title: Double Blind
author: medie
fandom: Star Trek: TOS
rating: Pg13
length: 13, 439
prompt: written for ishie for the femme_fic ficathon for the prompt "There's a biological contaminant attacking the Enterprise and her crew; Chapel and Uhura are the only officers capable of fighting it. Bonus points for including any of the other female crew members!"
disclaimer: Nothing but the writing and Yeoman Sanders belongs to me. I am happy to say that all these female characters are canon.
note: Much thanks to altorogue, mylittleredgirl, and lilacsigil.
summary: It all starts with a sneeze.
It all starts with a sneeze.
The only one that even notices is the woman nearly on the receiving end of it. Smiling at the red-faced yeoman standing beside her, Christine passes him a handkerchief.
She doesn't even stop to hear his apology, the action is habitual. She's gone on about her business a second later and there's plenty of it to be had. The planet is uninhabited, the original population having died off thousands of years before, but it's strategically located. Another empty world for the Federation to lay claim to and colonize.
Christine steps out of the ruins, looking up at the sunny skies. If the Enterprise's survey goes well, there'll be a starbase here before long and a colony surrounding it shortly after that.
She should be happy about that, she should, but knowing why this planet is so strategic, she can't be. If there were no looming conflict with the Klingons, the Federation wouldn't look twice at this planet as a site for colonization. Too many other, better choices available.
But --
"You look maudlin."
Christine looks behind her to find a smiling, mud-covered Carolyn Palamas standing a few feet away. Holding an artifact in her hands, the archaeologist is as giddy as a schoolgirl. At least one of them is enjoying herself. "I suppose I am, a little," she says, closing the distance between them. "It's the ruins, I suppose. I feel like I'm tiptoeing through a graveyard."
She realizes as she says it, how it might sound, and sighs. "I'm sorry, Carolyn, I'm -- "
"Right," Carolyn says, laughing. "Relax, Christine, it's true. This entire planet is a monument of sorts." She waves a hand, taking in the buildings behind them. "I like to think they wouldn't mind. Someone taking the time to find out who they were, remember their accomplishments and their dreams, and maybe try to find out why they're gone, I'd want someone to do it for me."
"Yes, I suppose, I would as well," Christine agrees, though the idea of picturing Earth this way sends chills down her spine. "I'm sorry, Carolyn," she says, apologizing again, "I don't think I'm good company today. I keep thinking about why we're here -- "
"I know," Carolyn nods, "So do I." She looks at the artifact in her hand. It's as muddy as she is. "I'm thinking about putting in a request for a long-term expedition here." Her smile is sad. "There's not enough time to do more than a cursory examination."
"You certainly seem to be giving it your all," Christine says, finding her smile. "I don't think the captain is going to let you back on the ship looking like that. You'll track mud all over his floors."
It brings Carolyn's laugh back, drawing looks from the personnel around them. More than a few are admiring, but Carolyn doesn't notice. She plucks at her work pants and rubs the mud between her fingers, the look on her face mischievous. "You're right, Chris," she agrees, "I think we've all gotten a little dirty down here. Except you, of course." She holds out her hand and takes a playfully threatening step forward. "You look quite clean."
"Oh no you don't," Christine says, laughing. "Carolyn." She dodges the touch, her tricorder swinging free by its strap. "Don't you even think about it."
"You need to relax, Christine," Carolyn grins. "Always so proper. So composed. When are you going to let your hair down and get a little dirty?"
"I relax," says Christine. "Just not right now." Not with war looming on the horizon, Starfleet scrambling for starbases, ships, and allies. The Federation's ambassadors trying desperately to forestall a conflict. It's too easy to see the bloodied bodies and ruined lives and even easier to wish she'd never left the lab.
She thinks of Roger and sees his face. Its times like this when she hates him. "There are days I don't think I belong out here."
"There are days we all think that," Carolyn says. She hands the artifact off to a yeoman, wiping her fingers on a cloth. Entirely in vain, of course, as dirty as her hands are, the cloth is even dirtier. "Sometimes, we think it more than others. Like now." "Sometimes, we think it more than others. Like now." She picks up her canteen, unfastening the top to take a sip of the cool water.
Christine's canteen is with the rest of her gear on a nearby table, she debates going to get it, but decides it's coffee she really wants. A nice cup of hot coffee, a few reports, and then a good book. These days, it's becoming her idea of the perfect evening in. Wasn't staying on the ship supposed to be about adventure and finding herself?
She leaves the question unanswered. "How do you deal with it?"
"My great-grandmother was in Starfleet," Carolyn says, "she served through the Earth-Romulan War. I like to think she had the same struggles as I do. We'll came out here to explore, I think we'll keep on doing that, come what may with the Klingons."
It's the come what may that bothers Christine, but she's not alone there. She sees the shadows of it in Carolyn's eyes, knows she'd find them in everyone else's as well. The captain included.
"Well," she says, forcing thoughts to more cheerful matters, "with all the crawling about in the mud, I trust you found something worthwhile."
It doesn't surface right away. In fact, they're three days out from the planet, heading for the nearest starbase to take on construction crews for phase one, before it does.
The young yeoman who'd sneezed shows up in sickbay. "I just don't feel right," he complains, sweating profusely as he sits on the biobed. "Can't put my finger on it, ma'am, but I just -- " he shrugs. "I don't feel right. You think I might've picked up something back on the planet?"
He's young and he's scared, it's his first assignment, it's the Enterprise and it's the Klingons. Christine knows it has much to do with that as any real disease.
She's not entirely right, of course, but she's not entirely wrong either. Ironic, really, that a youngster's homesickness would be the red flag that saves the ship.
"Possibly," she says, reaching for a medical tricorder, "but not very likely. We scanned the planet very thoroughly before sending landing parties down. It's almost impossible for those scans to miss something."
"But it does happen though, right?" the yeoman asks. "That one in a million chance?"
"Yes, there is always that one," she says, sounding indulgent to her own ears. She can only hope he doesn't hear it as well. Bedside manners and other medical airs have never come easily to her. Her rushed flight onto a starship to find Roger had meant a hard learning curve. There were times she wondered just how well she was handling it.
Looking up from the tricorder's results, she smiles gently at the yeoman and he beams back.
The tricorder beeps, whistles, and gives an ominous little whine. When she looks at the new readings, Christine can't stop a frown. "Well, this would be that one time," she says.
"What?"
Panic edges his question, lacing through the undertone and she forces herself to forget about the readings for a moment. Again on uncomfortable ground, she searches for the right words to say. "The scan has picked up something, but I'm sure it'll be fine. Picking up something on an away mission isn't that uncommon." Her grin is honest as she adds, "Especially on this ship."
He nods, mute and scared and she can feel it. Forcing a confident smile to her face, she repeats, "All right?"
"Yes, ma'am," he finally says, his voice small.
"Good," Christine says, firm and decisive. Picking up a hypo, she loads a canister and presses it against his neck. "Now, this will help with some of the symptoms while we run a few tests." When she turns away, she makes a mental note to call Helen on the way. He's going to need someone to talk to and, in the Enterprise's psychiatry department, there's no one better.
While the worry is a remote one, slim, the fact it slipped past the sensor sweep is a concern and she's seen more than a few infections start from less.
"Yeoman," she stops at the door, "I'm sorry, but I didn't get your name."
"Michael, ma'am," he says, "Michael Sanders."
She smiles. "I'll be right back, Michael, and it is going to be all right. I promise."
It's a dangerous thing to say, but looking at him, wide-eyed and afraid, she can't stop herself. More than that, she doesn't want to.
The contagion, and it is a contagion, spreads quickly after that. Sanders is the first to present with symptoms, but he is followed in short order by the other men on the landing party. All of them within a few hours.
They're followed by crewmen who never set foot on the planet. Not long after that and seems the Enterprise has become a plague ship.
"We think that it's airborne," says Christine, weary. Sitting in her office, surrounded by a mountain of PADDs with a mountain of test results, she takes the steaming cup of coffee Nyota's holding out and smiles gratefully. "There'll be no stopping it now, every man in the crew will have it before long."
"Well, the ones that don't are restricted to quarters," Nyota says, sitting down. "The last reports I had from Charlene Masters said Engineering and Life Sciences were getting creative with the air scrubbers."
