McCoy watched Jim slip deeper into unconsciousness with an unsettling combination of relief and anxiety. He released a breath and transferred the hand he had pressed against Jim's cheek to his hand, grateful that the younger man had stabilized a bit. Keeping hold of Jim's cool, limp fingers, he moved aside to make room for the nurse so that she could hang another bag of the whole blood he'd ordered.
He studied the monitor for a long minute, scowling. Jim was responding too slowly to the blood they were infusing for McCoy's peace of mind.
Come on, Jim.
Jim's heartrate was irregular and far too fast, as his heart struggled to pump his iron-depleted blood throughout his oxygen-starved body. They were out of O negative packed cells and Jim was allergic to every synthetic blood replacement available. So, he had been forced to default to using what little whole blood they had on hand that matched Jim's blood type when packed cells would have been preferable.
The creature's attack had taken Jim's hemoglobin down to dangerous levels. Without available packed cells to quickly replenish his red blood cells, Jim's condition remained unstable and critical. Balancing the fluid load while they tried to rapidly raise Jim's hemoglobin was tricky, since his heart was already stressed by his body's demands.
But at least he was alive, which was more than he could say for the other two hundred crew who had died because of the creature's predations. How long McCoy could keep him – or any more surviving victims – alive was another matter.
He took a step back as another nurse covered Jim with a warming blanket. McCoy stared down at Jim's still form and chalk-white complexion. They were running out of time. They needed to figure out how to kill the damned creature, and fast. Somehow Jim had survived when all the other engineering crew had died, their bodies sprawled across the deck, expressions frozen in disbelief and horror. When Jim had been rushed into Sickbay after the attack, he'd barely been breathing.
What the hell were you doing in Engineering, kid?
Once the blanket was settled over Jim, and the nurse moved away from the bedside, McCoy carefully tucked Jim's hand under the blanket. Letting go of Jim's chilly hand felt like an abandonment.
He rubbed his hands over his face, exhaustion and stress making him feel ancient. Fucking floating tin can and its limited supplies. He'd never run out of blood in a hospital on Earth. Medical supplies were always available and even in a multiple-casualties event, if they were running short of blood, he could have it and other needed supplies beamed to the hospital within minutes. But out in the dark of space there was only what the ship carried. When supplies were depleted, that was it until they docked again for resupply. Managing inventory, he was beginning to understand, was critical to ensuring they had enough supplies on hand for whatever occurred while out in the black.
Maybe if Stewart had been a trauma surgeon instead of a doctor with a background in infectious disease, they would have been better equipped for an event like this. You could damn well bet he wouldn't make the same mistake. But that realization wasn't going to do him any good now.
He hated being helpless.
"Doctor?"
He dropped his hands with a sigh, but didn't bother turning around to face Davi as he asked, "Yeah?"
"Engineer Michaels died."
Disheartened, he turned around to face Davi, who looked grim even for a Caitian, and nodded once in acknowledgement. That was their fourth death in the last six hours, leaving only thirty-two patients, including Jim, struggling to survive.
"How much more synthetic blood do we have?"
"Enough for two units each for the remaining patients."
"I know the units of packed cells are running low. Where do we stand?"
"The last of the available units are up, and infusing."
"What about whole blood?"
"We have two units of O positive whole blood left. All other blood types are gone." Davi motioned with his head to the newly hung bag on Jim's IV pole. "Everyone in the crew that can donate has done so, but that's the last unit of O neg whole blood."
McCoy felt his stomach clench. If the creature attacked again, they were going to be shit out of luck. And it was more a question of when, not if…
"Do you have any good news?"
"Captain Alvarez wants to speak to you." Davi's voice caught slightly on the word 'captain'. "He's in Stewart's office."
Fucking fantastic.
McCoy looked down at Jim for a moment and then back to Davi. "Keep an eye on his heartrate and rhythm. He's been having some arrythmias but I'm hoping this unit of whole blood will even those out. Comm me if anything changes with Jim, or anyone else."
"Sure thing, Dr. McCoy."
The CMO office was located just past the circulation desk, and he had a good view of Sickbay as he made his way there. Every available bed was filled. Gurneys that had been pressed into duty as additional beds filled what little space that remained, all of them surrounded by medical personnel.
McCoy rubbed the back of his neck. The muscles there were tight, no doubt contributing to his throbbing headache. Sickbay was close to being overwhelmed. The need for constant patient care, compounded by the shortage of blood supplies, had stretched them close to the breaking point. He was counting on his patients' stamina and lots of luck to keep them alive until help arrived.
Tired and heartsick, McCoy walked through the office door and let it slide shut behind him. Alvarez stood in front of the empty desk, looking tense and haggard. Dark smudges stained the skin beneath his pale eyes. He looked as exhausted as any of the Sickbay staff. McCoy wanted to tell him to get some rest, but with less than two hundred crew left on their feet, they needed every able-bodied crewman they had left to operate the ship.
"You wanted to see me, Captain." The title struck him anew, reminding him of Garrovick's loss.
"The Lexington will be here within the hour," Alvarez said. "Contact Mallory, the CMO and give him a list of medical supplies and anything else you need, including medical staff."
McCoy narrowed his eyes. "What about the creature? Won't the Lexington be at risk from it, too? How will they prevent it from boarding their ship? This thing just killed over two hundred of our crew in less than an hour. What's the Lexington going to be able to do that we haven't to protect themselves?"
"That won't be a problem, Doctor. The creature's gone for now." Alvarez spoke with complete certainty. "We saw it on visual heading back down to Tycho IV. We don't know why, but it's off the ship, and we're going to take advantage of that fact. As soon as the creature enters the outer atmosphere of the planet, we'll break orbit, and engage our warp engines. We believe putting significant distance between it and us will keep it from returning. We've already notified the Lexington of the new rendezvous site. They will meet us there and stay long enough to transfer over supplies and any supplemental crew we need. We've been ordered back to Earth dock for debrief, and repairs and resupply."
"What about the creature?"
We'll set warning buoys in this sector advising others to avoid the planet." Alvarez's jaw tensed. "It's all we can do, Doctor McCoy. We have no idea how to kill or contain the cloud creature. It's deadly to human life. Avoidance is our safest option."
He studied Alvarez for a long moment, not nearly as confident as the new captain appeared to be that the creature was gone for good. All attempts by the Farragut to rid the ship of the creature had failed, and it had cost them over half their crew. Perhaps if he'd seen it leave for himself…
McCoy felt the thrum of the warp engines engaging through the soles of his boots and sighed. If Alvarez thought it was time to surrender and let someone else take up the fight, who was he to argue? He didn't care one way or another, as long as the creature was gone. His primary concern was keeping the patients in his Sickbay alive.
"I'll get the list together right away."
Alvarez nodded, but didn't give any indication he was ready to leave, despite the ship being underway.
"Anything else?" McCoy asked, already mentally composing a list of critical supplies.
"How's Kirk?
The question surprised him. Alvarez hadn't shown any interest in Jim, in fact quite the opposite, especially after the away team debacle, and he wondered what was behind the inquiry now. "Critical. We're out of all blood that matches his blood type and he's allergic to the synthetics. He's anemic and hypoxic, and we're struggling to keep his oxygen levels up even with supplemental oxygen."
Alvarez absorbed the information with a tight mouth. "Is he going to die?"
"Not if I can help it." He kept his gaze steady.
Alvarez swallowed and licked his lips. "His mother's chief of engineering on the Lexington. She wants to see him."
Now he understood the sudden interest.
"I don't think that's a good idea, sir," he said. In his current condition, the last thing Jim needed was a surprise visit from his mother. He remembered how Jim had reacted the last time his mother wanted to visit him when he was ill.
"It wasn't a request," Alvarez said tightly. "Captain Rosseau made that very clear."
McCoy felt his temper rise. "Kirk's in critical condition. He's not stable enough to have visitors."
"His mother is George Kirk's widow. I can't refuse her, if Captain Rosseau is supporting her request."
