Prologue
Part One:
Taken from logs recovered from emergency beacon of the Shuttlecraft Copernicus NCC-1701⁄12.
Shuttlecraft Log: Stardate 1673.1
Commander Spock recording.
We departed the Enterprise point three two hours previously, and are proceeding en route to Kalvar 7 as per schedule. All crew are present and correct as rostered. Ensign Lovett is proving himself quite capable as a navigator, but displaying certain emotional inconsistencies that should be addressed by a competent person at some point in future. Aside from some – inappropriate staring, the basis of which I cannot fathom – from certain female ensigns, all is proceeding quite smoothly so far.
Next log will be in approximately two hours.
End.
''''''''''''''''''
Shuttlecraft Log: Stardate 1673.4
Commander Spock recording.
En route to Kalvar 7 – approximately eighteen hours from destination assuming we continue current course and speed. Ensign Lovett has identified an ion storm two point three light years from our position. Ensign Fournier has expressed some concerns, but I do not believe it to be a danger at this time.
Next log will be in approximately two hours.
End.
''''''''''''''''''
Shuttlecraft Log: Stardate 1673.7
Commander Spock recording.
En route to Kalvar 7 – approximately fifteen hours from destination. I have retired from the cockpit in order to allow the ensigns some extra responsibility. I – cannot imagine that too much trouble can ensue. I am only three metres away from them, and separated by one door.
Next log will be in approximately six hours.
End.
''''''''''''''''''
Personal Log. Spock. Stardate 1673.7
I find myself in Shuttlecraft Copernicus, in charge of six eighteen-year-old humans, apparently conducting an experiment in education. There are certain persons touted by their education providers as able, and possibly excellent, candidates for Starfleet training who, whether by dint of their personalities or upbringing, seem unsuitable for the rigorous academic schedule of Starfleet Academy. Admiral Dawson, in charge of such matters at the academy, has proposed a scheme whereby those persons spend a year in active service within Starfleet before entering the academy at the age of nineteen, instead of at the conventional age of eighteen.
I am uncertain of the wisdom of this strategy. The idea of taking unstable, albeit brilliant, youths and placing them on active service on a starship seems at best misguided, and at worst dangerous. The idea is that such service will help to iron out any behavioural problems and instil a certain degree of maturity in these individuals. But… Even now, sitting in seclusion in the rear of the shuttle, I can hear certain arguments arising between them, which Miss Chapel is, I would say vainly, attempting to resolve.
Miss Chapel is my partner in this mission, in joint care of these – youths.
Apparently Captain Kirk spent some time attempting to choose the best possible pair of officers for this duty – and Miss Chapel and I were the solution he arrived at. I am talented in many areas, and also an obvious figure of authority. Miss Chapel, he believes, combines useful medical skills – perhaps he fears injuries resulting from their teenaged arguments? – with a certain degree of maternal care, and various areas of practical expertise useful to this mission. I wonder, recalling the smirk on the captain's face when he told me of this assignment, whether there were any other motives to the pairing? This is probably not the place to voice my suspicions.
''''''''''''''''''
Shuttlecraft Log: Stardate 1674.1
Commander Spock recording.
The ion storm previously reported has increased in magnitude, and is now pursuing us at a speed exceeding our own top speed. I cannot be certain of the precise speed, since the magnetism is interfering with our instrumentation. I only know it is gaining on us, and is of sufficient size that we cannot hope to evade it. In different circumstances, I would be gratified that Ensign Fournier's assessment of the storm had been correct – but I would rather that she had been wrong.
Our sole option is to seek the closest available refuge – and meanwhile, to – batten down the hatches, as the captain might say. I will record our destination, if it can be identified, when it is known.
End.
''''''''''''''''''
Log: Stardate 1674.2
Unable to outrun storm. Antimatter injectors overloaded. Explosion imminent. Hopeful of chance to eject over –
Spock, come on.
Put on your own parachute – that's an order. I need to –
Mr Spock…
Everybody be sure to take a communicator. Pack any useful item in your backpacks, not exceeding the weight limit.
