Section 1: Amazing Grace
Chapter 3: Who Are You?
Hey, Leonard. Anon has reached out to McCoy's mind, and is welcomed in.
Hi, Darlin'. He forces a smile and instantly feels ridiculous. Every time he tries to keep a concern from her, he acts like she is in the room and can read his face. Nevertheless, the psychological impact of a smile does its job to elevate his state of mind.I'm done with everything for the day, showered after my workout, ate dinner with my music friends for a change. They were happy – does that make you happy? And …
Yes, it does, Soli. I'm always glad to hear you're spending time with friends. You need it. McCoy continues to project positive feedback. So far, so good. He leans on the edge of his desk, mindfully relaxed.
It's our night, you know. Ready to meet up? He can picture her smile, a little twitchy, but lighting up her eyes; she is randy, and that has its effect on him. Good, good. He's not overly anxious after all.
Of course, I'm ready. I'm beyond ready already. But we need to have a conversation. I've put it off as long as could, which is much longer than I should. Can you come to my Sickbay office? I have something to show you.
He opens himself to her apprehension, but there is none he can detect. His efforts to think happy thoughts, as the song goes, were successful. She is as eager to see him as before. Oh, but, a little less randy. Hmm. Maybe that's not so good.
Anon's response is simple and calm. Sure, my love. I'll be there as fast as the lift can take me.
She remains in McCoy's head as she makes her way to Sickbay, so he hears her soft voice giving the lift instructions for her destination, and she knows he is pulling the fifth of Jameson's out of his desk drawer and pouring himself a couple of fingers. Still he feels serenity from her, only requesting an iced seltzer for her arrival. That he can do.
Anon enters the office, and heads directly to him, curling her arms up to his shoulders while he wraps her torso in his own arms. They simultaneously inhale each other's scent, a ritual McCoy scarcely realizes he has adapted from her, so natural has it become. After they pull apart, he hands over the seltzer and gestures to the guest chair. She agreeably sits, and he settles once again on the edge of his desk, now swirling the whiskey in the tumbler, now taking a sip.
Anon pulls out of his head and speaks first. "What do we need to discuss?"
Typical. No dancing around. And, oh god, now that he needs to he cannot bring a smile to his face to save his life. She is chugging the seltzer, but looking over her glass, she reads him correctly, sets down the glass, and worries, "What's wrong?"
"You know Spock has been looking for your home planet," McCoy begins.
Anon interrupts him. Mercifully, perhaps – it may help him know where she stands. "Of course. I remember. And do you remember that I said I would help however I can, but nobody's asked me to do anything. Is that what this is about? So, can we talk about what he needs me to do?"
McCoy slams back his whiskey for courage and begins.
"This entire avenue of investigation is classified, as you know."
Anon interrupts him again, not so mercifully this time. "Yah, I know. But you don't know that I didn't really know until Commander Stanley told me. I thought …"
"Commander Stanley doesn't know anything about this. It's classified." McCoy, as so often happens in high-stress conversations with Anon, is baffled by her response.
"I know. I got the message from Uhura. But I'm just the lowest of the lowliest ensigns on this crew. It didn't dawn on me that it meant … I thought that the briefing had led to the Reynos 3 mission being classified a failure. I didn't even open the message. I was so ashamed. But Commander Stanley, while he was prepping for being my lab leader, he asked about Janay but couldn't, because it was classified. He told me to stop when I said something about the mission, because it was classified. And then I realized I was such a dolt, and I didn't know what to do except shut up, and now you finally mention it, but why …"
McCoy has set down his glass and stepped to her slumping body, hands covering her eyes. He slips his hands under her arms and lifts her up, holding her close. "Shh, shh, shh," he whispers.
The one subject they have studiously avoided over the last three months has been that mission. Now that he actually thinks about it, of course Anon misinterpreted the message subject line. Lord almighty, how the hell did she ever get admitted to the Academy? She is so unsuited for the military structure of Starfleet, and she still has not caught on after six years of the Academy and almost a year on board its flagship.
He is flooded by her emotions; now, she's in his head. He gradually lowers her, setting her on the arm of the chair. He moves to sit on the seat of the chair, pulls her onto his lap. They hold each other, quiet, for a long moment. McCoy casts about for a way to restart.
"Soli, here's the thing. The captain, Mr. Spock, and I have had several meetings on finding your home planet. Spock found Ktak."