"But I can," he said, keeping his voice level with an effort. "As CMO, all medical matters are under my authority. If I say Jim's too ill to receive visitors, that's the end of the matter." McCoy didn't care about Starfleet politics or Winona Kirk's authority. He wasn't going to risk Jim's health to allay her anxiety.
"Fine." Alvarez said, frowning. "Commander Kirk will be here within the hour. I'll leave it up to you to tell her she can't see her son and handle whatever fallout results." With that, he stalked past McCoy out of the office.
Coward, McCoy thought scornfully. He'd already experienced Winona's forbidding presence and understood that 'no' wasn't a word she readily accepted.
He could only imagine how formidable she'd seemed to the acting-Captain, when she brought the weight of her name and history to bear. No doubt she'd dropped a few other, higher-up names in the process, too, making her connections clear. Alvarez would likely have been influenced – or intimidated – by those connections since he was newly promoted to the rank of captain. And one who was already under a great deal of stress.
McCoy snorted. Starfleet politics was the last thing he wanted to deal with right now. He had enough to worry about without adding a visit from Winona Kirk on top of everything else.
Fortunately, he had little time to worry about it. There were more pressing matters claiming his attention.
Like keeping Jim, and the remaining thirty-two crew under his care in Sickbay, alive long enough for supplies to arrive.
Before they arrived at the new rendezvous site, two more of the hospitalized crew died.
The Farragut's remaining crew were on edge, their nerves worn thin. Everyone was still spooking at shadows, despite Alvarez's assurances that the creature was gone. Each minute they were underway took them farther from the Tycho IV system. Blessedly, there had been no further incidents since the Farragut had warped away from the planet toward the rendezvous point with the Lexington. Maybe, McCoy thought, Captain Alvarez had been right and the damned creature was no longer a threat.
McCoy wished he could do more to help the jittery crew members, but he didn't have the staff or time to treat them for anything less than critical injuries. He'd had to turn them away from Sickbay with nothing more than a sympathetic look and some homespun advice, after scanning them and finding nothing but high stress levels. His own staff were stressed and exhausted, practically staggering on their feet, feeling helpless and wretched as they watched their patients' conditions worsen.
As ordered, McCoy had contacted Mallory, the CMO of the Lexington. According to the man's personnel file, which McCoy had accessed because he liked knowing who he was dealing with, Mallory had spent his entire medical career on starships. Their brief, vid-screen confab had shown him a calm, fortyish physician with few wrinkles in his dark face despite his record of extensive shipboard experience.
The man hadn't blinked at the long list of critical supplies McCoy had requested, as if meeting up with another starship in the middle of nowhere to share provisions was normal. Maybe it was, for all McCoy knew. Certainly, it was efficient.
Fifteen minutes after rendezvousing with the Farragut, the Lexington's medical staff arrived in Sickbay on their temporary assignments, immediately followed by the requested supplies. For the next few hours, McCoy worked triage, allocating assignments and directing the flow of blood products to the most critical patients.
Just as they hung Jim's first unit of packed cells, McCoy had been forced away from his bedside as another crewmember coded. After that it was a blur of action as they rushed to stabilize over a dozen increasingly unstable crew members with the newly available blood while coordinating the handoffs between the Farragut's exhausted medical team and the Lexington staff relieving them.
Hours later, McCoy finished signing the last medical chart with updated orders at the circulation desk and handed the data pads to an unknown, fresh-faced nurse.
Since the Farragut had been ordered to return to Earth, it had been decided during a brief administrative huddle with the senior doctor sent over from the Lexington, that all the patients would stay on the Farragut, instead of being transferred to the Lexington. The Lexington would resume its assignment in the Kiddlian system while waiting for their crew members who had been temporarily assigned to the Farragut to rejoin them.
In addition, the Farragut would transport the victims of the creature's attacks back to Earth and, once they arrived, oversee the processing of the two hundred dead crew who, out of necessity, had been laid out on the bare decking in the cargo bay. With the creature no longer aboard, and the resupply accomplished, the Lexington doctor felt there was no need for both ships to return to Earth. Their captains had concurred, she informed him.
Reading between the lines, McCoy was well aware of her meaning: Dead was dead. No need to inconvenience the living.
He had shrugged, too tired to argue with her.
With the additional medical staff assisting with the care of the thirty injured crew, the small bay was crowded and humming with activity. The most critical patients, while improving with the administration of blood, were still unstable, their condition changing unpredictably, keeping the medical staff on their toes. No one knew if the patients' lability was a result of direct contact with the cloud creature or an unfamiliar sequelae of the hemoglobin depletion. Whatever the reason, the medical staff was constantly on alert, closely monitoring the patients for any hints of a relapse.
McCoy took a moment to scan the bay and his eyes narrowed as he caught sight of an unfamiliar figure in formal grays next to Jim's bed.
Ria caught his stare and glanced over at its source. "That's Commander Kirk, Cadet Kirk's mother," she said, turning back to him.
Shit, he'd forgotten about Winona.
"How long has she been here?"
Ria shrugged tiredly. "I'm not sure." She tapped a few keys. "It doesn't look like anyone logged her in."
Of course not, he thought angrily. She knew that would require approval. He continued to watch her for a long minute, trying to decide his next move in this powerplay but nothing seemed certain of success.
Lips pursed, he shifted his gaze back to Ria – and noticed her red eyes. "How long have you been on duty?"
"No longer than you have."
He scowled, letting his irritation show. "You've got another hour, tops, to finish up and then you're done. I don't want to see you back here until Alpha shift tomorrow."
With that, he stepped away from the circulation desk, and strode over to Jim's bed near the back of the bay, hiding his frustration in movement.
Winona Kirk ignored his approach. She stood silently, pressed close to the side of the bio bed, oblivious to the chaos around her. As he drew closer, he saw that she was holding Jim's limp hand in both of hers.
McCoy grimaced, and shifted his gaze to Jim. The oxygen mask did little to hide the deathly pallor of his face, and he could hear Jim's rapid breathing through the mask. His eyes were closed, and his head was turned slightly away from Winona, motionless on the thin pillow.
A strange sense of relief swept through McCoy as he realized Jim was still deeply unconscious. Hopefully, he would remain unaware of his mother's presence. Out of habit, he quickly raised his gaze to the overhead monitor which was still ablaze with numerous yellow warnings.
"Where's he at?" he asked the hovering nurse. He didn't recognize her, so she must be from the Lexington. That fact would also account for why she hadn't logged a visitor request from Winona Kirk into the system.
"Two units of packed cells are in. The third is hanging, to be followed by a fourth, as you ordered. His heart is still pretty irritable, though, despite the blood. His EKG is showing multiple premature beats. O2 continues at 35% via the mask. He's tachypneic and tachycardic, but urine output is good. There's a fresh internal scan available. Another CBC is scheduled to be drawn after the fourth unit of packed cells has infused."
"Comm me as soon as you have those results, if I'm not here."
Jim was responding very slowly to the packed cells. He'd been more critical than McCoy thought.
Winona turned her attention to him after he finished speaking. She was as striking in person as she had been in the late-night vid last year. Her blonde hair was braided into a complex design that enhanced the classic beauty of her features. Standing tall in her pristine uniform she looked as if she'd just stepped into line for inspection. Her self-effacing stance was at odds with her appearance – and the determined, intimidating presence he'd previously encountered.
He knew which one he considered to be real.
"Doctor McCoy," she said. Her voice was softer than he remembered.
"Commander," he said with a nod and grabbed Jim's chart from the end of the bed. He wanted to ask if Jim had been awake, if she'd spoken to him, but before he could say anything, she spoke.
"He's cold," she said, and gripped Jim's flaccid hand tighter.
He looked up from the chart, struck by the realization that she looked like any other concerned mother he'd ever encountered. Instead of the persona she normally wore, the hallowed widow of George Kirk, the hero of the Kelvin, she appeared vulnerable and afraid.