How on earth can we tell -
Commander –
screaming
interference
silence
''''''''''''''''''
Part Two:
'And that's it?' McCoy asked gloomily. He stood leaning over the back of a chair in a private briefing room. No one quite felt like sitting down. Restlessness seemed to be a disease at the moment.
'That's all I can extract, sir,' Lieutenant Uhura said, fingering the disc in the slot as if by stroking it she could coax more data from it. 'The ion storm must have been right upon them – it probably burned out the relays.'
'They were ejecting,' Kirk said stubbornly.
He was the only one in the room besides Uhura who had mustered the self-control to sit down and give full, undiluted attention to the data streaming on the screen as the logs were played. They had found the emergency beacon floating serenely in the wake of the ion storm, eerily unharmed, containing log recordings that were perfectly intact until that final one that had been interjected with different voices, and fuzzed with static. It was impossible to tell how far it had been carried by the storm.
'If they were ejecting, they were in safe space,' Kirk continued. 'They must have been entering orbit of a habitable planet – they must have. We didn't find any wreckage floating in space – nothing but the beacon – and Spock would never have ordered ejection unless there was a hope of survival.'
'That was Christine Chapel's voice in that last recording,' McCoy put in – uselessly, it seemed, but he felt the need to contribute something to the discussion. 'She was telling Spock to put a parachute on. Is it possible he – ?'
'No – he was telling her to put a parachute on,' Uhura corrected gently.
'The implication – ' McCoy continued.
'Spock can be gallant, but he's not stupid about it,' Kirk cut in. 'There were 'chutes enough for all of them.'
'He'd be last to jump – you can guarantee that,' Scotty added morosely.
'Maybe,' Kirk nodded. 'But he still would have jumped – and if they jumped, they're on a planet. We just need to find that planet.'
1.
Wherever they were, it was cold.
Spock had had plenty of time to take in the overview of their destination as he had at first free-fallen, and then parachuted, down from the bitter, thin air of the upper atmosphere. They had at least managed to set a course to a habitable planet, had managed enter the atmosphere on a trajectory suitable to avoid burn-up, and had managed to eject from the shuttle over a day-lit land mass rather than open ocean. Beyond that, however, they did not seem to be fortunate in their location.
At first they had tumbled through nothingness – or to be more exact the rarefied air of the ionosphere – their descent barely slowed by the negligible concentration of gases, with icy cold ripping at their protective suits. As per standard procedure they were held together in a ring, gloved hands clutched in gloved hands, the grip on both Spock's left and right hands almost unbearably tight as ensigns who had barely had more training than one or two high-atmosphere jumps held onto him for dear life. If he had allowed himself to think of it, both the speed at which they were travelling and the responsibility of his task would have been staggering.
They seemed to fall for an interminable length of time towards the opaque cloud layer below, but in reality it was only a matter of minutes before the swirling mist was rushing towards them and they were enveloped in blinding darkness, shrouded with water droplets that froze into a carapace over their clothing and then cracked off in shards at any movement. On breaking through to the dull day beneath Spock experienced brief relief that his split-second assessment of the geography of the planet had been correct, and they were, indeed, heading for solid land. Then his eyes took in a vast expanse of snow patched tundra, snaked with dull grey rivers, occasional blotches of forest, and lakes that looked like rainwater puddles from this altitude. He did not notice any evidence of conurbations, roads or artificial structures – although that did not necessarily rule out their existence. He could see the occasional spider's web of tracks, however, like the worn paths of migratory animals spreading across the tundra. It seemed there was at least some life in this place.
The six ensigns and Nurse Chapel were still spread out about him in the air, looking like absurd birds that had suddenly discovered they were flightless, ravaged by streaming, icy winds as they plunged downward. They were all hastily but properly dressed in cold-weather gear, with high-altitude oxygen masks sealed over their mouths and noses, their faces rendered anonymous by the thin cold-resistant hoods and goggles that covered the rest of their heads. The survival suits and gloves were doing their jobs, and no one's hand had yet become numb enough to slip from their neighbour's grip – although Spock was finding himself growing distractingly chilled in a suit calibrated for human temperature tolerance.
