McCoy monitored Jim's treatment from the foot of the bed. The Lionide IV drip hung just above his head, the port inserted into his hand and a special blood monitoring device inserted subcutaneously just below his elbow of the opposite arm.
"How long is this going to take?" Jim asked, moving restlessly. He was reclined at a forty-degree angle. Dressed in a medical gown, a warm blanket thrown over him, and still he was shivering.
"About an hour." He had a PADD in his hands that transmitted data from the monitoring devices and was synced up with the main diagnostic panel over Jim's head. The influx of data raced past the screen on his PADD, but he still had noted Jim's shivering. "Just relax. It'll go quicker."
"How am I supposed to relax when I'm a human pin cushion?"
McCoy ignored the remark and returned his attention to the PADD. The parasite had predictably run its cycle and was becoming active. He hoped that by treating it with an aggressive round of the old regime, they might be able to finally rid Jim of the parasite.
"Why do I have to do this in Sickbay?" A faint flush colored his cheeks. His heart rate was elevated.
McCoy looked up from the PADD. He'd answered this question once already when Jim had made a demanding stand to remain in his command gold as if he were coming in for a simple vaccination. The last time Jim had the treatment, he' been sick with fever and chills, so he no doubt didn't remember the adverse effects of the Lionide. "I need to monitor you," he said simply.
Jim snorted and looked away.
McCoy remained near his bed during the first part of the treatment and Jim had remained silent, dozing occasionally. Half way through the treatment, the nausea rose. Jim began to get restless, his respirations increasing.
"Take a few deep breaths," he said soothingly, offering a cooling cloth to Jim's flushed face.
Jim irritably batted it away. "I am breathing."
McCoy lowered the bed a few degrees. "The medication may be causing nausea. Try to rest a bit."
But ten minutes later Jim's stomach convulsed and he emptied its contents into the strategically placed basin by the bed. McCoy supported him as he retched then fell back onto the cushions exhausted, his eyes closing.
"I can give you something for the nausea once the IV is complete," McCoy said, wiping Jim's face.
"Terrific."
He vomited twice more before the IV emptied, continually pushing away McCoy's comfort. McCoy resigned himself to the role of spectator, focusing on the results of the treatment and offering Jim an occasional word or two of support. As promised, once the IV was complete, McCoy delivered a dose of antiemetic, but Jim barely registered it. Within minutes he was asleep and finally still beneath the white blanket.
McCoy breathed a sigh of relief at his friend's stillness and began a more rigorous study of the treatment results, sending the lab instructions. After that, he had to wait.
M'Benga entered the private area a few hours later with a PADD. "How's he doing?" he asked, motioning to the sleeping man.
Jim hadn't moved in over an hour. "Resting."
"You gave him another round of platelets."
The small IV hung independently from the thin pole.
"You have the labs?" McCoy asked, reaching for the PADD.
M'Benga winced. "Results were marginal. Parasite is still active."
"Damn it," he muttered, scanning the results.
"Maybe something more long term," the other doctor suggested.
He was speaking about the experimental treatment. The medication would attack the microorganisms over a period of time, reducing their procreation and, with any luck, killing the cycle.
"If it works, it will free the Captain of the parasite for good," M'Benga said as if to sweeten the deal.
"And if doesn't it could make him sicker."
"Or it may do nothing at all."
McCoy let out a pent up breath. "We need a hell of a lot of luck for that."
"Rather be lucky than good." M'Benga's eyes twinkled.
It was an old surgical saying, going back centuries. Any cutter worth their salt knew that medicine only did so much, that anything could go south quickly and with very little provocation. A surgeon learned to rely on a good portion of luck to see him through.
They had two choices: Do another round of the Lionide and hope for better results, or try the experimental drug and hope for a cure.
In the end, he decided on the experimental drug. The science was sound and in theory it should work. It also didn't have the side-effects of the Lionide and would be easier on Jim in the long run. McCoy was the one who told Jim when he woke up.
"We can't start for another ten hours," he finally told Jim after a lengthy conversation.
"Why not?" Jim had been scowling through the entire conversation.
"Because I want the Lionide out of your system as much as possible before I introduce a new drug." He paused. "With any luck you'll be on your feet before Pike arrives."
