A Million Little Things
4
Vulcans Are
The Vulcan metabolism is uniquely evolved. Coming from as harsh an environment (such as the planet has to offer) they have evolved to be very highly adaptable; building and maintaining muscle mass during times of plenty, their natural resources are piled into strength and growth. During times of famine their strength remains, but every cell pretty much goes into hibernation – gearing itself towards short bursts of high intensity, ferociously concentrated energy.
Food, on the equivalent of 'prehistoric' Vulcan was scarce. A good job really then that humanoid Vulcans have always been at the top of the food chain. They're fiery tempers, finely tuned concentration, uncanny ability to communicate beyond physical constraints and their steely determination make them deadly predators. They are intelligent, empathic and fiercely stubborn, but it is these very same characteristics which have lead them to become one of the most peaceful people in the galaxy today.
It cannot be said of many, that when they make a resolution, they stick to it. In fact, it's far easier to name the few. 2000 years ago, Vulcan was dying. The predator had outgrown his environment, he was too successful and what had begun as a battle to survive became a war to flourish. The skills that had seen them thrive as a race where now the means of their impending destruction. It was around that time that a movement began, one which planned to use restraint to temper those redundant passions, barriers to reign in wildly flying thoughts and feelings, adopting serenity over lust, self- control over hedonism; peace over chaos.
A new Vulcan evolved, and when you think about it, it was… completely logical. To live long and prosper was no longer about chasing down prey and competing for territory, so why behave as though it was?
So what does it mean to be Vulcan?
Vulcans are passionate but rigidly disciplined, empathic but carefully guarded, committed to a life of selflessness, balanced by giving where it's needed the most, survivors.
Give a Vulcan a green leafed plant and he'll be satiated for days; give him a green leaf and some tools and he'll find a way to feed a an entire people, even if in the short term, it costs him his life.
xxxxOxxxx
Jim stowed away the medical tricorder – he didn't know how to interpret most of the readings anyway, it was McCoy's – and that meant it was complicated. One thing about the Vulcan metabolism - they were rarely cold… and Spock was cold. Their heart rates were fast – at least twice that of the average human; Spock's was slow.
Next to him, an antenna made out of a broken communicator and the packaging from some basic field rations. In front of him, a burned out fire of kindling and sea-water soaked wood, carefully dried using a standard issue phaser on a low setting, no doubt after its power had drained too low to continue heating the rocks, several of which were surrounded by rings of scorched earth.
A gust of wind caught him off guard and instinctively he threw himself forward over the huddled form of his friend, exposed as they were on the barren cliff ledge, overlooking a vast sea.
It would have been a beautiful sight, were it not for the biting cold and the ever looming threat of those big, predatory birds, circling low around the cliff edge, venturing inland to feed. He'd lost two men on a standard survey mission – two! Make that three. A part of his mind he refused to acknowledge chipped in, but he concentrated on stripping off his shirt to cover his friend while he waited for blankets and signal amplifiers to make their slow decent down to his position.
What's taking them so long? His frantic thoughts danced from angry to despairing. The rocky landscape here comprised mainly of an ore which made scanning and signalling near impossible. They couldn't beam until the right kit was in position.
He shuddered as the cold leaked through his undershirt and frowned in empathy at his first officer, his own shirt gone, making him more vulnerable to the cold.
Dust had stuck to the dried tear tracks on Jim's face and he threw his head back to shout at the bleak sky. "I need those amplifiers, now!" He yelled, holding as much authority in his desperate tone as he could manage. Out of the swirling dust a figure emerged, hoisted down from the cliff top on an old style rope and harness.
"Here Sir!" finding his feet Crewman Lakin rummaged in his pack somewhat clumsily in his haste, still dangling from the rope over his precarious foot hold.
Producing two small tripod mounted devices and a large self-heating lightweight blanket from the pack he passed them to his Captain before manoeuvring himself further onto the ledge.
