"Is this really necessary?" demands Joaquin, glaring at the Enterprise medical staff as though they are ants ruining a picnic.

It causes a little unease among the nurses but Leonard just glares back. "It's necessary if I decide it's necessary. You have some lung damage from smoke inhalation, so if you want to go on breathing, I suggest you sit there and play nice." Leonard can out stubborn the best of them.

"I will be fine," insists Joaquin, his lips curling in displeasure.

"Just let them do their job," lectures Ling from the next biobed over. "You'll have to excuse him, Doctor. It's been awhile since we had to socialize with anyone not on our ship."

"Space isolation is never fun," agrees Leonard. "How long have you been out here?" He runs his scanner over the patient comparing them to the automatic readings recorded by the biobed systems.

"It feels like centuries," she says with a tinge of melancholy.

Leonard knows the feeling. He loads a hypo and injects it in Joaquin's neck before turning his attention fully to Ling. At least she's a little civil. The rest of the Botany Bay crew looks like they'd rather spit on them rather than associate with them. He runs the scanner over Ling. "You have no lung damage," he says with a frown.

"But?" she asks, sensing Leonard's not pleased.

Leonard shakes his head. Most of the readings are perfect- almost too perfect. There's something he can't put his finger on though. The readings are a little off from what he normally sees but he can't place as to why. "I think we have to do some tests," he says. "There's something a little off I'd like to check out and make sure it's not anything serious." He can practically hear Joaquin roll his eyes behind him.

"It's nothing to worry about, Doctor," insists Ling.

"Oh?"

Ling smiles. "We're transporting Habavrioum crystals. They emit a type of radiation that while it has no long term adverse effects it does temporarily alter physiological processes in some species. Some of the shielding on the containers may have failed."

Leonard checks his readings again. It could explain what he's seeing. "We should still do some extra blood work, just in case."

"If you insist." Ling rolls up her sleeve for McCoy to take his samples.

"Sorry," apologises Leonard as he walks into the briefing room. He's not only the last senior staff member to show up but late as well, having stopped by his quarters on his way from medical to assure Jim that the red alert was precautionary only.

Spock only nods at Leonard's presence. "Commander Roberts, have all the Botany Bay crew been assigned quarters?"

"Yes, I have them all situated in section E nine," confirms the first officer.

"So they're staying on board?" asks Uhura.

"Captain Harrison is transporting vital supplies for the Federation. He has authority to use the Enterprise to finish transporting his goods to Tolmin Six," explains Spock. Having his ship high jacked is what most humans would deem inconvenient. Since everything the Enterprise does is Starfleet business, whether the detour to Tolmin Six is under his orders or orders issued to Harrison it's all the same to Spock but there are pieces of Harrison's story that have gaps.

"Would that cargo be Habavrioum crystals?" asks Leonard.

"It would. Is there a medical concern, Doctor McCoy?" ask Spock.

"Not really. Effects are short term and vary by person. You either feel like a million bucks or like you're coming down with the flu. Either way, symptoms clear up in a couple of days. If the crystals are shielded properly there'll be no issue at all. But one of the crew seems to think the containers aren't all functioning properly."

Spock turns to Scotty. "Commander Scott, can you repair the crates?"

"I can take a look but it would be far easier to implement a force field around the whole cargo bay in case any other crates fail."

"Proceed," Spock orders.

"Why would they need to transport Habavrioum crystals to Tolmin Six? The planet is uninhabited," asks Chekov.

"Apparently Starfleet has recently established a colony there and it needs the crystals to run the outpost," answers Roberts.

"Since when does Starfleet use private contractors to haul vital supplies?" asks Scotty. A federation ship would be much more reliable and faster.

"It is not for us to question Starfleet's choice Mr Scott. I have seen the orders and they are authentic. Mr Sulu, you will set a course to Tolmin Six. The rest of us will try and make our guests feel welcome. That is all," says Spock dismissing his staff. The sooner they complete Harrison's misson, the sooner they can get back to theirs.

