Chapter 38
Sixty-three Ignis days since we crashed. Fifteen days since the miners took me from their barbed wire. Thirty-five since I said goodbye to my men.
Thirty-five days.
They're out of food by now. They had food for twenty-six days when I left them. They've been without food for nine days. They're still alive. A man can do without food for a long time. How long?
What's next? Scotty would do anything. Anything.
I want all of them to be safe. All of them.
Spock…
He opened his eyes and willed himself out of the quagmire of his half sleep. Since Dax had started cutting down on the sedatives, it was always the same: calculating, reckoning, counting… It was the worst when his addled brain muddled the numbers. Then he'd spend hours trying to figure out something as simply as fifteen plus twenty. He would toss, unable to break free from the spiral, until Dax either broke his trance or shot him full of sedatives anyway.
Looking at the Sick Bay ceiling, he had the automatic urge to go over the numbers again. Had he got it right? They were getting so close, even a day, one day, mattered. Was it really fifteen days since he'd reached here? Was it-
Stop it - stop it!
He slammed his hand on the bed rail and bit down on the searing pain of raw nerves. He cursed. Today was another day and it would be a day when he had to hate Dax and Stephenson and the mining crew and look for a way out.
Was the rescue ship still out there? How long would they keep it up? He could send a message, or a beacon, a pulse. If he couldn't swing that, he could perhaps send another transmission to Alpha Base. They would pick up on that too, think that was odd and investigate.
He knew where the control room was. The compound was tiny. Stephenson's short summary had covered it all. There was a crew of eleven, and all but two – Dax and the controls operator – were usually "out". "Out" meant mining. This went on, he had gathered from conversations and observing reports and maps lying around, in tunnels deep underneath the compound. He could feel them blasting, sometimes: a slight rumble in the walls. They also all went in one. long shift.
He checked the PADD they had given him – its contents and connection restricted, of course. At the moment it was just him, Dax, and Savvy, the controller.
Even if he could put Dax out of commission, which he doubted, he'd also have to tackle Savvy, who was no small fry.
Was that a rumble?
And there must be a shuttle. Even if he couldn't get it out of its bay, it would have communication abilities...
"Dax?" he called out.
Now that he was stronger, more mobile, Dax kept him strapped to the bed when he wasn't around. It was just a chest strap, not too tight. He could wiggle out easily, but then he had to disconnect the line to his vitals, and that set off an alarm on Dax's monitor and send the Doc and whoever else was available running.
He knew. He had tried.
The Doc's enthusiasm for helping him out had waned considerably. Stephenson had no doubt impressed upon him the graveness of his responsibility of keeping Kirk out of trouble. And Kirk had certainly not stopped downplaying his intentions, though he hadn't quite figured out yet if putting Dax on edge had made the Doctor more, or less, on the ball.
Dax came in.
"What's wrong?" Kirk asked.
The Doctor was looking worried.
"Nothing," Dax mumbled, undoing the strap and unhooking the vitals. He helped Kirk sit up. "Probably nothing."
Another rumble traveled through the compound. An explosion, either closer by, or heavier than Kirk had ever witnessed. Dax too, by the look of him.
Kirk had surmised that the miners were close to their goal, but perhaps not close enough. Their extraction of some kind of mineral was subject to a deadline. Stephenson had said they would all be off this planet in a little less than a month, but the deadline was probably closer than that, maybe much closer. Even in the last five days when he had been out and about, he had seen the tension rise, the mood change from relieved and exhilarated to anxious. The shifts had gotten longer, the conversations in the mess – always friendly, for they seemed to like him – more strained.
Another rumble.
"Is that normal?" he asked.
Dax didn't answer. He was distracted, standing there, listening, holding on to the crutches he had just retrieved from the corner. Kirk suddenly felt that he had to keep the Doctor moving or he might change his mind about today and strap him down again. He slid off the bed and, holding on to the railing, gingerly walked over and took the crutches from him.
"Come on, let's go have breakfast," he said, trying to keep his excitement out of his voice.
Nine days. Hurry!
He took the lead, maneuvered out of the narrow Sick Bay into the corridor. He was already breaking a sweat. The wheel chair had been more comfortable and much less tiring, but it had impeded his passage into rooms and corridors. Kirk had insisted on upgrading to the crutches after two days of bumping into things and people.
With the crutches he just about managed to move around without help. They weren't so much for his right foot, which was bandaged, still missing two toes. They were to hold him up, as he was still not at full lung capacity and his heart was so weak it would once in a while give him a scare.
But his right hand was by now almost equally functional as his left hand, which had suffered the loss of only the two smallest fingers, and he was getting better each day at handling the crutches.
The compound was basic and clearly temporary, with concrete walls and metal doors, though the mess room was cozy enough.
He stopped at the corner.
"Is it safe?" he asked, holding his breath.
Dax stepped past him into the mess.
"It's clear," he said, smiling a little.
Kirk breathed out, then sniffed, gingerly. One of the miners' favorite pastimes was cooking from (synthesized) scratch. Nowadays they had kept it to a minimum because of what it did to him. For while the smell of frying onion or roast beef set his mouth and stomach on fire, his brain bombarded him with memories of starvation – mostly recent, some old, too.
Add to that the unspoken thought of his men in the Audubon - nine days – and he had to flee from the room, nauseated and perplexed.
They stood dithering in the doorway, Dax listening for something, Kirk keeping a curious eye on him, when an explosion rocked the floor so badly Kirk had to grab the doorjamb to keep from falling.
Immediately the lights dimmed, the red emergency lights started pulsing, and the siren wailed. Dust was falling from the ceiling.
"Breach!" Dax cried out and he leaped past Kirk, down the corridor. As best he could, Kirk followed the Doctor to the control room door.