I can't believe I'm getting two chapters up in a day. When you're on a roll. . . Actually, I'm not working today and could think of no better employment. Enjoy! W
Chapter Nine
"I'm glad we found your captain, Mr. Scott, and your two friends," said Fletcher as she and the engineer stood alone in the Aurelan's transporter room.
"Aye, I can see that. I wish you could've had a chance to see 'em, meet the captain. . ."
"Now, we won't to into that again, will we, Montgomery? Judging by the condition of some of the prisoners we took on board the Aurelan, I can well guess what your friends have been through. Healing takes time."
"I'm glad you understand, and I'm grateful for your support when I asked Starfleet to let us keep them on the Enterprise while we finish our training mission. I didn't think they would let us push back the refit, but they did – with you backing me up."
"It wasn't because of anything a green C.O. like me had to say about it. They're just covering their tracks."
The Scotsman nodded. "They've played us all, that's a fact. But now that they know we've figured 'em out, I doubt they'll give us much trouble."
"At least for now," Fletcher responded wryly.
"You comprehend far beyond your years, lass," he rejoined, pointing his finger at her and allowing himself a small smile.
"Well," she smiled back, everything having been said. She was going to miss this brilliant but kind man.
"Well," he echoed. "Goodbye, then. Keep your sails up."
"And you. Goodbye, Scotty." She saw him nod and wave as the transporter caught him away, waving her own farewell. Smoothing her uniform and straightening her shoulders, she disappeared through the automatic doors.
ooOOoo
Scotty stretched in his easy chair, the one luxury he allowed himself other than his Scottish whiskey, taking his first break in over twenty-four hours. He was achingly tired, but years of experience taught him there would be no sleep for him yet – not until he had sorted some things out.
The last three and half weeks had been hectic, tense. The rescued prisoners were in abominable condition and the combined efforts of Aurelan and Enterprise sickbays were not enough to save some of them. Their wasted bodies and tortured psyches were harsh testimony to the lives they had led in the compound.
No other Orions were with the rescued prisoners; still, Security had their hands full with a few recalcitrants who found themselves in the unnerving setting of a Federation starship. Shuttlebay was doubly guarded; no one wanted to answer to Mr. Scott if one of the shuttles was commandeered by unauthorized personnel. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when the former gang-members were dropped off at the nearest Starbase, along with a few other prisoners whose health permitted departure for parts unknown. The greatest relief for Scotty, however, was turning Garal over to the authorities at the Starbase. He faced certain extradition to his home planet, where his dealings with the alien entity spoke ill for him. Somehow, based on prior experience, the Scotsman didn't think the Orion would live long.
The Aurelan, bearing the worst cases, had departed long ago for Theta II, the finest medical facility this side of Vulcan; now that the remaining prisoners were delivered, things were returning to normal – as normal as they could be, anyway.
Scotty leaned over and pulled off his boots, wiggling his toes luxuriously. He poured himself a drink, raising his glass to the successful completion of an extended training mission. He had commended the crew, officers, and trainees to Starfleet, all of them having performed their duties admirably, not the least of which was the destruction of the mind device the alien had left behind on the asteroid. Now they were headed for Terra – Starfleet – most of them facing reassignment. The Enterprise was scheduled for a long overdue refit plus, he had just learned, the addition of new engines; Scotty had already been apprised of his new assignment as chief engineer on that project, a position which would take up the next year or two of his life. He couldn't think of anything that would give him more pleasure.
Ship's grapevine rumored that Jim Kirk had been promoted to admiral and Mr. Spock offered the captaincy of the refitted Enterprise, but Scotty had his doubts about those assignments. McCoy, Spock and Kirk had been isolated in sickbay for nearly a month. Understandable, considering what terrible shape they were in. But his few visits had been uncomfortable ones. Despite M'Benga's urgings, the three former prisoners didn't care much for visitors – they obviously wanted to be left alone. It was probably to be expected, what with their being too sick to have visitors at first, and it was evident their spirits had been badly mauled. He had seen people give up before – he saw his friends very near that now. When he approached M'Benga with his concerns, the doctor reassured him that they would eventually rally; that they had buried deep those things which would have to come out when the time was right. Still, he couldn't help but worry just how long that might take.
ooOOoo
"Doctor, there's someone to see you."
