Christine awoke with an odd, confused sensation of having gone camping at a completely inappropriate time of year. She was warm inside the sleeping bag, but her face, and one hand that was pillowed underneath it, were numbed with cold. The pallid light of dawn was filtering through the tent walls, and the surrounding world was almost entirely silent.
She absorbed those facts gradually, lying with her eyes still closed and her body still relaxed with sleep. The dawn light she saw as her eyes blinked open – but for an instant she saw one other thing – Spock's gaze, fixed unwaveringly on her face, as he lay still but wide awake in his own sleeping bag. The moment he noticed that she was conscious his gaze dropped, without embarrassment or explanation. She suspected that he did not realise she had seen him looking at her.
'Good morning, Mr Spock,' she said lightly.
Spock glanced toward the tent door. 'I have yet to assess whether it is truly a good morning,' he said.
She smiled. Perhaps if she had been McCoy she would have berated him for being pedantic, but in this situation she took his point perfectly.
'Well – it's not windy, at least,' she said. 'And the temperature's manageable.'
Spock nodded briefly, not troubling himself to debate the manageability of the temperature.
'Would you open the flaps for a moment?' he asked, nodding towards the tent door.
'Oh, of course,' she said quickly, sitting bolt upright, and then realising that her other arm was trapped within the sleeping bag.
'There is no hurry, Nurse,' Spock assured her, looking faintly amused at her predicament.
'No,' she murmured, finally wrenching her arm loose, and then pitching herself forward so as to reach the flaps while still keeping as much of her body as possible in the sleeping bag.
'Hmm,' Spock said as she opened the flap to reveal a sky that was covered as far as he could see by a dull, featureless sheet of heavy cloud.
'It doesn't look promising,' she said, craning her neck to look directly up at the thick, grey clouds.
'Nimbostratus,' he said succinctly. 'At this temperature, I would predict snow.'
At that moment a flake of snow descended lazily in front of him – followed by another, and another, until all in front of him was a mass of whirling white flakes, obscuring visibility for all but a few metres around them. Chapel quickly closed the zip, and regained her position in the tent, pulling the sleeping bag back up around her neck.
'Can't you predict sunshine and seventy degrees?' Chapel asked, simultaneously impressed and dismayed at the accuracy of his forecast.
Spock's eyebrow rose. 'Unless we manage to move a significant distance south, I can predict very little but low temperatures and the possibility of snow.'
The mention of travelling reminded the nurse of Spock's badly broken ankle, invisible inside the insulating sleeping bag.
'You're not moving anywhere unless we can sort you out some kind of crutch to walk with,' she said firmly. 'Mr Spock,' she continued, seeing the glimmerings of a protest in his face. 'If you walk on that ankle you risk permanent damage – not to mention it'll hurt like hell.'
Spock's eyebrow rose in a challenge. 'What kind of crutch would you suggest, Nurse Chapel? From what should we fashion it?'
'If needs be, we can take turns at letting you lean on us,' she conceded. 'But I'm not letting you walk without some kind of support.'
'Miss Chapel, I have complete trust in your ability to provide me with support,' Spock said with gravity.
She looked at him quickly, uncertain as to whether the gravity had been mock, or real. She knew that the Vulcan did have a sense of humour, but knowing exactly when he was making use of it was a different matter.
'There must be something,' she muttered.
Spock's eyebrow rose. 'Not necessarily. It seems that there are no trees or large shrubs hereabouts, and no artificial structures either. I cannot think what else we could use to make a crutch.'
She glanced towards the tent entrance.
'Well, even if there is, we're not going to find it at the moment – not in this blizzard. We should sit tight until it eases up.'
Spock regarded her. 'That, I believe, would be my decision, Miss Chapel,' he said pointedly, before adding, 'However, I do concur.' He tilted his head, listening intently, before saying, 'I believe that we are not the only ones awake. The first order of the day will be to consume rations, and discuss our predicament.'