They had all, thankfully, taken heed of his instructions not to exceed the weight limits in what they were carrying.
All except Spock.
Spock had not grabbed hold of what fell within the designated weight limits for his parachute. He had grabbed what had been most logical and beneficial to take with him; that which he reasoned would not overburden him so much as to cause his death on impact. He held as many of their rations as possible, extra power packs for the phasers and flashlights – and one bulky, heavy, but extremely useful subspace transmitter that was now lashed to his chest with rope from the emergency supply locker. For now, his contact with seven other bodies was stabilising his descent. He knew that when he let go, that would change.
The inbuilt earpiece in Spock's slim head-covering ticked off the altitude in pristine tones, the interval between each thousand foot gap becoming shorter and shorter. At twelve thousand he gave the order through his intercom to release their grips on each other. He had to actively fight to get the ensign to his left to let go. He could only hope that the man would be controlled enough to listen to instructions as they drifted further apart. He had other concerns than trying to talk panicking ensigns through procedures that they should know by heart.
Without the stabilising influence of the others, the odd bulk attached to Spock's chest was already causing him to spiral uncontrollably, the ground beneath becoming ever more blurred as it rotated beneath him at greater and greater speeds. As the altimeter chimed out eight thousand feet he gave the order to open parachutes, relying on the device rather than his own assessment of his spinning surroundings. As the fabric unfurled he could tell instantly that the weight was adversely affecting his descent, although the design of the parachute thankfully slowed the sickening revolutions. It seemed that the others around him were suddenly arrested by invisible strings, while he continued far faster than the normal rate of descent.
The ground rushed up to meet him with startling speed. Its appearance of undeniable solidity was enhanced by the fact he was making for plants and rock, not one of the sparse patches of snow. He slammed into it still earlier than he had anticipated and found himself flung forwards violently, the parachute billowing briefly overhead and falling beyond him. He had tried to keep himself relatively upright to save the subspace transmitter from damage, but in the event of his landing he could barely be sure which parts of himself were damaged, let alone of the inanimate box strapped to him. Pain shivered through multiple parts of his body, concentrating acutely in the leg that had hit the ground first.
He lay on the ground, content to lie still for now, dimly aware of things that were quite irrelevant to his physical condition.
The ground beneath him was relatively soft, dark with dampness, and smelt of peat.
The vegetation that he lay on bore a striking resemblance to grass – long, thin blades, tightly narrow and shining to protect themselves against exposure in this frigid environment.
There were many rocks scattered about him. One of them lay partly under his cheek, the cold of the igneous, granite-like formation being gradually warmed by a trickle of his blood.
The oxygen mask he wore had been knocked aside by the impact. It pressed uncomfortably into his face. The damp grass that his nose was pressed against was at a level of cold that surpassed uncomfortable and ranged, for a Vulcan, towards dangerous.
There were voices in this place, and hurried footsteps.
Of course, it had taken the others longer to descend, and then they had had to find him…
'Here! He's here. Nurse Chapel!'
He recognised that voice. He moved his head a little, blinking some kind of warm fluid away from his eye. More blood, he supposed…
But that voice. It was Ensign Malton – the young, dark-haired, dark eyed female that seemed to spend so much time gazing at his ears when she thought he was occupied.
And then he heard an altogether more familiar voice as a well-wrapped figure bent close to him and said sharply, 'Mr Spock! Commander Spock. Do you hear me?'
'I assure you, Nurse Chapel,' he began with difficulty. 'My hearing is quite undamaged.'
He caught a wave of relief. She did project her emotions so…
'Don't try to move yet,' she said in a softer tone as he stirred. 'Did you lose consciousness at all?'
Spock blinked again, again trying to move, but stopping as a warning pain washed through him.
'I – am not absolutely certain,' he admitted. 'But I don't believe so.'
'Give me a moment,' she said, and Spock closed his eyes, content to lie silently until she was ready.
He knew subliminally that his inertia was a sign that he was growing seriously cold, but the symptoms of the problem precluded the solution. Then a hypo hissed against his neck – the only place she could gain access without removing his clothing – and he felt warmth and motivation gradually blossoming through his veins.
