The sun beat down on him, but he didn't feel the heat. It was more like a gentle kiss on his skin, something a mother would bestow on her child. The mountains lined the horizon in front of him, but the area where he stood was open, as if the landscape had been designed just for him. He looked down at his body and saw that he was naked, bare feet planted on the soft, warm ground. He wiggled his toes, digging them into the soil which seemed to move with his tender nudging. From somewhere a chorus of high-pitched humming sounded, a few notes at first, then growing into an orchestra that performed around him. A balmy breeze caressed his skin, sending a shiver of pleasure through him. He smiled.

He was home.

The ground shifted. He thought of his grandfather's farm and those first few years when he felt loved and secure. Closing his eyes, he breathed in, letting the damp air fill his lungs, losing himself to the rhythmic sound of the cicadas. For an instant, he was one with everything in a way he'd never been before. His body disappeared, but he felt no separation, only oneness.

Then, without warning, he was back in his body and falling as the ground opened, swallowing him, crushing him … suffocating the life from his body.

He jerked, his arms lashing out, muscles galvanizing. Agony ripped through his knee, shooting fire through his thigh. He cried out. Reaching for his knee, he sat up in bed before his vision had a chance to clear, lungs seizing as if they had forgotten how to breathe. His fingers clutched at the thick bandage around his leg in a desperate attempt to ease the stabbing that was ripping his knee apart. A buzzing sound filled his ears, loud and insistent.

Hands were on his shoulders, strong and certain, pulling him backward. He resisted, his fingers digging into the bandages, trying to stop the anguish beneath. The pain spread like molten iron, consuming him, and against all logic, he wanted to crush that pain, pound it into submission with his fists.

"Jim, it's all right!" Fingers encircled his wrist, forcing his hand away from his knee. "Let go!"

Alarms sounded. White hot pain shot into his groin, making him want to kick out. But his leg was uncooperative and remained paralyzed with pain.

"Jim!"

Other hands were on him now, pulling, pushing. His ears hummed with a high-pitched ringing. His strength faded with a suddenness that surprised him. He fell back, drenched in sweat, his knee on fire. A sharp sting at the side of his neck dulled his hearing and the room greyed to shades of watery smoke, then narrowed to a pinpoint of light. His body felt heavy, but the pain in his knee throbbed dully, refusing to be ignored even with the rush of painkillers coursing through him. Voices spoke around him, but the buzzing in his ears seemed to drown them out. His muscles felt rubbery and useless. Then all at once his vision cleared and the room came into focus. His head was at an odd angle on the pillow, turning the room on its side. It took an effort, but he rolled his head and saw McCoy bent over his knee with the blond nurse beside him. McCoy's lips were moving, but his words were distorted and muffled.

Fuck.

Lying still, with his head nestled on the pillow, his leg felt heavy and paralyzed. His heart thudded against his chest in an exaggerated beat. He was thirsty and his head hurt and his body didn't feel as if it were his, and yet he felt too much – trapped in a damaged vessel and left to flounder.

McCoy turned to pin him with a glare and he wondered what he'd done to earn the doctor's ire. Looking away, McCoy said something to the nurse who nodded and disappeared. A moment later, he was in front of Kirk, tight lipped and obviously pissed. He was speaking to Kirk, but it all seemed far away. Bit by bit, the words became clear.

"…and the damn knee cap. I told y…."

He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling his heart slow to a gentle beat. He really was thirsty.

"…moving …a uses more dam…"

Had he moved? No, he'd fallen. He opened his eyes, blinking to focus. McCoy's hazel eyes were intensely focused on him in an all-too-familiar expression. He remembered waking up on Earth after stepping into the warp core and seeing that expression.

"Are you list…"

Flicking his gaze to the right, he saw the ceiling fan against the white backdrop. He wasn't on the ship. The whining in his ears stopped suddenly.

"No," McCoy said gently. "You're not on the ship."

His gaze drifted back to his friend, who looked less irritated. The stillness around him seemed suffocating, as if someone had dropped a glass dome around them. "What time is it?"