'The first order of the day is for your nurse to check your injury,' she corrected him, reaching for her medical scanner. 'How does it feel?' At his raised eyebrow she added, 'Honestly, Mr Spock. You may be able to suppress the pain, but it's important for me to know what symptoms you're experiencing.'
Spock exhaled softly, and a subtle twinge of pain passed over his face as he allowed his controls to relax to enable himself to be fully aware of the sensations in his shattered ankle.
'It is stiff and sore, with dispersed rather than focussed pain,' he said with a degree of awkwardness. 'The pain is not pleasant, but it is at a manageable level. Your scanner, I assume, displays a more technical version of the same symptoms.'
She nodded, examining the results. 'You're doing about as well as I would expect, considering the lack of facilities and your inability to enter a healing trance at this time,' she said in a professional tone. 'A certain degree of swelling and stiffness, but nothing beyond the usual. But,' she added pointedly, 'I certainly wouldn't advise walking on it, unless you want it to swell out of that cast I put on and do yourself permanent damage.'
Spock sighed, his face momentarily turned away as if to hide his own reaction at her diagnosis.
'Then, as I stated before, our best course of action is a group discussion of our predicament,' he said in a level tone.
'Do you propose everyone getting together in this tent?' she asked him seriously, looking around at the small space. 'It's impossible to sit outside right now, and you're taking up more room than you would otherwise with that leg.'
Spock looked at her almost with annoyance. It was illogical to be annoyed at her rational practicality, but it was annoying that even a team briefing was made impossible by perverse weather and his own injury.
'I propose calling one person from each tent into this one,' he said, without a hint that he had been forced to cogitate a new plan. 'They can relay what is said to their partner.'
Chapel nodded, but he could see the doubt on her face.
'You disagree, Lieutenant,' he said, putting the stress on her rank.
She shook her head quickly. 'Not entirely, sir. I don't see another option either. But whichever one you pick the one left behind will probably feel left out. They're teenagers. They're not as – rational – as fully fledged officers.'
'Whichever one you pick,' Spock amended. 'It will be impossible for me to go from tent to tent picking people. As for their rationality, perhaps this experience will improve that particular facet of their personalities.'
She smiled at Spock's very Vulcan view of this potential catastrophe as some kind of mental training exercise – but she had to admit he was right. The six ensigns would probably be forced to grow up very quickly in the next few days.
'Well,' she said brightly, steeling herself as she looked about for her cold-weather coat. 'I guess I'd better go out and face the challenge.'
Spock looked at her with a kind of suppressed amusement on his face.
'I've no doubt you will excel, Miss Chapel,' he said.
'''''''''''''''
Less than ten minutes later the small two-man tent felt very small indeed, with four humans clustered about huddled in sleeping bags and trying desperately not to encroach on one Vulcan with a very painful injury. Chapel had situated herself closest to Spock's leg in the hope that she was the least likely to knock the limb by mistake. Spock was sitting up as straight as possible, and only one very used to reading his facial expressions would have realised that he was in pain.
'Ensigns,' Spock said as a beginning, looking between the three anxious, very young-seeming faces. 'I trust you all rested well?'
An assortment of nods replied to his question, but none of them seemed quite ready to speak aloud. Spock suppressed a sigh. He could only hope that they would become more communicative as time went on. He wondered briefly why Miss Chapel had decided to bring the reticent Ensign Grant through to this briefing, rather than her bolder tent-mate Ensign Malton, but queries about her choice would have to wait until later. Ensigns Lovett and Sutherland were at least watching him attentively, as if they were eager to receive and carry out orders. His problem was that he had very few orders to give.
'It must be obvious to you all that we are stranded here, with scant means of removing ourselves from this situation,' he said without preamble. 'Our best hope lies in the subspace transmitter I took from the shuttle. Although it is currently damaged, it should be possible to effect repairs. This means we have two priorities at present – to fix the subspace transmitter, and to try to find somewhere more hospitable to shelter while we do.'