"Christine, I told you I don't feel up to having a visitor today." McCoy didn't turn his head to look at her, apparently engrossed in reading something on his bedside monitor.
Spock motioned for Christine to leave them and she keyed the doors closed for privacy.
"It is not a visitor, Dr. McCoy, but a fellow inmate." He stood quietly, his bludgeoned shields in place, at least for now.
McCoy, propped on pillows, watched the first officer move slowly to a chair and sit. Spock was painfully thin; a tight, unproductive cough still plagued him.
"Who let you out of bed?" grumbled McCoy.
Spock ignored the barb and adjusted he sickbay wrapper more closely around him. He had not yet adjusted o the regulated atmosphere of the ship. Although it was much drier and better heated than the compound, it still didn't compare to his own well-heated quarters. It was his turn to look at the doctor who, except for brief times the nurse would let them communicate via comlink, he had not seen since returning to the Enterprise weeks ago. The doctor seemed smaller, shrunken, like a child. He would have to guard himself carefully; memories of his protectiveness toward his friend while in the compound threatened to undermine his newly-built shields. "Dr. M'Benga tells me you are better."
"Yes," drawled the doctor, so far on safe ground. "They had to remove the kidney, finally – to much damage to repair. I'm in regeneration therapy now." He shrugged. "The rest is just vitamins and lots of sleep." He pulled at his pillows, one of which was pinned beneath his own weight, frustrated at his inability to move it himself. Spock rose to help him, alarmed at the physician's own weakness after nearly a month of rest.
McCoy's blue eyes flashed a mixture of gratefulness and embarrassment, his own recent memories at odds with his attempts at a semblance of their old relationship. "Thanks."
Spock, struggling to master a strange stinging sensation in his eyes, eased McCoy up and rearranged the pillows behind him. "I have also found it difficult adjusting to my lack of strength," he ventured. "I, too, can take things for granted."
They exchanged a long look before McCoy motioned to the vacated chair. "Pull that thing over here where I can see you. I'm too comfortable now to move."
Spock obeyed and was soon seated near McCoy. The silence grew between them as they tried not to notice each other's infirmities.
"Doctor, have you seen the captain. . ."
"Have you talked to Jim. . ."
Both men stopped, the words that tumbled over each other evidence of mutual concern for their friend.
McCoy sighed, looking down at his folded hands. "No, Spock, not really. We've spoken once or twice on the comlink." He glanced up at the Vulcan. "He's all – shut up inside. I really didn't know what to say to him."
"It was the same in my case. I could not understand my reticence to communicate with him; it is illogical. Dr. M'Benga says there is a human tendency to suppress unpleasant memories. . ."
"Hm. Well, then that would indicate that even you. . ."
"I am aware of what it indicates, Doctor, which brings me to the matter I have come to discuss."
McCoy lay back into his pillows, staring at the ceiling, waiting for Spock to continue.
"I talked to him face to face, two days ago. It was – a somewhat one-sided conversation."
"You did? What'd you talk about?"
"I – attempted to apologize for my behavior on the asteroid." Spock hesitated, the range of emotions he still felt ample proof that the course he had laid for himself must be followed. That realization gave him the strength to continue. "Perhaps I was also looking for a logical explanation for my behavior while we were held captive. . ."
"Spock, there was a logical explanation! You were exhausted, starving, sick and dying! Perfectly logical to me!" Spock closed his eyes, and McCoy bit off what he was about to say next and waited for the Vulcan to continue. The man was probably having as much trouble expressing himself as any of them lately. "What did he say?" he prompted, gently.
"He replied just as you would expect him to. He said, 'Forget it, Spock, it wasn't your fault.' Then he changed the subject. He will not discuss it with me."
"Won't discuss what happened, you mean?"
"Not only to him, but the whole undercover assignment, his orders, his promotion. He had difficulty looking at me."
"Well, you're not exactly back to your previous beauty – give him time."
"His trouble has nothing to do with my appearance – not overtly." He tilted his head, as if puzzling it out. "I believe that he feels responsible."
"He – he what? Well, that's nuts."
"You know as well as I that he had always assumed responsibility for anything that happens to those under his command."
"We weren't under his command."
"He knows that intellectually; but what he feels is something else again."
