you think Spock can live with that?" The hazel eyes smoldered with barely-suppressed anger.
"Would it have been easier for Mr. Spock, or Dr. McCoy to live with it if it was you on the bed now instead of him, sir?" she argued defiantly.
Kirk blinked, stunned into silence. He hadn't expected that at all.
Summoning all his strength, McCoy interrupted them, his voice hoarse and gravelly. "Stop haranguing her, Captain. She won't have to live with it; it was my choice, Jim, and mine alone. I'm responsible. If he wants to, Spock can hate me when this is all over; so can you, but if I hadn't tried, I'd have wound up hating myself."
Kirk gently grasped the older man's shoulder, his anger sidelined for the moment by apprehension. "Bones. How do you feel?"
"A helluva lot better than I did half an hour ago," McCoy quipped. "My leg doesn't hurt nearly as much, and I can breathe again." He filled his lungs to capacity, as if emphasizing the point.
Chapel lifted the blanket for another look at the injection site. The creeping destruction of tissue, unquestionably much less pronounced than Spock's, appeared to have halted of its own accord.
"Doctor, the necrosis seems to have stopped. Your lesion is only about six centimeters, and has only penetrated to a depth of two centimeters," she announced, once again consulting the instrument in her hand. "Once we excise the dead tissue and close the wound, you won't be able to tell there was any damage at the site. Your leg will be as good as new."
"A sure sign that it's working; that my body is producing antibodies to fight the poison.
Here's hoping they'll work with that green ice-water Spock calls blood."
"That was a risky move, Bones," Kirk interrupted.
"Well, it seems to me I heard somewhere before that 'risk is our business.' And it wasn't just any old risk. It was a calculated risk that would make even Spock proud."
oooOOOooo
McCoy's strength improved steadily over the next two hours. Chapel had gone to the mess, insisting the doctor should eat something if he'd be giving blood in the next hour. She brought back a tray of iron-rich foods for him, and a sandwich and coffee for Kirk, but while McCoy devoured his ravenously, the captain's plate remained largely untouched.
As the three-hour benchmark approached, Chapel began preparing the equipment they would need for plasmapheresis – the option McCoy had decided would give them the best chance for success. It involved using a machine to separate the antibody-rich plasma from the red and white blood cells. The plasma would then be collected, while the other elements harvested, along with a fresh supply of plasma from ship's stores, would be returned to McCoy's system, allowing him to suffer virtually no side-effects of blood loss.
Typically, donors only gave a pint of blood; otherwise, the severe reduction in blood volume could pose a significant heath risk for those supplying the live-giving fluid. And yet, McCoy had insisted on three – by employing the techniques of plasmapheresis, that particular complication would be eliminated for the most part. Three pints of blood would yield about a pint and a half of pure plasma. Reduced in volume by about two thirds to make the antivenin, the doctor felt this would produce a high enough concentration of antibodies to effectively halt the necrosis.
Once the procedure was completed, Chapel retreated to the lab, to prepare the raw plasma for intravenous introduction to Spock's system. McCoy was determined to go with her.
As the doctor swung his legs from the diagnostic bed, attempting to stand and follow Christine into the lab, he found his progress halted by Kirk.
"Hold it, Bones; just where do you think you're going?"
"I need to get to the lab; help Nurse Chapel prepare the plasma for Spock." The doctor tried to take a step, stumbling in the process.
Kirk grabbed his waist, steering him back to the bed. "You're not going anywhere. Nurse Chapel assured me she could prepare the antivenin per your previous instructions, and told me you'd likely be dizzy and nauseas for the next half hour or so." Kirk turned plaintive eyes on his CMO. "You need to rest; if it turns out Spock will need the amputation, I'd rather you did it." He hesitated slightly before continuing. "She also expressed the possibility that the venom in your system may start attacking with a renewed vitality, since so many of the antibodies your body made have been removed." Kirk's tone became commanding. "I'm sorry, Bones, you need to rest – captain's orders this time. I'm not willing to risk you both."
oooOOOooo
"He's out of the woods; I'm confident he'll survive, but the leg's another matter. He still may lose it, Jim. I think we administered the antivenin in time, but we'll just have to wait and see if it counteracted enough of the poison to prevent total necrosis of the veins and arteries in his thigh, and if that happens, there's not a damn thing I can do besides amputate."
"When will you know for sure?"
A portentous sigh preceded the candid answer. "It'll be another twelve to twenty-four hours before we see the full extent of the destruction caused by the venom. So far, things look promising, but there's some deep tissue damage at the site of the bite wound. If it doesn't spread any further he'll most certainly keep the leg. He's gonna lose some muscle there for sure, but with additional reconstructive surgery and rehabilitation, he should make a full recovery."
