Disclaimers as in part 1.
The School of Hard Knocks 2/2 (ATOS-K)
by Mistress V
Leonard McCoy exhaled and wiped his forehead. "That's that," he declared, indicating the now sleeping patient below them. "I tell you, he's one hard-headed Vulcan. Though I can't say the same for his nose. A nice clean crack. At least he won't have to worry about the line being disturbed, like in the old days."
"What now?" Christine glance at the chronometer. "It's almost 23:00 hours and there's a long night ahead of us all."
"Until he comes out of it and I see how he's doing, I can't really address the swelling---or that bruise job he's sporting." McCoy pointed to the vivid greenish blue bruising that covered the upper half of Spock's face. "I'm not sure there isn't a hairline fracture of the left orbital. The contusion's twice as dark there as anywhere else. What worries me is that these Vulcans have some kind of--process? trance? to help them heal. I've read about it. Unfortunately, I can't have someone slapping this patient's face around or he might start bleeding again. Won't necessarily kill him, but there might be more complications as a result."
"I can help there." A second doctor joined the pair. "Remember, I interned at a Vulcan ward so I can take care of that if need be. Since he probably senses his injury wasn't life-threatening, all that may happen is that he'll bring himself out of it and just wake up. I've seen all kinds of reactions. We'll just have to play it by ear."
"Especially with *those* ears," the CMO grunted. "Thanks, Jon. Between you and Chris here, we could probably set up a clinic at the new Vulcan colony."
"I wouldn't go that far," Dr. Jonathan M'Benga, a native Mombasa, said with a laugh. "In the meantime, the waiting room's full of visitors for this patient, and we have a whole sickbay filed with folks wanting to be dismissed. What's your prognosis?"
"For once, I am going to enforce the no visitors rule for this one," McCoy replied. "He needs his rest, he never takes a break. The sleep'll do him good. But I'll see who's out there. And I'll stay on tonight, take a nap on the cot in my office if need be, just in case." He nodded at two orderlies. "You can move him to recovery, private quarters."
The trio made their way into the main ward. Crew were in all stages of repose, some resting, other anxious to be given the diagnoses of free to go. M'Benga and the nurse moved to attend their other patients.
"Hey, Doc, what about me?" Mitchell complained to the retreating McCoy. "I didn't ask to get put here, I was just helping out in an emergency." Sure enough, the man's slightly bruised joint had suffered during the accident---and the subsequent rescue.
"That's what you get for carrying around sacks of Vulcan potatoes on an injured shoulder," M'Benga responded, palpitating the damaged area. "We'll let our boss make the final diagnosis, Commander."
"OK, how about some of that famous bedside manner, then?" Mitchell joked, casting an appreciative eye on the nurse. "I could use a little TLC."
"Here." Christine handed the man a glass of ice water, her eyes mirthful. "This should fix things nicely."
*********
McCoy walked through the doors into the sickbay waiting room and gave a once over to the three officers seated there.
"How is he, Bones?" Kirk said for them all.
"He's sleeping for now. A busted nose, some possible other fractures, and a heck of alot of bruising, but he's out of danger that we can tell."
"May we see him?" Uhura asked.
"He really shouldn't have any visitors at all, he's out for the count." McCoy surveyed the trio. "But seeing as you're here, you can go in. One at a time, though, and just for a few minutes. After that, we've got to let him rest until tomorrow. Believe me, it's the best prescription I could have given."
"You go first, Lieutenant," Kirk offered, giving Uhura a nudge. "We'll be just outside."
"Thank you, sir."
"In the meantime, you both can help me deal with a problem patient," McCoy continued. "This way, please."
"Na' who could that be?" Scotty wondered aloud as he and Kirk followed the CMO.
"About time! I'm about to go stir crazy and no one will give me the time of day. Can you use your influence and get me out of here already?" Mitchell beamed.
************ *
Christine got up from her station and looked over to where the two doctors were playing a game of poker with some orderlies. It was quiet, just after 02:00 but no one wanted to sleep. This was mostly because there was a possibility the last vestiges of the pesky turbulence field might yet give the ship a rattle. Not wanting to disturb their game, she picked up her PADD and made her way through the wards.
Thank goodness that ego on rye, Mitchell, had been sent home, she thought with a smile. He certainly was from the Kirk school but she idly wondered who had influenced who in the charm department. Still, he was basically a nice sort, when he wasn't flirting with every female in sight. One of the junior nurses had been all too glad to escort him back to his quarters.
So far, so good. Bumps, bruises, a fracture here and there, some head injuries. The ward would probably be empty by the next afternoon. She frowned. It *was* the next day. Her system was still getting used to the fact that the ship maintained a day and night schedule---despite the fact that it prowled through constant darkness. Just another part of Starfleet life, she told herself.