"Well, he can't go on like that, Spock. It'll affect his qualifications for Starfleet, it'll ruin his chances to. . ."
"Doctor, I did not come here to discuss Jim's problems."
McCoy rose from his pillows, leaning on an elbow, searching the Vulcan's dark eyes. He let his breath out, having tired suddenly of this conversation. Everything was changing; they had reached the pinnacle and had begun a racing descent down the other side. Nothing would stop it now. A creeping sense of dread crept over him.
When Spock spoke again, his voice was cooler, more clipped. "You of all people know I must come to terms with my behavior on the asteroid. All my life I have followed the Vulcan way, ignoring my human side, perhaps making allowances for it. But no amount of discipline prevented what happened. I wanted to – save myself." The coldness fell away again, his eyes haunted as they sought McCoy's. "Many times I wanted to strike back for the mistreatment to which we and the others were subjected. I wanted to kill the guard who struck you; I would have derived great pleasure in doing so." He looked down at his clenched hands before he again locked gazes with the physician. "But what I wanted most of all was to escape the feelings I had for you and Jim. I have always had a stanch regard for both of you, and accepted it. But I never experienced such powerful, such – fierce – emotions as I did in the colony."
"I think you've experienced them, Spock. Maybe not quite so openly."
"Not with the intensity, Doctor. An intensity which overrode everything else in my life. It became the focus of every day, every minute we spent there. I could only think of you and Jim, and live with the hope that you thought the same of me. You were the only tangible reality left to me in that place."
"Only for a little while, Spock, only for a little while. You were a lifeline to Jim and me, too – and Faal, toward the end. I don't think I could have gone on if I didn't have you waiting for me by those stupid crates. You know, Spock, I came to think of those pieces of ratty wood as home? But it wasn't the crates, Spock. It was who waited for me there." The doctor's voice faltered and he couldn't go on. So many times he had wanted to talk, and now that he had the chance, he felt like an idiot.
Spock waited quietly while the human regained control. He must explain his plans to his friend, knowing that the initiation of those plans could sever their friendship forever; however, it was a path he must take, for sanity's sake.
McCoy lay back upon his pillows again. Past arguments, disagreements, and misunderstandings paled in he light of what he sensed Spock was about to do. Spock was his friend; dammit, he loved this man, and he was going to lose him. . .
"I have tendered my resignation, effective immediately. The Enterprise is due to rendezvous with a Federation diplomatic shuttle en route to Vulcan within three weeks. I plan to be on in."
"What will you do on Vulcan? Not politics, surely." McCoy's eyes squinted with disbelief.
"No." The Vulcan's own eyes held a glint of sad humor. "You may rest assured I have no aspirations to follow in my father's footsteps. I – mean to study – with the Masters of Gol."
McCoy, not understanding, waited impatiently for Spock to go on, fidgeting with the bedcovers.
"I will pursue a mind discipline which will leave me devoid of all emotion. It is a total cleansing, but a difficult path to follow. It involves – giving up all past associations, plans, possessions – relationships."
McCoy's eyes widened. "You mean you can't associate with Sarek and Amanda?"
"That is essentially correct."
"Your own parents?"
"Any family members." Spock's gaze held McCoy's own. The doctor realized Spock's last statement included his family on the Enterprise, as well.
"How long is this self-isolation?"
"As long as the masters determine."
McCoy wondered if forever would be long enough. "You're sure your goal is worth giving up so much?"
"I am not sure of anything," Spock answered, wearily. "I must seek what has been lost."
"What have you lost, Spock?"
"If I knew that, Doctor McCoy, the search would be over before it began."
ooOOoo
Jim Kirk lay awake on the bed in sickbay, staring into the dark. Sleep, at its best, had been fitful since the rescue, and he often found himself awake in the middle of the night, listening to the sound of his own heartbeat and the hum of the medical monitor over his head. But tonight, just like last night and two nights before that, he listened to the echoes of his last talk with Spock. Their words rang harsh in the blackness around him, making him wince with their starkness.
He had wanted to see Spock – McCoy too, but had not been able to bring himself to do it, even after visiting restrictions had been lifted. Just one more day, he had told himself, and each new day he would tell himself the same thing. He knew he should question his own motives, knew that he could not. His mind was all too aware of the unhealthy withdrawal in which he found himself, but his heart would not allow him to ask 'why'.