'No signs of concussion. Give the drug a minute to work, Mr Spock,' Nurse Chapel said clearly. 'It's just a temporary boost. You lost a lot of heat in the descent, and this will bring you back closer to normal. Everyone's had a dose.'
Spock took in a deep breath, then fumbled with his gloved hand, pushing the useless oxygen mask away from his face. The drug had helped to clear his mind, giving him a much better idea of what and where his injuries were. Apart from an intense pain in his left ankle he mostly seemed to be suffering cuts and bruising, and the pain was easily dealt with by mental suppression.
'Thank you, Nurse,' he said carefully, beginning to roll onto his back. 'The shot was quite efficacious. Now, is everyone – '
Nurse Chapel put her hand swiftly to his shoulder, surprising him with the strength of her grip.
'Wait before you move,' she said quickly, running her scanner up and down the length of his body. 'Your spine's undamaged,' she nodded.
'Yes, I was aware of that,' Spock nodded.
He sat up, oblivious to Chapel's expression at his blunt statement, looking about himself briefly to be sure that all six ensigns were with them, and unhurt. They all seemed rather bewildered, clutching billows of parachute fabric to their chests as if that were a scant piece of familiarity for them to cling to.
Next he focussed on his surroundings, surveying the terrain that they had found themselves in. The ground was carpeted in patches with a low, bushy shrub, somewhat like heather, and there were small drifts of snow caught in shadowed nooks and dips, each patch brittle with an icy crust that spoke of thaw and refreezing. Perhaps if he had fallen on a patch of that shrub instead of on rocks and grass, he would have found himself less damaged.
There was nothing to be done about it now, however. He had fallen onto hard ground, and he had undoubtedly suffered injury. The next thing to ascertain was whether his cargo had also suffered injury. He began to fumble at the rope tying the subspace transmitter to his chest, and after a moment Chapel began to assist him, until the box was freed. It seemed relatively unscathed, apart from one long, deep dent along one side. It was, Spock noticed with dismay, where most of the most sensitive circuits lay. It was unlikely that it would work without repair. He rolled it onto the grass beside him, and turned his attention to the young and obviously shaken ensigns.
'Let me carry on checking you over,' Chapel said anxiously, but he shook his head.
'Once I have given these orders, nurse. Our first priorities are water and shelter,' he said, raising his voice so as to be heard by the entire group. 'Ensign Sutherland, try to find a relatively flat space, preferably sheltered, and clear it of obstruction.'
'Sheltered, sir?' Ensign Sutherland echoed, looking about herself blankly. She was short, but seemed relatively well-built and had scored well in survival aptitude tests. Her speciality was astrophysics, but that was hardly needed in this situation, and Spock judged that she was the best choice for this manual work.
'Sheltered,' Spock repeated. 'I do not expect you to find stands of trees, Ensign. You may be able to see somewhere in a slight depression, or sheltered from the prevailing wind by rocks. Try to find somewhere relatively dry, and, if possible, sheltered.'
'Of – course, sir,' she said.
She still sounded uncertain, but Spock was gratified to see that, after a moment of indecision, she looked down at the shrubs about her to see which way they had been forced to grow by the wind, then made for the nearest large rock, and ascended it in order to see better where might be a good spot.
'Ensign Lovett,' Spock continued, turning his attention to the shuttlecraft's former navigator – a young-looking, dark haired man who seemed generally to be bothered by a surfeit of energy. 'Help Ensign Sutherland please. The rest of you can begin to prepare the tents for erection.'
There was a snort of amusement from one of the ensigns at the word erection, which Spock chose to ignore. He began to unclip the cumbersome parachute harness from his body, trying to slip it off without aggravating his injuries further. He looked up to see the remaining ensigns exchanging confused glances, and finally Ensign Del Sarto said hesitantly, 'I – er – don't know that anyone brought the tents, sir.'
Spock closed his eyes briefly, and on opening them caught the gaze of Nurse Chapel. If anything, she looked quietly amused.