Thankfully the gym is mostly empty. It would be just the three of them if they stuck to Jim's four am schedule but since Jim promised he wouldn't work with Chekov without a chaperon, he's had to resort to more normal hours. Apparently no one else shares his love for late night early morning hours.

"Evening gentlemen," greets Jim as he approaches Chekov and Scotty at the punching bag. Scotty's holding the bag while Chekov warms up. Jim's got to say the kid's form is improving spectacularly.

"You ready?" he asks, tiredly, because doing anything these days, even giving instruction is exhausting.

"Da," says Chekov with a bright smile.

"We're going to work on combinations today," says Jim. The kid has improved in leaps and bounds. Jim remembers what it's like to be that good at things. It won't be long before he's out grown anything Jim can offer. Jim's almost emptied his bag of tricks and experience.

Scotty climbs up on a stack of mats, lying down on them with a tech manual on his PADD. He knows his way around a bar fight; being an engineer doesn't require him to know more than that. If Chekov wants to get thrown around a mat once a week for thrills, that's on the kid; Scotty's just here to supervise that things don't escalate past anyone's control.

The sweat is matting down Chekov's bangs as he punches combinations into Jim's padded hands. He's so focused he doesn't really notice their guests come into the gym until they start arguing in the corner. Chekov glances over at the commotion only to get smacked in the side of the head by Jim.

"Don't take your eyes off your opponent," warns Jim. It's kind of a cheap shot but if your life is on the line the enemy isn't interested in fair and the slightest distraction can mean your life.

"Sorry," apologises Chekov dropping his hands completely. The evacuees might be loud and distracting but watching the amount of weight some of them are currently lifting is impressive. Even Scotty's put down his manual to watch the show.

Jim glances over his shoulder. The guy could probably easily bench press him and Chekov combined despite not looking much bigger than McCoy. It's all impressive to look at but Jim's taken down his fair share of superior muscle in his life to know muscle alone doesn't win the fight.

"Let's put what you learned today into practice," says Jim stepping into the boxing ring. They trade harmless blows in a friendly back and forth, slowly picking up a little speed as they find their rhythm. Jim has to admit, Chekov's really improving. If Jim were still in his glory bar days, he'd take the kid out looking for a good bar fight and not worry about him getting his ass kicked.

"Good job," praises Jim as Chekov works in one of the new combinations he's learned. He doesn't glance over his shoulder at the mocking chuckle that comes from the weight lifting corner but Chekov does. Jim uses the opportunity to reacquaint Chekov with the mat. "I told you not to lose focus."

"Can't even beat a cripple," mutters one of the male evacuees. The others chuckle in agreement.

It makes the hairs on the back of Jim's neck stand up and his fingers curl tightly in his boxing gloves. He'd love nothing more than to march over there and knock a couple of them on their asses but given his reputation on the ship at the moment, he should probably refrain from acting like an impulsive psycho.

Clearly Chekov feels the same way, he looks tense, bitter and nearing an edge. Jim's not sure if the kid feels personally slighted or indignant on Jim's behalf. Either way, it's playing havoc with his concentration and inner calm. He's getting sloppy with his punches and anger is making him reckless.

Time to teach Chekov his next, most valuable, lesson. Jim steps up his game, coming at Chekov harder, faster and unafraid to play a little dirty. Chekov manages to stay with Jim, though he takes more hits than usual; frustration keeping him from thinking and following through on what he should be doing.

Their uninvited friends put down the weights and move closer to the ring to watch. There's cat calls and cheering with every punch thrown, but Jim ignores it all. He's not here for anyone's entertainment. Finally Chekov leaves and opening that's too hard to ignore and Jim goes in for the final hit.