Then Spock had sent a message, a request that he visit him. In that respect it was still the same old Spock, respecting the captain's privacy after their ordeal – or was it? Nothing had ever prevented the Vulcan from visiting him before, whether he recuperated in sickbay or his own quarters. Did he have the same reticence Kirk did? Did McCoy, for that matter? None of them had made much more than overtures to see each other during their convalescence – no more than brief exchanges over the comlink – a symptom of their psychological wounds? Yet Spock had asked to see him.
Kirk hated to leave his room, though physically he had been up to it – hated the eyes that were on him, albeit discretely – hated knowing they were wondering why he had taken so long to visit Spock and McCoy. After all, he was their former captain, wasn't he – he had a duty to check on their well-being, didn't he?
It was with these heavy thoughts hanging on him that he had stepped into Spock's cubicle, finding him sitting in a chair by the monitor bed, wrapped in thermal blankets. The Vulcan had looked at him for a moment before inviting him to sit. Kirk waited for his friend to speak, unable to ignore the unnatural pallor of Spock's skin, the spells of shivering, and the harsh, shallow breathing.
The silence had grown between them – not the comfortable silence they had often enjoyed in the past as they relaxed in each other's company – but a weighted, charged silence. Kirk could not endure it for long.
"You wanted to see me, Spock?"
What was the matter with him? A simple 'how are you' was the least his friend deserved.
The Vulcan shifted in his chair, making no attempt to straighten his slouch, and cleared his throat. Jim then began to fully comprehend how dangerously ill Spock must have been in the compound, far worse than Faal had realized. Even now Spock had no business being out of bed. For the first time in weeks, Jim Kirk's worries were for someone else besides himself.
"Spock, you look like hell," he quipped, trying at levity. Anything to assuage the bitterness he tasted.
"I have been told that before, Captain, and by someone more qualified," said Spock. Kirk looked for signs of the Vulcan's own brand of humor, but there were none. The first officer's features were emotionless and cold, and he shivered again. Glancing at the bed, Jim saw another blanket which he soon had wrapped around Spock's shoulders, swaddling him in its comfort. But Kirk could find no comfort in the shrunken appearance the many blankets gave his friend. Sighing, he sat down again and leaned forward, elbows on knees.
"You wanted to see me, Spock, and I'm here."
"Yes."
Another long silence. But Kirk kept his peace. Spock wouldn't have called him if he didn't have something to say. He forced himself to look into those black-brown eyes, feeling no telepathic touch, no stirring in his mind indicating contact with his friend. There was nothing. Spock had withdrawn every bit as much as he.
"Captain, about the prisoner compound. . ."
"No need to bring that up now, Mr. Spock," Kirk had cut him off. He had raised a few shields of his own and had no intention of letting anyone, not even Spock, tear them down now.
"I wish to apologize, Captain." Spock had tried again, but Kirk had waved it aside, telling him not to worry about it. It had been easy enough to give the advice; hard to take it himself.
Spock had hesitated, then shrugged resignedly, a minute movement of his shoulders. "Captain, I am tendering my resignation to Starfleet Command. As my former commanding officer – and my friend – I felt you should be informed."
Kirk had just managed to keep his jaw from dropping. He had expected almost anything from the Vulcan at this point, but not this. He swallowed and leaned back in his chair, straightening his shoulders with effort. "Explain."
"I – believe it is a logical move for me, Captain."
The old side-step. Kirk had seen it so many times it might as well have bells on it. Over their years of service together he had become quite adept at getting around it, realizing that often the Vulcan couched his emotions in logic – seeming to require no assistance, but in reality desperately needing it. Kirk had read the reports, the testimonies of McCoy and Spock as well as his own, and had been struck with how much his two friends had endured in his 'absence', far more than Faal had ever realized, though his protector had suspected enough near the end – enough to try to help them. His men, his officers – his friends – had suffered atrocities far beyond the call of duty, because of their loyalty to him. They had come to rescue him and had instead become prisoners themselves, to the point of death. He was ultimately responsible – for his actions, for accepting Nogura's manipulation, for his friends' humiliation and suffering. The responsibility was his, and his alone.
Somehow, this time, he could not shoulder it, though he accepted it. This time, there was the nagging thought that if he could be so manipulated by Nogura, so subdued by another persona, and so brutally used. . .