'But – your ankle, sir,' Ensign Sutherland said hesitantly.
'My ankle – is an inconvenience,' Spock admitted. 'But we do need to find warmth and sustenance.' He looked from face to face, thinking swiftly. 'Ensign Lovett. I want you and Del Sarto to cogitate a means of making a crutch,' he said decisively. 'If I cannot walk I will be of little use to the party, and it is imperative that we try to move to a more clement location. Sutherland. You and Fournier can scan the surroundings for edible plant life. I don't expect you to leave the tent – long range scans can give you preliminary data. But if you do leave the tent I want you to use all survival precautions, and extreme care. Ensign Grant.' He regarded the young woman for a few moments, then said, 'Your speciality is electronics, is it not?'
'Yes, sir,' she replied, almost in a whisper.
'And Ensign Malton's talent is – ?'
'Engineering, sir,' she replied, her eyes focussed on the rim of her sleeping bag as she rubbed it between her fingers.
'Good,' he nodded, choosing to ignore her lack of confidence. 'Then I require you to examine the subspace transmitter thoroughly. Do not attempt any repairs without consulting with me first,' he said firmly. 'All I want is a report on damage and possible solutions.'
'Yes, sir,' she nodded.
'Very well,' he said succinctly. 'That is all for now. You may return to your tents. If any of you leave your tents for the purpose of your tasks, I want you to stay in contact at all time. Stay within shouting distance.'
'The communicators – ' Ensign Lovett began.
'Are useful, but your voice is more reliable in this situation. If you are close enough to shout, you are close enough to be found with relative ease.'
'Aye, sir,' the ensign said, but Spock recognised that look of doubt on his face. Lovett was very obviously aware of his talents as a navigator, and was just as obviously itching to do something about their situation. It was a question of experience, though – and experience was what this party was conspicuously lacking.
''''''''''''''''''''
To his consternation, Spock found himself slowly emerging from a sleep that he had not been aware he had fallen into. He blinked, focussing on the fabric of the tent above his head and assessing the likely time of day. It was reasonably light, but he could hear the swishing of snow still hitting the outside of the tent, and there was a low moan in the wind that spoke of more storms to come.
'Miss Chapel,' he said.
'Oh!' She had been sitting with her sleeping bag pulled up under her arms, apparently taking an inventory of what was in her rucksack and medical kit. 'Mr Spock, you're awake!'
'Obviously,' he nodded. 'For how long did I sleep?'
'Oh, only an hour or two,' she assured him. 'It's not uncommon to need periods of sleep after an injury like yours.'
Spock pressed his lips together, resisting the urge to remind her that he was a Vulcan, and should be immune to such frailties. He had no doubt that it was an argument he would not win. He looked towards the tent opening.
'Still snowing,' she said, before he asked. 'But it seems lighter than before.'
'Have you had contact with the other tents?' he asked.
'Limited,' she nodded. 'At least, I put my head out earlier and saw Lovett and Del Sarto outside, huddled over something on the ground about – oh – twenty metres away. I'm not sure what they were doing, but they were scrabbling in the ground…'
'You did not think to enquire?' Spock asked.
She gave him an acerbic look. 'They wouldn't have heard me over the wind, and I didn't see the logic of suiting up and going out there when I knew they'd report if they found anything of note.'
Spock regarded her with a new sliver of admiration. Sarek had always told him that impatience had been his failing. Perhaps Nurse Chapel had a greater store of patience than he did himself. Perhaps it was that lying here unable to move about was a situation calculated to try his patience to its limits.
'Perhaps we are about to find out,' he said, turning his ear towards the door. There was the definite sound of voices through the wind.