Chekov goes down to the roar of displeasure from the crowd. He doesn't even wait for Jim to offer a hand up, jumping to his feet with a snarl and a pointed fist at the taunting evacuees. Scotty's ducking the ropes and jumping in the ring to try and hold the kid back at the same time Jim's stepping in front of him. Chekov's improved but not enough that he's going to be victorious against this gang of thugs.

"Easy, laddie," cautions Scotty, holding Chekov back. "Ye need to be more forgiving. Everyone's entitled to an opinion."

"But you hear what they're saying?" demands Chekov. He's tired of people putting him down and he's certainly not going to stand for guests aboard the ship talking about his friends like that either.

"We're big enough to take a few hits," reminds Scotty. They don't need an incident involving non crew members and certainly not involving Jim and Chekov in the gym.

"They're not worth it," says Jim, close in Chekov's ear as he works to hold the kid back.

"Absolutely pathetic. A child and a cripple too afraid to fight. Anytime you want to learn how to fight like a real man, kid, come find me," laughs Otto getting into the ring and cracking his knuckles.

Jim's heard it all before. He spent many late nights in bars getting drunk and using punches to prove he was still as capable as ever after being court-martialled. It never really changed anyone's minds, just gave him bruised and scrapped knuckles. However, one can't argue with the stopping power of a good fist to the face and Jim's not going to stand idly by and let some assholes discourage Chekov. They don't know how far the kid has come to have any right to an opinion of his abilities.

He waits until Otto steps just within arm's reach before turning on his heel and delivering a solid right hook. Otto's head snaps to the side leaving him dazed for only a second. He slowly turns back to face Jim with a predatory smile. Jim can feel his mistake in his gut before Otto's large fist ever connects with him.

It's like getting hit by a shuttle. Jim loses a couple of seconds because the next thing he sees is a frantic Chekov leaning over him, his mouth moving at warp speed. Jim can't hear him over the ringing in his ears but he recognizes the words "Are you alright?" being mouthed at him. Over Chekov's shoulder Jim can see Scotty standing toe to toe with Otto, yelling at one another.

"I'm fine," he grumbles around a mouthful of blood. "It's fine. Scotty, leave it." He doesn't need to add another incident to his lengthy list of them so far. He certainly doesn't need to explain any broken bones to Leonard.

Scotty looks over at Jim with a look that asks if he's sure? Jim just nods and let's Chekov pull him to his feet. Clearly Jim miscalculated his opponent; the only victim of surprise being him. "Let's just call it for today," he says. "I'll buy both a drink."

Scotty and Chekov both look equal parts pissed and concerned. Concern wins out because they agree to leave the gym without further incident. Scotty throws Jim's arm over his shoulder to help him walk. His balance is still a little off from that hit. "You alright, Jim?" asks Scotty concerned they might have to hit sickbay first.

"It was like hitting a brick wall," laments Jim. "Who the hell are these guys?"

After getting a drink, the trio move to the mess hall to have dinner with Uhura and Sulu. Jim would go back to his quarters and make something for Leonard but the doctor's tied up in sickbay and it doesn't sound like Jim's going to see his husband before bed.

"What, did you and Chekov have a prize fight?" asks Uhura, getting a good look at Jim's impressive black eye. She's never really understood the male need to use fists instead of words or why it would be considered fun.

Sulu looks at Chekov like maybe he doesn't know that sweet mild mannered kid that sits beside him at the helm as well as he thought.

"I walked into a door," mutters Jim, taking a seat at the table and setting his tray down.

Uhura looks like she's not buying Jim's bullshit. Jim just shrugs.

"Yeah, a door named Otto of the Botany Bay," says Scotty, still sounding a little sore over the matter.

"Harrison's crew picked a fight with you?" asks Sulu in disbelief.

"I had it coming," laments Jim. He does not need a big deal made of this; it invites too many questions and attention.

"Now that I believe," says Uhura.

"Thanks," replies Jim, acting wounded.