A beat as McCoy switched gears. "Good thing you had the sense to stun that weird little snake and bring it back with you, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to analyze the venom so quickly, and make the antivenin we needed. You know, you almost certainly saved his life, Jim."
A cynical snort escaped from the captain. "You can hardly credit me with that. You're the one who did all the hard work; took all the risks."
McCoy dropped his gaze at that. Apparently, there was something quite interesting on the toe of the doctor's boot.
Undaunted, Kirk continued. "Besides, don't you mean he saved mine? You said if he'd been fully human, he would've been dead before he hit the ground. If it had bitten me we wouldn't be standing here right now, having this conversation. Seems to me, all I did was to manage to almost get him killed."
"Don't go beating yourself up about it, Jim – you know how he is. Once he gets a plan of action in that stubborn head of his there's no changing his mind. Besides, things could have turned out so much worse."
"You're a great one to be talking about the stubbornness of someone else." Both mischief and reproach flashed in the captain's eyes.
Wisely, once again McCoy chose not to answer.
The two approached the biobed containing the sleeping form of the ship's first officer. "He should be coming around in a few hours. I know there's no point in me telling you to go back to your quarters and get some rest, so let me know when he's awake, okay? I've got some paperwork to finish in my office." McCoy disappeared into the other room, leaving Kirk alone at Spock's bedside.
The captain dragged up a chair, settling his weight into it, unable to douse the fire of his frustration and anger which electrified the air around him. Kirk began muttering quietly to himself. "What the hell am I going to do with you, Mister? You're going to throw yourself into the line of fire one too many times, take one chance too many, and then what? How do you think that will affect Bones, if he isn't able to save your hide, or me, knowing I'm responsible?" He released his breath slowly in a deep, protracted sigh, a good deal of the anger leaching out along with it leaving only affection and concern in its wake. "Just what in God's name did you think you were doing?"
He glanced at the Vulcan's face, but for all intents and purposes, Spock appeared to be asleep. Lucky for him, Kirk thought darkly. If he were awake, I'd give him a tongue-lashing the likes of which he's never seen before, injury or no.
He suddenly realized he was exhausted. I'll just close my eyes for a few minutes, he thought to himself, leaning back in the chair…
oooOOOooo
Bursts of activity punctuated the darkness behind his eyes, as if a strobe light was going off at regular intervals; had captured brief glimpses of those terrifying few moments.
A split second of radiance: A figure dressed in gold a few meters in front of him, its outline framed by the warm sunlight, turning to face him wearing a beatific grin of wonderment, something being held out to him for closer inspection.
A flash of electricity: A hint of movement in a nearby shrub momentarily drawing his attention from the man now headed toward him. Jaws parting slightly, a pale yellow tongue flicked out, tasting the air disturbed by the other's motion.
A brief ray of illumination: Bright sunlight glinting off sharp, white fangs. A head drawn back, poised to strike. His mind added it up in a split second: fast; dangerous; lethal.
A spark of light: Muscles bunching in preparation for immediate action; a hoarse shout accompanied by a torso flung forward by legs determined to be swifter than the hidden menace. An outstretched hand impacting a broad chest, a flash of gold pushed aside. Blinding pain. The piercing whine of a phaser. Vertigo. The sensation of falling, his limbs no longer capable of following instructions. Strong arms breaking the fall. The brush of soft velour against his cheek. The chirp of a communicator. Blackness.
He fought to escape the dark depths, straining for the light, just out of reach. He tried to walk toward it, but one leg would not cooperate. Confusion engulfed him. What was wrong with his leg? Another memory surfaced, this time of hushed voices discussing necrotic tissue and amputation. A remembered phrase made the blood pound in his ears:
He's out of the woods; I'm confident he'll survive, but the leg's another matter. He still may lose it, Jim. I think we administered the antivenin in time, but we'll just have to wait and see if it counteracted enough of the poison to prevent total necrosis of the veins and arteries in his thigh, and if that happens, there's not a damn thing I can do besides amputate.
To whom were McCoy and the captain referring; to him? Assessing his body quickly, he realized his right thigh was throbbing. Was this a good sign, or was he merely experiencing phantom pain in a limb that was no longer there?
He tried to reach for the leg in question, but his right arm would not move; it seemed to be pinned under a heavy weight.
Struggling toward consciousness, he lashed out, flailing those extremities that would still obey his commands. Strong hands clasped his shoulders; a voice was speaking to him: "Spock, wake up. It's all right. You're in sickbay."
He opened his eyes to find himself staring into a set of worried hazel ones. "Jim?"
"Yes, Spock, it's me. How do you feel?"
He ignored the question, a more pressing issue on his mind at the moment. "I recall hearing you and Dr. McCoy discussing necrotic tissue and amputation; with regard to myself? Has my leg been removed? I attempted to assess its status myself, but found my right arm to be non-functional as well."