He shook his head, refusing to think about that. That was stored away, hidden, buried, as deeply as he could. He couldn't think about it now; he was. . .
He was afraid.
Despite the opening Spock had left for Kirk to draw the Vulcan out, help him as he used to, to express his feelings and frustrations, Kirk had held back. Thinking back on it now, Kirk knew it wouldn't have taken much effort on his part, surely. But he had let it go, allowed the Vulcan to remain behind that carefully reconstructed shell which passed poorly for non-emotionalism. He had failed Spock, as surely as he had failed him on the asteroid. He had accepted Spock's resignation, wished him well, and fled the room.
He had not seen Spock since then, nor communicated with him.
"Coward." Biting his lip against some residual pain, Kirk sat up in the bed and switched on the library monitor. Since the abortive talk with Spock he had attempted to read the information about victims of mind-altering devices M'Benga had recommended to him, but had been unable to bring himself to look at it. Those other times he had suffered such intrusions into his mind. . .
Anyway, what were psychological placebos when stacked up against the obvious facts? Had he submitted to one too many mind-melds, undergone one too many mind-manipulating machines, suffered one too many nightmares as a result of the demands of his career? In the five-year mission, he had been able to recover from, or at least put behind him, trauma to his psyche – his spirit. Had this breakdown been nothing more than an impending toll of the bell? Or had cynicism come with experience – had he lost his youthful exuberance which had buoyed him up for so long?
What had happened to him? M'Benga talked of mental rape – suggested it had not been the first time. Said he had to face his own fallibility: read the tape. His hand shook as he held the damned thing in his hand. Disgusted, he slammed it down upon the table. He shook with emotions he wouldn't allow himself to recognize, aware only of the deep humiliation he felt at his inability to face his problems – or anyone else's – head-on.
Room lights began to come up. An artificial dawn was upon the Enterprise as regular shift began a new day. Resignedly, he picked up the medical library tape and inserted it, only to snatch it out again, groaning in frustration. Again he picked it up, but held the tape in his hand for a long time, weighing it. With an expletive he forced himself to call up the information. He began to read:
". . .shows that such individuals, much like rape victims, experience classic symptoms of self-rejection or depression, followed by guilt and self-blame. Angry outbursts and other vented emotions can be expected and dealt with as normal, gradual steps to psychological healing; however, victims who fail to evince these symptoms are to be watched carefully. To affect recovery, the human mind must deal with the known avenues to 'order its universe'. A minimum or lack of these types of emotional responses is blatant warning to the counselor in these cases. . ."
"Jim."
Kirk started at the unexpected greeting and clumsily switched off the monitor, his face reddening with embarrassment as he turned to face McCoy. It was disconcerting to find himself so intimidated by the doctor, giving an edge to his voice that was unintended.
"What are you doing here?"
"Who, me? I live here, remember? Permanent resident."
Jim pushed the monitor away and swung his legs over the other side of the bed, facing McCoy, who leaned heavily on a cane. Kirk's eyebrows drew together at the sight of it, and at the frail man who depended upon it.
McCoy followed Jim's glance to the stick in his hand. "On loan from Scotty," he said, tapping the antique on the floor. "He's got two or three hanging around his quarters, so I borrowed one."
Kirk's face did not clear with McCoy's attempts at brevity. "It makes you look like an old man," he rasped, shocked at his own words. A lot of such nasty, low thoughts had been swirling in his head lately, but he hardly expected to be flinging such invective at his friend.
"Bones," he said, the hardness melting away, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that." He saw that the words had hurt the physician, hurt him like the words of guards and prisoners had hurt him, a misery worse than the physical abuse he had suffered. McCoy's face paled and he sagged where he stood.
Jim jumped off the bed and caught his friend before his legs completely gave way and led him to a chair, pulling up another one in front of him. The doctor didn't rally right away, his hands cold in Jim's grip. "Talk to me – do you want me to call the nurse?" he asked, chafing McCoy's fingers worriedly.
The doctor shook his head and began to take on a little color. "I'm all right. It's just that this is the first time I've been up and around on my own. Haven't gotten my sea legs, yet." He leaned back in the chair, gently withdrawing his hands from Kirk's. "Unlike you, I suppose," he said caustically. "I see you've been up awhile."