"Luck," Jim said bitterly. "We haven't had any fucking luck since this mission began."
He remained silent. There wasn't anything else he could offer Jim that would make this better. A high-ranking Admiral was about to board Enterprise and get a firsthand report of the mission. Admirals don't visit starships without a damn good reason.
"How long am I going to have to stay after that?" It sounded more like a demand than a question.
He was tired and frustrated. He had to answer to Pike, as well, and their conversations had not been pleasant. Jim's petulance was wearing thin. "Long enough for me to be convinced you're not at risk." His tone was sharper than he intended, but he didn't apologize. "You're going to be in Sickbay until then."
Jim relied mostly on his charm to get what he wanted. Even in a bar fight, McCoy had seen him smile. Maybe it was to unbalance his opponent or maybe it was just because he was having fun. There were only a few times that McCoy had seen him angry. He saw it now, just beneath the pale features. Not rage, but definite anger that brewed for release. He braced himself for a fight, but in an instant it seemed to disappear.
"Fine. Then I want to listen to the transmissions."
"As long as you do it in bed, I have no objections."
Jim turned away, his jaw tight.
Kirk stood just outside Shuttle Bay One and waited for the all-clear signal. Pike's shuttle craft had docked seconds ago. Spock waited next to him. He couldn't help but feel like a first year cadet right before inspection. He glanced at Spock and nervously ran a tongue over his lips. A thin film of perspiration made his uniform cling uncomfortably to him.
Though McCoy had allowed him to retire to his quarters last night (and thankfully relinquish the biosensor), it had not been restful. His body seemed to be like a live wire, refusing to rest. His skin itched and his muscles twitched. After hours of tossing in his bed, he'd finally given up, finding comfort in pacing. It had done nothing to alleviate his headache. Strangely enough, he wasn't tired. In fact, it felt as if his body had a sudden surge of energy.
Maybe McCoy's treatment had worked after all.
The green light flashed.
He shifted his weight, feeling a tremor go through him. His palms were sweaty and he hoped he didn't look nervous. He had plenty to be nervous about. The investigation had produced nothing. Weston was still lost and they were no closer to having answers. Taking a measured breath, he willed his body to calm. The tension was making his back and head hurt and the last thing he needed was to feel sick. He'd been up against Pike before and he knew from experience that he needed all his wits and more if he was going to come out of this looking good.
The door swished open.
Pike was in his mobile chair, an assistant standing silently beside him. He wasn't the pilot of the shuttle craft. He wore a Starfleet Command uniform. Pike stared up at Kirk with a critical and penetrating gaze. Despite being in a chair, the Admiral commanded a great deal of personal power.
Kirk took this all in with a single glance.
"Admiral," he said. "Welcome on board the Enterprise."
"Thank you," Pike said slowly. After a long moment, he broke his gaze with Kirk to connect with Spock. "Commander. Good to see you again."
"And you, Admiral."
Pike was relaxed and in command, a position that made Kirk uncomfortable. But how else was he supposed to be? He was the Admiral, this had been his ship and Kirk had been his student. He turned his attention back to Kirk and his expression softened. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"
Pike had been stopped at the door and Kirk didn't realize that he had blocked the corridor with his body, creating a slight breach of protocol.
"Of course." He stepped aside, feeling his cheeks flush. A soft buzzing began in his head. "We have Briefing One prepared."
They moved down the corridor as a unified group with the exception of the assistant who kept a discreet distance behind the Admiral. The heels of Kirk's feet were dragging and the energy that he'd enjoyed was suddenly flagging.
"How are you feeling?" Pike asked, glancing up at him as they approached the turbo lift.
"Fine, Admiral," he said casually and straightened a little more. He knew he was pale and thin, but at least he was walking under his own power.
The turbo lift doors opened and they entered. A wave of dizziness struck Kirk. He leaned a hand on the wall to balance himself. Pike was looking elsewhere, but it was clear that Spock had seen. The sharp Vulcan eyes focused on him with an almost predatory-like precision. Kirk pointedly looked away, but kept a hand on the wall until he was certain the vertigo had passed.
What the fuck?
His head was pounding in earnest and he wondered if maybe he should have eaten this morning. But it was more than his head. He felt … off.