"The bio bed warming unit is on. He feels cold because his hemoglobin is still low, and his body is trying to shunt as much oxygenated blood as it can to his organs. We're transfusing packed cells as quickly as we can now that we have a fresh supply from the Lexington. Unfortunately, we ran out of all blood products in Jim's blood type before your ship arrived."
He noted that the fresh bag of blood he'd ordered was hanging on the IV pole and was now almost half empty.
"He seems so ill. Why didn't you use synthetics when you ran out of fresh blood?" she demanded.
Her question surprised him – and told him just how estranged she was from her son, and for how long, if she didn't know his full list of allergies.
"He's allergic to them, ma'am," he replied, trying to mask the censure in his voice.
Her guilty expression told McCoy that he hadn't entirely succeeded.
She took a deep breath and looked down at Jim. "Is he going to die?"
"Not if I can prevent it. He's showing some improvement, which is a good sign."
He'd learned not to predict patient outcomes, or make promises. The simplest injuries could kill, and had, despite his best efforts. His job was not to give false hope but to report Jim's medical condition as it was – not what he wanted it to be. If it were any other patient, he'd quote the statistics regarding the likelihood of success given the risks of the treatment, but with Jim nothing ever went according to script, so he preferred to be cautious.
"That's not a yes," she whispered without looking at him.
"Commander—"
"He looks so pale," she said, interrupting his response.
McCoy wanted to say more, to reassure her with information as he would any parent in this situation, but he couldn't. Jim wouldn't approve, and they both knew it.
Still, he wasn't unsympathetic. Jim was her son, the child she'd given birth to, the child for whom her husband had sacrificed his life and his future. Whatever had happened between her and Jim in the past, that fact would never change.
"The blood will help," he offered. "It's the best treatment we can give him considering how much hemoglobin the cloud creature leeched from his body." He was skirting the edge of doctor-patient confidentiality, but it was no secret what was ailing Jim, or the others, and why.
She looked up at him, a distressed expression on her face. "Is he in pain?"
"No. Not like you mean. Oxygen hunger, at worst."
She thought about that for a moment, her brow furrowed, as if she didn't quite believe him.
Jim moaned, as if to make a liar of him, breaking the tense silence.
McCoy quickly stepped around to the unoccupied side of the bed as Winona gently stroked Jim's forehead. Looking up at the monitor to confirm that Jim's vitals hadn't taken a turn for the worse, McCoy held his breath, praying that Jim would remain unconscious and unaware.
He put a hand on Jim's chest and felt the shallow, rapid rise of his breaths and the hammering of his heart. Jim mumbled into the mask, his brows twitching.
Stay unconscious, Jim. Stay unconscious.
"Jim," Winona suddenly said, leaning close. "It's me, mom. I'm here, Jim. You're going to be fine, honey."
Jim's brows drew together. The monitor pinged a warning.
"Sam." The word sounded like both a plea and a curse.
Winona straightened immediately, snatching her hand away from Jim's forehead as if his skin had burned her.
Startled, McCoy stared at her. She looked stricken, as if Jim had slapped her.
Another soft moan drew McCoy's attention back to the man in the bed. He leaned down close to Jim's ear to speak. "You're all right, Jim. Everything's under control. You're safe. Just rest."
With jerky movements, Winona hastily tucked Jim's hand under the blankets and took a few steps back from the bio bed.
Jim remained motionless, the only sign of movement the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.
Stay asleep, kid. Don't wake up. You're not in any shape to deal with this.
After a long, silent moment fraught with tension, McCoy straightened and removed his hand from Jim's chest, breathing a silent sigh of relief. He looked at Winona, who stood a few paces from the bed, staring down at Jim with an unreadable expression.
She was no longer open and vulnerable but had closed herself off to become a figure of remote beauty, retreating emotionally the way he'd seen Jim retreat when confronted with something painful.
"He's a little confused," McCoy said cautiously, not certain what had caused her to react the way she had. "It's not uncommon in this type of injury."
"He asked for Sam," she said. Her words sounded frozen – or stunned.
"He does that sometimes when he's very sick." He studied her closely, burning curiosity finally forcing him to ask. "Who's Sam?"
Her gaze never strayed from Jim's face as she answered. "My oldest son."
As Jim's primary physician, he knew Jim's family history, knew he had an older brother. But on Jim's medical record, his brother's name was listed as George Samuel Kirk. George, after his father, he had assumed being the first-born son.
He was so tired it took him a moment to connect all the dots, then he wanted to kick himself. Of course, Jim wasn't going to call his brother by the name of the father he'd never known.
His dead father.
The sudden ping of the bio monitor drew him out of his thoughts.
Jim was throwing a run of PVCs, a clear indication that his heart was tired, and becoming more irritable. And irregular.
Dammit.
The number of PVC's increased, crowding out the regular rhythm of Jim's heart. Two, five, ten…
The monitor alarm blared as Jim's heart began to fibrillate.
"What's happening?" Winona cried, her terror clear.
"He's in ventricular fibrillation," McCoy growled, and palmed the code button. "He's in cardiac arrest."
A new alarm began to chant, the computerized voice insistent and clear. "Code Blue, bed eight. Code Blue, bed eight. Code Blue…"
A nurse appeared instantly at the side of the bed, pushing Winona aside, as McCoy grabbed the cardio-stim case.
"Give me a 100 mg of epinephrine now," he ordered.
Jerking the lid of the case open, he removed the cardio-stim unit.
"Charging to 200. Stand clear," he ordered, positioning the unit over Jim's fluttering heart.
"Charged. Delivering shock. Stand clear."
McCoy depressed the button, triggering the unit to deliver a shock. Jim arched off the bed as the electric current jolted his body. Glancing up at the monitor, McCoy cursed.
"Still in V-fib. Charging to 300. Stand clear."
The nurse slapped the syringe into his waiting palm.
"Pushing 100 mg of epinephrine. Ready another 100 mg," he ordered, watching Jim's rhythm strip on the monitor as he slowly pushed the drug into Jim's intravenous line. Another nurse, another unknown face, appeared. "Start bagging him."
The new nurse grabbed the ambu bag and ripped Jim's face mask away. Fitting the ambu mask in place, she began to deliver regular pulses of oxygenated air to Jim's lungs.
McCoy could see Jim's chest rise and fall with each squeeze and relaxation of the bag from the corner of his eye as he watched the monitor.
Nothing.
"Charged to 300. Delivering shock. Stand clear."
Both nurses took a step back, holding up their hands so McCoy could easily see them.
Another arching jolt of Jim's body as the charge was delivered.
The nurses immediately resumed their activities.
He found himself holding his breath as he watched the monitor.
Come on, Jim. Don't be so damn stubborn.
"Code Blue, bed eight. Code Blue, bed eight. Code Blue…" The alarm continued to repeat its inexorable warning.
"I want another 100 mg of epi," he barked, holding out his hand.
The nurse smacked another syringe into his palm, and he pushed the medication into Jim's IV port.
Jim's heart stuttered, then abruptly settled into a normal sinus rhythm under the influence of the medication.
A hot wave of relief turned McCoy's knees to jelly.
Breathing deeply, McCoy took a cautious step back, laying the cardio-stim aside.
"Do you want to continue with the epinephrine, Doctor?" the Lexington nurse asked.
"Yes, start a drip at 4 mg per minute, and titrate lower after an hour, if his rhythm remains stable. Hang that next unit of packed cells ASAP. Put it on a pump." They had to get Jim's hemoglobin up faster. His heart needed the relief. "And give him another 25 mgs of Falidadone. That will help heal any damage to the heart caused by the anoxia."
McCoy glanced upward. The monitor indicated that Jim's rhythm was still stable. "Draw a set of labs. Use the pedo tubes. And cancel the Code alarm."
Relative silence followed on the heels of his orders, both nurses busy carrying out his instructions. McCoy continued to watch the monitor, until yet another nurse glided up to the bedside with a bag of blood and a blood pump, and proceeded to hang them, breaking his brooding stance.