Anon's head snaps up, though she continues to hold him tight. "He battled and defeated all levels of the Federation bureaucracy to have Ktak put officially off limits. No ship can go close enough for neural contact. You said only Keeper had left the planet for generations. And now, nobody will be able to be tricked into landing there. The rest of the galaxy is safe. Spock did it. How does that make you feel?"
Anon squeezes him hard. "I don't know. Ask me tomorrow when I've integrated it."
"Fair enough." McCoy squeezes back. Her reaction was satisfactory; he can go on. Still he waits, until she doesn't need the counterbalance of his body's support. When she begins to relax, he continues.
"Most of our meetings have consisted of Spock and me comparing notes and establishing goals. The captain, well, he just needs to be kept informed so he can run interference with the Federation, and so he can be confident Spock and I aren't butting heads."
Anon's voice is so soft he can hardly make out the words. "Please explain. Establishing goals? Running interference? Butting heads? What do you mean?"
McCoy shifts position and is gratified that Anon, although still firmly ensconced in his lap, straightens her posture and makes eye contact.
"Kirk pushed his clout to the limit in classifying the briefing, based on Spock's analysis. Soli, your scream upended the far reaches of the Federation. Spock and the captain took complete responsibility for investigating the incident, as they called it. They protected you. Dear heart, I think you would have been taken into custody and subjected to … Never mind about that. They protected you. Nobody beyond us knows it was you. But they have to come up with some kind of report eventually. Identifying Ktak bought them some time. Now we have to figure you out as best we can."
Anon nods. "I'm as ready as I can be. I've been ready. I'm beyond ready already." McCoy can't suppress a smile at having his words echoed in this very different context. Anon smiles back. "Tell me."
McCoy recounted the meetings' topics and conclusions, Anon wordless until he reaches the end, replies simply, "Okay."
McCoy tightens his embrace, and Anon arches her back to look at him more closely. "What else?"
McCoy breathes deeply, then plunges in. "Remember when you told me your story?"
Anon smiles. "Of course. I was there. Talking to you and Janay that night changed everything for me."
McCoy smiles back briefly. "For me, too. But I never told you what I did after you feel asleep on me." He waits for a response, doesn't get one, and continues, "I went to Sickbay and pulled up all those damned brain scans, all eight of them on the big screen at the same time. I studied them for, well, for evidence of the procedure you described, well, more what I saw when you were talking about it." She shudders and presses her head against his chest, no longer looking at him.
"I concentrated on the brain stem, since that was Keeper's entry point. I looked for scarring of some sort. Eventually I did see something odd, I worked with the med app to isolate it and identify it, and … long story short, what I found was that your brain is full of somebody else's tissue, someone else's DNA. It's too extensive to remove. I never told you, never entered it in your records, and I haven't told my med team or the project team. But I'm certain that Chenoweth will notice something when we do our experiments, so I wanted to tell you first." McCoy braces himself for Anon to digest his news, but she responds evenly.
"Huh. I know whose it was. One of the Ktak had died, let me see, sixteen days earlier. Keeper must have used his brain tissue. She had been all excited about something. That must have been it."
McCoy recoils at her matter-of-fact recital of the horror, but before he can react further she adds, "You told me that when doctors do gene editing they use viruses to get the new material throughout the targeted organ. Maybe that's what Keeper used."
Both are silent, until Anon mutters, "Bitch."
Finally, an appropriate response. Now McCoy relaxes. "Yes. And, as you once called her, a monster."
"Yah. This is going to take some integration, too. I'll have a complicated sleep period tonight." She hugs him. "Let's go to Shuttle Bay. I need to touch you even more. How I love you, Leonard."
"You're not angry I didn't tell you before?" McCoy is always a bit nervous at what will happen when they connect neurally skin-to-skin, and this time he wants to be prepared.
"No, no." Anon pushes back again so that they see each other's faces. "You were trying to spare my feelings. I can't blame you. It's pretty grotesque. I'm a chimera, aren't I?"
McCoy, startled, bursts out laughing. "What a thing to say! My own chimera, the woman I love! Let's go to Shuttle Bay, and I'll show you how much."
And they do, and he does.
Two weeks later, Kirk and Spock ae waiting in the specially outfitted shuttle when McCoy arrives. Almost simultaneously Kirk makes his greetings and his good-byes; he prefers to exit the shuttle before Anon's arrival. He isn't a part of the experimental protocol, and his presence seems always to make the ensign uncomfortable. Uncomfortable as in a stammering wreck. She will be going through enough crap today without his adding to it.