McCoy took a moment to answer, scrutinizing Kirk. "Just after mid-night. I gave you something for the pain."

"Mm." He could feel it. It took an effort to move his head and readjust it to a more comfortable position on the pillow. "I fell."

"You were having a dream." McCoy pulled the light sheet up to cover his chest then checked the IV that had been relocated to the inside of his elbow. "Lucky you didn't rip this out." His gaze settled on Kirk and his eyes seemed to look deep into him. "How are you feeling?"

"Unlucky." His tongue was thick and too big for his mouth. Around him the world slowed and diffused into a foggy scape.

"For once I believe you. Get some rest." McCoy put his hand on the top of Kirk's head and stared down at him. "I'm going to do the same."

I don't want to sleep, he wanted to say. But his mouth wouldn't work and his eyes were closing. He drifted into darkness, pulled down by the drugs. It wasn't tranquil. There were moments when everything was dark and peaceful, and moments where he felt as if he were skipping along layers of consciousness, dipping, at time, into hyper-sensitivity before falling back into more muted thoughts. In the background was the cicada sound he'd become familiar with, the buzzing that sounded outside the tent and kept him company even into his dreams until he could no longer determine what was real and what was not. Finally, as dawn began to light the tent, he settled into a pleasant state of awareness where his thoughts cycled images and memories he'd tried to erase.

"You're going to be on your own out there," Pike said, staring at him with an unblinking gaze. He was in the color of the day, confined to his wheelchair behind his desk but looking no less the commanding officer he'd always been. "No one to save your ass."

Kirk's eyebrows twitched. "You're worried about my ass?"

Pike frowned, his expression darkening. "Think this is funny?"

He had. But now ….

"It's not your ass I'm worried about. You're captain now. It's the 435 other beings under your command I'm worried about."

He'd been called into Pike's office – again – for a debriefing of his latest mission, which was little more than a shuttle service for an ambassador. He had been less than thrilled with the mission, but then he'd run into Mudd and things had gotten more interesting.

"We completed our mission," Kirk said confidently. "And I haven't lost one crew member since taking command."

Of course he couldn't make that claim anymore. He'd lost dozens of crew in Marcus's attack. All he could really say was that he'd beaten the unbeatable, but even that didn't make him feel better. Why had he beaten the odds and Pike hadn't?

"It's gonna be all right, son."

He closed his eyes. He'd worked hard to bury those memories because when they rose from the dark place he'd put them he always felt despondent. Then he'd go for a run or a punishing workout until the memories were once again beaten into submission and he could breathe again. But now he couldn't move and the memories had broken free. He felt sorrow settle heavily on him and regretted again that he hadn't been able to go to Pike's funeral. And when he'd left for this five-year mission he'd worked so hard to get, Pike had been absent. It was Komack who had sent him off with a hand shake.

He opened his eyes. Darkness made it worse. He looked around his tiny prison. The tent lacked windows, but the sun lit the interior through the tent walls, casting shadows from the fan blades and making the emptiness inside come alive, like the planet outside humming and singing. He was thinking of that aliveness when the blond nurse approached his bed, shattering his self-made peace.

"Good morning," she greeted without a smile. "Did you sleep well?"

"Enough," he said, watching her. Her expression was professional, cool, but she'd asked the question without warmth or compassion, as if she were executing a duty.

"How is your pain?"

"How is it supposed to be?"

She didn't respond, but made a note in his chart then set about recording his vitals from the small monitor, unusually engrossed in the activity he'd seen Bones complete with a glance. Setting down the chart, she checked his IV before moving to inspect the tiny monitoring patches that were stuck to his chest.

"These are looking red," she said, moving her fingers across the attached devices. "Are they bothering you?"

He looked down at the six small circular patches. He hadn't really noticed them, but saw now that the skin around them was red. "I hadn't noticed. Do you take any time off? You seem to work all the shifts around here."

"You really haven't been here long enough to make that assessment." She straightened away from him and moved to the IV regulator and pressed the buttons.

So that was it. She didn't like him. He smiled. "I excel at observations."

