Ghost In The Machine
Chapter 11
You've done me wrong your time is up
You took a sip from the Devil's cup.
This time you've gone too far
Who do you think you are?
The vaporous fog surrounded him, sliding and swirling. It hid everything in any direction more than just a few feet away. Even his boots were lost in the mist carpet below. He had the impression that it mocked him. One minute it rolled back, leaving him standing alone in a clear pocket within a thick wall of cloud, and the next – for no apparent reason – it closed in again so that he could not see at all. He had blundered into more than one tree when that happened. Tthe pale and ghostly plant life swayed gently away at his touch, trembling in a non-existent wind as if trying to escape the contact.
A fantastical, lucid dream, awash with psychological omens. It was at that point, he realised that he was in fact asleep, that while he appeared to be wandering in the forest, his body lay in the chair back in the First Officer's room at Castle Cloud. Whether real or a figment of his imagination however, the scene had validity, a strength and rightness that he could not question. He knew this place, knew its power, though his waking persona had never set foot there.
He stared around at the fog-bound landscape. Here and there across the land, faint lights - shadow ghosts - drifted between the twisted trees. Spock, an indistinct shape just ahead, strode as if unaware of anything about him, his step self assured and deliberate, cutting a swathe through the fog that parted before him and closed in behind. The Vulcan headed for the tower.
Thought of that dark, haunted place deep within the forest, and what might be waiting there, had his heart racing and his palms damp with sweat. He wanted to call out, attract the Vulcan's attention, warn him of the danger, but the impulse was cut short by the abrupt awareness that they were no longer alone. He stopped, turned, and searched the shadow patterns in the mist, responsive to that third presence, knowing it watched and waited, for what purpose he could not be entirely sure…
McCoy came awake with a start, his heart still rocketing as he sat up in the chair, his forehead beaded with sweat. Well and truly spooked he paused, head in hands, his mouth desiccated and his temples on fire. Belatedly, he remembered the brandy he had consumed the night before – and the native wine. What had Ryhanen called it? Yeah, mist wine that was it; certainly packed a punch, if his throbbing head was anything to go by. With a mighty effort he struggled to his feet, supporting himself with a hand on the back of the chair as the room swayed nauseatingly around him. He regained enough poise after a few seconds, to totter over to Spock who apparently had not changed position at all during the time McCoy had slept. He lay flat out on his back, head supported by the hard pillow.
Spock's eyes jerked rapidly from side to side beneath half open lids, his breathing fast and uneven as he muttered something incoherent. McCoy reached for his diagnostic sensor, ran it over Spock's prone form. The readings remained within normal parameters for Vulcan physiology. Still under the influence of the soporific from the night before Spock was caught up in a dream - and far from pleasantly by all the signs. As McCoy moved Spock's hand to reset the brace, the First Officer's lean body abruptly tautened and he called out, his voice hoarse, rasping with anxiety.
"Jim?"
The suspicion suddenly occurred to McCoy that Spock wandered in Wraith's mist-laden forest, that somehow and in some way he did not yet understand, they shared the same dream. The recollection of the clammy web-like tendrils of the mist made him shiver. He could not forget the wispy strands that had explored the flesh on his face and hands. The memory of the mysterious tower, and its anonymous tenant, the sense of walking into danger were as real to him as Spock's room. But while McCoy had managed to escape the nightmare by waking up, the frightening scenario apparently still entangled Spock.
The neurological damage Spock had suffered, while only slight, coupled with the drugs that McCoy had administered, could have lowered the First Officer's ability to shield his mind. McCoy had somehow gained access to Spock's dream state. That would explain the lack of control, the sensation of being just an observer. The dream had been ripe with symbolic anxiety; Spock's apparent ability to see through the mist, his anxious search for Jim who he thought was in some kind of jeopardy, which had taken him to that infernal tower, the habitat of the shadowy presence that waited in the mist.
The idea appeared absurd, but weirder things had happened to McCoy during his long career and Spock after all was a touch telepath. The Vulcan had always down played the skill, only using it when there was no other choice. There might be more to Spock's ability than he made known.
Before he could think about that possibility too much, McCoy knelt by Spock's bed. While he had watched Spock initiate a mind meld several times before, he had no real idea where on the Vulcan's face to place his own fingers or even if it was necessary. The action appeared, as far as he knew, just an aid to concentration, nothing more. Instead, he pressed a couple of fingers to the First Officer's pulse hammering madly in his throat, and called softly to him.
"Spock. Spock can you hear me?"
The reaction was immediate. The pulse beneath McCoy's fingers jumped erratically as Spock's breathing faltered. The First Officer opened his eyes, stared up at McCoy, "Captain is that you? Jim, where are you?"
"No, Spock, it's not Jim. It's me, McCoy. Jim's safe. He's not in the tower. He's at Castle Cloud…"
McCoy worried at his lower lip, hoping that last was true. "Come back to the Castle, Spock."
"Jim … " The Vulcan exhaled heavily in apparent relief. His eyelids fluttered. He raised the uninjured hand to shadow sightless eyes, his long musicians fingers curled loosely in relaxation. McCoy continued to watch as Spock's breathing steadied and he slipped back into a light, natural sleep.