Spock's tricorder sits on top of his computer, next to a rather large scientific instrument whose purpose McCoy can only guess at, and Spock isn't saying. Spock will measure … whatever Spock has planned to measure.
McCoy hadn't attended to Spock's tricorder settings and hoped-for readings any more than necessary to move the project along. Yes, he wants to find Anon's home planet as much as the Chief Science Officer does, but his interest is personal, not scientific. He knows he has put Chenoweth under too much pressure, but he doesn't particularly care about that either.
The project requires her to take varied and detailed readings of what happens to Anon's brain and where it happens when she transmits and receives, and how long it happens before and after, and every damn fool thing he could think for her to measure, but he has also demanded that she record what happens to his brain and body for later analysis. To be free of the headaches when Anon is in his head is his greatest – and admittedly selfish – end goal for the project.
Shortly after Kirk's departure, Chenoweth arrives with Anon in tow. As they enter the shuttle, McCoy notices Chenoweth releasing Anon's gloved hand. Apparently, she had required additional support, perhaps coaxing as well. He is grateful to the attending physician's patience and calm encouragement. He knows well the many forms Anon's anxiety can take.
McCoy looks around the shuttle, assessing the moods of Spock (composed), Chenoweth (concerned), and Anon (controlled – barely). As for himself, he can't say. Edgy comes closest, although that doesn't fit the alliteration. Alliteration? Where the hell is his mind? Focus, McCoy, focus. Fortunately, Spock's composure is real, and the science officer initiates the proceedings.
"Greetings, Doctor Chenoweth, Ensign Anon. As you can see, the shuttle is outfitted as described in our final meeting yesterday. Seats for you, Ensign, and Doctor McCoy, at opposite ends of the shuttle. A bench, should it be needed to sit side-by-side. A set of four chairs in the middle for conferencing, again, should it be needed. If you are all ready, I shall command this shuttle, with the other shuttle on auto-pilot, to put one thousand kilometers between us and the Enterprise before beginning the experiments."
Murmurs of assent heard from McCoy and Chenoweth, Spock communicates with the Shuttle Bay operator. "Open Shuttle Bay doors."
McCoy reflexively glances at the screen to confirm the action. Chenoweth's eyes are on Anon; Anon's eyes flit from McCoy to her attending and back again. In due time, the shuttle reaches the designated distance from the Enterprise.
Without prompting Anon moves astern to the seat assigned to her; McCoy takes the seat in the bow. They are facing each other.
Chenoweth sits behind the computer and picks up the medical tricorder. McCoy has assembled the set of instruments for her to use, including a second tricorder integrated with the computer to be aimed at him during the experiments, and a smaller screen window to show his reactions should there be anything alarming, with the primary and larger screen displaying Anon's readings.
Chenoweth glances at him and shoots him a reassuring smile. He guesses she is picking up on his nervousness and feels obliged to treat him as she would any other patient. Well, why not? His mouth is dry; he cannot return her smile. His hands rub the armrests, forward and back, forward and back. He yanks his gaze away from Chenoweth and stares at Anon. She stares back, blankly.
Spock clears his throat. "Let us begin. Protocol One: Physical Separation. Near Distance. Subject A receives thoughts directed at her from Subject M."
Anon's face remains blank, no worse than that, morose. All the courage she had mustered, the eagerness to participate she had tried so hard to generate – all gone. She looks miserable.
Both Spock and Chenoweth are absorbed in their instrument readings, alternated with observing Anon. Neither of them is looking at him. McCoy has an attack of cleverness. He must direct thoughts at Anon; indeed he will, and so he does. Darlin' when we're alone again, maybe in this very shuttle, I will turn all your sorrow into joy. I'll pull your shirt off, so carefully. But that very special contraption that covers your hands? I'll rip it to shreds. You'll lift my shirt … She is still expressionless, and McCoy ups the ante. He leans back in his seat, lacing his fingers behind his head so that his shirt rises to expose his belly. Anon's face is unchanged. You'll lift my shirt and undo my …
"Something a little less obvious, Doctor, shall we?" Chenoweth's voice is a pin that pops his thought balloon.
McCoy jerks back to his original position so hard that he whacks his elbows on the armrests. Spock turns toward him, lifting an eyebrow. Anon looks at the floor. He feels his face flushing. "What the hell."