Time to check on the last patient. She walked quietly into Spock's cubicle and noted the diagnostic readings. For a human it might have been cause for alarm but she knew enough about Vulcan makeup to determine the patient was stable. Her eyes widened at the vividness the bruising had taken on. A long ago crayon shade from her youth, Crayola's "Tropical Rainforest" sprang to mind. And the hues would get darker before they got lighter.
Cautiously, she smoothed back the sleeping man's hair to check the closed cut on his forehead, carefully wiping away some dry oozed blood. All appeared to be fine. She was making notes in his chart when a sound interrupted her work.
"Durs?" The Vulcan's voice was a barely audible croak.
"Mr. Spock, what can I do for you? Is something bothering you?" Thankful he was now awake, she began taking his pulse manually, something that McCoy, ever skeptical of the gizmos in his sickbay as he called them, required for all patients. The heat of his skin was a surprise, even tough she knew Vulcans ran at a higher temperature than humans.
"Izzz had to breede," Spock continued.
"I'll get the doctors," she told him after giving his respiration rate a second check. "Just a minute."
McCoy and M'Benga were soon seeing to their patient. Having determined that yes, there was a tiny orbital bone fracture under the left eye---but nothing else new---McCoy now administered an anti-swelling hypo so the patient's sinuses and airways would be cleared enough for him to breath normally. He followed it up with a painkilling sedative, formulated especially for the half and half physiology unique to the first officer. The bruising would be dealt with later. Spock said nothing other than a cursory yes or no when asked about a symptom, and soon drifted back to sleep once more.
The hours crawled by. Christine managed a brief catnap. When she awoke, things were still as they had been for the most part. Except that Dr. M'Benga was now seeing to a crewman who'd hit his chin on his bunk during a dream and opened up an injury sustained earlier that evening. McCoy was following her example, dozing in his quarters. Time for the last round before the next shift came on duty. She'd be glad for some true rest. A 24 hour workday was a little too much, even for her.
Spock was awake when she came to see him. "How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Dizzy. Thirsty. And nauseous. All at the same time." He paused. "From the pain I feel in my facial region, I gather most of my injuries were sustained there?" His voice was back to normal.
"You've got a few bruises elsewhere, from when you fell down the Jeffries Tube. But yes, for the most part you look like you were on the wrong end of a bar fight with some Klingons." She held up a small mirror. "See for yourself."
Spock gave his battered appearance a thoughtful glance. Then he lay back on the pillows and moaned slightly. "Moving my head causes the nausea to increase," he apologized.
"I can give you an injection for that,'" she replied, reaching for a hypospray.
"No." Spock's hand touched hers. "Please, nurse, do not. The medication only increases the severity of my condition. It is something your superior is trying to work on. I would prefer to not be medicated." He sighed quietly. "If only I had a dried plomeek root," he said, almost to himself.
Christine knew what he was referring to. Plomeek, a plant native to Vulcan, was used in many ways. One of its medical properties was to quell nausea as needed. The patient usually chewed a tiny piece of the dried, squash like gourd's root.
"I don't think we have that programmed into the replicator. Do you have any in your quarters?" she asked.
"I am growing some young plants in the arboretum at present. But in order for the root to be used in this manner, it must be dried properly first."
"I think I know what we can do," Christine now said, remembering something. "I won't be a moment."
She hurried back into the main ward. A note from her colleague said M'Benga had gone on a search for real coffee from his quarters and would be back forthwith. Christine sat down at the nearest vidmonitor and spoke.
"Computer?"
A yawn and a smacking of lips was the response. Then a tired female voice complained, "Yeah, honey? Can't it wait? It's the middle of the night."
Christine stifled a giggle. The recent stop at Cygnet XIV had fixed the circuitry problem, but the programmers had done their work too well. Being a female-dominant society, they decided the ship's computer lacked a personality- --and designed one for it. The problem was, the new personality was very much a force to be reckoned with. Until a starbase layover could be arranged to purge this aspect, the crew was learning to deal with its idiosyncrasies. One of them was that it preferred male voices to work with, so it could...flirt.
"Look, sister," she said sternly. "This is your job. Get over it."
"All right," the voice said sulkily. "Slave driver," it muttered.
It only took a few minutes to confirm what she suspected. Christine got up and tiptoed into the CMO's darkened office.
"Len?" she whispered.
"Bzrwzkokzzzz! " came an answering snore.
