I can't post, or write, if you kill me. You get that, right? I know it is tempting, but hang with me! I promise it will be worth it!
By the way, I am loving all your thoughts on who/what/why Winston. Thank you for reading and engaging! It's wonderful and inspiring (and scary at times! Leave the tribbles out of it!)
"I give up! I'm no bleedin' drunk or crazy enough to make sense of this shite!" That wasn't the first outcry from Montgomery Scott since they had convened in the computer labs several hours ago, but it was far the loudest. "I'll take me hat off to the lad. This is the most complicated mess of an algorithm I've ever blood come across."
"Actually," Spock did not look up from his own console, "it is the application of the algorithm that is complex. The mathematics themselves are fairly standard. It should not, to coin a human phrase, be rocket science."
"No!" Spock could just about see a tuft of Scott's red hair as he flailed his arms over his head in a fit of dramatics. "It bleedin' isn't! And you know how I know that? Because I am a bloody rocket scientist!"
"Your point is well made, Mr Scott." Spock conceded. At the station across from him, Chekov was practically vibrating in his chair. "Mr Chekov, perhaps you would be wise to reduce the amount of caffeinated beverages you are consuming?"
The teenager blinked at him in confusion before following Spock's gaze down to the mound of empty cans at his feet. "Oh," he blushed, "yes sir. Wery good sir."
Satisfied Chekov would not make it into orbit by the power of his own hyperactivity, Spock returned to his work.
They had been attempting to find a way through the firewalls around Jim's file for almost two days now with little success. It occurred to Spock, and not out of arrogance, that if the men in the room with him now were having little luck, there was not a substantial list of people who could.
Jim had been rather ingenious with his approach. As he had said to Scott, the numbers themselves were not the problem. The basic system should, in theory, collapse under the application of a correct sequencing code. No, the problem they had found was that the code was semi-intelligent and built for what Jim often termed an offensive defense. Each failed attempt to break it resulted in a hydra effect as the code replicated, modified itself, and settled atop the original layer. There in lay the genius, and there in lay the fact that the brightest minds in the galaxy were finding it almost impossible to defeat.
Several attempts to break the file had clearly been made long before they got to it, and the hacker's most powerful brute force attacks had only resulted in hundreds upon hundreds of replicated code being formed, until the original was completely buried. It was very much like its creator: utterly fascinating and entirely maddening.
"You know, you could just ask Jim." Nyota leaned in the doorway, her hair loose over a t-shirt Spock believed had once belonged to her roommate, Gaila.
"Oh no!" Scott shook his head. "We'd say what exactly? He'd never let us live it down."
"I don't think he's really in the teasing frame of mind." Nyota frowned. "And would it really hurt if he was?"
Scott cast his gaze down contritely. "No lass." He shook his head. "I'd take him at his obnoxious worst right now. It's just…I thought we were tryin' the keep the lad out of this?"
"Jim has a lot on his mind right now, this is true." Spock agreed, "however Nyota is correct. We cannot waste more time on this endeavor when it is clearly making no progress. Not when we have access to its solution."
In truth he understood Scott's plight. Jim had shown no interest in apprehending those who had so horrifically violated his privacy, more focused on merely surviving the fallout. His crew, however, were experienced at demanding justice on their Captain's behalf. The crime would not go unpunished.
"There we go." Nyota encouraged. "How about we call it a day, pick up takeout and go make sure Leonard hasn't smothered Jim with a pillow?"
"Ack, my credits are on him beating the lad senseless with that tricorder o'his." Scott grinned as he logged out of the system. Chekov tripped over several cans as he gathered them up for disposal.
Nyota slid her arm into his as they made their way down towards the underground parking lot. "We're getting pizza." She informed them. "Jim likes pizza."
"Works for me, lass." Scott shrugged. "I dunnae care what we eat."
Spock's nose wrinkled in dislike. Eating food with ones fingers was such a human habit. Nyota smiled at him. "We can stop by Savak's and get you something. It's on the way."
"That is unnecessary." Spock informed her. "Mr Winston has perfectly adequate replicators. I am certain I can find something to suit my needs."
"You do understand this is not really about what food we eat, right?" She asked him. "It's about sharing a meal together."
"I understand." And he did. In truth, the substance mattered far less than the occasion. And if Jim liked pizza, he might just find himself taking delivery of one several times a day. Nyota squeezed his arm.
He was grateful for the dark windows of their transport as their vehicle left the subterranean lot and navigated the busy streets. There were holoboards everywhere and reporters had to be moved out of the street by Starfleet guards.
"Bleedin' vultures." Scott said in disgust. "What does it matter to them anyway?"
Spock did not answer. In truth, he did not understand himself.
They dropped Chekov at the apartment he shared with Kevin Riley. The two apparently were working on something to cheer Jim up, and remained incredibly secretive. "You vill see." Chekov smiled at them all. "Ve meet you in an hour."
"Alright laddie, but dunnae be late if you want there to be any food left." Scott waved him off.