Chenoweth flashes a sly smile. "Her sinus rhythm greatly increased; her endopelvic fascia was, correction, is contracting spasmodically; her amygdala and hippocampus are lighting up the galaxy … Need I go on?" She doesn't spare so much as a peek at Spock, who by now has raised both eyebrows.
Bless your jargon-spouting little heart, Chenoweth. Anon picks up McCoy's thought and starts giggling, though she seemingly remains fixated on the floor.
Spock is no fool; he is a generalist, not a medical specialist, but he gets the substance of Chenoweth's spiel. "Perhaps you should instead relay one of your fascinating discourses on the sundry digestive fluids among various species, Doctor. That would be a neutral and, as I say, a fascinating topic."
Now it's McCoy's turn to raise an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware that Vulcans employed sarcasm, Spock."
Spock replied, "I merely suggest it as a perhaps less-engaging substitute topic."
For the first time since entering the shuttle, Anon speaks. "Mr. Spock, Dr. McCoy's research is very engaging! He has told me all about it. Last time we talked, he had found eight discrete gastric acids and seventeen different linings after examining fifty-one species. Isn't that amazing? Have you found more since then, Doctor?"
McCoy's heart swells. Lord he loves her. He steals a glimpse of Spock's face and is gratified to find surprise registering. Hah! He gets back on track with confidence.
"Yes'm, Ensign, I have. Mr. Spock's recommendation is a good one. I'll regale you with my more recent findings, which have been recorded, and your reception can be compared to the records to verify how accurately the transmission was received." Damn, nice recovery, McCoy, he internally crows, although it takes all his will power not to rub his unhappy elbows. He settles in to update Anon about his research, and both Spock and Chenoweth resume their measurements.
"Let's take a break," McCoy proposes, several hours later. "I'm stiff as the proverbial board."
Chenoweth throws him a look of profound gratitude and stands, stretching her arms over her head, then bending double to grip the backs of her calves. She straightens and twists her torso clockwise and counter.
Anon slides off her chair and lands in a deep crouch. She pushes her knees apart and almost touches her forehead to the tops of her feet before standing and swinging her arms in all directions.
The two men are far more inhibited, scarcely acknowledging their physical discomfort. For McCoy, even a minor change of position improves his outlook, as feeling is restored to his feet and fingers.
The four protocols they have so far performed were repeated ad nauseum to develop sufficient data points for analysis. His calling for a pause now was strategic; what comes next is skin-to-skin, and even when he and Anon have the utmost privacy he can never be sure what will happen between them.
With no privacy by design, and with the tensions of the day mounting, he dreads what could develop. All for science, nada for him. And he immediately feels pangs of guilt; however difficult these protocols have been for him, they have been exponentially worse for Anon. She has fought to remain calm, but her distress has broken through repeatedly and infected his frame of mind.
"Protocol Five." Spock is ready, therefore so must they all be. "Skin-to-Skin Effects. Ensign, according to Dr. McCoy's proposal, you are to keep your gloves on for this phase, but nevertheless make skin contact with Dr. McCoy. Please be seated in the center chairs, facing each other. Whenever you wish to begin, you may proceed."
McCoy and Anon move from opposite ends of the shuttle to the center, almost knocking knees as they take their seats. Since her giggling fit, Anon hasn't been anything other than dead serious in her demeanor, emotional states aside. He can't help himself – he reaches out and pats her gloved hand, then places his hands in his lap. She follows his lead and does the same. Neither subject smiles.
"Protocol Five," Spock repeats, this time for the benefit of recording. "Subject A and Subject M neurally communicate via epidermal contact." Nice job, Spock, thinks McCoy. Much better way to present it to the federation science hawks than "skin-to-skin."
Without warning, Anon repeats her performance in the lounge many months ago. She seizes his face in her gloved hands and kisses him, hard, with skill she had not possessed that first time but with no less abandon.
All McCoy's defenses fall away; he is passionately engaged with her, aware of nothing else. There is no Spock, no Chenoweth; there are no tricorders, no computers. There is only Anon, his desire for her, her desire for him. Then, inevitably, Spock and Chenoweth enter the neural connection. They, too, are overcome by desire. McCoy can see vivid images of Uhura, hears Spock's calling to her. Vocally? Neurally? He cannot distinguish. Chenoweth is pulled into McCoy's passion for Anon; her feelings are more like Anon's for him but they are clearly for Anon, and the connection is wildly different.