"Do you?" She remained deadpan, standing with her arms at her side.

"Among other things."

He waited for a sign, a crack in the mask, some response to his charm. If nothing else, it was a distraction from his thoughts and the throbbing in his knee which had begun, again, in earnest.

"Dr. McCoy isn't in yet. Is there anything I can get you before I go?"

Ouch. She was tough. He looked at her, wondering where her anger came from. "What's your name?"

Something came over her face – a shadow of anger, disappointment, hurt. "Chapel," she said abruptly. "Christine Chapel."

He nodded. "I do something to piss you off, Christine Chapel?"

Her eyes were flat blue and her mask never wavered. "What could you possibly have done, Captain? We just met." She turned then and left.

He watched her walk away, watched her bottom sway—

Chapel. Christine Chapel.

Her chin rested on his naked abdomen, soft blue eyes peering up at him beneath a light fan of lashes. They lay on the narrow bed. She'd managed to stretch out and still keep her body on the academy issued bed. It was dark in the dorm room, but he could clearly see the milky white of her naked body and the round mound of her smooth ass slightly perched up in the air, teasing him.

He closed his eyes. Shit.

"What do you mean, they aren't coming?" McCoy held a cup of synthetic coffee in one hand as he stared at Scotty who'd joined him near the make-shift coffee area at the far end of the supply tent.

"I didn't say they weren't comin', Doctor," he replied in an exasperated tone. His brogue got thicker when he was tired or under stress and McCoy suspected he was both. "I said I dinna get any communication."

"What the hell is the difference?"

"One is a cancel; the other is a delay." He reached for a cup. "We haven't heard of them being re-routed."

Damn it. Jim's knee was barely holding together and after last night's episode there was more swelling. "How long of a delay?"

Scotty's shoulders drooped and he took on the look of a man who'd over-explained himself. The cup dangled from his fingertips, momentarily forgotten. "That would require communication, Doctor, and we have none. We'll have to wait and see if they respond."

Wait and see? McCoy looked out over the camp. It was early morning and crew were beginning to move around, some in from the collapse site, coming in for food and relief, maybe a shower before they headed back out. The duty rotation was tight, putting a strain on the crew. He was pleased to see the crew, despite appearing tired, were also looking strong and focused. He made a mental note to have Dr. Lyke do some preliminary health checks on the crew. Keeping them healthy meant keeping tabs on them. This damn heat had snuck up on them once. He didn't want an epidemic of heatstroke.

"Is there any food to go with this?"

McCoy turned to study the engineer, seeing the rumpled uniform and dark circles under his eyes. "The replicators are on the other side. You get any sleep last night?"

"Barely. But we may have made some progress." He filled his cup with the hot brew. It didn't even smell like coffee. "I think we found a path in."

"To the scientists? That's great news." He stared at the medical tent on the other side of the camp. He needed to do a thorough check and make certain they were prepared. He'd inventoried the supplies, but needed to keep his staff alert and prepared. There was always a danger, during down times, when staff became too relaxed, too accustomed to the quiet, that they would be unprepared when they were most needed.

"How's the Captain?"

The question pulled him back to the present. "Rough night." He took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. "I'm just going to check on him now."

Scotty nodded. "Not a good time for Bradbury to be late." He stepped in line with McCoy. "Captain doesn't like to be side-lined."

"He doesn't have much choice," McCoy said, making his way across the camp.

"Ach," Scotty said, spitting out his coffee. "You sure this is coffee?"

"Blame it on the dispenser." The sun was just above the horizon and heating the humid air, burning off the coolness of the night air.

"You know if we capped off the filter and tightened the return, turned up the heat, we'd have a nice still."

McCoy shifted his eyes to his companion. "I don't want to be here long enough to make moonshine."

"Moonshine?" The engineer sounded insulted. "My grand-pappy would turn over in his grave if he thought a good Scotsman like me was making moonshine."

They entered the medical tent. Watson and Emery, the two station geologists, were wide awake. Their fevers were gone as mysteriously as they had appeared and they were getting restless to leave. Their eyes sought him out immediately, like bored restive children. He nodded a greeting to them, but moved toward the center of the tent.

