Apologies for the delay in upload. My computer crashed but before it did, it managed to wipe out chapter six. Luckily I had a printed copy. Unluckily it wasn't an updated copy. Talk about heartbreak. On top of everything, this chapter wasn't easy for me. Dialog for one? Ugh.
~Cooper
CHAPTER 6
Four days later . . .
The replicator door slid up and McCoy reached for the mug of coffee. He sipped it absentmindedly as he scanned the datapad for the latest update on the Starpox vaccines. They were up two hundred and thirty-five thousand. Not bad, he thought, feeling optimistic. They would have the needed amount, plus some, by the time the Enterprise reached Halo V.
McCoy went to his office where he quickly signed off on the report, sent the captain a note on their progress, and made a short entry into his medical log. He checked his mailbox and the InstaText app—neither had any messages for him. The last he'd heard, Chekov had already come up with four-thousand and three highly probably routes that the mapping ship might have taken between its last known points with just over seven hundred slightly less probable routes. With a million potential variations, the kid had done good.
As for Jim and Spock, McCoy hadn't seen or heard from them since the meeting in the conference room. He'd learned from Uhura that neither had been spending much time on the bridge, appearing only for the few mandatory duties before quickly retreating back into the computer labs. McCoy suspected that his friends were actually relishing the challenge of regressing the cryo-unit's coding. The medical run to Halo V was far from exciting, and Jim tended to get edgy after a few days with nothing to do. Not many knew that Kirk, besides being an excellent captain and strategist, was a damn near prodigy at coding.
Personally, McCoy couldn't fathom why the cryo-unit's coding was so important and had said as much to Scotty during lunch. The Engineering Chief had whipped out his own datapad in response. "Lookie here," he'd said, shoving it in front of McCoy's face. On the screen was an app titled Where's My Shit? He tapped it and McCoy saw icons of Scotty's tools in a box labeled "Scotty's Loche-er." An L-shaped tool, however, was floating across a diagram of one of the lower decks.
"That'd be Hemsworth," Scotty explained. "Using my power converter to check the nacelle couplings." Scotty set the datapad aside and picked up his sandwich. Bits of turkey and lettuce fell out as he shook it at McCoy, emphasizing his words. "We just hafta break that blasted code."
McCoy frowned, still slightly confused. "So like with your tools, the coding software can tell you where things are located?"
Scotty nodded sagely. "Aye, and regressing it can tell you where they've been."
McCoy sat in his office, pondering how anyone could sort through one hundred and twenty-five years of code. It was, to his mind, a big ball of tangled string.
"Above my pay grade," he muttered then glanced at the chronometer on the wall. It was one minute passed the end of his shift. Most nights McCoy stayed long after his shift ended, updating files or reading medical reports from HQ. He never rushed to leave because, simply put, he never had a place to be.
That, however, had changed.
And he was already late.
McCoy snapped his computer off and yanked open the top drawer to his desk. Inside lay a genuine Earth book. He'd found it in an antique store on Deep Space Four, wedged between two outdated copies of Grey's Anatomy, 2554. The leather was worn with age, the spine cracked, the corners rounded. But a quick glance through its yellowed pages, and McCoy had been captivated.
He plucked the book up and tucked it beneath an arm. Without a last glance around or even bothering to dim the lights, McCoy grabbed his coffee and hurried from the room.
" . . . You only have to let the soft animal of your body
Love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
Are moving across the landscapes,
Over the prairies and the deep trees,
The mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
Are heading home again."
McCoy paused his reading, appreciating the way the words formed in his mouth to create such vivid imagery. They felt right and clean and fresh. He carefully turned the page and scanned the next few lines. His throat constricted slightly, and he had to swallow a lump before he could continue.
"Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
The world offers itself to your imagination,
Calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—
Over and over, announcing your place
In the family of things."
McCoy closed the book and took a steadying breath. The deep loneliness that infected his life suddenly felt like a gaping hole in his chest. He gave a sudden, strangled laugh. If only it had been an infection or a wound! He could have fixed those. But this? McCoy was helpless against it. He'd tried, so many times, but. . . McCoy was a private man. It was far easier to bear the weight of another's burdens than share his own.
A few more breaths and the pain receded to the familiar, dull ache. McCoy stood, his body stiff from sitting for so long. A glance at the chronometer revealed it was nearly midnight, according to his shift. He stretched, yawned, then shuffled over to the biobed to gaze down at his patient with a clinical eye.