'Am I to understand that no one here familiarised themselves with survival procedure before embarking on this mission?' he asked dryly.
There was a long, painful silence, and finally a female ensign said in something close to a whisper, 'The parachutes are designed to work as one and two man tents, sir.'
'Thank you, Ensign Grant,' Spock nodded. Karen Grant's greatest fault was a timidity that tended to overwhelm her talents. He could only hope that this crisis would help her confidence, rather than diminish it. 'Are you familiar with the method for pitching the tents?'
She stepped forward, coming out from behind the other ensigns, and nodded, saying quietly, 'Yes, sir.'
'Very good,' Spock nodded. 'Considering the cold, I'd advise two man tents. Please explain the method to the others, and once Ensign Sutherland has located a suitable pitch, you can begin to erect them.'
Nurse Chapel crouched silently next to him, watching the small group of ensigns as they dispersed. Finally, once they were all occupied with the tents, she touched the dented box next to the Vulcan, then turned her piercing gaze on him, and asked him;
'What is this, Mr Spock? What was worth risking your life to bring?'
Spock regarded the box himself, and told her truthfully, 'It is a subspace transmitter. I may have risked my life to bring it, but it may be the means of saving all of our lives – or at least, of restoring us to the Enterprise.'
She acknowledged that with a nod and a slight smile. It seemed best not to invest all of her hopes in this one dented box, and in Spock's skill at electronics, no matter how much she wanted to trust in his ability.
'You're aware that it's responsible for you breaking your ankle?' she asked, with more sympathy in her voice than censure.
Spock met her eyes again, and nodded. 'I did assess the risks before I chose to bring it. I wasn't certain I had broken the ankle, but I suspected that was the case. Do you have the requisite medical supplies, Nurse Chapel?'
She exhaled, toying with her backpack, over half of which was taken up with emergency medical equipment and medicines.
Spock raised an eyebrow at her seeming uncertainty.
'I would be surprised if you weren't intimately acquainted with the contents of your emergency medical pack, Nurse Chapel,' he told her. 'Should I decipher your hesitation as a negative?'
She looked up again, shrugging apologetically. 'I have painkillers, and spray bandage, and antibiotics. I don't have a bone knitter, Mr Spock. There just isn't the power supply or the room for something like that in an emergency kit.'
Spock nodded, inhaling deeply, before sitting up a little straighter, setting his expression against the pain that the movement caused.
'The spray bandage will have to serve for now,' he said stoically. 'I do not want to take painkillers. I need to keep my mind clear.'
'What about the Vulcan healing trance?' she asked tentatively.
Spock had shown the staggering power of his own mind only a year earlier, when he had recovered from multiple organ damage with almost no medical assistance, simply by putting himself in a trance in order to focus intently on healing himself. A broken ankle, she imagined, would be far less difficult to heal than the bullet wound through his chest had been.
Spock pressed his lips together, glancing again at the small group of ensigns, gathered about the billowing parachute fabric in a slight depression a hundred feet away, as they attempted to erect the tents.
'I cannot attempt a healing trance,' he said. 'I am needed.'
'We could spare you, I think,' she told him softly. 'If it would heal your ankle.'
Spock shook his head sparsely.
'It's too cold,' he said shortly. 'If I attempted a healing trance I would likely slip into a coma from which it would be impossible to rouse me.'
His reluctance to admit to this weakness was totally illogical. Nurse Chapel must be fully aware of a Vulcan's susceptibility to cold. Still, he did not like to bring it to her attention.
'No,' he said, looking directly at the nurse. 'You must do what you can with what we have.'
'I'd rather wait until we're in shelter than expose your lower leg in this cold,' she said apologetically. 'Are you sure you won't take painkillers? Just a low dose – '
'None are needed, Miss Chapel,' Spock said briskly, looking over at the struggling ensigns even before he had finished his sentence. 'There is no way you can help me at this time. Since I am incapacitated, you would make yourself more useful by supervising the erection of the tents,' he said. 'I assume you're familiar with the procedure?'
'I looked it over just before leaving for this mission,' she said, with a brittle tone to her voice. 'I'm perfectly familiar with it.'