"They are," Christine nods. Exhaustion tugs at her and, for a moment, she's tempted to put her head down and just sleep. "I don't know how much good it will do, though. This one's proving creative. We haven't even identified it yet. We know there's an organism affecting them, but it's proving itself to be a tricky little devil. And that was with Medical and Sciences working at full strength. Half of both departments are infected."
"Drink the coffee, Chris," Nyota scolds. "You look terrible."
"I feel worse than I look," Christine says, taking a generous swallow of coffee. "Len's being a bear." Which is putting it mildly. Leonard was infected very early on, but in typical McCoy fashion, refused to slow down in the least until he had no other choice.
She takes another swallow of coffee. "When he isn't sleeping, he's demanding reports." She's not sure who's worse on that front. Leonard, the captain, or Mr. Spock. She is sure, however, that even if the contagion can't kill her, aggravation from dealing with them might.
"Well, you know what they say about doctors," Nyota sips her own coffee.
"I do," Christine nods. "I also know it goes double for one Leonard H. McCoy." She looks out the window of her office, taking in the sight of the sickbay. It's crowded, wall to wall, with men all in varying stages of the contagion. Some are still mobile. She watches them, moving around and helping tend to the others, all the while fighting it themselves. "We haven't seen the worst of it yet."
They haven't and the idea scares the hell out of her. She's the closest thing to a doctor left standing, the only one with a proper medical research background, and her favorite research partner is lying, delirious, on a biobed in the other room.
Nyota follows her gaze. "No, I suppose we haven't." She leans across the table, covering Christine's hand with her own. "You can do this, Chris. You can."
Her voice is firm, confident, and Christine wants to believe her, but the weight of it is crushing. "I wonder if this is what the captain feels like." She pulls her gaze from the men, looking back at her friend. "They're depending on me to find an answer for this. A cure. That boy -- "
It's too easy to think of Sanders. "He's so scared." She shakes her head. "Ny, you should see him. He's barely conscious most of the time, but when he's awake -- I promised him, Ny, I ipromised/i. He's depending on me."
They all are. She stands up, cupping the mug between her palms, and walks to the window.
"They're depending on all of us," Nyota says, correcting her. "The captain, Mr. Spock, even Sanders. They're all depending on us." She stands as well, joining Christine at the window. "And we aren't going to let them down." Leaning against the wall, she adds, "and neither are you."
Chris doesn't want to look, but she knows Nyota. There's no avoiding it. Giving in, she turns her head and finds the flint-eyed Lieutenant Uhura-special fixed on her. It feels wrong to laugh, but she does. "All right, all right, I get the message, Doctor. No brooding on duty."
"No brooding, period," Nyota corrects, grinning triumphantly. "We've handled worse than this and walked away from it. We just need to come at it from the right angle."
"Which would be?"
"Hard enough to knock this thing into another galaxy."
"Nurse."
The captain's voice comes out as little more than a rasp, but even across the room Christine can still hear it. She looks up from her latest test results to find him watching her. He's commandeered the biobed with the best view of the door. Always in command, never able to let go, not even now.
"Yes, sir," she says, rising. It's a few short strides to his bedside and she looks down at him. His eyes are fever bright, but clear. She reaches for a PADD. This is a conversation she's been expecting.
He coughs and tries to sit up. Christine tucks the PADD under her arm and tries to help him. It's awkward, she ends up lying halfway across the pillow behind him, but they manage. Kirk surprises her by laughing.
"Guess this wasn't what you had in mind for your weekend."
"Well, no," she agrees, "but my new book will keep."
He nods, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "Which planet this time?"
Christine had always thought her love of alien literature a well-kept secret, like her Klingon coffee addiction and bad Risan vids, but the captain is a man with resources and a secret love of books all his own.
On a starship, with limited resources and limited space, Christine was relieved to find a fellow book lover.
She's still more than a little surprised to know it's the captain.
Smiling, she leans a little closer. "Betazed. It's a planet near Vulcan. Telepaths."
"Right," he nods. "Heard of them." His eyes twinkle. "Supposed to be unrepentant sensualists."
"It's one of those sweeping epics I'm told. The Betazoids are fond of them. I'd offer to let you borrow it -- " but the idea of Captain James Tiberius Kirk reading the Betazoid equivalent of Gone With The Wind is enough to make even a bone weary nurse smile.
He sees it and returns it. It's the same Jim Kirk grin, but weaker. She doesn't like it, but says nothing, letting him talk instead. "Don't be so sure, Christine. I might surprise you."
"It wouldn't be the first time, sir," she agrees.
He laughs, but it devolves into a fit of coughing. She runs a hand over his back, slow circles that do nothing to sooth the coughing but, she knows, helps just the same. "I stay in here much longer, I'll be begging for that book."
"I'll bring it down for you, sir," Christine promises, hoping fervently he'd be conscious enough to actually read it. "Now, you wanted something?"
"Yeah, a set of healthy lungs, a cup of coffee, and to be on the bridge."
"Well, we're working on the first one, but I'm going to have to say absolutely not on the second and third." She tries to look conspiratorial. "I'd let you visit the bridge, but then Dr. McCoy would have my head and I'd have to let him take it."
The captain's face falls. "Medical ethics," he says, annoyed. He waves a hand, gesturing at her PADD. "We need to make arrangements. I'm sure Lieutenant Uhura has things well in hand on the bridge."
The bridge and a good chunk of the rest of the ship. "She does," Christine agrees, "At least, from what I've observed. We'll be arriving back at the planet in a few hours. Lieutenant Uhura and Lieutenant Palamas are prepping the landing parties as we speak. Wherever the contagion came from, they're going to find it."
He smiles, it's playful, but she can see the deep relief. His ship, if nothing else, is safe. In good hands and cared for. For a man like the captain, she knows, it's the best medicine she could give him. "And you don't miss much."
"Hazard of the job," Christine says.
Captain Kirk nods. "Well then, I'm sure the ranking officers in their respective departments are handl--" he breaks off, coughing again, and she drops the PADD on the biobed. A hypo is a short reach away and the cough suppressant hisses into his bloodstream a moment later.
"Slow breaths," she orders, watching him to make sure he follows. Certain starship captains who she's not going to name often have a high degree of difficulty with following their doctor's orders. "Take it easy, sir."
"Easier said than done," he grits out. "Tell me you're making progress on this thing?"
"Science and Medical are ripping it apart," she promises. She doesn't have to say progress is slow. The reason why is painfully obvious to everyone. "We know that it seems to be targeting the y chromosome in particular. We've yet to pin down why, but we are going to solve this, sir."
"But in the event that you don't -- " he gestures at the PADD. "We need to make some plans."
It's another promise that she shouldn't make, but she does it anyway. It's easier this time. Like Grandmother Chapel always said, in for a penny, in for a pound.
She looks at him. "We won't need them, sir."
Nyota calls from the bridge. It's late, or early, Christine's long since passed the point of telling the difference. This isn't the first time that she's dealt with a contagion. Not even the first time she's dealt with a shipboard contagion. For all Starfleet's planning and procedures, the galaxy is a universe unto itself in terms of disease.
This bone-deep exhaustion isn't a stranger. Oddly enough, it's taken on the easy comfort of old clothes. She slips into it just as easily, her body sliding into that state where everything is fuzzy about the edges and her eyes droop with every blink.
She doesn't notice herself drifting, not even when the stylus slips from her fingers and clatters to the floor. It's the whistle of the comm that yanks her up and back. Sleep grits her eyes as she shakes her head and tries to focus enough to identify the sound.
The comm whistles again and she yawns, rubbing at her eye with one hand and acknowledging the call with the other. "Yes?"
"You wanted me to call before the staff meeting," Nyota says, voice raspy with exhaustion.
Christine's gaze sharpens, concern hitting her veins like adrenaline, and she looks toward the monitor. "When was the last time you slept?" Asking the answer, she feels a preemptive rush of guilt. Ny's answer's probably not that different from her own.
So not much at all and, she suspects, Nyota has had even less.
"Well, you know what they say," Ny says, almost laughing. There's a weary hysteria lurking in the sound, but that's all it does. They don't have time to be hysterical, or to even entertain the idea, and neither one of them will give in to the temptation. "I'll sleep when I'm dead."