With a sigh of satisfaction McCoy eased himself up off the floor. His communicator still lay on the nightstand where he had left it. McCoy picked it up and staggered over to the clensor. According to Ryhanen, it was something of a tradition on Sassandran, for guests to gather on the dining balcony at each mist-fall and mist-rise to watch the timeless battle between Wraith's elemental powers of sun and cloud, a spectacular display that few missed. It was an hour before daylight. Enough time to call the ship, shower, and grab a quick coffee, before he put in an appearance.
McCoy rubbed his gritty eyes with the heels of both hands, forsaking a look in the mirror at his no doubt shambolic appearance. He ran some water into a glass and gulped down a couple of alcotox to counteract the wine he had imbibed the evening before. Not long after, the pounding in his temples lessened and the feeling of having spent the night in a waste disposal outlet began to dissipate. He coughed, blinked the rest of the sleep out of his eyes, and flicked open the communicator.
"Doctor McCoy to Mr. Scott."
"Scott here. Good mornin', Doctor. I didnae expect a call quite so early after Mr. Ryhanen's little shindy last evenin'. How's Mr. Spock? Recovered, I hope."
"He's … still not too well, Scotty." McCoy cleared his throat, unwilling to lie outright to the Chief Engineer; uneasy with the deception he and Jim practiced at Spock's request.
"Oh. I'm verra sorry t'hear that, Doctor McCoy. If ye wish tae beam back up the transporter's workin' fine."
McCoy had considered doing just that but he wanted to keep an eye on the First Officer now more than ever, and Spock would be no better off on the ship. Nor did he trust that infernal machine to get them back all in one piece. "You've figured out what happened to cause the malfunction?"
Scott's voice assumed a cautious quality. "I wouldnae say that, exactly. The problem shouldnae hae happened in the first place. There's somethin' I'm missin' an' that's for sure. Still, there's nae need for the slightest qualm in usin' yon mechanism… "
"Uh, I'll pass for the moment, Scotty. Something shorted out Spock's senceiver implant. Until I know what it was I'd sooner not chance it happening again."
"Aye, I can sympathise wi' that. I'll continue wi' my investigations an' see what I can come up wi'."
"Good idea. Uh, Scotty… I called to ask a favour…"
"Aye, Doctor, an' what would that be?"
McCoy hesitated. There was no good way in which to couch his query. He licked his lips, pressed on quickly, feeling the blood rush into his cheeks. "Ah… I wondered if you could do a sensor sweep for Jim, just to check if he's anywhere near by …"
Scott's low chuckle came as a surprise. "Ye noticed his interest in yon wee lassie last evening, did ye not, Doctor?"
McCoy exhaled in relief as he realised the Chief Engineer was on the same wavelength. "Yeah, Scotty. I just don't want to disturb him if he's … occupied."
"Aye, I get ye drift. Will ye be hangin' on while I check?"
"Uh, I'll hang on. Scotty, while you're at it, would you send down some fresh uniforms, one for each of us? If I have to spend another day strangled by the collar of this dress jacket my neck will never be the same again…"
"Consider it done, Doctor."
McCoy emerged from the clensor, twenty minutes later, feeling Human at least if not exactly bright eyed and bushy tailed. As promised, Scotty beamed down the clean uniforms along with depilatory cream and a selection of toiletries. He had also confirmed that Jim Kirk was, as McCoy had suspected all along, in his hotel room. What's more, he was awake and alone. A quick call had brought the captain up to speed on what had happened the previous evening and the developments in his First Officer's condition.
Spock, who overall, had the constitution of a rock, had awoken and sat on the edge of the sleeping platform, looking decidedly groggy, eyes shut, swaying slightly, his face a bloodless mask.
"So, you're up at last." McCoy muttered, hiding his disquiet behind the usual irascible façade. Nothing had floored the Vulcan for long, in McCoy's previous experience whether it was an old style bullet in the back, some uncanny jellyfish creature sending him crazy with pain, or even raging hormones.
"You don't look too good. In fact, you look like death warmed up. Bad dreams, huh?"
Spock recoiled sharply, unaware apparently, of McCoy's presence until the doctor had spoken. He turned his head, lips compressed in conspicuous frustration at finding the doctor in attendance once more. "No, Doctor McCoy. More a result of the deleterious concoction you forced upon me against my will. Reassure me that you have not spent the whole night by my bedside."
"Now that's a tomfool notion when I have a perfectly good bed of my own down the corridor." McCoy was sheepish with embarrassment. A light knock on the door saved him from further discomfiture. With a meaningful look at Spock, he strode across the room to answer it. "That'll be Jim. Shall I tell him you can't see him?"
It was a low blow and he knew it, but being mean to Spock was a habit he found hard to break, especially when his conscience bothered him.
The caller was indeed Captain Kirk; dressed in the informal wrap around shirt and black uniform trousers that Scotty had delivered at McCoy's request, via transporter, to the Captain's hotel room. He looked, to McCoy's jaundiced eye, particularly self-satisfied, bumptious almost, more relaxed than he had been in weeks, with a certain glint in his eyes and a glow in his cheeks that told of recent exercise, the kind that Kirk enjoyed the most.
He leaned nonchalantly against the doorframe and beamed beatifically at McCoy, "How's the patient, Bones? Woken up, yet? I hope you knocked him on his ass for scaring you so much last night. I should send him back to the Enterprise with his tail between his…"
The sound of unexpected movement from behind McCoy made them both abruptly shift their attention towards the inner room. Spock had risen hastily to his feet at the sound of Kirk's voice. As they watched, he took a hurried step in the direction of the door – and ran full tilt into the chair McCoy had pulled up beside the bed the night before.
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