Uhura just rolls her shoulders, like what are you going to do. It's not her fault Jim has a pattern or that she's figured it out.

"Having a bad day?" asks Jim with an overly fake smile.

Uhura sighs. It's been a long tiring day. "We're having communication relay issues all day. Haven't been able to send or receive communications." It's not the end of the world, there's nothing extremely pressing at the moment to send back to Starfleet but it's frustrating. There's a certain sense of foreboding loneliness that happens when the comm. lines are dead. It's like they really are truly alone out here.

"When did this start?" asks Jim.

"Some time last night," answers Scotty. He's checked the equipment three times and come up empty. Tomorrow he's going to start taking things down to the bolts to find the problem; this ship doesn't get to keep secrets from him.

"You've had a busy night Scotty," says Sulu. They all had their sleep interrupted by their guests, but at least Sulu got to go back to bed for a few hours.

"Aye, don't get me started," spits Scotty. "Did you know I had to move sixty crates off their shuttles and move them to the cargo bay," he lectures, pointing his fork at Sulu, like the helmsman orchestrated the whole ordeal. "Sixty!"

Sulu raises his hands in surrender. "And then," continues Scotty with flourish, "the doctor, not the crew or the Captain of the bleedin' ship we had to rescue informs us there might be radiation to consider. The least they could have done is mention that before I moved those crates to that cargo bay."

"Radiation?" asks Jim.

Scotty waves off Jim's look of concern. "McCoy already said it was harmless."

Jim listens to the rest of Scotty's complaints in silence but something just doesn't feel right.

"May I have a word, Doctor?" asks Harrison looming in the door to McCoy's office like a vampire lurking in the shadows before the kill.

"Sure," snaps McCoy. He's been dealing with Harrison's ill-mannered brood all day, what's one more. Since Harrison's already standing in his office, Leonard suspects he's not going to take no for an answer anyway. "Why don't you sit down," he offers.

Harrison stays on his feet, towering over Leonard in an intimidation tactic Leonard's seen before in every delegate and commander that thinks they know more about life and death than McCoy. "Is it really necessary to monopolize all of my crew's time," Harrison asks.

Something about Harrison's voice that sends chills down Leonard's spine. The man can evoke sheer terror while conveying righteous furry without even raising his voice or moving a muscle. There's something predatory in that cold level and calculating voice. "I wouldn't consider ensuring the health of a patient monopolizing their time," says Leonard.

"You deemed them all healthy. Further tests are unnecessary," states Harrison. And it's almost like talking to Spock but with less feelings if that's possible.

Leonard's come across men who like to throw their weight around before. He never flinched then and he doesn't intend to now. "I'm currently the Chief Medical Officer on board this ship and I'll decide what tests are necessary and which are not unless you've recently been assigned the job of surgeon general of Starfleet command."

Harrison doesn't breathe a word but his chilly stare gets even colder like he can't believe an ant like Leonard would dream of challenging his authority.

"I thought not. Until such time, it is my duty to ensure that your crew as well as mine stay in healthy condition. A sentiment any captain should support." If they weren't civilized men, Leonard's sure Harrison would over his desk and strangling the life out him right now.

Instead Harrison's eyes narrow on the framed display of historic medical tools Leonard keeps in his office. The scalpels and bone saws have fallen out of use over the centuries, each having their time in the sun as the latest in medical advancement, only to be labelled instruments of barbarianism with the next advancement. Leonard keeps them around to remind him that it's the hand not the tool that truly heals.

"What an odd thing for a healer to have, instruments of death," poses Harrison, catching his reflection in the gleam of the sharp edges of the knives.

"Instruments of healing," corrects Leonard.

Harrison counters, "In the right hands they offer quick or slow death."

Leonard's not interested in finding common ground with the man. It's like a Rorschach test- they clearly come from two different places. "The right hands used them to save lives. It's a reminder that the desire to heal goes back centuries."