"Not much air in here," Scotty said, looking around.

"Blame that on the engineers." He approached Kirk's bed, seeing his friend fidgeting restlessly.

"Well that's a little insulting."

Kirk turned toward the two. "Someone insult your engines, Scotty?"

McCoy noted the rough edge to Kirk's voice, the pinched look around his eyes.

"How are you doing, sir?" Scotty asked.

Kirk looked slightly pale and tired, lying against a stack of pillows, a sheet pulled up to just below his sternum. "Good enough. Have good news?"

Scotty sat in the chair by the bed, setting his cup on the small side table. "We may have found something." He produced a thin PADD from behind him and began tapping on the screen. "I think the scientists may be in a cavern." He showed Kirk the screen. "Right here. We're picking up an echo."

Kirk studied the screen, keeping his head against the pillow. "The structure sank?"

"That's what I think. We're going to send in some probes."

Kirk looked away for a moment, then turned back. Small wrinkles tightened around his eyes, showing his discomfort. "You're going to drill?"

"We gotta get the probe in some way. It'll be narrow. We'll take precautions, sir. It shouldn't disrupt the surface."

Kirk shifted, wincing. "How long?"

"A few hours. We need to set up." He pulled the PADD away.

Kirk nodded. "Okay."

Scotty stood.

"Be careful. We don't want to be pulling you out of a hole."

"Aye." With a nod, he left, leaving McCoy standing at the foot of the bed, studying Kirk and sipping his coffee.

"Good morning," he said, moving to Kirk's side.

"Why does everyone have coffee but me?"

"You don't need coffee." McCoy set his cup down. "Anyway, it barely qualifies. Never thought I'd miss Enterprise coffee."

"I'll remind you that you said that the next time we're six months out."

McCoy snorted. "How did you sleep?"

"Terrific." He stared closely at McCoy. "You have something to tell me."

McCoy's eyes narrowed and he glared at the small monitor, and then reached out to put a hand to Kirk's forehead. "You've got a fever."

"It's a hundred degrees in here."

"It's a hundred degrees outside, too." McCoy stood back and moved to inspect Kirk's knee. "How's your pain?"

"Why is everyone asking me that?"

McCoy gently put his hand on Kirk's knee, still wrapped in thick bandages. Kirk instantly tensed. The knee was considerably swollen, but the drain looked clean. Damn it. He'd have to do a full exam and reposition the drain, He'd hoped to keep the knee contained until he could operate, but the Bradbury's delay now made that impossible.

"I don't like the look you have," Kirk said.

McCoy shifted his gaze to meet Kirk's blue eyes. "I'll try not to take that personally." He straightened and moved to occupy the chair Scotty had just vacated. "Your knee's pretty swollen. I have to reposition the drain."

Kirk looked tired, but held McCoy's gaze. "Bradbury is late," he deduced.

McCoy nodded. "I didn't want to disturb your knee until I did surgery, but it can't wait. Bradbury's not responding to our communications."

Kirk released a breath and looked toward the ceiling. "They're coming through the grid. They might be off course. It's like flying through a damn tornado."

"How would you know?" He frowned. "There haven't been tornados in over hundred years."

"My point is it could be longer than a day."

"Great. We're stuck on a planet with sink holes. Hope we're all here when they arrive."

Kirk turned toward him. "Don't be so dramatic. We still have a mission to complete. Rescuing the scientists is our primary responsibility."

"And keeping you healthy is mine. I want you to eat something. I'm going to run some blood tests and then I'm going to have to reposition the drain, try to get some of the swelling down."

Kirk absently scratched at the tiny monitor that was attached near his ribs. "You look worried."

"I hate delays. Why are you scratching at these?" He inspected the monitor, scowling. "These bothering you?"

"Everything is bothering me," Kirk said a little heavily and shifted. He was hot and sticky. "Can't you fix this knee?"

"No, Jim. I can't. I told you. I don't have the right implants. You just have to sit tight." He stood.

"What else am I going to do?"