In the end, they bought enough Italian food to see them nourished for several days. While Nyota remembered that Jim liked pizza, she could not recall which kind, and instead of calling him to ask – "he'll be sleeping if McCoy had any say in the matter" – she simply ordered one of everything, leaving Scott squashed in the back of their transport, surrounded by a tower of biodegradable boxes and a compendium of rich aromas.
They parked in the private courtyard outside Winston's house. Nyota and Scott carried the pizza boxes and sent Spock in search of beverages, which he attempted to locate in the large, clearly unused kitchen.
Spock felt the ripple of Nyota's distress a second before he heard her scream his name. The tumblers he had collected dropped to the ground, shattering at his feet as he sprinted out of the kitchen and up the wide staircase.
He almost crashed into Scott, who had emerged from the bathroom wide eyed. Together, they raced towards the sound of Nyota's voice, only to falter in utter horror when they reached their destination.
Nyota had her back to them, McCoy's head in her lap as she slapped his cheeks gently. She looked over her shoulder at the sound of their arrival, her face streaked with tears. "He's not responding." She said, her voice desperate.
It spurred Spock forward. He dropped down at McCoy's side, internally recoiling at the amount of blood he was kneeling in. He immediately sought out the source of the bleeding. "He's been stabbed." He deduced almost instantly. The wound was flat and wide, indicating a single thrust. "Call a medic." He ordered.
Scott scrambled for his comm.
"Nyota, find the Captain." Spock ordered, resting one hand on McCoy's head, searching for his consciousness. Waves of pain and fear radiated from the unconscious man, but Spock was pleased. McCoy was still alive and his mind not lost to them.
"But I-"
"Now!" He snapped, far sharper than he would usually have been. She choked back a sob, but climbed to her knees and rushed out of the room.
Jim's absence was troubling, but McCoy needed to be his focus in that instant. He was perilously low on blood and his body was cool to the touch. Spock placed his fingers on the pressure point at the juncture of McCoy's neck and attempted to regulate his rapidly failing primary functions. Trained Vulcan healers could do this to great effect and many were reportedly able to hold a dying man from the edge of death for hours. Spock was not a healer. He knew how to use pressure points in a meld, and how to manipulate them as a form of combat. He had never been required to poses such knowledge for medical reasons, and now the lack of it shamed him.
"Medics' on their way." Scott said breathlessly. "What should I do?"
"Keep pressure on the wound." Spock informed him, knowing well and good that the window of time in which that would have made a difference had long since passed. "Try and elevate his legs."
Scott obeyed, hoisting McCoy's legs over his own knees and leaning his weight down on the doctor's chest. McCoy groaned in pain, and though Scott flinched, he remained resolute. "Who would do this?" He asked in anguish.
Spock closed his eyes and focused on McCoy's flickering consciousness. "I do not know." He could delve deeper and pry the knowledge from McCoy's mind, but he had only the focus to do one or the other. He could not allow the man to die in order to retrieve information from him.
Nyota stumbled back into the room. "I can't find him. He's not here."
Spock had feared as much. Under no circumstances could he imagine Jim being in the same building as McCoy while his friend bled to death and make no attempt to help him. He nodded tersely. "Call Lieutenant Sulu. Have Ensigns Riley and Chekov pick him up and meet us at San Francisco General." She nodded, already on the job. He turned back to McCoy. "Doctor…Leonard," he did not feel it appropriate to address McCoy by his title or surname at that moment, but likewise there was no one in the world besides Jim who was allowed to call the man Bones. Spock did not think McCoy's given name had ever passed his lips before that moment. "Leonard, you must wake."
He gave the words an encouraging mental shove, hoping the combination would draw McCoy back to them.
Time passed without consequence. Scott continued to try and support McCoy physically while Spock attempted to bring him back psychically. They could have been that way for mere minutes, or several hours.
It was not until he was being gently moved aside by men and women in the uniform of San Francisco's medical response units that he realized assistance had arrived. He reported as best he could what he had been able to deduce and stepped back to let them work.
McCoy was stabilized rapidly, and prepped for transport.
"Come on." Nyota tugged his hand demanding his attention, all but dragging him from the room and out to their transport. Scott scrambled after them, staring at his hands in numb shock.
"I must speak to Admiral Archer." Spock said, feeling strangely removed from himself.
"I already did." Nyota said, her words clipped and angry, "he's meeting us there. They've put out an APB and no fly order for Jim." Spock did not approve of the wording, but was afraid that their efforts were already too late.
She left him to fetch their vehicle, leaving Spock and Scott standing on Cater Winston's elegant front lawn. They waited, tense and afraid, as McCoy was brought from inside the house, carefully strapped to a transport bed. Several medics rushed along at his side.
Spock moved before he could stop himself. "Wait." He called as he rushed to intercept them. He was careful to make no move to inhibit their work, but carefully reached out and placed his fingers on McCoy's face.
He had only seconds.
They were enough.
He fell away and McCoy was rushed out of his reach.
Scott's strong hands steadied him as he stumbled. "What is it? What did you see?"
The lid on Spock's carefully controlled rage slipped loose. "Carter Winston." He snarled. "I want to know everything about him. Where he came from, how he got here, and why he thinks there is any place in the universe I will not hunt him to."