"The desire to kill and rule goes back even further," says Harrison with a vindictive smile.

Leonard's trying really hard not to feel like the rabbit staring down the wolf. "The ability maybe," he concedes, "but not the desire." His whole field is populated with people that value life above anything else. Starfleet has some pretty high opinions about helping species and people rather than conquering the galaxy. It makes Leonard wonder how someone like Harrison is even involved with Starfleet.

"Men always desire to rule," claims Harrison moving around Leonard's desk to get a better look at the scalpels. "It's what separates us from the animals."

"Oh?" Leonard slides his chair back to maintain his distance. "I thought the ability to use tools is what separated us from the animals."

Harrison smiles and it's all teeth. Leonard's stomach feels like it's being sucked down a drain. "Our skill at contouring is what raised us above the animals and it shall raise us above our enemies now."

"Starfleet prefers peace last time I checked," chokes Leonard. He feels cornered and trapped like the latest victim in one of those horror vids Jim used to make him watch while he was trying to study for exams.

"Mistakes like that cost empires," says Harrison, finally stepping back to his side of the desk. "Good day doctor," he says curtly, vanishing out the door as eerily as he entered.

Leonard can't help like feel he just stared down a grizzly and escaped with his life.

"You don't have to come," says Leonard, giving Jim an easy out. He's trying real hard to bit his tongue about the black eye. While he backs Jim one hundred percent, he knows Jim isn't exactly a saint and since neither Chekov nor Scotty called Leonard in a panic about what happened, Leonard suspects Jim is just as guilty the Botany Bay crewman. The last thing they need tonight is more tension.

Truthfully, Leonard doesn't want to go but he'll save his start a mutiny card for something more important than ducking a formal dinner in honour of someone he's deemed an ass. Like most of the crew, Leonard isn't all that impressed with their 'honoured' guests. He thought he was cantankerous, but the Botany Bay crew raises standoffish and arrogant to a whole new level.

"It'll be fine," says Jim, pulling on his shirt. "Maybe they're better conversationalists around a dinner table than in the gym." He kind of doubts it, but a formal dinner might make for more polite conversation. At least decorum will dictate they won't end in a brawl over asking questions.

"I doubt it. They're not exactly the sharing type," huffs Leonard. For the most part they keep to themselves as they move about the ship. Any answers given in medical have been clipped and straight to the point.

Jim can see the lines of tension running through Leonard. "Are you still worrying over those test results?"

Leonard can't put his finger on what's bothering him. He's running out of excuses to try and perform more tests on a crew that has some of the healthiest readings he's ever seen but something won't let him sign off on the matter. "Something's just not sitting right," he sighs. Maybe he just wants to stick it to Harrison after their meeting or maybe he literally wants keep sticking Otto with hypos after the gym incident. Either way, there's something wrong.

"You'll figure it out," assures Jim. Leonard is gifted with the tenacity to figure everything out.

"There's probably nothing to figure out," concedes Leonard. "Everything odd can be explained by exposure to Habavrioum crystals." Sometimes it is the simplest answer. Perhaps Leonard is the real issue here.

"Is whatever that's bothering you going to kill them?" asks Jim, running his hand through Leonard's hair and down his jaw.

"No. They'll out live us all with those readings."

Jim wraps his arms around Leonard's waist, pulling him close. "Then don't worry about it," he whispers lovingly. "A couple more weeks and they'll be off the ship and someone else's medical problem or not." He'll be glad to be rid of them and get back to the status quo. It feels like a dark could has been looming over the ship since the rescue.

"It's my job to worry about it." Whether he likes them or not, if there's something potentially wrong he needs to do everything in his power to correct it.

"Not tonight. Tonight your job is to feign interest in this dinner." Jim's been to and hosted his fair share of dinners for guests. It's the highlight of no one's social calendar and an exercise in restraint and fake sentiments.

Leonard lets out a long sigh. It's going to be a long night.