As precipitously as it began, the encounter is over. Anon has released McCoy from the kiss. He sinks back into his chair, dazed, looking about him. Anon has turned her attention to Chenoweth, crooning calming phrases he cannot quite catch. Chenoweth had been pressed to Anon's back, caressing Anon's breasts, grinding into her hips. Now she pulls away abruptly, hand over her mouth, face bright red in embarrassment. Anon continues to reassure her.
Spock had dropped his tricorder and left his station. He is at the stern end of the shuttle, as close to the Enterprise as he can manage. Both his hands are spread in the Vulcan mind meld position, squashing their fingertips against the wall. He is moaning, "Nyota, Nyota." Moaning and sobbing until he suddenly recovers himself as well. He stands, visibly shaken, and staggers to the seat previously occupied by Anon. He collapses into it, wordless.
Chenoweth has turned away from Anon and is holding herself as though she would break apart if she did not. "I'm sorry, Ensign. I never would … I never have … I always maintain a professional relationship with my patients. I had heard about … that … what happens when … but I didn't realize …"
Anon, mirroring Spock, has escaped to the forward most point of the bow. She faces the little company but turns her head away. "I'm the one who must apologize, Dr. Chenoweth. And Mr. Spock. I'm so sorry. None of that was your fault. It's my fault, my fault. Please forgive me. You did nothing. And I'm sorry to you, Leonard, really sorry. Please don't be embarrassed. Or angry with me. Everybody."
McCoy can see that Spock and Chenoweth are almost in shock, Anon humiliated. For no explicable reason, an enormous weight has lifted from his shoulders, and he begins to laugh. It's contagious and in a moment, Chenoweth joins him. Stupefied at first, Anon's giggles return, and then she too laughs heartily.
Spock doesn't participate in the hysterics, but does regain his composure, if not his dignity. "I believe it would be wise for Protocol Five to be very specifically directed and controlled for our next iteration. Our measurements were less than ideal for our first attempt."
"Your measurements were for shit, Spock," McCoy retorts, wiping the tears from his eyes.
"Why must you continually employ inaccurate vulgarities, Doctor," Spock answers.
"Oh, I think it was pretty accurate, Mr. Spock," Chenoweth contradicts. "Completely accurate." She picks up her deserted tricorder and slaps at the End button, plops into her chair, and battles to recover her equanimity, while still breaking into sporadic fits of laughter.
"I think Mr. Spock is right," Anon offers. "Me and my impulsivity are not a good combination for skin-to-skin. Especially with Leonard." The two doctors lose it again, gasping for breath.
Spock and Anon nod at each other. They are going to have to be the ones to design a controlled experiment, clearly. They meet at Spock's station and converse quietly.
Once Chenoweth develops a bad case of hiccoughs, tamping down her laughter; McCoy can talk again, despite having to clutch his aching sides. "We've got food on board – let's have at it. I'm starving."
"No, Doctor," Spock replies. "We have determined hunger is going to be the next skin-to-skin in communication. Two of us may eat, you and Ensign Anon will experiment with how feelings of hunger and satiation are spread amongst the four of us. Dr. Chenoweth and I will set up our equipment directed, first at Anon, then each of the rest of us in turn. The remaining members of our group can eat after that. We will also experiment with remembered fear, anger, sadness, and happiness. I think that will be sufficient for this protocol. Help yourselves, Doctors McCoy and Chenoweth, to your lunches, so we may begin. I do hope you are not so hungry that you fail to leave some for the ensign and myself."
"Fun's over," McCoy grumbles, and he pads to the replicator to rustle up some fixings. Chenoweth joins him, and they dine together, while Spock and Anon wait in silence, Spock at his console, Anon seated next to the diners, one of whom maintains skin-to-skin contact with her all the while.
The configuration of instruments was complicated and required several adjustments and retakes before Spock and Chenoweth are satisfied with the results. Spock calls out to Anon to join him in partaking of lunch, but she shakes her head and removes herself to the far seat. She pulls up her knees, wraps her arms around her shins, and McCoy is immediately at her side. Chenoweth watches in puzzlement for a moment, then surreptitiously aims her tricorders in their direction and turns her attention to the readings.
"Soli, don't go away," McCoy pleaded. "Talk to me. We're more than halfway done. Let's just get it over with. Have something to eat – it will take the edge off. Talk to me, dear heart."