The captain had put on about ten pounds and, though still underweight, was beginning to look more like the Jim Kirk McCoy had known. With hair cuts, beard inhibitors, and lots of soap and water (they had all insisted they did not want sonic showers), anyone was bound to look more like himself. But there was something about him. No doubt Spock's observations had alerted him, but it was unmistakable that Jim wasn't the old Jim anymore. M'Benga had told McCoy the captain refused to speak of anything that happened on the asteroid, corroborating Spock's story, and that so far Kirk had displayed none of the expected symptoms of a victim recovering from mind- mauling.
Kirk knew McCoy was sizing him up. He looked away, finding it as difficult to look into those blue eyes as they had been Spock's. Since joining with Faal, he had all the memories intact, memories which haunted him all too vividly in his dreams, jerking him from sleep shouting and fighting with the empty air around him. He saw Spock and McCoy through Faal's eyes as they weakened and starved, suffered deprivation and torture, all because of their friendship for him. He saw through Nogura's scheme as he had never seen through it before; yet he had held himself in check because, as a Starfleet officer, he was following orders.
"You gonna talk to me about it or not? I can't sit here forever, Jim."
"Talk?" Kirk crossed his arms, wary.
"Yeah. You know, verbal communication, conversation, things like that."
"I've got nothing to say," Kirk blurted, his face grim.
"I don't mean just you. Did you know Spock's leaving Starfleet?"
"He told me," Kirk said bluntly, his jaw set.
McCoy watched him compassionately. "Jim," he said softly, "it's time you talked to someone."
Jim got up and began to pace. "You think so? And I suppose I've got to talk to you. Look, I don't need this right now. . ."
"Shut up, dammit – just shut up, will you? When someone's been through what you have, they need to talk, get it out. . ."
"You don't know what you're asking." Kirk stopped pacing and leaned over his chair, his hands gripping the back with white-knuckled strength.
"I'm not asking you, Jim. I'm telling you – as your doctor and your friend. You're not fooling M'Benga or me – you certainly didn't fool Spock. He needed to talk, too, and you froze him out when he needed you. . ."
"Don't you ever say that again!" Kirk yelled, his body trembling.
"Why? Because it's true? Because you may have to accept the responsibility for his leaving Starfleet? Didn't expect to have to shoulder that one, did you?" McCoy leaned forward, wondering just how much self-control Kirk possessed. "Oh, you're perfectly willing to beat yourself up for making the decision to go undercover, for our capture and mistreatment, even your own humiliation! Suits you to wear a martyr complex, doesn't it?"
"Bones. . ."
"Now Spock's leaving us. We'll probably never see him again."
"That's enough."
"He's going, and you're letting your career fall down in shambles around you. . ."
"I said that's enough!" Kirk flung the chair away, sending it crashing against the bed. "What do you want from me, a confession? All right, I confess! I ran into this mission because Nogura had me beat, because I knew our days of service together were over. I knew that commanding a starship would never be the same again. I confess to wandering around in a mind discipline I had no business entering, waking up to find myself controlled by Faal and his fear; having memories of your suffering forced on me!" Kirk's color was high as he gestured at the ceiling. "Ever wake up to a bad dream, Bones? When you're having a nightmare, you can escape it by waking up! But not me – hell, no! I'm already awake!"
McCoy sat hunched in his chair, feeling small and vulnerable in the face of Kirk's tirade. But he was smiling. Kirk wasn't just angry – he was mad as hell.
"Yes, I'd say you are awake – now. You know, running away from something doesn't take away its pain. The only way is to face it. You know that; it just took you a little while to remember it."
"Facing it doesn't take away the pain either," Kirk said, his voice hoarse with emotion.
"I know it doesn't." McCoy pointed his cane to the upended chair. "Please. Sit down, Jim."
Kirk picked up the overturned chair and placed it next to the doctor. Sitting down, he took the cane from his friend's hands. "I can't believe I said what I did," he murmured, rubbing his hands over the smooth surface of Scotty's family heirloom. "Bones, I. . ."
"You already apologized for that. It was just something that came out – I happened to be the one it landed on, that's al. It was churning inside you; still is. But you can see now that you have to get it out. Bottle it up inside and you'll kill yourself."