The doors swished open and they were moving again. His steps were strong and determined. The click of the heels on the deck was like the hammering of an anvil in his ears. A trickle of sweat rolled down his back. He was leading the entourage, but his vision had become blurry, like looking through a rain-doused window.
"Captain," Spock said.
He stopped and turned. His heart was racing.
Spock stood a few meters from him. "Did you not order the conference to be in Briefing One?"
Frowning, he tried to focus on Spock. Then it hit him – he'd passed Briefing One. "Yes, Commander. Thank you." He smiled quickly. "My mind was elsewhere."
If Spock recognized his lie, he kept it to himself.
Kirk backtracked and entered the room. Briefing One was not particularly large. A long table dominated the room, as did a view screen that spanned the length of the west wall. Uhura was already seated. As they took their places around the table, he noticed Pike had taken the command position, forcing him to move to the left. Spock sat near Uhura and the computer console, opposite Kirk.
His body was shaking now and he lowered his arms to hide the obvious tremors. He nodded to Spock, not trusting his voice.
"As you know, Admiral, our initial findings regarding the native—"
The doors swished open and the steady click of boots filled the room.
"Sorry I'm late," McCoy said and took a strategic seat next to Kirk.
Kirk frowned and glared at McCoy. He hadn't invited the doctor to this briefing.
"May I continue?" Spock asked.
Kirk nodded again and stared at Spock. His head buzzed and the lights were too bright. The view screen suddenly came to life as Spock called up Enterprise's preliminary scans. His heart pounded and he tried to slow his breathing and not look at McCoy, who was studying him out of the corner of his eye.
Focus on the screen.
His skin felt stretched and thin like onion paper that had been processed too long. His uniform stuck to him as a fresh layer of perspiration wept from every pore. Why was this room so damn hot? Sam always kept the windows closed because he hated the smell of the fields, the old dust that seemed never to move. Kirk liked the sound of the wind. It muffled Frank's snoring.
"Captain?" Spock asked.
He turned to look at Spock. Had he said something?
"Are you well, Captain?"
He smiled – practiced, automatic. "I'm fine. Continue."
Pike shifted his gaze to him, but remained silent and watchful. From Kirk's left side he could feel McCoy's penetrating gaze. He tried not to squirm.
Spock continued and the view screen changed. Scenes of the planet from the first probes played across the screen – peaceful landscapes and thick flora. This was supposed to be a cakewalk. His thoughts drifted again and it was all he could do to remain seated. He moved restlessly in his chair, trying to escape the discomfort of his skin. God, he was hot.
"You were able to decipher their language, Lieutenant?" Pike asked of Uhura.
"Partially. It's much like Orion."
Gaila. He missed her.
He tried to focus on the screen, but his vision wouldn't cooperate. He'd given up trying to listen to Spock. The sound of his blood rushing through his veins all but deafened him. It sounded like the artillery on the planet, the hum and pump of the photons.
A sharp tug caught his side.
They'd shot him … and he wasn't even supposed to be there.
He was on his feet before he realized it, staggering slightly. His legs felt like overworked leather. The room tipped, but he remained standing, his knees locked. The world around him was out of focus, but one thought cut through the chaos of his mind. "We're not supposed to be here."
He wasn't sure if the words had actually passed his lips. His throat felt parched and tight.
Spock stood smoothly, his expression guarded. "Captain?"
There were moments in his mind when everything coalesced into startling clarity. He'd had that moment months earlier when he awoke from Bones's sedative and Enterprise was soaring into a Nero's trap. And he had it now.
"Doctor…." Pike began.
He didn't feel his body hit the deck, but the next thing he knew, he was staring up at the ceiling. An instant later Bones's face came into view. He was scowling and his mouth was moving, but Kirk couldn't hear anything. Somewhere off to his right was Pike and there were muffled shouts in the distance. None of it seemed to have anything to do with him.
Fire photons.
His body was paralyzed and on fire, the thin skin finally broken and torn. There was a sharp sting at his neck. He should be concerned, he thought, that he was lying on the deck paralyzed with Admiral Pike watching his meltdown. But he could barely register the thought. His vision began to fade and he struggled to breathe, as if his lungs had suddenly shrunk. He felt his body being jostled. But he didn't care. He knew why the planet had photons … and he knew where Weston was hiding.