Her skin was still pale but not sickly-looking. Her circulation was surprisingly good despite being dormant for so long. Even with delayed treatment, there hadn't been any deterioration to the tissues or organs. She was, in fact, in perfect health.
Except for her continued comatose state.
There was simply no reason for it. McCoy had spent countless hours in the medical library and been in near constant touch with the top minds at Starfleet Medical. He'd even spoken to several Earth historians, trying to find some information about the stasis methods used on the sleeper ships of the Eugenics Era.
So far, he'd found nothing that would help.
"But don't you worry, darlin', I'm not gonna give up on you," McCoy said companionably, patting the motionless hand. "And I'm not gonna rush you, either. You take all the time you need, and I'll just wait right here." He frowned then arched an eyebrow at her. "But just to let you know, I'm hardpressed to keep calling you my patient—you're in better health than the captain." His gaze became unfocused as he allowed his thoughts to drift, but the steady rise and fall of her chest in his peripheral vision was comforting.
"So that begs the question, what should we call you?" McCoy blinked the woman back into focus. "That . . . that place you were in," he said, reluctant to speak of the cryo-unit. "It had some markings on it—AGEE 1-17. There's no planet or colony with that designation. And it's not a manufacturer's mark, either. So is that about you?" McCoy paused again then nodded to himself. "I think. . . yeah. Agee," he said, then repeated it again. "Aggie."
Like the poem, the name felt right in his mouth. It was earthy, like sunlight on wildflowers. McCoy beamed down at the woman, just missing the tiniest flicker along the brain function line on the monitor above the bed. It had been so small and so quick that the computer simply recorded it without sounding an alert: the blip, along with the others that it had recorded, was well within the standard of deviation.
"Now you listen up, Aggie," he said, moving to gently readjust the woman's head. The pillow was pliable and especially designed for long-term contact with skin, but prolonged contact with anything created the possibility of bed sores. Her hair was silky between his fingers but McCoy didn't let them linger. "Just like that poem says, we may be alone but we still got a place in the family of things. And there's a whole galaxy just waiting for you to wake up and join it."
McCoy hit the switch that changed the pressure points on the bed and felt a deep satisfaction at completing the simple tasks that a nurse would normally do. Despite his outwardly grumpy demeanor, he actually enjoyed caring for his patients. He just didn't want them to know it.
"See you in the morning, Aggie," he said, fighting another yawn. "Sweet dreams."
As the doors swished closed behind him, there was another miniscule blip on the monitor. Then another.
Blip . . .
Blip . . Blip . .
Blip . Blip . Blip .
The shrill whistle of the intercom jolted McCoy from unconsciousness. At first he thought it was a ship-wide announcement but when his name blared out of the speaker, he felt as though the gravity grid had momentarily lapsed.
No matter how many times he'd been called on an emergency, he still felt the trickle of dread, the cold pit in his stomach. Nobody called a doctor during his sleep cycle because everyone was okay.
He jumped from the bunk and slapped the intercom button. "McCoy here. What's the problem?"
"Jones, Sir." It was the redheaded nurse from Beta shift. "It's about our Jane Doe."
McCoy could hear the beeps and alarms going off in the background as he yelled into the speaker. "Well, what the hell is it? And kill those damn alarms!"
A half-second passed, silence, then Jones spoke. "She's . . . she's gone, Sir."
The room tipped dangerously to one side as the words sank in. Grief and guilt colliding within him, leaving him dazed. What had he missed? What hadn't he done? Should he have run another blood chemistry test? Had there been an allergic reaction to the new supplements? Had she suffered? Damn it, what hadn't he done right? McCoy depressed the intercom button again.
"How'd it happen?" he demanded, his voice hoarse. "Her last scans were normal, organs were—"
"No, Sir"—Jones interrupted—"I mean she's gone, as in not here. She's not in Sick Bay!"
McCoy sagged against the bulkhead, pressing his forehead into the smooth panel. Aggie was alive! Then a new thought struck him: Aggie was awake. A flood of emotion welled up inside of McCoy: concern for her well-being, empathy for the fear and confusion she was no doubt experiencing. There were other emotions, too, but McCoy didn't even know how to acknowledge their existence.
He had to find her, quickly, before irreversible psychological trauma occurred.
Straightening, McCoy slapped the intercom button. "Inform the captain and the communication officer on the bridge. Call for a ship wide search to be conducted but no alarms. I don't want my patient to drop dead from fright now that she's woken up." McCoy waited a nano-second for Jones to respond, then barked into the intercom again. "Now, Jones!"