McCoy saw the tears in Kirk's eyes; saw him wipe them away as they spilled over. He had never seen his friend cry openly before, and he had never been more happy to witness it. There would be more times like this before the total healing could take place, but this was the beginning – of many things.
"Jim, there's something I have to tell you."
Kirk looked at the doctor, surprised to see a weight of sadness on his friend's mobile features.
"I'm going to require a long recuperation. Seems my constitution needs building up or some nonsense. I've got a lot of my own thinking to do, as well."
"You're going to take a leave of absence? You've got enough time accumulated, and you deserve the rest. Take your time off, and when you come back. . ."
"I'm not coming back, Jim."
Kirk felt like he had been struck. When Spock had told him of his resignation he had withdrawn from it, but now McCoy's news lay like a knot in his stomach. McCoy gone – and Spock! He couldn't fathom it – he could only sit there as his heart filled with a deep, unutterable grief. "When?" he finally managed to whisper.
"When we dock," McCoy answered. "I signed on for this training mission to help find you. I never committed to any five-year mission after that."
"She'll go out again, you know that," Kirk said, staring at the far wall.
"Yes, I know. Scotty's told me all about the planned refit. She's to get new engines, all the latest technology. A worthy ship to command."
"A worthy ship, Bones. Before I left San Francisco, I told Nogura I wanted first chance at her when my mission was over."
"No doubt he couldn't turn you down."
"He had no choice, given the circumstances," Kirk said wryly, handing the cane back to McCoy. "But I'm not going to ask for her now."
McCoy swallowed his reply, fiddling with the cane until his friend continued.
"I'm going to make an appointment with Heihachiro Nogura, and when I'm alone with him I'm going to tell him what I think of his backhanded politics and blatant misuse of Starfleet personnel. And then when he busts me down to ensign for my impertinence I'm going to put my fist into his perfect white teeth just before they throw me into the brig and throw away the key!"
McCoy grinned widely. "You just play that scenario over a few times before we get to space dock, Jim-boy, and when you see how increasingly ridiculous it looks you'll hone your say down to something a little more civilized. I don't think he'll deny you much."
Kirk smiled back, his envisioned confrontation already appearing a bit melodramatic in the telling. "I don't think I'm ready to take her back, really. Still too many things to work out."
"How long will it take to refit her?"
"With the new engines, eighteen months to two years, best guess."
"Shoot, you should be well and ready to take her by then."
"I can't wait until then. And if I ask for her now it will be against my own good judgement. You've seen the requirements, Doctor; you've certainly brought them to my attention enough during the last mission."
"The admiral's not going to hold your current condition against you; he knows you've been brought back from Hell itself."
"I'm talking about my mental state, Bones. In case you haven't noticed, it's not in top form right now."
"Anyone who was imprisoned on that rock for any length of time is going through the same things are. We all have to find the road back, in our own way."
"And I will, I'm counting on it. Meanwhile, I have a nice, cushy desk-job waiting for me until I can get her back."
"You'll hate it."
Kirk only smiled.
"Will you report in right away?"
"No. Nogura interrupted my leave in July. I intend to take up where I left off."
"In the mountains? You're in no condition to go climbing around in the wilderness in winter! You'll catch your death of. . ." McCoy stopped, reminding himself that Jim Kirk would do exactly what he had made up his mind to do.
"I'll go slow, Bones. Call it unfinished business."
"Okay. I just don't know who's gonna take care of you when I'm. . ." McCoy cleared his throat. The realization was beginning to sink in that he would not be serving with this impulsive officer or his somber first officer again, that the Enterprise and her crew would soon be nothing more than a memory. Weakness dragged at him as he struggled to stand, looking very tired.
Jim stood too, placing a hand on the doctor's arm. "I'll take care of me – I promise."
"Jim, I – you know I don't like goodbyes, I – well, that's not important. Look, we've got almost three weeks before Spock leaves, and we have some unfinished business to tend to."
Kirk looked at the doctor for a long moment, then smiled. "You've learned diplomacy, Doctor. That's just a nice way of saying I've been an ass to you and Spock and it's about time I fixed it. Am I close?"
McCoy grinned a slow, wide grin. "You could say that."
Kirk held out his hand and McCoy extended his. But when Jim's hand closed around the doctor's he pulled the man into his arms, the cane clattering to the floor.