Picking up the faint signal from Spock's own makeshift amplifier Jim Kirk had been the first to descend, as an experienced climber and rescuer, Lakin had been quick to follow as soon as the find was confirmed by an emotion laden shout from below. Lakin himself could not have moved faster if he'd tried, and when he came to kneel beside his Captain, the breath caught in his throat. A fact his Captain had not failed to notice.
"Set them up." Kirk ordered hurriedly, throwing open the blanket as he spoke. Within moments Lakin had comms with the Enterprise.
"… From landing party," he heard Lakin calling for the beam out, "stand by to beam up four."
Static preceded the reply. "Four? I'm only reading three of you…"
Kirk reached over and grabbed the communicator, "Proximity beam up Mr. Kyle, we haven't got all day!"
"Aye Sir!" The snappy response preceded the cool tingle of the transporter beam as it took hold. Kirk closed his eyes and steeled himself for what would follow.
xxxxOxxxx
Give a Vulcan a green leaf…
Dr M'Benga ran full pelt down the corridor to the transporter room. Their medical response status update indicated a high biomass to life sign ratio which could only mean one thing – code blue.
As he crossed the threshold into the room he braced himself for what he would see there on the pad, sliding on the cool professionalism that would allow him to remain objective, no matter what he found.
But in spite his preparedness, he was taken aback by what he saw. Kirk had placed himself protectively between two still figures on the pad and the open doorway, moving aside only slightly when he recognised the medical team on their way in.
Spock's life signs where negligible, but his brain activity was focused. M'Benga recognised his state instantly – a healing trance. In extremis, a Vulcan could enter an induced state of coma in order to focus all their efforts on self-healing, but it was immediately obvious that this is not what Spock had done. His outer shirt was gone, ripped into bands of material for bandages, now soaked crimson red with blood. A blanket was wrapped loosely around him, and he himself was huddled protectively around his charge… with one hand resting gently on the other man's face.
The healing wasn't intended for himself, but for Dr McCoy.
xxxOxxxx
It was a bird, he could have sworn it. Swooping down like a raptor from the mist laden sky above their heads. The cloud level was low, dusting the tree tops and masking the dangers that lay above them. Dangers that where prowling, hungry and ready to strike.
Spock turned, raising his tricorder towards what McCoy figured must have been another sound.
"I believe if we remain in this immediate area our lives may be in danger." He stated calmly, lowering the tricorder and studying the screen with interest.
McCoy huffed loudly, "No need to sound so indifferent Spock." He glared, "What's the plan? You know we can't just beam out."
"We should make our way back to the shuttle and attempt to contact the other away team members."
They began walking back in the direction they'd travelled, Spock withdrew his phaser and waited for McCoy to follow suit, making the most of the pause to adjust one of the settings on the tricorder for a more accurate reading. McCoy muttered as he approached, fumbling as he did for his own phaser.
"That is presuming the other away team members don't already know…" McCoy trailed off as he looked up in time to see the mist swirl and part less than a few metres from where he and Spock where standing. He couldn't think why he did it - he had a goddamn phaser in his hand! – but instinctively he pushed Spock out of the way of the oncoming creature, noting with satisfaction that the Vulcan fell inches short of the vicious talons even as those same talons latched painfully onto the flesh of his right arm shoulder and hauled him upwards, hard.
He yelped, pain searing through a shoulder pulled out of joint by the force, the breath leaving his lungs with the rapid skywards motion. A desperate little piece of his mind hoped that the bird would drop him, another piece hoped that each new wound wasn't as severe as it felt.
This is still recoverable .He convinced himself, it's not that bad…
Later, in spite of it all, he found himself laughing. It was a stifled, breathless chuckle, as painful as it was worth it, if only to see the look on Spock's face.
"I fail to see the humour in this situation doctor." Spock scalded as he continued ripping pieces from his blue tunic and wrapping McCoy's wounds, trying in vain to stem the bleeding.