McCoy had scrambled into a black t-shirt, pants, and boots, and exited into the corridor just as the announcement came over the speakers.
"Attention all personnel: An unidentified human female has left Sick Bay without authorization. She is wearing patient blues, light skinned with brown hair. She is approximately twenty-five years of age. Be advised: Approach with caution and alert the bridge immediately as to her location."
The sliding doors scraped McCoy's shoulders as he ran into Sick Bay. Dr. M'Benga caught up to him just as he entered the private medical room.
The sheet that had been covering Aggie lay in a heap on the floor. The chair he'd been sitting in earlier was knocked over. He kicked it out of his way and walked up to the life function monitor, pulling up the last scan.
When he saw the wild spikes in the brain and heart functions, he swore loudly. Aggie had fled the room in a state of sheer panic. McCoy turned on M'Benga. "How the hell did she get out of Sick Bay without anyone seeing?"
M'Benga's calm demeanor was starting to crack. "I don't know, Leonard. She was gone by the time we got here."
"Bones!"
McCoy stepped around M'Benga and left the private room. The captain was standing in the middle of Sick Bay.
"Jim, any news?"
"None," he said then shot McCoy a grim look. "Bones, I need to know if you saw anything, anything, in that girl that would be a danger to this ship."
"A danger to the ship?" McCoy repeated, confused. "I think the ship is more of a danger to her. She doesn't even know she's in space."
"I can't take that chance," Kirk replied grimly. "I can't have her wandering around on my ship unchecked."
McCoy felt a flicker of unease. "What are you really asking me, Jim?"
Kirk squared his shoulders but looked unhappy about his next question. "Is she healthy enough to be stunned, if necessary?"
McCoy rocked back onto his heels. "I-I can't believe you're asking me that, and no, I don't think she's healthy enough to take a phaser to the chest."
"Is that your professional opinion, Doctor?"
McCoy hardened his voice. "That's the only one I have to give, Captain."
Kirk winced. "I'm sorry, Bones. I didn't mean—"
"Aw shit, Jim, I know that," McCoy said, slumping forward. "We don't torpedo a species on first contact then try to figure out if they're safe or not. You're looking for a frightened young woman who's been frozen for over a hundred years. She has no idea where she is—when she is—or what's happening to her. She doesn't know that we're not monsters, Jim, but if we start pointing phasers at her, then maybe we will be."
Kirk's communicator chirped. He grabbed it and flipped it open.
"Kirk here."
"Ensign Thomas, Captain. We found her. She's on the aft observation deck."
"Have you made contact?"
"Not really, Sir. We called out but either she doesn't understand us or she can't hear us. Reminds me of my sister, Sir. She sleepwalks. Do you wish for us to approach?"
"Negative," he said, looking at McCoy. "Medical is on the way."
Kirk flipped the communicator closed and placed it back on his belt. "Well, Doctor, she knows she's in space now. She's on the aft obs deck. Here's your chance."
McCoy took several seconds to grab a hypo and load it with a mild sedative. He didn't let himself think as he raced down the long corridor. His emotions varied from excitement to nervousness to downright fear.
He slowed as he approached the red shirts surrounding the open door of the observation deck. They looked unsettled, clearly baffled by the woman's unresponsive behavior. McCoy held back a derisive snort. Thank God the Romulans never saw this, he thought. All they would have to do is hurl a bunch of dazed girls at Security and they'd be able to takeover the ship.
"Make a hole, gentlemen."
The order came from behind and McCoy looked back to see Kirk, chest heaving slightly. Their eyes locked for a second then Kirk nodded in a silent gesture of good luck.
The guards moved aside, and McCoy walked through the doors. The observation deck was a dome-shaped, cavernous room, lit only by the starlight streaking past the viewport and the soft glow of recessed safety lighting at the end of each empty bench. It was a place of silence, of solitude, of reflective thought.
The first year of the Enteprise's five-year mission, the room was rarely empty, crammed full of newly minted officers in constant awe of their surroundings. Over the last few years, however, the room was all but forgotten, and McCoy would often slip inside when sleep evaded him, usually with a bottle of something "medicinal" to drink.
It took a few seconds for McCoy's eyes to adjust to the darkness, and another two for him to spot the slender figure on the far side of the room. Aggie was on her knees before the curved viewport that made up the far wall, her hands pressed flat against the transparent barrier. From behind, it looked as though she might be worshipping. Or perhaps surrendering to her fate.