His focus had been solely on Jim and snatching him back from the jaws of death. He'd forgotten about Winona, who'd just witnessed her son's near brush with mortality. He turned away from the monitor in order to say a few reassuring words to her but found the space where she'd been standing empty. He scanned the bay, wondering if she'd moved out of the medical team's way, but he didn't see her.
"Commander Kirk left," the nurse busy with the blood said, correctly interpreting his head swivel.
"When?" Had she left before Jim was even stable?
"I'm not sure. Word is the Lexington is pulling out shortly. Maybe she had to return to her duties."
Or maybe she hadn't wanted to be a helpless witness, watching her son die as she stood at his bedside, the way she had with her husband, he thought grimly. He released a deep breath, feeling the ache of exhaustion weighing down every part of his body.
Christ, he was tired.
Tired of it all.
He was going to kiss the ground when they got to Earth.
"Doctor McCoy."
The sound of his name infiltrated his dreams, pulling him from a deep well of sleep. He grunted, barely aware of the soft pillow that he was burying his face into, in an attempt to shut out the insistent voice disturbing his rest, and hang on to the comforting darkness. He didn't want to wake up. He dimly remembered the glorious moment his weary body had stretched out on the narrow cot in the CMO's office, before exhaustion had claimed him, sucking him into unconsciousness despite his concerns at leaving Z'Tar in charge.
It had been the first real sleep he'd gotten in days and he burrowed deeper, trying to ignore the nagging voice.
A persistent hand shook his shoulder, undeterred.
"Doctor McCoy."
Fuck.
"What?" he grumbled without opening his eyes, hoping the reason for this disturbance to his rest didn't require him waking fully.
"Cadet Kirk is asking for you."
He opened his eyes and rolled into a sitting position, blinking to clear his vision as his brain struggled to wake along with his body. The distant ache of a not-enough-sleep headache throbbed behind his eyes.
The office was dimly lit enough to see Ria's familiar figure crouched in front of him.
"What time is it?" he asked as he pulled on his boots.
"Thirteen twenty-three."
Jim had been in and out of consciousness for the past two days as McCoy tried to stabilize him. His heart continued to go into arrythmia at times, despite the additional four units of packed cells and the medications he'd been given.
McCoy suspected Jim's system had been overtaxed by the FLX10 exposure, and the attack from the cloud creature had only strained it more, making recovery difficult and slow. But his labs were looking more encouraging. Or they had been before McCoy had yielded to the need for sleep.
McCoy scrubbed his hands over his face, hoping the rough stimulation would wake him further. The muscles in the back of his neck were tight and stiff. He rolled his head once to loosen them before rising to his feet. "How are his vitals?"
"In range. No fever. Sats are still a little low, but not critical. His last CBC showed a red cell count of 4.1, hemoglobin of 11.9 and his 'crit was 37."
Better. Much better. All that blood finally seemed to be helping.
He walked toward the door. "And his arrythmias?"
"He's been in normal sinus rhythm since your last report."
Over six hours of stability, then.
As McCoy walked out of the office, he squinted against the stabbing glare of the bright lights of the main bay. The sudden noise and bustle was an abrupt shock to the silent darkness of the office, jolting his system.
He ran a hand through his hair as he walked to the end of the bay. The beds were still full, but the patients were out of danger and well on their way to recovery.
Jim being the exception.
McCoy nodded to the patients' greetings as he passed by their beds. Most of them were sitting up in bed and looking alert, a fair number with a PADD in their hands. He could see their color had vastly improved, but they still looked fatigued. No one was going to recover from this ordeal quickly.
He focused on the bed at the far end of the bay. Jim's golden head shone like a beacon under the lights.
A nurse – Donnor, he knew now – bent over Jim, speaking to him, her hand resting reassuringly on his arm. Coming closer, he could see that Jim's eyes were open. Jim's electric blue eyes were unnaturally bright and slightly unfocused. A nasal cannula was positioned under his nose, drawing attention to his pale lips.
For days, McCoy had struggled to keep the younger man from slipping away. It had been a balancing act of medications, blood replacement therapies and patience, as he watched Jim teeter from stable to critical and back again, his heart showing signs of stress. It had only been a little over six hours ago that Jim had stabilized enough for McCoy to take a proper rest.
McCoy quickly scanned the overhead monitor and was reassured by the readings. Ria's report had been accurate, as usual. Stepping closer to the bed, he put a hand on Jim's chest.
"Jim?"
Slowly, Jim turned his head toward McCoy, homing in on his voice. "Bones…?" he asked, his response faint.
"Yeah, kid, it's me. How are you feeling?"
"Tired…"
McCoy smiled. "I'm not surprised given your lab values. You'll be needing sleep for a while, until your body recovers. Your blood-pressure is still a little low, and we've given you some medication for your heart that tends to make you feel tired, too, but you're doing much better."
It took a long moment for Jim to process his words. He frowned, searching McCoy's face. "What?"
"He's been pretty confused since he awoke," Donnor said in a low voice. "His recent memory seems to be affected."
McCoy studied Jim's expression closely. "Jim, do you know where you are?"
Jim closed his eyes for a long moment before opening them. "Hospital."
"No. Not the hospital. You're in Sickbay, on the Farragut."
Jim's frown deepened. "Why?"
"Do you remember coming onto the Farragut?"
Jim's eyes began to clear. "Yeah," he breathed. The expression on his face shifted as if he'd solved a particularly difficult problem. "I remember."
McCoy studied Jim's expression closely. Jim was a master at bullshit when he needed to be. Was Jim telling him what he wanted to hear or did Jim really remember? "What's the last thing you remember? Do you know why you're in Sickbay?"
"Explosion in Auxiliary DC. The console blew."
McCoy schooled his expression, as his mind raced. If the explosion was the last thing Jim remembered, he had lost days, not hours, from his memory.
Not wanting Jim to know he was concerned, McCoy kept his voice even and calm. "Yes, you hurt your eyes. You were exposed to FLX10. We bandaged them after giving you emergency treatment."
Jim slowly raised his hand to his eyes, as if to confirm what McCoy was saying. As his fingers touched his brow, his frown deepened in confusion. McCoy could see him searching his memory to fill the gaps.
"You had several rounds of regen therapy. They're better now. All healed, with no lasting damage. You were very lucky." McCoy narrowed his eyes, as a new concern emerged. "Are you having trouble with your vision? Can see me, Jim?
"I see you, Bones." Jim's hand dropped as exhaustion sapped his strength. "You need to shave or you're gonna get dinged for being out of compliance. Garrovick's a stickler for the regs."
McCoy rubbed a hand over the thick stubble coating his face. The short, stiff hairs had begun to itch. "I've been busy." He paused, considering his options. How much did Jim remember of the cloud creature? Exactly where did his last clear memory end? "What's the last thing you remember, Jim?" he asked again.
Jim thought for a moment. "Pulling Ivy out. Hard to breathe. Couldn't see." He touched a hand to his chest.
McCoy glanced up at the monitor, but there was no significant change to Jim's vitals.
"Ivy all right?" Jim asked.
McCoy looked back at Jim, pursing his lips. "What day is it?"
"2256.318," Jim said without hesitation.
That was six days ago. Jim didn't remember Ivy's death, the cloud creature's attack on the crew, Garrovick's death or his own attack. The last thing Jim remembered had been the explosion that had started it all. It wasn't unusual for patients who had experienced trauma, with or without anoxia, to have small gaps in their memory, but this length of time was more than a gap. Had the delay in getting his oxygen saturations up caused it? Was it temporary, given Jim's injuries? Or was there permanent damage to his hippocampus or amygdala?
Jim blinked slowly as if to clear his vision and shifted in the bed. "That's wrong, isn't it?"
Damn. Even drugged and injured Jim was sharp. "Yes, but it's not unexpected, given what you've been through. You were seriously injured but you're recovering nicely. The best thing you can do is rest. We'll talk again later, after you've slept, and reassess." McCoy tried to smile reassuringly, knowing as he did that he probably looked like hell. How long would it take for Jim's genius brain to unravel the reasons McCoy looked as tired and ill-groomed as Jim did?