Spock watched her walk away with an unwavering gaze. As she got closer to the ensigns she became almost indistinguishable from them, in the thick survival gear that smoothed out distinct features. Almost indistinguishable… Her gait, and her posture were undeniably hers, undeniably familiar.
Almost as familiar was that tone of voice she had used. He had lost count of the times that he had engaged the nurse in conversation, and the veneer of rank and station had begun to wear through, until there was almost, almost, a connection that cut through all of those awkwardnesses. And then he remembered logic and control, duty and discipline, and the glass wall raised itself again, and she was left with that brittleness covering over a very human sense of hurt.
He sighed. The pain in his ankle throbbed, reminding him sharply of his fragile mortality. He had seven people under his command, six of them little more than teenagers, and he was incapacitated by the failure of a few shards of collagen, hydroxyapatite and sundry other chemicals within his left ankle.
He turned his face upwards as he pulled upon his pain-controlling disciplines. A brief break in the cloud showed a sky tinted with fluctuating ribbons of continually morphing light. Green replaced gold, replaced blue, purple, rusty reds, and gold again. The last remnants of the ion storm were passing overhead, the violent strength of it concentrated out in deep space, the fringes of it licking at the planet's exosphere. The worst effects of the storm here, protected by atmosphere as they were, would be perhaps some changes in weather, and the aurora-like lights flickering about the clouds. Out in space, they had been disastrous.
Looking back to his small group of charges he saw a couple of the ensigns turn to look at him, startled expressions on their faces. Nurse Chapel had obviously explained why he was sitting here, inactive. He caught their emotions as if they had been blown on the wind. Fear, uncertainty, apprehension. As little as he understood those emotions, unchecked as they were, he knew he would have to help them to manage and curtail them. It was his responsibility to overcome this trifling injury, and to command this mission – to keep these people safe, to return them intact to the Enterprise, and ultimately to their anxious families and friends and loved ones.
After only a few more minutes he saw that they had completed the erection of the tents to the letter of the survival manual. There were four of them, each big enough for two people, oriented in a circle about a central area large enough for a cooking fire. Nurse Chapel was coming back toward him with the two male ensigns in tow.
Spock preferred not to dwell on the ignominy of being carried to the tents by Ensign Lovett and Ensign Del Sarto, but at least he was, eventually, in a place sheltered enough to allow the removal of clothing without serious danger. A rucksack served as a pillow, but he was not using it, preferring to prop himself up on his elbows in a semi-sitting position. A thin but insulating sleeping bag was laid over most of his body, with only his lower leg exposed. Thankfully the only ones present for now were he and Nurse Chapel, the ensigns being outside trying to instil a degree of order into the makeshift camp.
'It's not a clean break,' Chapel murmured as she scanned the exposed ankle. The joint was already swollen, and mottled with greenish black bruising. 'On the ship, I think Dr McCoy would have operated. The best I can do here is try to get everything lined up with external manipulation, and set it with spray bandage. It's going to hurt, Mr Spock,' she said seriously, looking up from his swollen and bruised ankle and meeting his eyes. 'I really would recommend that you take a painkiller before I begin.'
'Miss Chapel, painkillers interfere with my ability to control my thought processes,' he said steadily. 'I appreciate your concern, but it is likely that drugs would cause me more pain due to my inability to control my reaction.'
'All right,' she nodded finally, laying a hand lightly on his foot. 'If there are any Vulcan techniques you have at your disposal, I suggest you use them.'
Spock finally allowed himself to lie back, pushing the unused rucksack aside so that his head was level with the rest of his body. He closed his eyes, and brought his pain mantras to bear.
'Proceed,' he murmured.
His voice seemed very far away. That was good – it indicated that he had managed to draw his mind away from his body. It was not a case of lessening the pain he felt – it was a case of not allowing his mind to be aware of it.
A spike of pain jerked through him, and he grunted without meaning to. He fought to keep himself detached as hot pain flooded in through the crack he had allowed, ignoring the distracting sound of Miss Chapel speaking, pulling himself back to that quiet, still place…
And then he could feel the solid, reassuring constriction of spray bandage setting on his skin, and he allowed himself to come back to reality, opening his eyes and focusing on the nurse who was still kneeling near his feet.