Kirk released his hold on Spock's shoulders, seating himself back down, wearing a sheepish grin. "Don't worry, Spock – McCoy is confident he'll be able to save your leg." The captain was stretching the truth a bit, but it seemed the right thing to say at the moment. "It'll need some work, but it's still there."
"And my arm?" It still felt numb for the most part, but there was a growing tingling sensation in his fingers. "Why is it non-functional?" he reiterated.
The sheepish look turned to one of contrition, apology. "I'm afraid that's my fault, Spock. I must have dozed off while sitting here; apparently I was inadvertently resting my head on your arm. That's why you couldn't move it."
Spock lifted the appendage in question, flexing fingers that were starting to regain some measure of feeling. "Do not be concerned, Captain. It appears to be none the worse for wear," he informed Kirk sincerely.
"Wish we could say the same for you. How are you feeling, Spock?" the captain asked again.
"There is some residual pain in my leg, but it is manageable." He searched Kirk's face. "What exactly happened to me, Captain?"
"Don't you remember, Spock?"
"I vaguely recall seeing a small reptile. It was about to attack you, so I intervened. However, I am unsure as to whether these are accurate memories, or images experienced within the context of a dream."
"No, no, they're quite accurate," Kirk replied, using that tone Spock had come to associate with his captain being quite annoyed at something – or someone. "You were bitten by a snake, Mr. Spock – a snake you stepped in front of to keep it from biting me."
I can assure you, Captain – I had no intention of allowing myself to be bitten. My only objective was to make you aware of its presence."
"Seems to me, we've had this conversation before," his captain replied, pinning him with a baleful stare. "I seem to recall instructing you to shout a warning in the future, not use yourself as a Vulcan shield."
Spock swallowed reflexively. "Again, my goal was to inform you of its existence, sir. It was my own lack of agility that allowed the creature to strike me."
Kirk grinned in such a way that Spock realized his commanding officer hadn't bought it – not in the least. "Well, if that's the case, and this is going to become a trend, perhaps I need to send you for some remedial agility training." The smile his captain bestowed on him caused Spock to flush with embarrassment. The Vulcan was spared the indignity of a reply, however, as another voice sounded from the doorway to the main ward of sickbay.
"I thought I heard voices in here. Well, Spock, I should have known you'd make it – as I've said before, you can't kill a computer." The CMO crossed the room, coming to stand beside Kirk.
"Mind if I have a look at that leg?" Spock knew without question it was not really a request. He rolled his eyes skyward as McCoy drew back the sheet.
Sure, strong fingers began probing the area around the wound, and Spock found himself hard-pressed not to wince.
"You'd never admit it to me out loud, but I know that hurt, Spock. And for once, that's a good sign. There's no feeling in dead tissue." He turned to Kirk. "It seems the necrosis has indeed stopped. All we need to do now is remove the damaged bit of muscle; do a little reconstruction work, and with a month or so of physical therapy, Spock will never know it happened."
Spock noted that Kirk visibly brightened on hearing the prognosis.
"Which means, off you go, Jim," McCoy said, eyes twinkling.
"What? Why?"
"Well for starters, I know you haven't eaten or slept in almost thirty-six hours. And no, I'm not counting that little hour-long catnap in this chair as sleep," he added, as Kirk opened his mouth to protest. The doctor's features softened. "Besides, Nurse Chapel and I need to get Spock prepped for surgery. He should be ready for visitors again in, oh, about eight hours – just enough time for you to get some chow and some rest."
Kirk traded a long-suffering look with Spock, and rose reluctantly to his feet. An uncomfortable silence settled between the two men as the doors to sickbay swished closed on the captain.
Spock was the first to break it. "I wish to take this opportunity to express my gratitude for your role in facilitating my recovery," he said softly.
McCoy's flustered embarrassment was practically palpable. "Well, uh, I just did what I had to; what was expected of me."
"No, I do not believe that is true. I was struck by something the captain said with regard to your actions."
"Oh, and what would that be?" The question was asked with a measure of nonchalance, but inside, McCoy was seething. He had expressly asked Kirk not to inform Spock of the gory details regarding the events of the last twenty-eight hours.
"The captain intimated that it was you who sacrificed on my behalf; took great risks to ensure my complete recovery. In what way were you able to guarantee the successful treatment of my injury?"
"Didn't Jim tell you?" McCoy was confused now.
"I did not ask him," Spock stated simply.
"Then how do you know?" McCoy asked, his voice trailing off.
"I overheard part of a conversation in which the captain remarked: 'You're the one who did all the hard work; took all the risks.' To what risks was he referring?"