"Which isn't likely to be soon," Christine says. "Not unless the Klingons launch a sneak attack." She almost wishes they would. At least the Klingons they would present an easier target. Something physical they could strike at.
"Don't even suggest it," Nyota says, voice only halfway joking. "Can you imagine me taking this ship into battle?"
"Yes," Christine says, "and so did Captain Kirk. He wouldn't have put you in command otherwise."
Nyota doesn't argue. She could. In theory, she's high on the command list, only a few steps down from Spock, but that doesn't matter. They all know Captain Kirk. The chain of command is far from his first priority when it comes to his ship and his crew.
"No matter," Nyota says before she can continue, "I'm not in any hurry to meet the Klingons. I'm dreading a staff meeting."
"You're the one who called it," Christine can't resist saying. It's petty, but she's not looking forward to it either. The idea of sitting around that table and knowing who each woman is standing in for.
She looks out the window, watching her nurses and medical techs swarming their patients. Her patients. Them and the hundreds more scattered throughout the ship.
"I did," Nyota agrees. "And we do need it, but -- "
But.
Christine nods. "But we don't have the time and we're just going to have to make some. She slants a look out at sickbay. "I wonder if Spock will let us borrow his time travel formula?"
Nyota chuckles. "Only if you want Jayashri to kill you. She and Angela have enough on their hands without throwing time travel into the mix. Besides, Nurse Chapel, you know no such formula exists."
"Right," Christine agrees, remembering the line to come down from Starfleet. "Silly me, what was I thinking?"
"It's the exhaustion talking, when was the last time that you slept?" Nyota asks, tone pointed.
Smiling sadly, Christine says, "We're going to be late for your staff meeting, Lieutenant Uhura."
"Well, what's the point of calling a staff meeting if you can't take advantage of it?" Nyota asks, sounding deliberately arch, if not relieved to have avoided the question. "I'll be there when I get there."
"A few days in the command chair and it's already gone to her head," Christine says. She stands up, gathering reports that she'll need. "You might want talk to Helen Noel about that. She has a history with the criminally insane you know."
"I'm going to pretend that's the exhaustion talking," Nyota says, amused. She hesitates before saying, "Christine?" There's a thousand unsaids in her voice. Christine understands each and every one. This is a situation no one could train for. Ny's not interested in command, at least not at this point in her career, anymore than Christine's looking to run her own sickbay. Everyone has been pushed into positions they're trained to handle, but not quite ready for.
Christine smiles. "You're welcome, Nyota." She signs off the comm and stands there for a moment. She doesn't pretend to understand the burden of command. Commanding a sickbay is not commanding a starship. She's never known it, not in the way that Nyota does now, and she likely won't.
She does, however, understand it in her own way. Four hundred lives hanging on what she does next. Which test she runs, which decision she makes, and how she interprets the results and information brought back to her.
Any break from that, however brief and silly, is a welcome one and, she suspects, precisely what Nyota was trying to give her. She's grateful for it, but there's work to be done.
She leaves her office, intent on going to the briefing, but leaving sickbay is easier said than done. The wide open space has become congested and cluttered. The infected on made up beds and cots with their attendants swarming around them.
It makes getting to the corridor somewhat difficult. Like most of its ilk, the infection caused by their mystery contagion progressed at a different rate with each patient. Some of the men she passes are unconscious, sweat beading their brows as nurses and techs fight to keep them alive, others are quite conscious and quite eager to chat. They're scared and, Christine knows from experience, looking for anything to take their minds off that fear.
Men who would have barely nodded at her in the corridor grab for her hand, almost desperate to stop her passing. Christine does her best to indulge each one. They're scared and they have a right to be. Just because no one has died doesn't mean it's coming.
She lifts her gaze, looking for Sanders' limp body. Just because no one has died yet. Someone will. The Enterprise is a vessel blessed with luck, but not even they could be lucky enough to make it out with zero casualties.
"You appear troubled, Nurse."
Christine tenses, turning. Some patients -- "Mr. Spock, you shouldn't be out of bed."
He lists a little then frowns. It's a barest twitch of his facial muscles, but she's looking for it. The nurse more than the woman is the part of her that sees it. Vulcan biology being what it is, she knows he's better capable of resisting the contagion than his human shipmates, but she also knows even he will eventually succumb. No need to hurry it along. "I am -- "
She folds her arms, raising a brow in deliberate mimicry of him. "Commander, if for a second you think I'll be fooled by your routine, I'm more than happy to tell you otherwise."
Spock regards her with eyes that only hint at the fever raging in the others. "I do not believe I possess any 'routine', Nurse Chapel."
She almost says 'the hell you don't', but quashes her inner McCoy and steps forward. "Yes, you do, and it won't work here. You're ill, Mr. Spock, and no amount of mental disciplines will change otherwise." In the past, she would have thrilled at the chance to touch him, but that isn't now. She takes hold of his elbow, turning him back toward his bed. "Please, just rest. We have everything well in hand."
That he doesn't fight her touch tells Christine everything she needs to know. Were he healthier, nothing would stop Spock from getting to the bridge, least of all the protestations of an overworked nurse. "The latest reports?" he rasps, allowing her to guide him back onto the bed's surface.
"I'll have Ensign Tamura bring you the latest," she says, looking up at the biobed's readings. It takes her a moment longer to translate them, comparing them with the norms from his chart. His readings never confirm completely with Human or Vulcan baseline stats. She's distracted for a moment by the mental puzzle.
"And you?"
Spock's question surprises her. She looks down at him, for a moment dumbfounded by the question. "Me? I'm -- " Exhausted. Overworked. Understaffed. Stressed. Scared. "I'm fine."
He doesn't believe her. She can see the doubt, faintly hinted at though it is, settle into his eyes. It's off-putting, this sudden display of concern from him, but she reminds herself that it's only logical. As uncomfortable as the interest in her well-being might seem, she is the Enterprise's defacto Chief Medical Officer. The state of her well-being, she knows, is intimately tied to the rest of the crew.
As First Officer, therefore, she's of concern to him. She wants to laugh, but checks the urge. As ironic as her exercise of logic might be, she isn't sure she even has the energy to express her amusement. Instead, she leans against the biobed and rubs her temples.
"Honestly? I'm exhausted."
"You should -- "
"Rest?" she finishes, smiling. It's wry and sharp, but it's the best she can do. "I know I should. So should the others, but we just don't have the time." And therein lies the rub. They don't. With each passing hour and day, her patients grow worse and the contagion spreads despite their best efforts.
"Your likelihood of success will only lessen the longer that you are without sleep." Spock pauses. He looks at her, clearly at a loss as to how to handle the situation. Watching him, she almost feels sorry for him. To be so constrained by your own psyche, Christine thinks she'd suffocate. "That is to say, you will do no one any good if you collapse. You must take care of yourself, Christine."
She smiles. "I'll try." Holding up a finger, she adds, "but only if you do the same. I mean it, Mr. Spock. No sneaking out of bed, badgering me or any of the other nurses for status reports, no calling Ensign Tamura for updates. You are going to rest and nothing else."
Spock starts to answer then stops. She's gotten him with that one and she knows it. To argue would be to invite pot and kettle comparisons. As ill-suited to the situation as it is, Christine can't help feeling very, very pleased with herself.
He, however, looks anything but pleased as he nods, "Very well. Your terms are acceptable."
No they aren't, but he can't wiggle out of them and they both know it. "Good," Christine says. "I will let you see Yumiko from time to time." If only to take blood samples. The human factors in his system made the possibility of viable antibodies a tantalizing possibility. "The frequency of those visits will depend on how much you rest."
"It occurs to me, Nurse, that you are enjoying yourself far more than is appropriate," Spock says, betraying his own aggravation.
She laughs. "I had a good teacher."
"I'm sure Dr. McCoy will agree." Spock settles back onto the biobed and closes his eyes. The conversation, it seems, is over. At least, over until the next time one of them catches him sneaking out of bed.
She anticipates it won't be long at all. Shaking her head, amused but also reassured, Christine turns away. She's taken only a few steps when his voice stops her.
"Nurse."
She looks back to find his eyes open, watching her. "Yes, Mr. Spock?"