Anon loosens her hold on her legs and allows her feet to slide to the floor again. She wraps her arms around McCoy instead and nuzzles her head into his chest. "Get in my head," he encourages. She does, and they are the only two people in the shuttle.
I hated doing hunger, Leonard. It felt so manipulative. Like sharing our kisses. I don't want to do anger or fear or sadness or happiness. Mr. Spock thought that raw emotion was the best measurement of skin-to-skin and he's probably right but I don't care and it makes me feel evil and I don't want to …
"Shh, shh, shh," McCoy once again finds himself in the role of telepath whisperer. You don't want to, you don't have to. I honestly doubt they need any more measurements beyond what they already have for skin-to-skin. We'll stand together on this. Just don't go away, Darlin', okay?
"Okay," she murmurs. "For now."
McCoy pulls her arms away and kisses her gloved hands, laying them in her lap before he stands and faces the other two participants. Now he notices Chenoweth at her instruments and makes a mental note to ask her about what she found before Anon unwrapped herself.
"Sorry, Spock, we're done with skin-to-skin," McCoy declares.
Spock raises an eyebrow. "Not a bit, Doctor, we have only begun. One set of results is insufficient for Protocol Five. We have multiple data sets for the others."
"You may only have one data set, but you have two results. Just because you got no data points from the first go-round doesn't mean you didn't get results. You know how distressing the results were, even for you, my fine, pokerfaced friend. Our mutual hysterics afterward were a perfect example of how humans laugh to block off pain. It wasn't that funny. I say we're moving on. Dr. Chenoweth, you're the attending for the ensign. Do you concur?"
Chenoweth straightens up from her study of the tricorder readings when Anon was curling up. She walks the length of the shuttle, crouches in front of her patient and takes her hands. Anon lifts her eyes and squeezes the doctor's fingers. Chenoweth's head snaps back, and an involuntary, "Oh!" escapes her. Her head falls forward; she relaxes, squeezes back, and rises. "I concur."
Outnumbered, Spock concedes defeat. "Protocol Six then. Long-distance neural communication. I shall need a few minutes to reconfigure controls to auto. Are you sure you cannot be persuaded to eat some lunch, Ensign? I myself would prefer nourishment at this time, before initiating the last two protocols."
Anon rubs her eyes, presses her fingertips to her temples. "If you're hungry, you should eat. But if you won't unless I join you, Mr. Spock, then, yes, I'll eat something as well. And only one more protocol. I've changed my mind about Protocol Seven. I won't do it. I'm confident you have enough results to do a search for my planet based on the data you have recorded. I'm not doing hand-to-hand. Sorry."
"Understood, Ensign," Spock concedes. "Let us nourish ourselves prior to preparing for Protocol Six."
"Agreed." Anon joins Spock at the replicator.
McCoy is supremely disappointed. The bizarre experience of becoming Anon while she became him has haunted his days, infected his dreams. He has burned to know what exactly happened in his brain and hers when, as she put it, he "fixed" her. There will never be another opportunity.
Chenoweth has returned to her console, and McCoy slips over to catch a view of whatever it is has captured her attention. Her fingers are rapidly pressing keys; the time stamp is Anon's fetal moment. That was not one of the experimental protocols, and he finds himself pleased that she leapt at the opportunity for independent research. He takes pride in his med team, never more so than when one of them pursues information out of sheer curiosity. The displays are flashing too quickly for him to catch up; he'll discuss her findings another time.
Spock and Anon are dining in comfortable silence. McCoy settles in to his seat, rubs his face and head vigorously. His eyes are itching; some coffee would help. He grabs a cuppa at the replicator, returns to his seat and works through his beverage until Spock has completed his meal and set up the instruments for long-distance testing.
Anon dumps most of her meal into recycling, and seats herself, this time in the bow. Spock piles his equipment, plus Chenoweth's computer with the tricorder for measuring McCoy's responses, in a single tall stack, and McCoy joins him.
"Spock to Transporter Room."
"Scott here."
"Mr. Scott, please transport Dr. McCoy and myself and my equipment to Shuttle Two."
"Aye, sir."
The transporter glow shimmers golden about McCoy and Spock, and then they vanish. Chenoweth and Anon wait, separate and together, for fifteen minutes until Spock's voice penetrates the shuttle.