McCoy sighed heavily. Damn those Vulcan ears. He hadn't wanted to discuss this with Spock – at least not yet. He tried to derail the question. "It really was nothing; you know how Jim can get overenthusiastic at times."
"He did not sound overenthusiastic. If anything, he was using that tone of voice we both know so well which conveys his great annoyance, or displeasure, with something."
"Well, you know Jim. He's only a fan of unconventional methods when he's the one employing them."
Spock saw his opening. "So, your methods were unconventional; in what manner, Doctor?"
Dammit all to hell! He'd walked right into that one. Apparently, there was no getting around it. He launched into an explanation – of how Jim had brought back the snake, how there wasn't any medicine aboard to counteract the toxicity of the venom; how they needed antibodies – antibodies that would be compatible with Spock's hybrid physiology – and how McCoy had used himself as the repository in which to incubate them.
Spock pondered that silently. "At considerable danger to yourself; I also recall overhearing that the venom is universally fatal to humans; that the captain would not have survived had he been bitten."
"Only in its pure form; I was fairly certain that a significantly diluted version wouldn't kill me."
"Fairly certain?"
McCoy was starting to get angry. "Well, what would you have had me do, Spock – let you die? I wasn't about to chance having that on my conscience," he finished in a huff.
"It could have ended your life. With Dr. M'Benga absent at present, it would have left the crew vulnerable in the event of a medical emergency." Spock looked at him with nothing short of reproach.
McCoy shifted nervously from foot to foot, clearing his throat. "We're due to pick up M'Benga at Starbase 7 in three days, and we do have those two interns aboard. While they don't have a lot of experience in the field, they do have the proper training. In my expert medical opinion, the benefits outweighed the risks." It was as if the doctor was daring the Vulcan to challenge that decision.
Spock complied. "But why would you endanger your life for mine? According to the conversation I heard, amputation would have guaranteed my continued existence. Surely you realize I would willingly have traded a leg to spare your life. I would have been most displeased with you had you not survived."
"Yeah, well, I wouldn't have been real thrilled with that outcome, either." Suddenly the doctor cracked a grin, dispelling some of the tension that had cropped up between the two. "Besides, did you really think I'd pass up an opportunity to get some of my illogical, overly-emotional plasma flowing through your veins?" The look on McCoy's face was downright smug. "Who knows what will come of that."
Spock didn't have an answer.
McCoy swiftly changed the subject. "Anyway Spock, we need to get you prepped for surgery. I want to get that dead tissue removed before it turns gangrenous. If it does, I'll have another whole set of problems on my hands. Nurse," he called, turning on his heel and heading for the other room, "Do you have the tray ready for surgery yet?"
oooOOOooo
He was tired beyond measure. It had been a long forty-eight hours. As he crawled into bed, he marveled once again at their incredible good fortune. As often as they took risks for one another, were prepared to sacrifice their lives, each for the other, things always seemed to have a way of working out in their favor. Regrettably, he realized it was only a matter of time before this was no longer the case.
His thoughts strayed to the surgery. All had gone well. Granted, the damage to Spock's leg had been extensive, but not insurmountable. He'd successfully removed the necrotic tissue, and was able to reroute blood flow around those arteries and veins that had been destroyed in the process. Even now, he was growing new muscle tissue for Spock in the lab, to replace that which had been lost. The wound would require at least one, perhaps two additional surgeries. That, combined with physical therapy, would virtually eliminate the limp which now plagued the Vulcan science officer.
But there was more to his relief than that. For the first time since the accident had happened almost two days ago, he allowed himself to think of a future without Spock in it. He was shocked to find the prospect most distressing. For all his bluster and bullying, for all his criticisms and condemnations of the Vulcan, he couldn't deny that he felt a genuine affection for this man; a grudging respect for how he was able to comport himself on a ship full of illogical humans, where his core beliefs and unconventional – at least as far as McCoy was concerned – way of life were being put to the test on a daily basis.
He'd gained some insight into Spock's painful childhood during their time on Beta Arcida IV*, and had vowed then to try to be a little more understanding where the stoic Vulcan was concerned. He smiled to himself. Maybe that was the case, but he sure as hell didn't have to let on to Spock about it.
He realized that, like Jim, he now thought of Spock as a brother, or more accurately, a blood brother. His mind conjured up images of his childhood: He and his best friend Forrest making small cuts on their palms and then shaking hands, allowing their blood to mingle. Earth lore was full of tales regarding this most sacred of rituals, spanning many cultures and religions.
Maybe Spock's blood wasn't flowing through his veins, but elements of him were definitely a part of the Vulcan now. Strangely, McCoy found that thought to be most gratifying, and comforting. As the tendrils of sleep closed around him, he wondered idly if Spock felt the same.
* For a more thorough explanation of McCoy and Spock's adventures on Beta Arcida IV, see my story 'Lost.'