"I do not believe that I have properly commended your conduct during this situation," he says, matter-of-fact and betraying nothing. "I have been remiss in this area. It will be my recommendation to the captain that you, Lieutenant Uhura, and others receive commendations."
Taking in his words, Christine recognizes them for what they are. With a small smile, she nods. "You're welcome, Mr. Spock."
Christine is late to the briefing. Everyone else is at the table. Charlene Masters in Scotty's place, her uniform Engineering red instead of Science blue (Charlene's primary assignment in Life Science effectively having her straddle both disciplines), the newly promoted Angela Martine standing in for Chekov, Jayashri Rahda for Sulu, Carolyn Palamas for Spock. The briefing is larger than usual with Yumiko Tamura representing Security and Helen Noel as the ranking psychiatrist. All of them look up when she walks into the room and she slips into her chair Nyota's side. She smiles apologetically at the women around the table. "Mr. Spock made another escape attempt," she says by way of apology. "He sends his appreciation for a job well done."
"In getting him back to bed?" Helen Noel asks, grinning. "That's what? The third time? Did you tuck him in with restraints?"
"Blackmail actually," Christine answers. "Much more effective in the long term." She looks at Nyota, serene in the captain's place. If she's feeling the weight of her new responsibilities, Ny isn't showing it. A cup of steaming coffee before her is the only hint of potential weariness. "Now, what did I miss?"
"Nothing of consequence," Nyota says, tapping a stylus against the table. "Seeing how everyone is handling things, mostly." She looks at Helen. With her specialty, keeping an eye on the crew's mental and physical health. "The crew?"
Helen takes a deep breath. Like most of the women around the table, there are dark circles under her eyes and she looks frayed about the edges. "The people left standing are coping. It's obviously a period of high stress, but with the shortage of bodies, no one has time to do much worrying. I am concerned about overworking the crew. We're already stretched far too thin, all it would take would be a simple cold sweeping through the remaining crew to really do us in."
She looks at Christine. "Has Medical seen any increased illness among the female crewmen?"
"Moderate," Christine says, "but that's not an indicator of anything. Obviously, Sickbay is swamped and the rest of the crew knows that. Most officers aren't going to bother us with anything but an emergency."
"All right, we'll start powering down unnecessary systems and sections," Nyota says, sighing. "And instituting assigned rest periods. I don't want anyone working themselves into a collapse and neither would the captain."
"How is he, Christine?" Angela asks, not even bothering to hide her worry. It wasn't so long ago that her fiance, Robert, died in a skirmish with the Romulans. Everyone knew the captain had taken an interest in her after that, supporting her through the worst of her grief. "Is he conscious?"
"At times," Christine says, reluctant to answer the question. "He spends a lot of time sleeping." She presses her lips together, staring at her hands. She laces her fingers together, rubbing her thumb over a nail, and thinks about how much he would want her to say and how much her own fear colours her words. She's scared. Terrified. If the captain dies and she's responsible --
Unwilling to examine that thought any further, not with Helen watching her so closely, she looks at Carolyn. "Have you found anything on the planet? I've been trying to read the reports you've been sending back, but -- " she shrugs. She barely has the time to read the reports coming back from the Biology section, much less the teams of archaeologists and anthropologists combing through the planet's ruins, searching for any explanation about the contagion.
"The civilization was definitely more advanced than we first thought. We found evidence of a small city in the hills above our first dig site." There's a monitor at the center of the table and Carolyn toggles a control, lighting the screen up with images of the dig. "We found a hospital. We found records there. Unfortunately, they're in the native language of the civilization."
A dead world. A dead language. No one left to translate it and no Rosetta stone hidden in the ruins.
"Dead end," Angela says, morose.
"Not necessarily," Nyota says. "I have linguists tearing through every document we can find. Hopefully, if luck is with us, we'll be able to decipher the language in time for it to be of use."
Hopefully.
Hopefully. With the way things have been going, Christine isn't so sure they should be banking on hope. She knows that she's being maudlin, knows it's the exhaustion fueling her, and keeps her thoughts to herself. Whether or not the others feel the same way, she can't tell. The expressions on the faces that surround her are unreadable.
Grim reality has etched itself into their features, masking any private fears that might be plaguing them. Spock is right in his wish to commend them. Christine feels a rush of pride, watching the women take in Carolyn's report. That they can handle the positions they've had thrust on them is no surprise to anyone. This is the flagship. Training and talent landed them on it in the first place.
"We'll find something," Ensign Tamura says. "We have to. We just -- we have to." She finishes with a simple shrug that says everything. What else is there that they can do?
Christine nods. "While we have no idea precisely what it is, we have been making progress with treating it. The symptoms present almost as a sort of radiation poisoning. The treatments we would use against that do seem to slow the progression. It doesn't reverse it, or cure it, but it slows it down."
"Which is something," Nyota agrees. "And more than we had yesterday." She straightens up. "All right, we'll leave things here. Anything further can be put into reports." She looks around the table. "Nurse Chapel is right, we all need to get some rest. I suggest you make that a highest priority before you go back to work."
"And eat something," Christine puts in, feeling a little like her mother. "All the sleep in the world won't do you any good if you're not eating regularly."
"Physician heed thy own advice," Nyota says as the women file out of the room. "As I recall, Nurse, you're having trouble with that."
"I'm not a doctor," Christine says, smiling.
"You're splitting hairs, Christine. We're aiming for sentiment here, not specialty. Besides, as I recall, that's a mere technicality," Ny teases, picking up her coffee. "Something about a few exams not taken?"
"Something," Christine agrees. With Roger's disappearance, everything had taken second place. The exams she'd been just weeks from taking, her degree, the research position she'd been promised, all forgotten in the search for her fiance. She'd been so intent on finding her lost love that she'd pulled in every favor she could to land a berth on the Enterprise.
All for a man who'd already moved on.
She tips her head, trying to hide the bitter smile. Roger had moved on all right. Living with the recreation of Andrea, his lab assistant, happily dreaming of an android utopia.
Nyota's hand lands on hers, squeezing gently. "Wherever you just went, leave it there, Chris." She sits again, looking Christine in the eye. "Especially if it's where I think it is."
Looking up, Christine tries to smile. She can't complain, not really. Nursing isn't the kind of medical career she'd planned on, but she can't say she's unhappy either. The challenge is unparalleled, and she loves it, but that doesn't erase all the bitterness. "You missed your calling, Ny," she says. "Should've gone into psychology."
"Nah," Nyota laughs, shaking her head. "And spend every day trapped in an office? Forget it, honey, for me it's the bridge or nothing." Her laughter softens into a quiet smile. "I'm serious about getting some rest, Christine. The analysis of those documents is going to take time. Go get some sleep. You won't have a second to lose once the analysis is complete."
"I know," Christine agrees, nodding. "I know. I'll check in on everyone and then I'll rest."
"No," Nyota says, and this time, Christine can hear the Lieutenant Uhura in her voice, "You go straight to your quarters and you rest. You collapse in sickbay and you're useless to me, do I make myself clear, Nurse?"
"Perfectly, Lieutenant," Christine says, standing. She turns to go.
"Chris?"
She stops halfway out the door. "Yes?"
"Look at me."
Christine turns.
Nyota stands. Her PADD and coffee sit on the table behind her. She looks at Christine, eyes full of pride. "Never you mind those exams, Christine Chapel, you're the finest doctor I ever did see and no one's ever going to convince me otherwise."
She picks up her things. "Now, get some sleep before Mr. Spock or the Captain realizes you're gone and makes good on their escape."
Christine laughs. It feels good. "Let them try. Next time, I call Yumiko and she'll be the one putting them back to bed." She waits until Nyota's at her side, walking out into the corridor with her, before she says, "Ny? Thank you."
Nyota shakes her head. "No, Chris. I'm not the one who should be getting thank yous here."
"Maybe not, but I've had my fill for the day," Christine says, stepping into the turbolift. "You take over for now."
The door slides shut on Nyota's laughter.
With the permission to sleep, rather the order to sleep, Christine's body happily indulges. By the time she reaches her cabin, her eyelids are drooping and her vision's going fuzzy around the edges. All she can think of is sleep. She strips out of her uniform on autopilot, leaving it in a crumpled heap by her bed as she goes to shower. It's a quick one, enough to rid herself of two days worth of sweat and grime.