The zip at the doorway moved, and there was a brief, awkward jostle as two heavily-clothed bodies tried to squeeze through the gap as quickly as possible before turning to zip the opening closed again. There was an eagerness in the set of their bodies that was impossible to overlook, and one of the muffled figures turned toward him holding a stick in his gloved hand, unwinding coverings from his face with the other.
'There, Mr Spock,' he said triumphantly, and Spock recognised Lovett, his face glowing with cold and activity. 'One crutch, as ordered, sir.'
Spock took the crutch from the outstretched hand, staring at it in confusion. Against all expectations, the shaft was very obviously made of metal – processed, manufactured, refined metal shaped into a sturdy pipe. Probably iron, he reasoned – or at least some rust-resistant alloy of iron, since the pipe apparently had some age but was not corroded.
'Ensign, where did you get this pipe?' he asked, his forehead creased in puzzlement.
'I scanned for metal, sir, and we dug it out of the ground,' Ensign Lovett shrugged. 'Then Ensign Del Sarto made the handle and things out of heather roots.'
'Technically, that plant is not heather,' Spock pointed out, but he was examining the metal in his hands closely as he spoke. 'Obviously manufactured,' he said. 'You say it was underground?'
'About two feet down, sir,' the man nodded. 'It took some digging, through the permafrost.'
'Then at some point there has been a civilisation here capable of relatively advanced metallurgy. Was it part of a greater network?' he asked, looking up again.
'I – don't know, sir,' he said hesitantly. 'I didn't look. I'm sorry.'
'No matter,' Spock murmured. 'One can easily revisit the site. Ensign Del Sarto, this handle shows considerable talent.'
'Thank you, sir,' the man murmured, dropping his head in diffidence at the praise. 'I – took some woodworking classes in school. Working with a phaser isn't too different to using a chisel laser.'
'Hmm,' Spock nodded, intent on the carving of the hardened root.
Obviously the longer they spent in these straitened circumstances the more talents would become evident in the group. Del Sarto had done more than just make a handle. He had worked one piece of wood into a smooth and comfortable grip that was thrust through the bar lower down, and a second piece into a T shape at the top of the bar, creating something more akin to a medically supplied crutch than a simple walking stick.
'This is quite excellent,' he said, looking up again. 'I anticipate we should be able to move on very soon, with this to aid my walking.'
He could feel the reaction from Nurse Chapel without even looking at her. The temperature seemed to have dropped by a fraction of a degree. He turned his head slowly and said in a level voice, 'We must move on, Miss Chapel. The matter is not negotiable.'
She pressed her lips together in a thin line, but finally she nodded.
'As you will, sir,' she said.
'Indeed,' Spock replied, turning his attention back to the crutch. 'Try to locate another such piece for a second crutch, Lovett, and while you are scanning I would appreciate your making a detailed report of all findings. Worked metal is a highly significant find.'
'Aye, sir,' Lovett said quickly.
The ensign glanced briefly at Del Sarto, and Spock saw a wholly human look pass between the two youngsters. They obviously felt that they had been out in the cold for long enough. He ignored their human reaction. The crutch was important, and two crutches would be invaluable.
'Dismissed,' he said, and the two men hurried out of the tent again, leaving him alone with the nurse.
'You think the metal's significant, sir?' she asked after a brief silence.
He nodded. 'Almost certainly. There may be liveable structures, or even sentient life forms, not far away.
'It looks like it's been down there for a long time.'
'Nevertheless,' Spock said, but he did not finish his sentence. He was aware the McCoy might describe his hope as clutching at straws.
He fell into silence, his eyes resting on the sealed entryway to the tent. There was an entire world out there, lost in the snow, and it was his duty to find proper shelter and sustenance for his charges. It was his duty to keep them safe. Had he allowed himself the emotionalism, he would have regretted the clumsy landing that resulted in his broken leg – but there was no point in harbouring such thoughts. The important thing was that next time he was plummeting toward the surface of a planet carrying too much weight for his parachute, that he better prepare himself for landing. If he survived this incident, of course…