McCoy straightened and withdrew his hand from Jim's chest as he looked up at the nurse. "Get a complete brain scan, with detailed focus on the hippocampus, amygdala and cerebellum. Order another unit of packed cells and once it's infused, draw another CBC."
"Yes, Doctor."
McCoy felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down, surprised to see Jim's hand lightly gripping his tunic. "Jim?" He patted the back of Jim's hand. "Try to rest. These are just routine tests and you can easily sleep through them."
Jim looked at him with imploring, bleary eyes as exhaustion began to pull him down into sleep. He wouldn't ask for it, McCoy knew, but he understood what Jim wanted.
"Don't worry, kid. I'll be right here," McCoy said and pulled a chair over.
Jim's head hurt.
McCoy had told him it was because of his low red blood cell counts and the regeneration therapy he'd had on his eyes – which Jim had no memory of – but he'd accepted the explanation without protest, reluctant to invite more questions about his memory.
His bed had been elevated and the privacy curtain had been partially pulled, leaving him with a limited view of Sickbay and the time to fret about why he'd been secluded from the rest of the crew and how much he wasn't remembering. He'd been studying what he could of the medical bay for the past few hours, cataloging the coming and going of medical staff as they moved around in the fully occupied bay. There must have been a lot of injuries in engineering to account for so many beds being filled. A low hum of conversation filled the room, but it all seemed to be polite pleasantries, with no sense of urgency, so despite the numbers, the injuries must have been fairly minor for most of them.
He'd even questioned the nurses who'd slipped through the narrow opening, careful not to disturb the screen, about the status of the ship, but they'd simply smiled and told him everything was all right and to try and rest.
Which only pissed him off.
There was something wrong. He could feel it. The ship felt… off.
McCoy's figure appeared suddenly in the curtain opening, distracting him from his thoughts. The doctor was clean shaven and he looked rested, crisply dressed in a fresh uniform. He walked directly to the foot of the bed and picked up the medical chart hanging there. With a flick of his finger, he powered it up and began to review the data, not bothering to even glance up as he said, "You must be feeling better. You ate all your breakfast."
Jim hadn't known how hungry he was until the first waft of scrambled eggs, bacon and warm toast tickled his nose, and his stomach had rumbled in response. He'd devoured his breakfast as if it were his last meal, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction at the fullness in his stomach.
Bones had a thing about Jim's eating habits. It was always a tug-of-war between them and one of the easiest ways to begin or end an argument. But Jim didn't want to talk to Bones about food. He needed other answers.
"Why are there so many crew in Sickbay?"
McCoy looked up suddenly from the chart, surprise written on his face.
"There were only four crew in Auxiliary DC," Jim said. "There has to be over two dozen crew in here. Did something else happen?" He stared hard at McCoy. "Did the damage to engineering expand to other areas?"
McCoy sighed and set the chart back in its holder. "Jim, do you remember the cloud creature? The one you saw on Tycho IV?"
"Of course, I do." He'd tried like hell to convince Garrovick it exist—
A thunderous blast. A silent cloud of nothing rising on invisible wings. And immediately afterward, a different cloud of mist boiling forth, burning everything it touched. Danger. Coldness.
"It's on the ship," he said, as the memory of the cloud hovering over the console clicked into place. He leaned forward, pushing up from his arms. "I need to tell Captain Garrovick there's an intruder onboard."
"It was here," McCoy said, pushing Jim back into the pillows. "But it's not anymore."
Jim shook his head. That wasn't right. The cloud creature only wanted them to think that. "It's hiding."
In the darkness of his memory, no images came forth, only an overwhelming certainty of a sly predator silently stalking them, like they were vulnerable and unsuspecting prey. When it had brushed over him and Ivy, he had felt its intelligence and cunning. And something else…
"No," McCoy said, pinning Jim with a stern glare. "Jim, it left. Days ago. The ship is safe and we're on our way to Earth."
"Earth? Days?" He scowled. "Wh- How long have I been here?"
McCoy flicked a brief glance up at the monitor before he answered. "About four days."
They weren't scheduled to return to Earth for two weeks. Even if they'd cut their mission short because of the explosion, and were headed back for repairs, the timing felt wrong.
His mind quickly dissected the timeline, poking at the holes in his memory. "Was the explosion only four days ago? It feels longer than that, Bones."
McCoy regarded him soberly. Fuck, Bones was in full doctor mode. Whatever was wrong with him, it must be bad.
Jim's heart galloped. "What aren't you telling me? Why can't I remember?"
"Calm down, Jim," McCoy said. "I'll answer your questions, but you need to stay calm. Your heart is still recovering. If you can't stay calm, I'll have to give you a sedative. Understand?"
Frustration flooded his body. Information was obviously being kept from him and he didn't like being managed. But the look on Bones' face told him that Bones was in no mood to compromise. No amount of argument or protest would get him what he wanted. Bones was wearing his doctor scowl, and that was never a good sign. The smart move was to appear cooperative and relaxed.
So, he nodded and made a deliberate attempt to take a few deep breaths and slow his racing heart.
McCoy looked up at the monitor again. Apparently satisfied, he looked back at Jim. "First, you can't remember because your hemoglobin was dangerously low. Hemoglobin carries oxygen in the blood stream. It's extremely likely your brain suffered some oxygen deprivation and your memory was adversely affected."
Fuck!
McCoy held up his hand to calm Jim. "Your brain is fine. There's no permanent damage, but there is some memory loss. Obviously."
Jim remembered a full scan of his brain late yesterday while he was still drifting in and out of sleep. But that didn't make sense. "FLX10 doesn't impact hemoglobin. It's a caustic chemical."
McCoy nodded. "When the console exploded, there was a leak and the FLX10 fumes burned your corneas and some of your exposed skin. All of this was healed with our treatment and there are no lasting effects. Your vision is fine now, right?"
Jim nodded. He couldn't remember his vision being a problem, but the nurses had been paying a lot of attention to his eyes, scanning them and asking him questions, having him read a vision chart each shift.
"Okay," McCoy said, sounding relieved. "That's good. While you were recovering from the FLX10 exposure, your eyes had to remain bandaged until we finished the regen therapy. You were extremely fatigued and needed a lot of rest." Pause. "You stayed in my cabin."
Jim scowled. He could imagine Bones insisting on him staying under the doctor's direct care, then blushed as he realized what it meant – Bones helping him to wash and dress and eat. Fuck. It was a good thing he couldn't remember. How long had he been under McCoy's care?
"Jim, the explosion in Engineering was six days ago." McCoy gave Jim a moment to process that news before continuing. "You kept insisting the creature was on the ship and you wanted to tell Garrovick." McCoy looked down at the floor. "I… didn't believe you. I thought you were hallucinating as a result of your injuries. But then the cloud creature attacked the crew. We don't know how it managed to get onboard, but it did." McCoy sighed. "We now suspect the damned thing feeds on hemoglobin. It drained its victims of red blood cells."
Jim searched his memory for images that would match up with Bones' words, but he could find nothing but blankness. He remembered the pain in his eyes, hands on him, struggling…. "I got attacked?"
"Yes." McCoy hesitated, searching Jim's face closely. "It was after the explosion in Auxiliary DC. Your eyes were still bandaged. The creature had already attacked twice. Phasers seemed to have no effect on it, although we're not certain the victims had time to fire their weapons. The ship was in lockdown while the crew tried to locate it."
"They didn't find it," Jim said with certainty. His gut told him that it was good at hiding when it didn't want to be found.
"No. Unfortunately. It attacked again." Pause. "You were one of the lucky ones."
Jim suddenly understood Bones' hesitation and the guarded expression on the older man's face as the reality of what he'd been told sunk in. "How many weren't so lucky?"
"Hundreds."
Jim felt the blood drain from his face. He shivered. How could one creature kill hundreds of trained Starfleet crew on a constellation class starship?