McCoy had given up trying to find the strength to bat him off; having resorted to telling him that, as sweet a gesture as it was, destroying his very good shirt was pointless.
McCoy continued smiling, "You run three miles flat out, jump on the damn bird when it gets low enough, then nerve pinch it mid-flight…" he chuckled again, coughing hoarsely in between the words, "you never cease to amaze me Spock."
He trailed off and shivered, eyelids drooping even as Spock slapped at his cheek, calling his name. His eyes widened as he came to and smiled gamely at his companion, "worried Spock?"
Spock reached for his phaser, ignoring the teasing question, "I suggest, that you would benefit from focusing your efforts on staying awake, while I provide us with a source of heat."
McCoy watched Spock for a while as he moved several heavy rocks around the cliff ledge they'd come to rest on (or rather, that Spock had aimed for as the bird fell). He heated them with his phaser, casting glances at McCoy as he did so, checking that he was still awake.
Drowsiness coated the pain in a numbing fuzz, and his eyelids sagged wearily as he looked on. His medical tricorder lay open next to him, the silenced alarm began chirping again with renewed vigour, he reached out with a heavy arm and switched it off. Sagging back against the slanted rock as Spock came to crouch again beside him.
Fading, yet determined eyes met Spock's sharp gaze, "Go." Leonard McCoy stared at his would be rescuer. Spock, on the other hand continued to check on his wounds, "I said go! Get out of here! How can you be deaf with ears like that?"
Satisfied that the makeshift dressings were holding as well as they could, Spock turned his attention to his communicator. Opening his single standard utility pouch he began searching for useful items among the small stash of rations and implements. "Insulting me will not inspire me to leave you. I intend to stay. If you really insist on my leaving…" he turned and offered McCoy a single raised eyebrow before saying, "make me."
McCoy sighed heavily and leaned back once more. "You stubborn, thick headed…"
"Doctor," Spock cut him off, "I strongly advise you devote your energy to more productive use."
Spock continued to tinker, with what exactly McCoy wasn't sure. He drifted in his thoughts, taking him back to his historical anthropology classes at high school. Casey, the guy was called, and boy was he a case. The over-animated teacher practically danced with enthusiasm for the subject, raving about the significance of Andorian ritual battles and Orion matriarchal subcultures, positively revenant of the Vulcan soul. The Vulcan soul… he'd said, Vulcans don't withhold emotion because they don't feel…
…they maintain unbiased perspective, refrain from indulging in expression, because of how strongly they do.
A cough brought him back to the present with a painful jolt, he found Spock observing him with some concern.
"Give… a Vulcan… a green leafed plant…" he breathed, remembering his teacher's words with sudden clarity and smiled.
An alarm sounded by his head, Spock's concern flared to full blown worry. At least, that was the impression McCoy got and he wasn't sure where he got it from. He tried to issue some kind of reassurance, but he felt so tired…
xxxxOxxxx
…And so annoyed when the alarm continued to chime in his ear. He needed to meditate, yet sickbay was hardly the environment to do so.
A hand crossed his face, hard. He startled, feeling angry. Another strike found his cheek, followed by another – he raised his hand in time to catch the next one before it hit. He didn't not open his eyes until he'd issued a short, clipped command to the owner of the hand he now gripped - a little too tightly.
"Desist."
He opened his eyes to see the face of Dr M'Benga, who's lips where pursed as he glanced at his hand. Spock instantly let go, arranging his thoughts and trying to crush the illogical wave of embarrassment that followed.
He sighed, "I apologise…"
"Theres no need." Dr M'Benga's face swam back into view, his warm smile filling the space between them. He glanced at the monitor and down at his pad, making a note before continuing. "Do you remember what happened?"
Another surge of irritation assaulted him with the question. Of course he remembered, he was a Vulcan, he remembered everyth…
Wait… his mind faltered, confused. Why am I in sickbay?