She's already half asleep when she slides beneath the covers, curling on her side toward the wall. As she lies there, drifting toward sleep, the charts and test results of the day play behind her eyelids like an old earth movie.
Somewhere in there is the answer. She can feel it staring her in the face. Just waiting among the gigaquads of data they've already amassed for her to find it. All she has to do is --
Fall asleep.
It feels like minutes, maybe only seconds, before her comm chimes and she's jolted awake. Blearily, Christine rolls toward the sound, slapping a hand down on the console to acknowledge. "Yes?"
"Sickbay, ma'am," a woman says. "You'd better get down here." Her voice is thin, strained with stress, and Christine's fully awake now, the chill of knowing going down her spine.
"Who?" she asks.
"Yeoman Sanders, ma'am," the woman - a new nurse, Christine realizes with a rush of guilt that she doesn't even know her name - answers. "We're attempting to resuscitate, but we -- "
Need her to call the time.
Christine sighs, deep, feeling it down to her bones. Maybe deeper. She detaches. Like the gravity's disengaged and can't get her feet in under her. "I'm on my way."
She throws herself out of bed, dressing with twice the speed she undressed. There's no time for fancy hairstyles and elaborate make up now, but she doesn't care anyway. She pulls a brush through her hair, quick and firm strokes, enough to clean it up and put it back to some semblance of order.
She stumbles from her quarters in record time, bleary eyed and grief stricken.
Promises made, promises broken.
"I'm sorry, Michael," she says on a sob, stepping into the turbolift. She blinks back tears and tries not to see him, scared and alone. She fails. Closing her eyes, she lets the tears come and prays they'll be gone by the time she reaches sickbay.
They are.
Whether or not it's a bad thing, Christine can't say.
She makes the call, signs off on all the paperwork, and then makes the official notification. There's absolutely no doubt as to whether or not Nyota knows. News travels fast on any ship, but this one, in this situation? The question isn't whether she knows, it's which one of them found out first.
Nyota is waiting in her office. As a department head, she's assigned one, but most of the time, Ny barely uses it. She prefers the bridge, at the heart of the action, just like Len. Who rarely has cause to be on the bridge, but always manages to find himself there.
She doesn't look up when Christine steps into the office. Her gaze stays focused on the report before her and Christine gives her a moment. It's a moment they both need and Christine knows it.
Instead, she laces her hands behind her back and looks around the room. It's small, but, even barely used, is still unmistakably Nyota's. The little space exudes a warmth and familiarity that has always taken practice in Christine.
"You've heard?" Christine asks, finally breaking the silence.
"Yes," Nyota says, sighing. "Anything to add?"
"Not really," she says, sinking down onto a chair. She doesn't trust her legs to hold her up against the exhaustion that's trying to pull her under. "Other than he won't be the last." There are a few others slipping closer and closer to the edge with each passing second. "Please tell me you've found something."
"Yes, and no," Nyota sits back, finally making eye contact. Her gaze looks like Christine feels. "Carolyn's people finished another survey of the planet."
"And?" Christine leans forward, sharp-eyed with hope. "Did they find something?"
Nyota frowns, nodding. "Signs of recent habitation."
Her answer stops Christine cold. She stares blankly at her friend. "What?"
"Someone who isn't us has been on that planet recently," Nyota turns her console, letting Christine see the screen and the report for herself. "They're subtle, but whoever that someone is, they aren't Starfleet."
"How did we miss this?" Christine asks, reading the report's highlights at a glance. "The survey teams -- "
"Likely dismissed as our own personnel," Nyota finishes. "It makes sense when you think of it. Our scans showed the planet was uninhabited, we saw no one coming into the system, we weren't expecting trouble." She smiles, grim. "At least, we weren't expecting trouble that wasn't Klingon."
She reaches for a PADD, narrowly avoiding spilling her coffee. Christine's hand darts out to catch it. Nyota doesn't notice, she's too busy scanning the information on the PADD for what she needs.
When she finds it, she turns it toward Christine. "This is a partial translation of some of the documents. I don't know how much help it'll be, but," she smiles, "at this point -- "
"I'll take anything." Christine reaches out, pulling the PADD toward her. She means it. All the best technology and researchers Starfleet has to offer at her disposal and they have next to nothing. Scraps of data that hint at an answer, but nothing more than that. "In fact, I'll definitely take this."
A grin on her face, she's on her feet and rushing out the door before Nyota has a chance to ask what she meant.
She doesn't get the chance either. Klaxons sound as soon as Christine reaches the turbolift.
Red alert.
She hits sickbay at a run. "Report!"
No one answers, but she wasn't expecting an answer. She clutches the PADD tighter in her hands and takes in the room around her. Sickbay is in no condition to be taking on casualties, but if there's going to be a battle, then there's not many options. There are going to be casualties, always were in any fight, and Christine will need to treat them.
She looks at the PADD in her hand, torn between the answers and the problem. It's right there. The beginnings of the explanation they've been searching for. The barest hint of a cure and now -- Christine mutters an oath and drops the PADD on a desk.
"All right, people, we are going to have incoming. I need beds clear and ready for the wounded."
"But -- " one nurse stops, looking at her in astonishment. "HOW?"
Christine smiles, grim and determined. "I'm still working on that part." She looks at the PADD, debating. "Call ship's stores, tell them that Sickbay needs beds."
"Beds?" the nurse echoes. Christine wishes she could remember the girl's name, but right now it's a wonder she can remember her own. Her mind is scrambling through possibilities and scenarios. She almost misses it when the girl gets it. "Oh," she nods. "Right. I'll get anyone conscious ready. We'll start transferring them to the other beds just as soon as Engineering can bring them."
"Good," Christine says. "We won't need many. If we're lucky -- " she frowns. One way to find out. The comm is a few strides away. Closing the distance, she slaps a hand down, opening a channel. "Bridge, what in heaven's name is going on up there?"
"Remember those recent signs of life?" Nyota asks. "A ship just came out of warp." The deck beneath Christine's feet shudders with an impact. "And they're feeling none too friendly."
Of course, they aren't. Christine closes her eyes. "Mind not tearing up what's rest of the crew in a firefight?"
"Believe me, Christine, I'm trying," Nyota says. "Mind curing the captain and getting him up here?"
"Believe me, I'm trying," Christine echoes. She sits, lowering her voice. "Are you --"
"Fine," Nyota assures. She sounds it. Confident. In command. Whether she is, or not, no one would believe otherwise.
Christine smiles. "Of course, Captain." Captain Uhura. It does have a certain ring to it. "Try not to get tossed around up there."
"We'll do our best, Doctor," Nyota says. "Bridge out."
Closing the channel, Christine looks up at the sickbay full of patient and medical personnel. Some are watching her, most aren't. Nurses and technicians are working frantically. Frantic for sickbay at any rate. It's all smooth, well-oiled, but the frenetic energy undercutting everything is obvious to her. She watches them bring out and set up trauma kits, laying technology and tools in their order.
The doors slide open, admitting their expected beds. The women carrying them are a mix of departments. Sciences, security, engineering, all lugging the collapsible beds the ship kept in store for emergency shelters.
At Christine's nod, one of the nurses breaks away from trauma prep to start directing them. In record time, the conscious patients are transferred from the needed biobeds to their temporary replacements. Monitors - from Sickbay's emergency reserves - is brought out and hooked up for them. In a matter of minutes, the whole process is complete and Christine is smiling.
The smile lasts as long as it takes for the ship to rock again. The sudden lurch nearly sends patients spilling for the floor. Her pride vanishes with a weary sigh.
"All right, people, break out the restraints." Before anyone can question it, she adds, "Better that than a skull fracture. Unless, of course, one of you wants to explain it to the captain when he wakes up?"
When, not if. Christine curls fingers around the PADD and smiles. When. "Well?" she prompts. "Do you?"
People jump into motion with that one and, belatedly, Christine realizes why. She sounds like Len. The laughter that brings is genuine, warming her down to her toes.
Feeling more alive than she has in days, Christine picks up the PADD and calls Astrobiology. Ann will want to see this. Ann needs to see this.