"Half the crew, nearly," McCoy clarified. "Only a handful survived the attacks."
That answered the question of why Sickbay was so full. And why none of his engineering friends had come to visit.
"Ivy? Abeer?"
McCoy's expression softened. "I'm sorry, Jim."
His head pounded. He swallowed past the dryness in his throat. "Captain Garrovick?"
"He was one of the first to die," McCoy said quietly.
His mind spun, and he felt blind, straining to remember and finding only empty darkness. "We killed it?"
"No."
He frowned. "But it's gone?"
"Yes, Jim. It's gone. We're certain it's no longer onboard."
Facts started to come together, forming a shadowed picture of tragedy and loss, leaving him feeling anxious and uncertain. His head began to throb and he put a hand to his forehead, massaging it, searching for relief. "Will I ever remember it all?"
Bones shifted his weight, tilting his head in consideration. "I don't know. The brain is tricky. Some people never recover their memories and others have full recall – sometimes all at once, sometimes incrementally."
Which wasn't comforting at all. "So, no guarantees." Jim dropped his hand and expelled a heavy sigh. "How close to Earth are we?"
His question seemed to make Bones relax. The older man picked up his chart again. "About 36 hours. Can't say I'm not sorry."
But Jim was. His lips twisted. The universe screwed him every time he tried to escape his past. The Farragut had been his opportunity to prove he was doing more than just riding on his father's name, that he really did belong in Starfleet.
"If you're half the man your father was, Jim, Starfleet could use you," Pike said.
McCoy touched his shoulder, reclaiming his attention. Bones looked at him with concern.
"Hey. You did good, kid," McCoy said. "You saved a lot of lives with your quick thinking. Garrovick was impressed with your analysis of the situation and your bravery during the explosion. He recommended you for an accommodation."
Jim sank into the cushioned bio bed, suddenly feeling drained. It was all too much to deal with right now. Without the anchor of memories, McCoy's words felt empty and meaningless. Two hundred dead. How could that be a win?
"You okay?" McCoy asked, his hazel eyes soft with concern.
"Yeah," Jim said automatically and forced a practiced smile of reassurance to his lips.
McCoy raised an eyebrow without comment, then turned his attention back to the chart in his hands.
"I swear to God," he groused, tapping away on the chart, "I will never complain about Starfleet General again. Unlike this tin can, they never run out of supplies." McCoy looked up from his charting. "We're going to have to work out a strategy for banking blood for you when you're out on missions since you're allergic to the synthetics."
"How many times do you think I'm going to run into something like the cloud creature, Bones?"
The doctor snorted. "I suppose idiotic cadets with laser knives fall into that category, too?" Bones shook his head. "No, I'm beginning to think the 'T' in James T. Kirk stands for Trouble. Or Trauma. And we both better plan accordingly or we'll end up between a rock and hard place, waiting for someone to bail our asses out."
McCoy's words sparked something – the memory of an unfamiliar nurse leaning over him while talking to someone about the Lexington being happy to help out in a crisis. Had that been a dream? He looked out now into the medical bay as if to confirm the image, searching for a face to match the one in his memory.
"Jim?" McCoy asked on a rising note of concern.
Cold dread filled his chest. He didn't look at Bones as he asked, "Was the Lexington here?"
Silence.
"Bones?" he prodded, his dread increasing.
"Yes, Jim. They relieved us." McCoy's expression was stoic, disciplined and completely unreadable. The quintessential surgeon.
Dismay, jagged and icy sharp, pierced Jim's chest, and he struggled to get his next words out. "Was my mother here?"
"If you mean did she visit you, yes, she did. For a short time. You were unconscious."
"What did she want? Why did she come?"
A pained expression crossed McCoy's face. "I think she just wanted to make sure you were all right."
He chewed on McCoy's words, few as they were, but the tightness in his chest didn't let up. The black hole in his memory was cold and uninviting, and yet, he needed to know…
"Did… what did she say? Did she ask a lot of questions?"
McCoy held his gaze for a long moment and Jim tried to decipher what was going on behind the man's green and gold eyes. But Bones was a master at concealing his thoughts and McCoy was getting way too good at reading him.
When he felt better, he was going to have to decide how he felt about that.
"She asked if you were going to recover," McCoy said finally, and looked down at the chart, suddenly all business. "I told her you would."
Jim looked back out into Sickbay. The Lexington had done more than relieve them, they had provided relief staff, as well. "Is she gone?"
McCoy sighed and looked up from the chart. "Yes. She was only here briefly. Her duties required her to stay with the Lexington, and they departed immediately after resupplying us. Although they assigned some of their personnel to us temporarily. Mostly relief for the medical staff."
She could have stayed if she wanted to be here, Jim thought. She had enough pull with the Starfleet brass to get whatever she needed. No one told Winona Kirk 'no'.
But, like always, duty came before family.
Duty would always come first with his mother.
That realization had been his first, hardest, and most bitter lesson.
"You're thinking too hard," McCoy said, interrupting his thoughts.
"You make it sound like a bad thing, Bones." His words were numb and distant. He wouldn't look at his friend.
"Too much of anything is a bad thing, Jim."
He closed his eyes, willing the throbbing in his head to go away.
"Enough talking. You need to rest," McCoy said with assertion. "You're a long way from recovered."
The bed suddenly moved, gently lowering him to lie flat. As the view of Sickbay disappeared, a wave of dizziness swept through him. He kept his eyes closed, waiting for the spinning to stop. But his thoughts hadn't slowed. His mother had been by his bed while he was unconscious. What had she done? What had she said? Had she held his hand? His fingers curled into fists at the thought. He couldn't remember a time when she'd been by his bedside, though he'd longed for it. It'd always been Sam who'd stayed with him as he recovered from an allergic reaction, or from one of Frank's drunken rampages.
Now she'd come to him only to walk away. Again.
He opened his eyes to find Bones in his line of vision, staring down at him with a sympathetic expression, one that set Jim's teeth on edge. He didn't want sympathy. Even from Bones. Maybe especially from Bones.
He rolled onto his side, away from Bones, and closed his eyes.
Epilogue
"Congratulations," Pike said, staring up at Jim from his seat behind his desk.
"For what?" Jim stood at attention, his gaze smartly focused on the wall behind Pike's head.
"Starfleet's Meritorious Achievement award. That's quite an honor. Thought you'd be crowing about it all over campus," he said, with a hint of humor. "Humility is not usually your cup of tea."
Jim shrugged his shoulders. "I don't remember much about it, sir."
Pike studied Jim with concern. He'd read McCoy's report. Several times. Tires easily, still experiences headaches, had been the gist of it. Pike suspected McCoy had said as little as possible in Jim's official record. The good doctor's report had been heavy on medical fact and short on speculation.
Jim had been cleared to return to classes, but no maneuvers, critical exercises or hand-to-hand for another two weeks. Not that the limited clearance was going to delay Jim's studies. He was already in third-year classes and was maintaining a perfect score without breaking a sweat.
"He'll recover completely in a few weeks. If he doesn't get bored and sabotage his own efforts," McCoy had said drily.
"What about his memory?"
"There's no brain damage that we can find. Memory issues are trickier. He could recover the memories in time."
"Or not." He scrutinized McCoy, wondering if the doctor was telling him everything. Years of space travel and experience with inter-species relations had made him damn good at reading others. But McCoy was an unreadable stone face and seemed impervious to his air of intimidation.
"The time period he can't remember on the Farragutwon't impact his future mental competence," McCoy said flatly. "There's no need to worry about his academic abilities."
Despite McCoy's reassurances, Jim was still pale… and a little wobbly. "At ease, Cadet. Have a seat and relax."
Jim gracefully lowered himself in the chair opposite Pike, still avoiding making direct eye contact. He looked anything but relaxed, however.
"Captain Garrovick's report said you tried to warn the ship about the cloud creature. That you'd seen it on the planet and insisted it posed a danger."
Jim said nothing, his expression composed and remote.