Her movements deft but silent, Christine quickly broke off a few of mint leaves from her superior's precious plant. It was medically necessary, she told herself. Then she took her quarry over to a workspace and searched out an old-fashioned mortar and pestle, something McCoy also brought along on the mission and which was proving quite useful. She mashed the leaves, imagining mojitos on a sunny Caribbean beach with Roger in a distant past. Then satisfied with the sharp smelling goop, she mixed a little into a pitcher of cool water. A taste test determined it was just right. For her, of course. But what about the patient?
Spock's eyes were closed when she returned. His pallor was more yellow than normal, a sure sign his stomach was likely doing back flips. At the sound of pouring water, he looked up at her.
"Here." She held out a covered tumbler. "I made up some mint water, which is an old Terran remedy for nausea. Don't worry, I checked the medical database. Vulcans don't have any contraindications, and your dossier doesn't show a known allergy, either."
"Thank you." He sipped hesitantly, then took on a surprised (for him) expression. "I feel better. The nausea has ceased." He took another sip, bigger this time. "But that is not possible."
"Yes it is. It may not be logical, but some of those old fashioned plant cures work faster than our best synthetic concoctions. That's why Dr. McCoy insists we use all possible ingredients when treating a patient." Christine exhaled inwardly, glad her gamble had paid off. She recalled her own space sickness and how it stubbornly refused to dissipate, until she'd chewed a mint leaf her boss had given her.
"Thank you, Lieutenant Chapel." Spock set the glass down on the bedside table. "I now owe you twice, it seems."
"Owe me?" Her forehead wrinkled. "I don't understand, sir. Owe me for what?" Was there some fee schedule she didn't know about yet?
"Twice now you have supplied me with the very nutritional requirements required, at the precise moment they were needed. So yes, as the Terrans say, I owe you. Perhaps some time in the future, I might be permitted to buy you lunch to even the score?" Spock's tone was light, almost amused, a sure sign he was getting better---or was delirious.
No fever, so he was just recovering. "You don't owe me sir, it's all part of the uniform. I'm just glad you're better. You really took quite a bashing. Dr. McCoy was worried."
"I most certainly was not worried," McCoy's voice now interrupted the conversation. "No more than I would be for any patient. So, Spock, how you feeling?"
"Much better, considering most of your primitive methods of treatment are akin to using beads and rattles," the Vulcan responded, taking the bait the doctor had thrown.
Some, but not all, Christine thought as she went to make a final check of her the patients before booking off.
************
The next day, it was business as usual. Spock was released to normal duty and the last of the turbulence faded into the distance. The *Enterprise* continued on its way. And Kirk was at last able to be briefed by his new second officer, though the information Mitchell provided was both surprising and unsettling.
Christine was about to head to the gym for a workout that evening when her intercom chirped.
"Chapel here?" Not another emergency, she thought. She was exhausted enough as was.
"Kirk here, Lieutenant. Could you come to the ready room as soon as you can? Your input is needed on something rather important."
"On my way."
Christine swiftly changed from sweats back into her uniform and made her way up towards the bridge. What on earth, she thought. Then an icy claw grasped her stomach. Somehow, she knew it had to do with Roger. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before ringing the door chime.
"Come in!" Kirk called. "Have a seat." He indicated the others. "You know Spock, and you've met Commander Mitchell already. But what you don't know is that he's...working on a special project for Starfleet right now. One that, it turns out, concerns your fiancee, Dr. Korby."
Christine exhaled. "He's alive? On EXO III? I just knew he was..."
"Not precisely, no." The response came from Mitchell. He looked at Christine, a trace of sympathy in his expression.
"Tell me," she said, her voice steeled.
"Oh, he's alive all right. But he's not on EXO III." Mitchell checked his PADD.
"I don't understand! That was where his mission took him. Where is he, then?" How could Roger not be where he was supposed to, unless he'd already been rescued? Yes, she thought, that was it. Someone else had found him and he was asking for her.
"On Risa."
FIN.
This WILL continue, but in another short. As Bette Davis once said, fasten your seat belts....it' s gonna be a bumpy ride! (And maybe a little bit funny, too).
Mint is an excellent cure for nausea as well as migraine headaches, both in its plant form and as an essential oil. I have no idea what a plomeek looks like, it has been described as resembling a pumpkin like gourd, so I went with that. As for its medicinal properties, that's completely imagined by me.
There is such a color in the current Crayola crayon line.
Dr. M'Benga was never given a first name in TOS, so I chose one for him.
I took the Cygnet XIV computer personality from TOS's "Tomorrow is Yesterday" and gave it a slightly different twist ;-). And we all know the TOS Spock had problems with medication in "The Apple" so I just expanded on that for this Spock.
For those new to the Trek universe, Risa is a tropical resort planet, popular because of it's..anything goes attitude. It's mentioned in all the series exceot TOS, which had something called "Wrigley's Pleasure Planet" instead (from "The Man Trap").