Ann is, of course, Dr. Ann Mulhall and she hits Sickbay at the same time as the first casualties. "Christine! Just what -- "
Christine takes a dermal regenerator to a burn on an engineer's face, the machine slowly diminishing the violent red to a pale pink. "Aliens. Turns out the planet wasn't as abandoned as we thought." She gestures with her free hand, indicating the PADD that's waiting on the biobed behind her. "Carolyn Palamas' team found records on the planet." She looks over. "It's good news." If you consider discovering proof of biological weapons to be good. "Sketchy information, but good news nonetheless."
She hands off the regenerator to a technician and joins Ann. "The similarity to radiation poisoning isn't accidental."
Ann nods. "I see what you mean." She turns and they walk away from the bustle of trauma medicine. Intensive care, full of the infected, lies a few feet away and they detour toward it. "There's not much here, but -- "
"It seems as though they were trying to target the virus to a specific racial group." Christine agrees.
"They lost control."
"They lost control," Christine says, "and it wiped out the entire population." It's the same old story on a thousand worlds. People experimenting with things they shouldn't, losing control and paying the price. How many times before the lesson can finally be learned and how many worlds gone before it can happen. Sighing, she checks the first patient, testing his vitals and watching the readings on the board. "If I had to guess, I'd assume when it encountered us, it attacked the closest genetic equivalent."
"The y chromosome." Ann smiles, showing the quiet triumph Christine has been carrying with her from the first moment she read the report. "We can use this, Chris. We can really use this. If they engineered the organism to attack and poison the y chromosome -- "
"We can cure this," Christine says. She doesn't want to stop the smile that fights its way to the surface. After all the self-doubt and stomach-knotting fear, she 's earned this one small reward. "Yes. Exactly." She turns to watch the next wave of injured start. "Presuming Nyota can keep the ship together long enough and we can keep the crew in the same condition."
"You worry about that," Ann says, patting her arm. "I'll start work on this." She waves the PADD and starts for the door.
"Updates on the hour, every hour," Christine calls after her.
Ann doesn't turn and Christine doesn't worry. She knows Ann will be true to her words and, besides, there are patients to concern herself with. The next one through the door, carried on a gurney, is a familiar face. She looks down at Lieutenant Jayashri Rahda.
"Nurse," the helmswoman says, her severe features softened by a pain-filled smile.
"Lieutenant," Christine returns. "What happened to you?" It's a ridiculous question, of course, the livid burns and ruined uniform covering Jayashri's side is answer enough, but there's not much else Christine can think to say. She tries to turn it into a joke, adding, "Forget to duck?"
"Tried that," Jayashri says, trying to grin wider, her usually stern visage lightening with the effort. Watching her, Christine wonders how she could have ever thought her cold, but knows the answer. Jayashri's natural reserve had kept more than most at bay. Seeing beyond that, Christine is glad she wasn't one of them. She reaches for a tricorder, running the diagnostic wand over Jayashri's injuries. "As it turns out, I'm not as fast as an exploding console."
"Helm?" Christine asks, tense. The implications of that in a pitched battle are chilling. She looks toward the console, tempted to call the bridge, and understands Len's constant disappearances a little more.
"No, science," Jayashri answers. "Zahra nearly died."
Christine looks up, eyes scanning patients' faces in the search for Zahra Jamal's face. She imagines having to explain to Mr. Spock that one of his proteges is sharing sickbay with him and cringes. His interest in Zahra and her career had begun on Deneva. Her conduct in the face of the creatures there had won her Spock's admiration and sponsorship. Both had seen her transferred to his department where, to no one's surprise, Zahra's thrived.
She closes her eyes, remembering the excitement on Zahra's face, and hopes that promotion hadn't gotten her killed.
"She's fine," Jayashri says, her unburned fingers wrapping around Christine's hand. "I caught most of it."
Christine looks down. It takes a second but she pushes the reassuring, confident nurse's smile to her face. Longer than it should have, but the image of Jayashri tackling Zahra to the floor, risking her own life to save her crewmate's makes control a hard won fight. "Then we'd best get to work," she says, gesturing the gurney forward. "She'll be down here looking for you before long and hell hath no fury like Zahra on a mission."
Jayashri chuckles, rasping in the sound. "Perhaps, but she's got nothing on our Nurse Chapel."
The possessive phrasing makes Christine grin. "Or Mr. Spock when he finds out his station is in ruins." She reaches for another regenerator, deciding to take care of this one herself. "How is it up there?" Jayashri tenses, raising herself up to answer, but Christine gently guides her back down. "Easy," she says, "I'm not in that big a hurry to hear it."
She waits for Jayashri to settle, calming down, before holding out her hand for a hypo. "This'll help with the pain," she adds. It hisses as she pushes it against her patient's arm, dispensing the drugs swiftly with the pulse of air.
"Thank you," Jayashri says, letting the technicians and Christine strip her ruined uniform away. When it's done, she looks at Christine. "The aliens are definitely not locals. The technology matches nothing we've found on the planet."
"Scavengers?"
"Could be," Jayashri agrees. "If they are, I doubt they were looking for archaeological data. Their ship is armed to the teeth."
"So I noticed," Christine murmurs. She begins working the regenerator along Jayashri's side. "There's not much down there worth selling." She thinks of the disease and frowns. She's no expert in bioweaponry, even less so on the sale of it, but she can imagine what kind of profit something like the organism could make the right dealer.
The Klingons alone --
No. Not the Klingons. Christine's no fan, but even she would admit that biological weapons aren't the Klingons style.
Not bloody enough.
No matter. Even if the Klingons wouldn't use a weapon like this. Someone else would and probably pay dearly for the privilege. She sighs, handing off the regenerator to a technician. "If you'll excuse me, Lieutenant, I think I need to go to the bridge. I think Lieutenant Uhura and I need to have a talk."
Walking onto the bridge is walking into controlled chaos. Christine's gaze goes straight to the ruined science console. Oh, Spock is going to have kittens when he sees that. She grins to herself, watching engineers work frantically to try and repair it. Apparently, she's not the only one having that thought.
The ship tilts, shuddering with an impact, and she looks up to see the alien vessel Jayashri mentioned smack dab at the viewscreen's heart. Like she'd mentioned, it's big, and heavily armed. Fortified is the word that comes to mind.
As does mean. The ship looks very mean.
"Oh my -- "
Nyota glances back, a flash of annoyance on her face, and Christine realizes she's spoken out loud. With a flush of guilt, she steps forward. She might as well get this out of the way. "There's something you should know."
"There are a lot of things I should know," Nyota says, turning her gaze back to the matter at hand. "But all of them have to wait. At the moment, I have my hands full." She hesitates, then asks, "You?"
Christine steps closer, down onto the second level, but keeps one hand on the railing. "We're at capacity, but we'll make room if needs be." She glances over. "Hopefully needs won't be."
"We're going our best to avoid it," Nyota says. "Our friends aren't making it easy."
"You have no idea," Christine says.
That gets her a sharp look and Nyota's full attention. "Care to explain that?"
Christine looks at the viewscreen, watching the ship move out of the way of Angela's next shot. Manning the phaser banks, Angela is utterly confident, or - at least - is doing a masterful job of pretending. "This was a test."
"A test?" Nyota echoes then barks, "Haines, evasive maneuvers!"
Jaina Haines, replacing Jayashri at conn, nods sharp and the ship twists and bucks, spinning under her control to avoid the enemy's next volley. It does, by a hair, and just as quickly, Angela returns fire. The phasers strafe a line of damage along the other ship's port bow. It's a damning hit, but no one cheers.
They're not done yet and they know it.
"Yes, a test," Christine says, continuing as if nothing had interrupted them. She stops to take a breath, composing her thoughts before laying out the theory that had unfolded in the lift on the way up. "We're the test. That ship isn't too heavily armed to be an exploratory vessel, and yet we know they were on the planet before us and with some kind of expedition. I really don't think they were there for the history and not much technology has survived so -- "
"You think they were there for the contagion," Nyota says, finishing the statement for her. She narrows her eyes, directing the look at the ship on the screen. "They harvested it."
"With the intent to sell," Christine says. "And how better to sell something than with a proven test?" She moves closer, lowering her voice, "If I'm right, Nyota, they deliberately infected us."
"They wanted to see if the virus could cripple a Federation vessel," Nyota says on a whispered breath.