"Hours before he died, he came to see you," Pike continued. "In Garrovick's Captain's logs he stated he was impressed with your intuition, your ability to analyze and extrapolate possible outcomes. I call that seeking answers to questions no one else was asking. Not to mention your bravery under duress during the explosion in Engineering."
"Is there a point to this, sir?"
"You saved a lot of lives, Jim, with your quick thinking."
"Two-hundred and forty-eight crew died, including Captain Garrovick. Quick thinking doesn't matter if no one listens to you."
"So you remember that?" Pike asked curiously, wondering if Jim's dismissive tone was from remembering all of the gossip and isolation he had been subjected to after the away team had beamed back onboard suffering from heat exhaustion. None of that information had been in the official report. But Captain Alvarez had confessed over drinks how badly he had failed Cadet Kirk.
"Jim Kirk is head and shoulders above the kind of cadets we usually get on these training missions, Chris. He never stopped insisting that the creature was real. Even when the crew ridiculed him for it." Alvarez took a deep drink of his beer. "I should have believed him. We all should have believed him. Garrovick might not be dead if we had listened sooner."
"Of course. That was before the explosion. As for afterward… I read the reports," Jim said.
"So did I. "Cadet Kirk demonstrated uncommon bravery and heroism that resulted in saving four crew and preventing exposure to a toxic chemical for the entire deck." Garrovick doesn't give out compliments easily, and he doesn't seek out counsel without good reason."
"Those men died a few days later when the creature attacked," Jim stated stoically. "Sir."
Ouch.
Pike leaned back in his chair and pinned Jim with a steady gaze. Whatever was going on in the young man's head, it was clear he wasn't going to be cajoled out of his dark mood. "What's really bothering you, Jim?"
Jim shifted slightly in his chair. It was the first sign he was uncomfortable.
"Spit it out, son."
Jim looked at him. "I was right."
Pike tipped his head to the side. "And?"
"And they didn't listen to me."
Ah, now he understood. He was doubly glad he'd invited Captain Alvarez out for a drink.
Pike leaned forward. "You think your reading of the situation was correct. And in hindsight, it was. But your viewpoint wasn't the only one to be considered, Jim. There was an entire starship filled with intelligent, capable crew and a seasoned command team overseeing them. A command team that evaluates all crew inputs, not just that of one individual. As captain, Garrovick made the best decisions he could, based on what he knew at the time. Sometimes, that isn't good enough. Regardless, if you want to be in command, you have to learn to listen to everyone. To trust your team. It isn't just about one person."
"But I was right," Jim said again stubbornly.
Pike frowned. "Are you even listening? Yes, you were right. But you could just as easily have been wrong. You had damn few facts to back up your gut."
"So all that talk about "leaping without looking" was just a recruitment come-on?"
Pike squeezed the bridge of his nose, fighting a growing sense of exasperation. "Not at all. I meant every one of that speech, son. Listen—"
"They didn't have to die," Jim averred passionately, his blue eyes flashing with anger. "We could have gotten it off the ship b—"
"Maybe," he interrupted firmly. "Maybe not. HQ will do an AAR and we'll thoroughly review the findings. That's how the system works."
The muscles in Jim's jaw jumped as he ground his teeth, no doubt to keep from arguing further. Jim Kirk was rarely at a loss of words.
Pike tried another approach, hoping to steer their conversation into calmer waters. "You earned an accommodation that is usually reserved for seasoned crewmembers, while on your first ship duty assignment – and assignment that normally only goes to third year cadets. You survived an attack that had an 85% fatality rate and you saved the lives of the crew around you." He stared compassionately at Jim. "You performed above and beyond, Jim. Sometimes that has to be good enough, despite the outcome."
Jim scoffed under his breath and looked away. The memory of Jim sitting across from him in the deserted bar, eyes glazed from too much alcohol, blood running from his nose and a chip on his shoulder the size of Iowa, flashed into his mind. When Jim turned back to him, his expression was a combination of anger and indignation.
"We could have done better," Jim said, his tone harsh.
Pike sighed. Two years ago, Jim Kirk had reacted scornfully to Pike's assessment of his father, of George Kirk's instinct to leap without looking, of his disbelief in no-win scenarios.
"Sure learned his lesson," Jim said, his words laced with bitterness.
Now that same young man was making an argument that would have done his father proud in its disregard for undue caution or self-promotion. George Kirk, after all, had given his life to support those same beliefs. Although Pike was certain that wasn't what Jim wanted to hear.
After all, medals for bravery were cold comfort when the people you cared about around you died.
A SHORT TIME LATER…
McCoy stepped outside the medical facility and paused long enough to stretch and take a deep breath of fresh air. Winter was here, and the weather today in San Francisco was brisk and chilly, despite the sunshine. The cold, damp air coming off the Pacific Ocean seeped inexorably into his bones through the soft fabric of his cadet uniform, making him long for a hot cup of coffee. The flooding sunlight, all brightness without any heat, did nothing to chase away the dampness and chill.
It was his second winter in San Francisco. This time last year, he'd thought he'd never get used to it – the constant wind and erratic temperatures, so different from the familiar landscape of Georgia, had left him feeling permanently cold. But he felt a little more indulgent about the weather today. After a month on the Farragut inhaling nothing but processed, filtered air in an environmentally controlled tin can, he couldn't find enough outrage to bitch about the cold and damp. Fresh air was fresh air, and he'd be damned if he was going to complain because it wasn't exactly to his liking.
"Coming or going?" Phani, one of the second shift nurses on the surgical floor, asked as she passed him on her way into the building.
McCoy eyed her. She looked disgustingly well-rested, and a pleasant smile graced her dark features. A far cry from the way the Farragut's medical team had looked by the time they arrived at Earth-dock. Not her fault, he reminded himself.
"Going. I'm done for the day. Unless some idiot gets himself injured and needs surgery."
"Or herself," she said cheekily, her eyes twinkling with mischievousness. She smiled and waggled her fingers in farewell. "Enjoy the rest of your day, Dr. McCoy."
He grunted, acknowledging her correction, and nodded as she cheerfully bounced up the steps, taking them two at a time with such unbounded energy that it made him tired just to watch. He'd just finished a double shift, one where he'd spent hours tending sprains, lacerations, broken bones, and a laundry list of other minor injuries, all of which could have been avoided if not for the extra practice sessions many of the cadets were shoe-horning into their schedule in order to prepare for the hand-to-hand finals that were beginning this week.
Over-eager morons.
He was in an unusually bad mood and couldn't quite pin down the reason for it. Shrugging, he chalked it up to fatigue and the vague dissatisfaction he'd been feeling since returning to Earth. He still hadn't shaken off the horrific events that had occurred on the Farragut, and assumed some of his surliness was due to having been trapped on the ship, surrounded by unforgiving space, watching crew member after crew member die. It was only after he was safely back on the ground that he'd had the time to realize he could have died, too.
Those thoughts had kept him company as he'd helped process the two-hundred plus dead crew members, a downright depressing assignment. He'd cycled btween the morgue and its rows of dead bodies, to the clinic and its hyperactive, reckless cadets, a jarring transition, even when he was feeling rested. The contrast had grated on his nerves, especially today, when he'd worked eight hours in the morgue performing autopsies, then gone straight to the clinic for another eight-hour shift. He'd been looking forward to lunch with Jim as a reward for getting through all of it, but the young man had stood him up.
McCoy shook his head, trying to dislodge his dark thoughts, and walked across the commons along the path that would take him to the far side of the campus and to his dorm. Maybe Jim was resting, he thought with relief. He'd only released Jim two days ago from Starfleet General, with clear duty restrictions.
"Come on, Bones. You said it yourself – I'm fine."
"I said you weren't going to have a cardiac arrest or—"
Jim rolled his eyes. "That was one time. And I had a good reason."
"—a seizure. That doesn't mean you're cleared for hand-to-hand combat or PE. For Christ's sake, Jim, give your body a chance to heal before you put a few more gray hairs on my head."