McCoy's heart ached at the sight, especially as he took in the oversized medical gown hanging crookedly from her thin shoulders. She was a foundling, lost in both time and space. His arms wanted to gather her close, shield her from the emptiness of space while soothing the terror she was no doubt feeling.
The urge sent him several steps into the room before he realized it. His eyes went to the long hair tumbling down her back in messy waves. The tips were practically vibrating as her body shook. He took another step and the thick soles of his boots creaked slightly. Aggie stiffened at the sound.
"Um, hello," McCoy blurted out, startled by her sudden awareness of his presence. His mind searched wildly for something appropriate to say . . . and came up blank. So much for first impressions, he thought, and decided on short, clear sentences. "I'm Doctor McCoy. Leonard, actually. But some folks just call me Len," he added awkwardly, then silently screamed at himself. What the fuck are you doing? This isn't helping, you idiot!
"Those stars, uh, sure are pretty," he said, trying to sound casual. "Mind if I join you?"
Her hands curled into fists against the transparasteel, not in a gesture of violence but in obvious distress. McCoy could see the struggle going on within her small body. Eventually she pulled in a deep breath, held it, then let it out. Her shoulders sagged forward, but before they did, she'd given a little shrug as if to say "if you want."
Encouraged, McCoy approached the viewport on her left side and slowly lowered himself to the deck. He fought the urge to gawk at her and instead locked his gaze on a dark orange star streaking across the viewport. The light was dark like an old ember; the star itself looked like a rotting peach. It was old. Ancient, even. Nearing the end of its days. The star slipped from view and was replaced by a large purple nebulae.
"Easy to feel lost in all this. . . wonder," he murmured, sneaking a glance at his companion. His breath nearly stopped as he took in the side of her face. She looked ethereal in the starlight, a single wet track marred her cheek like liquid silver.
McCoy had to squeeze his hands to keep from reaching out, to trace that line with his fingers. "Are you . . . in any pain?"
A moment of absolute stillness, as if she herself were searching for the answer, then her lips began to move. McCoy couldn't hear and leaned closer. Holding his own breath, he could just make out the faintest of whispers.
"Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine."
McCoy frowned at the strange familiarity of the words before his mind quickly supplied the answer. It was from the poem he'd read earlier that night. How the hell could she remember that? He thought, stunned. It was impossible—she'd been in a damned coma! He made a quick mental note to check the sensitivity of the life function monitors. Still, they'd have to be practically non operational to miss a patient with zero brain activity moving into a semi-conscious state.
McCoy glanced at Aggie again. From the way she held herself, the tilt of her head and slight angle to her shoulders, she was clearly aware of the meaning of her words. And just as clearly expecting an answer.
"Hmm. Yeah," he said with a humorless chuckle. "That might take awhile." He scratched his chin, felt the stubble there, dropped his hand. "Look, I don't know what I'm doing here. Honestly I'm in over my head. But I want to help you. I know all this"—he motioned at the stars—"is overwhelming. But like the poem also said, it's just welcoming you back into the family of things. So we'll just take it slow, okay? You're safe now. And you're not alone, not anymore."
She hadn't moved, hadn't even blinked, as he spoke. But now, slowly, she turned to face him, and McCoy was suddenly staring into the most beautiful, fern-colored eyes he'd ever seen. His lungs held onto his breath, refusing to let it escape.
"You," she said louder but in a raspy voice unused to speaking. "You've been with me."
Still unable to breathe, McCoy nodded.
"Why?"
McCoy blinked as emotion welled up inside of him, so many feelings he couldn't have sorted them if he'd tried. He shrugged helplessly. "Maybe. . . maybe I needed to be welcomed back, too."
Her green eyes widened—either in understanding or surprise or confusion, McCoy didn't know—but the mental barrier she'd built to protect herself suddenly broke and her agonized wail echoed around the domed room. Instead of being alarmed, however, McCoy felt relief. This was normal, this was the beginning of coping. There would be grief. But buried within that dark place was always a seed of hope.
The last of her adrenaline drained from her rigid body, and she collapsed to the side. McCoy caught her, pulled her close against him, and held her tightly as the sobs wracked her body.
"Welcome back, darlin," he whispered, stroking her hair. "Welcome back."
So I would love to hear your thoughts. I have over 300 views but only 4 or so comments. . . kinda sad. Makes me feel like I'm sitting in the corner, playing with an old toy, and nobody even stops to say hello. LOL. Okay, that does sound sad but it's been a tough week with getting this chapter typed, fixed, and uploaded. Feedback inspires me to keep moving.
~Cooper