"This is only a theory," Christine says wanting to make that explicitly clear for all concerned, "but yes, that's what I think they're doing. If they can cripple the Enterprise and destroy her the implications are chilling. They could sell it to the Romulans, the Klingons, anyone who wants to move us out of the way. A co-ordinated attack on key Starfleet vessels and installations -- "
"Forget crippling one starship," Nyota says, "they could potentially cripple Starfleet."
If not through direct infection, then certainly through overworking the remaining personnel. Neither one of them has to comment on the potential implications of ithat/i. By the time Starfleet had any comprehension of what was really happening, much less tried to combat it, it would be far, far too late.
Nyota turns a cool, angry gaze on the ship. It unleashes a new volley, energy spitting across the empty blackness between them, lashing out. It's almost a miracle, Christine thinks, that the look on Ny's face doesn't freeze the weapons fire mid-launch.
"I'm quite sure," she says, addressing the bridge crew, "that you all heard Nurse Chapel's theory. I'm equally sure that you're all aware of the implications. They're testing us. Whether it's a prequel to invasion or just trying out a new weapon for later sale, we can't be sure. What we can be sure of is that their test is about to fail. Under no circumstances is this ship beaten or crippled, do I make myself clear? That ship will not leave this system with the contagion. It will not happen."
No one answers, but no one has to. Christine can see it in the way their shoulders tighten and heads raise. Half the crew might be flat on their back, but the Enterprise isn't finished. Not by a long shot.
"How close to a cure are you?" Nyota asks, looking sideways.
Christine considers it. Really. After a moment, she meets her friend's gaze and says, "Close."
The ship shudders, rights itself, and spits fire back at their enemy. Christine can see a bright flash out of the corner of her eye. They scored a hit. Angela's breathless report confirms it a moment later. Christine takes it as a good sign.
So does Nyota. She smiles. "I'd suggest you get on that. The captain has quite an investigation on his hands." She sits back in the command chair, crossing her legs, as calm and as comfortable as if they were on leave, not in the midst of a pitched battle with red alert blaring around them. Her eyes twinkle. "And a lot of commendations to go out."
"Well, I should let you finish earning yours," Christine says, gesturing at the viewscreen. "Not to mention go earn mine."
"Oh, I think you've done that in spades, Christine," Nyota says, her voice dropping into a murmur. "A dozen times over."
"I'll be in the market for a good CMO," Nyota agrees. "Know anyone who might be interested?"
Christine grins. "I can think of one." She touches Nyota's sleeve, squeezing once, before turning away.
There's a cure calling her name.
In the end, it's Nyota's translations, not Christine's tests that provide the magic bullet. If it can be called a magic bullet. The treatment course Christine develops from the report is complex, certainly nothing so simple as 'magic'.
Her answers, or the beginnings of one, are found by the linguists pouring over the scavenged documents. A report, small and fragmented, buried in a pile of useless data.
A follow up to the data Nyota herself found, the remnants of a report on the contagion reveal it to be an organism, emitting radiation as a byproduct of its growth and replication.
"Explains the similarity to radiation poisoning," Christine says, staring into the scanner. "And why the treatments worked only to a point."
"Yes," Ann agrees. "We were only treating the symptoms, not the underlying cause." She smiles, relief etching itself into her features. "We can do this, Christine. We can really do this."
Christine nods, stepping back from the scanner. She picks up the report, skimming the summary data in a quick glance. "Well, let's. Captain Kirk is waiting to play guinea pig."
"We're a long way from human trials, Chris," Ann warns, shaking a hypo at her warningly. "Whatever you're thinking -- "
"I'm thinking the same thing that you are," Christine says. "We're running out of time, you know it, I know it, the crew knows it, and the captain definitely knows it. We've had two deaths since Sanders. There ten more lapsed into comas during the night. If we don't move soon, Ann, we're going to start hitting heavy losses. The captain will insist on taking the first dose."
She goes for her PADD, the one full of the notes and scribbles made during a brainstorming session the night before. Armed with a pot of coffee, a plate of sandwiches, and all the relevant translations that Nyota's people could provide, she'd sat up in her quarters and scoured. Hours she should have spent sleeping, but hours well spent nonetheless. The beginnings of a treatment strategy sit on the device, waiting to be run through the computer.
"Knowing him, we don't have long before that happens." If the captain weren't drifting in and out of consciousness, she knows it would have happened already. Christine looks at Ann, raising a Spock-like eyebrow, almost daring her friend to contradict her. "You know the second the captain finds out, I'm going to have my orders." And although Starfleet regulations protected her from officially having to follow them, they both knew it wasn't that simple. Not with the captain facing the loss of half his crew. Not with the potential losses for Starfleet even higher.
The captain will order her to test it on him, damn the risks, and Christine will obey it. If only to grant a dying man's last wish. Her stomach clenches at the thought and she wishes desperately that Ann would say something, do something, anything that would divert her attention.
Ann sighs, annoyed, and presses her lips together. Christine can almost watch the debate playing out. Ann doesn't know the captain. Not like she does. She doesn't truly understand the effect he has on the crew. She's never seen how far the crew will go for him or how far he will go for them. It's a true debate for her, not the moot point that it is for Christine.
She finally holds out her hand, giving in with a, "Fine, but we doublecheck everything."
"Naturally," Christine says, surrendering the PADD. It's a difficult thing, letting it go at this point. The battle to save the crew, her patients, from the contagion has almost become part of her. Burying itself deep within her psyche, hooking into her soul, driving her forward that it's almost impossible to comprehend letting it go. The urge to finish this herself, to push everyone out and buckle down, no matter how tired her eyes or unsteady her hand, is difficult to ignore. Releasing the PADD into Ann's grip requires the conscious command of her thoughts and Christine presses her empty hand to her uniform, sliding fingers around the hem to keep from snatching it back.
She nods. "That said, I don't intend on taking unnecessary risks. Before the captain even hears about the treatment, I want multiple tests run. Every simulation you can think to have the computers run and double the ones you can't. Am I clear?"
Ann grins. "Crystal, Doctor."
Christine start to protest, but finally just smiles and shakes her head.
It's the better part of a day before they can finally start the captain's treatment. It's two before they get the cocktail just right.
When Christine walks into sickbay, a week into the treatment, to see the captain's smiling face, she doesn't try to hide her delight. She takes a look around the room, eyes checking the screens over the biobeds. The relief that washes over her at the sight of the readings on them is enough to weaken her knees.
"The lady of the hour," the captain says, gesturing her over. "I've been hoping you'd drop by, Nurse."
"I'm sorry, sir," she says. "House calls took longer than expected. Everyone wanted to talk."
"Cooped up that long, no wonder," he says. "So, exactly when can I get out of here?"
Christine looks up, watching the readings for a long moment before making her call. "A day, maybe two, but -- " she points at him, "restricted duty only. You are still very weak, Captain, and I'm not jeopardizing your recovery because you're restless."
"The ship -- "
"Is doing quite fine without you," Christine finishes, tucking the blanket closer about his body. "Something you know quite well."
The captain's grin takes on a sheepish note. "Caught her, did you? Well, in her defense, Rand was acting under orders when she brought me those reports."
"As she said," Christine agrees, looking stern. "When I read her the riot act. You know it's not fair to put her in that position. Until you're cleared for duty, Nyota is still her commanding officer."
The captain chuckles, rueful though it is, and nods. "Trust me, Nurse Chapel, of that I'm well aware." He leans back against his pillow, looking tired. "I hereby promise to behave myself for the foreseeable future." He shrugs. "At least until it gets me out of here."
"Careful, sir," she says, letting her smile emerge, "I might start to think you don't like me."
"The woman who saved my life and my ship?" he says with a megawatt smile, "never."
"You look like a woman who is imminently pleased with herself."
Christine hears the soft rasp and raises her head. It's a welcome break from the new pile of reports. "You know, the captain and Mr. Spock I can understand, but you?" She turns to look at Leonard, smiling to see him leaning against the door. "You should know better."
"I do know better," Len grouses. "I just don't give a damn." He coughs a little, gripping the wall to hold himself up. "That the latest test results?"
"They are," Christine says, getting up. "And you can't see them."