'Are you done, Nurse?' he asked carefully.
She looked at him, and smiled apologetically. 'I've done all I can. I'm sorry about that. It was harder to manipulate than I expected. But how does it feel now?'
'It is – painful,' Spock said tightly, 'but I can feel the benefit of the cast.'
'It should start to settle down now it's supported,' she assured him. 'It won't be pain-free, but it should start to feel a bit easier.'
'Yes,' Spock said gravely. He looked up at the nurse. 'It will be necessary for me to be able to travel,' he said seriously. 'I don't believe that will be possible without some kind of crutch to lean on. Did you notice any trees or shrubs in our locality?'
'I haven't seen anything bigger than that heather-like plant,' she said, shaking her head. 'Is it really necessary to move? I wouldn't recommend it – at least not for a few days.'
'I was able to see quite a large section of the planet's surface during our descent from the shuttle,' Spock said. 'The snow became notably less as the planet curved towards the equator – south, according to Starfleet constant, due to the angle of this planet on the galactic plane. The further south we travel, the warmer it will become, and the easier it will be to survive. We will not make swift progress, but all progress is progress. We may also come across intelligent life, if there is such here.'
'Were there any signs?' she asked, casting her mind back to the jumbled moments just before they had left the plummeting shuttle. It must have been less than an hour ago that they had been in a catastrophically decaying orbit of the planet, but it felt like days had passed.
Spock shook his head. 'The instruments were not functioning sufficiently to tell. It was as much as I could do to determine that this planet was habitable. Picking up evidence of intelligent occupation is a much more complex task. If there had been time, I could have chosen a more suitable landing spot…'
He trailed off, and Chapel read in his eyes that momentary uncertainty that lay underneath his decisive mien. He was in charge of a group of seven people, six of them with very little off-ship experience, and every decision that he made swayed them closer to life or to death.
'It's solid ground, the temperature's tolerable, even to Vulcans, there's available water, and from what I can see of the vegetation there's the possibility of finding edible plants,' she told him quietly. 'It's not a paradise, but it's workable.'
'Yes,' Spock nodded, looking up with a more confident expression in his eyes. 'And we will make it work. I think, judging by the light, that nightfall is approaching. Our best tactic for the moment will be to eat, and then to sleep.'
'Two to a tent, Mr Spock,' Chapel reminded him. 'Do you have an idea as to sleeping arrangements?'
Spock lifted an eyebrow. 'Ordinarily I would suggest that the – more adult – members of the party each share with an ensign, but that would still leave four of the ensigns without chaperones. Psychologically speaking, I imagine morale would be best served by allowing the younger members of the party to stay with their peers.'
'I think you're right,' Chapel nodded, although she couldn't help but be surprised at his capitulation to teenage psychology. McCoy had told her more than once about Spock's near disastrous landing on Taurus 2 in the shuttlecraft Galileo, when human psychological needs had factored very little into his strategy for survival. That had been almost three years ago, though, and it was obvious that the Vulcan's ability to understand human emotional needs had developed in that time.
'Besides,' the nurse continued, running a scanner over his foot. 'I'd like to be close at hand to keep an eye on that ankle. If it swells I might need to remove the cast and apply a new one.'
She kept her eyes firmly averted from his face. She knew, and Spock must know, the attractions to her of the idea of the two of them sleeping together in one tent. Neither would say anything, of course. She would continue to desire him, and he would continue to perform his duty, with no capitulation to emotional needs.
Spock exhaled slowly, raising himself on his elbows again to regard the limb, now safely cocooned in its white cast.
'I sincerely hope, Miss Chapel, that the necessity doesn't arise,' he said with feeling.
She smiled. It was not often that Spock allowed a glimpse into his own private thoughts, but she could see now that he was in pain, and worried, and apprehensive about what was to come. It was not really a situation to smile about, but she could not help the swell of affection she felt for him in those brief moments when he looked into her eyes and actually gave her a small piece of himself.