"But—"
"No, buts, Jim," he said sternly. "I don't want you over-exerting your system."
"I'll be careful."
McCoy snorted. "You wouldn't know 'careful' if it bit you in the ass. Which it's gonna do, if you don't listen to me."
Jim huffed, the picture of injured innocence. "Trust me, Bones. I'm not going to do anything stupid."
"I'll believe that when I see it."
"Well, what can I do?"
McCoy sighed and put down the chart he'd been updating to give his full attention to Jim. Sitting on the edge of the bed, with his legs dangling over the side and swinging restively, the kid looked about sixteen. A stranger would never guess he was approaching his twenty-fourth birthday.
"Academics. Use your time to study for finals or get a jump-start on the reading in your jam-packed, next semester class schedule."
"I don't need to study. And I'm tired of reading."
"Reading gives you a headache, you mean, which just proves my point."
Jim shot him a dirty look.
"I'm sorry, kid, I really am, but it's going to take a little more time for you to get back to 100 percent." McCoy sighed. "Look, you can do pretty much anything you want that doesn't require getting yourself beaten up or dropping a thousand kilometers through the atmosphere in a kamikazee nose-dive or sending your vitals through the roof running the obstacle course."
"Successful completion of those activities are part of my required classes," Jim said, staring down at his lap. "I can't finish the semester without them."
McCoy studied him for a long moment. Jim had been particularly subdued and withdrawn since waking in the Farragut'sSickbay. McCoy wondered if Jim was still brooding about his mother's impromptu visit at his bedside, or worrying about something else entirely.
God knows, with Jim Kirk, it could be anything.
McCoy lobbed some stones at the minefield in an attempt to provoke a reaction and discover what was troubling his friend.
"Pike will allow you to make them up once you're off restricted duty, even if you have to do it over the holiday break. So, what's the real problem? And don't give me some bullshit about completing your classes when everyone else does. You're already almost a full academic year ahead of your classmates. With a perfect grade point, to boot. I'm surprised none of your fellow cadets have strangled you in your sleep yet, due to uncontrolled jealousy and a desire to eliminate the competition."
"Very funny."
"So, what is it? Usually, when a patient is this reticent to talk, it's about sex."
"I suppose that's on the restricted list, too?"
"Depends. I'd say as long as you're not planning on trying every position in Rosenstein's The Ultimate Sex Manual in a single weekend, you should be fine. Might make you a little short of breath or light-headed."
"The usual, you mean," Jim retorted automatically, but McCoy could easily see his mind was elsewhere.
"Talk to me, Jim."
Jim kept his head bowed and McCoy could see the tension in his shoulders. After a long minute, he sighed and raised his head. His blue gaze was earnest.
"What if I can't keep up when classes start?"
McCoy blinked. He felt stunned. What the hell was this? Jim Kirk had never been doubtful about his skills, mental, physical or sexual. Quite the opposite, in fact, as Jim had always been annoyingly confident. And then things clicked into focus.
"Jim, are you worried about your comprehension ability? Is this about your memory loss?"
"I still can't remember what happened onboard the Farragutafter the explosion, Bones."
"Jim, you may never remember. This type of memory loss doesn't impact your I.Q. or your academic aptitude. The lack of oxygen you experienced interfered with your brain's ability to recall a very small and very localized sequence of memories. Temporary or permanent amnesia, as a result of such conditions, is not uncommon, but it has no impact on your ability to recall information acquired before and after the missing time period." He looked at his friend confidently. "There is no brain damage per se, and you should still remember everything you hear, see and read, as well as you did before this happened."
Silence.
Finally, Jim shrugged. "It's weird… having things happen to you and not remembering."
Like your mother coming to visit.
McCoy took a breath. Jesus, the kid looked like he'd lost his best friend. He laid a hand on Jim's shoulder. "I know. You might find it helpful to read the reports, to try and fill in the gaps. But Jim, I don't want you to obsess about this. This might be one of those things that you just have to let go."
McCoy adjusted his grip on his medical kit and shook his head. He shouldn't have been dispensing advice on the virtues of letting go to Jim, or anyone else for that matter. After all, he was still hanging on to the memories of his bitter divorce, nursing them like a deeply imbedded splinter. Self-disgust rose, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue, and he deliberately switched mental gears, using the long walk across the commons as a welcome distraction.
It wasn't long before he caught sight of a familiar figure.
"Jim!" McCoy called, raising his free arm to get the young man's attention. His medical kit – never far from his side – bumped against his leg.
Jim was walking at a rapid pace, crossing the Academy grounds in long, determined strides. Instead of scoping out his surroundings, as he usually did, his head was down. McCoy knew the signs well; Jim was upset.
"Jim!" he called out again, as he began to walk briskly toward his friend, intent on discovering what was troubling his friend.
This time, Jim heard him, and his head jerked up, revealing a scowling face. McCoy noted the tension evident in Jim's rigid posture as he waited for McCoy to close the distance between them.
"You didn't show for lunch," McCoy said, coming to a halt two steps away. He'd long ago picked up on Jim's need for a generous amount of personal space when he was troubled, and the adjustment was habit now. "I was worried about you."
"I'm fine," Jim said shortly.
McCoy studied him closely, wondering if Jim had eaten anything at all today. Jim's appetite had been nearly non-existent since their return to Earth. McCoy's assigned lunch break had been hours ago, and Jim was looking pale and drawn.
"Did you eat? You're looking like your burners are on low."
"I ate, Bones," Jim said. "I had a big breakfast."
Which was probably a lie, but McCoy let it slide. "Thought we were going to meet."
"Pike wanted to see me," Jim said, looking away. "I tried but he wouldn't let me postpone the meeting."
"Something wrong?" McCoy had met with Pike yesterday and they'd reviewed Jim's medical report at length. Pike hadn't seemed satisfied with McCoy's answers and now he wondered if Pike had called Jim in for a meeting to fish for more information. He hoped the captain hadn't subjected Jim to another debrief. Jim had already had too many of those, in his opinion.
"He wanted to congratulate me on my accommodation." Jim frowned. "He could have sent me a comm, instead of wasting my time patting my back for something I can't remember."
Relieved that the meeting was nothing more serious, and that the accommodation had gone through despite Garrovick's death, McCoy smiled. "He's proud of you, Jim. And so am I. Congratulations. The accommodation is well-deserved, in my opinion. Probably won't be the last one in your career, either."
Jim scowled again, his mouth tightening.
"I'm not trying to chase chest-candy, Bones. I just want to go into the black and be a good officer."
Well, clearly, that had been the wrong thing to say.
But then, he hadn't been sure what to say to Jim these past few days. No topic was safe. Between the incident on the Farragut, Jim's memory loss and the unexpected visit from his mother, his mood had been unpredictable. Even asking what Jim would like for dinner last night had turned into a verbal tussle.
"Maybe we could get together for dinner?" McCoy proposed, trying to find a safer subject.
"Sure," Jim said, his tone less than enthusiastic.
"Call me when you finish class, and I'll meet you. You can choose where we go." Even if it was for burgers and fries.
"I don't have any more classes today." Jim blew out a deep breath and looked past McCoy. "I'd like to go somewhere and get a stiff drink, but my doctor wouldn't approve."
Which was true. McCoy was determined to get Jim's weight back up to where it had been before the training cruise, recover the pounds Jim had shed so frighteningly fast on the Farragut. As a result, he had placed Jim on a strict nutritional regimen. Obviously, Jim was having trouble following the guidelines, since he'd skipped lunch to meet with Pike.
It was also clear that Jim hadn't been sleeping well, judging by the shadows beneath his eyes. He needed time, McCoy knew. Time to reconcile everything that happened and come to terms with it. But that wasn't something Jim was going to do easily. And clearly the kid wasn't going to ask for help. He didn't need a doctor, McCoy realized. He needed a friend.
"Fuck him," said McCoy and wrapped an arm around Jim's shoulders. "I won't tell, if you don't."
THE END