M'Benga said nothing as he watched the play of emotions on Spock's face, a Vulcan typically needed time in private meditation to recover from the emotional transference associated with any meld. As far as he knew, this was the first time a meld of such depth had been attempted. Spock's disorientation was the least he had prepared himself to expect, they'd had to brake the meld of course, with no idea as to the consequences.
One of the nurses had the sense to alert the Captain that Spock was awake. Within seconds he burst into the room from the adjacent bay, stilled by M'Benga's raised hand.
Jim nodded and approached Spock's bed slowly. Spock's eyes narrowed as he willed his memories into some kind of arrangement, reaching for clarity. He looked at Jim, noting the dark circles under his eyes, the mixture of relief and concern sprawled across his features like handprints on a child's painting…
The inner monologue caught Spock off guard, an almost quizzical expression passed over his face and he mouthed the words of the metaphor noiselessly, " hand prints on a…?"
As soon as the realisation dawned he was up and already crossing the room, he stumbled as he reached the bay Jim had come from and gratefully accepted his friend's supporting arm, coming to rest by the biobed that held one irascible, frustrating, overly emotional, yet strangely important piece of his life. A rival and yet a friend…
Satisfied by the regular beeping of the biosigns monitor above McCoy's bed, Spock let his head fall forward, closing his eyes against the tidal wave of nausea that accompanied the sudden rapid changes in emotional and physical state.
"Are you ok?" Jim guided him to the nearest chair.
"I will be." Spock assured him, he felt no shame in admitting the fact around Jim Kirk, that for the moment at least, he wasn't. A pause preceded the next thought, "How did you find us?"
Jim found the chair next to him, "That contraption you made acted like a beacon. We were able to pinpoint your whereabouts to within a few hundred metres."
"That still leaves a significant margin for error, given geological and meteorological limiting factors in that region."
Jim smiled, "Let's just say, I had a hunch."
"And let's just say you are still my patient, so before you get too carried away I need to decide whether or not it's safe to discharge you." M'Benga led Spock back to his own bed, tactfully turning down the monitor volume. Reluctant, albeit too exhausted to argue, Spock allowed the attention, reasoning that M'Benga – of all the Enterprise's medical staff, would be the most aware of his need to retire and seek the solace of his own thoughts.
M'Benga waved off the Captain as he made moves to follow, thankfully Jim understood.
Turning back to McCoy's bed Jim rested his hand on his friend's shoulder. Bones hadn't come too yet but when he did he wondered devilishly what he would say when he found out that Spock had quite literally acted as his own, personal life support machine.
"Yeah well, you can keep that one up on the bridge! I've got enough down here with computers that mess around with your nervous system without the trouble of one that messes with your brain!"
There would obviously follow a defensive retort.
"Such intervention could only serve to increase efficiency in the Medbay, however even the most efficient computer would be tried by your flagrant, unrelenting illogic, perhaps to breaking point."
Jim managed a tired chuckle at the exchange played out in his head, realising that he knew his friends all too well, he sat down heavily beside the bed and sighed.
"See, he does like you."
The overhead monitor made a sound no sooner had the words left his mouth. Jim smiled and settled back down to his reading, a book called 'Who do you think you are? Understanding modern humanoid species' by Prof Harold J Casey (Rtd):
Which brings me on to good old man kind. We may think we're pretty good at understanding ourselves, but are we?
Humans and Vulcans are not so different in one respect. We both use emotional restraint as a means of protection. However, this is where we differ: while Vulcans withhold emotion to protect others, humans cover their emotions to protect themselves. As social animals, we will often convey the reverse of what we feel and rely on involuntary physical cues to suggest to us the true feelings of another.
In short, our spontaneous reactions and our carefully planned expressions will frequently hold equal and opposite implications, and yet, we seem to understand both as thought they were the same.
Confused? Now imagine you're a Vulcan.
AN: Next - Gravity. Jim must have his own...