"Protocol Six. Long-distance Neural Communication. Shuttle Two with Subject M is now three hundred thousand kilometers from Shuttle One with Subject A. Tricorder on Shuttle Two is aimed in the direction of Shuttle One. Medical tricorder on Shuttle Two is directed at Subject M."
Chenoweth responds, "Medical tricorder on Shuttle One is directed as Subject A and is recording data. Commence Protocol Six."
McCoy immediately is flooded by Anon's thoughts and emotions. My love, I know you're not going to like this, but I have to meditate just as soon as I'm able. Please come back to me and wait until I'm finished. I did almost everything I was asked, but I have to ponder why it was impossible to complete, when I really did want to. Maybe I'll figure it out, maybe not. But please, please be there. I'm sorry to ask so much of you.
"Protocol Six, Run One complete. Increase distance between Shuttles One and Two by two hundred thousand kilometers to five hundred thousand kilometers." Spock interrupts McCoy's listening ear briefly. There is a three-minute pause. "Initiate Run Two."
Soli, are you listening?
Of course, Leonard. Tell me.
Spock wants to do four runs. He'll put distance between the shuttles until we're a million kilometers apart, and then we're done. Really done. Can you hang in there?
I can as long as we're together.
"Protocol Six, Run Two complete." Spock interrupts again. "Increase distance between Shuttles One and Two by two hundred fifty thousand kilometers to seven hundred fifty thousand kilometers." There is a four-minute pause. "Initiate Run Three."
Soli, are you still there?
You know I am, Leonard.
Good, very good. While he was setting up, I got on his case, and Spock agreed to allow us as much time alone on the shuttle as we need. As much as we want. If you have to go fetal, keep that in mind, okay? We'll have some time together to integrate everything you've gone through … we've gone through. If nothing else …
"Protocol Six, Run Three complete." McCoy's jaw is clenched, his teeth ache. One more, just one more. Spock continues, "Increase distance between Shuttles One and Two by two hundred thousand kilometers to one million kilometers." There is a five-minute pause. "Initiate Run Four."
Soli, listen.
I'm listening, my love. I want to listen to you; I love to listen to you …
Soli, if nothing else, we can have an overnight, another day, whatever we need to recover. You can hold onto that, I promise.
Thank you, Leonard. But I still need to meditate. I've been fighting the feeling, but I just have to. I'm sorry to leave you alone but I can't help it. Please forgive me. I'll …
"Protocol Six complete." Spock is as cool as ever. "Ending instrument readings. Shuttle Two returning to Enterprise and Shuttle One. Estimated time to intercept ten minutes." Nine minutes and fifty seconds pass while McCoy fights off Soli's compulsion to rock back and forth, to curl into a ball, to surrender to her crippled emotions.
Spock, taciturn as he shuts down his equipment, prepares for his lab and subsequent analysis of the data. At last he says, "Mr. Scott, prepare for transport. Bring Chenoweth and her equipment to the transporter room. Transport McCoy to Shuttle One. I shall pilot Shuttle Two to Shuttle Bay."
"Aye, sir. What is your command regarding returning Shuttle One to Shuttle Bay?"
Spock glances over at McCoy. "Dr. McCoy will be responsible for returning Shuttle One to the Enterprise. Spock out."
"Aye, sir."
Before McCoy can express his gratitude to Spock, he feels himself entering the disembodied state that is transporting. He finds himself aboard Shuttle One. Chenoweth, her tricorder, and her computer are gone; Anon has also gone – fetal, that is, on the floor in front of the stern seat.
McCoy sighs. He pulled her out of meditation once today; he's not going to do it again. If she needs it, she needs it. That having been said, it's too soon for supper. The whiskey produced by the replicator is swill, so that's out. He makes his way to the bench and stretches out. A few minutes contemplating Anon's still figure, and he makes a decision. He stands, strips off his clothes, kicks them aside, and lies again on the bench. He worries he might doze off, but his mind is too agitated for that. He watches and waits.
Anon releases her tightly held limbs and unfolds. She looks up, sees McCoy on the bench across the shuttle, closely examines his prone body.
"Hey."
"Hey yourself, Darlin'. You're back."
"Yes. You don't have any clothes on."
"You're very observant."
"Well, you're very naked."
"Yes. What do you want to do about it?"
"I think you know the answer to that."
Eighteen hours, three movies, two concerts, and repeated neural et alia interactions pass before McCoy contacts Shuttle Bay for permission to enter. Permission that Anon had long since granted him.