"Now just you wait a damn minute, C--" Len breaks off into another coughing fit. She takes advantage of the moment to manhandle him into a chair and pour him a glass of water.
"Drink that," she says, thrusting it at him. "And stop arguing with me. You aren't on duty, Len, and won't be until you're medically cleared for it." She smiles, sitting down. "And since I'm the one who will be certifying you, might I suggest less arguing, more flattery?"
He swallows a generous mouthful of the water, eyes twinkling over the rim of the cup.
Christine makes a face at him. "Having me on?"
"Just a little," he says, hoarse from the coughing. "From what I hear, you're doing a hell of a job. Not that it's a surprise." He tips back in his chair, slouching a little. "You're a hell of a nurse, Chris, but you'd make an even better doctor."
She picks up her ever-present medical tricorder, watching the results playing across the tiny screen. He's in the middle stages of treatment, the organism mostly dying, but not entirely dead. "Not out of the woods yet," she comments, putting the tricorder down, "but almost."
He nods. "And you to thank for it." Leonard puts the cup down, fold his arms. "From what I hear, Nurse Chapel, you'd put the boys and girls in Emergency Ops to shame."
She laughs. "Hardly. I've been flying by the seat of pants for days. If it weren't for Nyota, I don't know where I'd be right now." Locked in her quarters with a bottle of Len's bourbon most likely. "I don't know how you do it."
With a grin, Len gets up. "Well, that, m'dear, is a trade secret." He rustles around in a cabinet and comes up with one of those infamous bottles. "It's a tricky recipe. Start with a few swigs of this, get yourself some great people, and even better friends." He pours her a glass. "From what I hear, you've pretty much got all of the above covered."
Sitting down again, he smiles and salutes her with his glass. "I'll tell you what, Christine Chapel, the day you decide to leave this ship's gonna be a damn dark day for me, but I promise, I'll write you a recommendation that'd make the angels weep." He swallows a mouthful of bourbon, then adds, "Just promise it won't be anytime soon, you hear me?"
"You don't have to worry about me," Christine says, smiling. "I've had all the excitement I can handle and -- " she leans forward, plucking the bourbon out of his hand, "so have you. Back to bed, Dr. McCoy."
He tucks his chin, pouting at her, "Really?"
She gets up, offering an arm, "Really. Now be a good boy and listen to your doctor."
"Or?" he asks, giving her a wary look.
Christine's smile is wolfish. "I don't let Tonia visit."
Leonard's expression is innocent. "I'm sure, Christine, I have no idea what you mean."
"Mmmhmm," Christine says, helping him toward the door, "so that wasn't Yeoman Tonia Barrows I saw by your bedside every single time I checked on you?"
"Absolutely not," he says, nodding. "Must've been a trick of the eye. You did mention being tired."
They emerge into the sickbay, finding an exasperated Tonia Barrows standing there.
"Lose something?" Christine asks.
"Traitor," Len mutters. "Just because a man wanted to walk around a little. Been flat on my back for a week."
Laughing, Christine says, "Go back to bed, Doctor, and if you're very good, I'll have those test results sent over."
He scowls at her. "Benedict Arnold."
She kisses his cheek. "I missed you too."
His glower wavers. "Hell of a job, Nurse Chapel. Hell of a job."
As compliments go, on its own, it could use some work. Coming from Len, it's the best one Christine's ever had.
Christine steps into Nyota's quarters, holding up a bottle of pilfered bourbon. "I have it on good authority that this will cure all ills."
Ny puts down her book, slipping a ribbon into it to hold her place. "I take it Len's feeling better?"
"And better and better." Christine puts the bottle down in favor of hunting up glasses. "Tonia's with him."
"That seems to be going well," Nyota comments.
"Hmm, I think so," Christine agrees. "He's certainly not complaining." Thinking better of it, she looks over. "Well, he's complaining less." She finds the glasses and brings them over. "Which is generally a good sign."
"Let's take it as such," Nyota agrees, pouring their drinks. "So, should we toast to a job well done?"
"I think we've certainly earned it." Christine sits down, reaching up to tug her hair free. It falls to her shoulders with a bounce and she sighs, rubbing her scalp. "How was the meeting with the captain?"
"Short," Nyota says. "He's still weak. We covered the important stuff and tabled the rest for later."
"The aliens being the important stuff?" Christine asks, sipping at her drink.
Nyota nods. "We think that we've managed to recover computer systems from the wreckage of their ship. If Scotty and his people can get it working, then there's a chance we'll be able to coax some data out of it. At this point, we don't even know their species. Tracking them's gonna prove interesting, but Spock's on the sensors so -- "
She shrugs, holding the glass between her palms and Christine nods. Spock will find them. That's a given.
Sipping the bourbon, Christine looks at her friend. "I didn't get a chance to ask. How are you? Commanding a starship is one thing, but commanding a ship in combat -- "
Nyota's smile wavers, she tips her head in the direction of the bottle. "I may need all of that to settle my nerves." She shakes her head, resting her forearms on the table. "Chris, I was so scared, I can't even begin to tell you." Her fingers curl tight around the glass, ring clinking at against it. "I kept wondering about casualties. If anyone -- "
"We didn't lose anyone," Christine says. Her smile turns rueful. "At least, not in the battle." She thinks of Sanders and sighs. "I promised him, Ny. I ipromised/i."
She drains her glass, but doesn't refill it. "I'm sorry," she says, quiet. "I didn't mean to jump on you with my issues."
"Oh honey, now there's no need to be apologizing." Nyota pushes her own glass away, reaching across the table to take Chris's hand in hers. "After all you did to get me through this, it's the least I can do."
"I think you've mixed that up, Ny," Chris says. "You're the one that got ime/i through this. I don't know how I would have made it if you weren't here." She smiles. "Next time we're on shore leave, I buy the drinks."
"The next time we're on shore leave, the captain buys the drinks," Nyota corrects, winking. "He's already promised." She squeezes Christine's hands and then lets go. "You don't owe me a damn thing, Christine Chapel, and you know it. Fact of the matter is, if anyone owes anyone, this crew owes you. I held the bridge together, you saved their lives. I know which one has my attention."
"And I know which one has mine," Christine says. "I was on the bridge, Ny. I saw that ship. We both know what they had in mind. You saved countless lives when you destroyed them."
"Maybe, maybe not," Nyota says. "It doesn't matter and will you listen to us? Arguing over who's the bigger hero." She laughs, shaking her head. "Of all the silliest things."
"Better that than the alternative." Christine says.
"It is at that," Nyota agrees. "It is at that." She pours another drink for them both, lifting hers in a toast. "To the best damn doctor in three parsecs."
Laughing, Christine lifts hers as well. "To the best damn captain in four."
"I'll second that notion," the captain says from the doorway. "Sorry to interrupt," he says, "particularly without chiming, but I wanted to extend my thanks in private." He stands there, looking whole and hearty in his uniform, and looks at them. "Being in this position isn't something that comes easily to me, but this is not something that can go unsaid."
"Yes, it can," Nyota says, standing. She smiles, a little nervous, uncomfortable, but she doesn't falter. "Captain, you, the ship, you're all right. That's all we need."
He smiles. "Oh, I don't doubt that, Lieutenant, but it's not what you deserve. You'll both be getting commendations, awards, and I know that doesn't particularly matter to either of you, but I you do deserve them. More than that, I want to say thank you. Neither of you will ever truly know just how grateful I am to you."
Nyota looks at Christine, a faint smile tugging at her lips, "Oh, I think we might have an idea."
"Just a touch," Christine agrees. She rises as well, standing at her friend's side. "That said, there's no need to say anything. We understand."
He looks at them both for a very long time, the moments stretching out between them as the captain takes their measure. When he's done, the captain nods.
"All right," he says, "but just let me say this, you both did this ship and this crew proud. I couldn't, and wouldn't, ask for better. For that, I thank you both." He hesitates, then adds, with a little smile, "And with that out of the way, Dr. McCoy and I would like to invite you both for a much deserved celebratory drink. We may even get a little crazy and try to talk Mr. Spock into joining us."
"That's unlikely, sir," Christine says, grinning. "He's seen his station. He won't be leaving the bridge for a week."
"Possibly two," Nyota agrees, "but we? Would be honored. Thank you."
Captain Kirk shakes his head, "No, thank you."