DEGUELLO - Chapter 6
by Trish Bennett
Throughout his illustrious career, James T. Kirk had received a variety of medals and citations: The Palm Leaf of Axanar Peace Mission; The Medal of Honor, Silver Palm with Cluster; the Galactic Citation for Conspicuous Gallantry; the Heragite Order of Heroism...
He had earned these commendations and many more because of his fierce devotion to Starfleet and to the United Federation of Planets which it serves. He cherished each one of them from the very depths of his soul.
Right now, though, he would trade them all for a drink of water. His throat was painfully dry. He was cold, and tired, and decidedly uncomfortable. And he was angry, growing angrier by the minute.
He had barely spoken to Lieutenant Girard in their captivity, since he could only assume they were still being monitored. But he was tired of being silent, and furious for being held blind and immobile for so long. It was time for some answers.
"All right, Kor!" he called loudly, his voice echoing throughout the chamber. "I know you're here somewhere. It's time for an explanation."
He waited briefly but was answered with silence. He decided to try again.
"What's the matter, Kor?" Kirk taunted. "A force field and shackles aren't enough to make you feel secure?"
The persistent hum was suddenly silenced, and Kirk could feel his heart pounding in his chest.
The voice that responded was laced with morbid delight. "It would seem your ego, Kirk, is surpassed only by your impudence."
Kirk did his best to control the rage inside him. "I suppose it would take a Klingon to recognize those qualities."
"Recognize and appreciate them, Captain," Kor responded, slowly moving toward his hostage. "We are not so different as you would like to believe."
"You've told me that before," Kirk said. Kor would obviously not come to the point until he was good and ready, and there was nothing for him to do but play along for now. "I still fail to see the similarity."
"You humans are violent savages by nature," Kor explained. "As are we Klingons. The only difference is that you are also hypocritical creatures. We Klingons accept our brutal nature, for it is what makes us strong. You, on the other hand, make a great show of your lofty virtues. You brazenly display them like medals on your chest for others to see and admire." His voice fairly seethed wth contempt.
Kirk felt a hand at the back of his head, and before he could brace himself, the blindfold snapped and fell from his eyes. He cringed against the blinding light, but after a moment he could see the Klingon clearly standing before him.
"Noblesse oblige," Kirk muttered, feeling oddly like the Scarlet Pimpernel.
"I am not familiar with that expression," said the gloating Klingon. "Though I am certain that it was revoltingly honorable."
Kirk tensed as he watched the Commander release Girard's blindfold. His hand lingered a moment, tracing the line of her jaw with his fingertips. The Lieutenant did not flinch, and Kor seemed to lose interest. He turned his attention back to Kirk."
"In fact," he continued, "I have done quite a bit of research on your race. I must admit, I found it a fascinating study."
"What a shame you haven't learned anything from it."
"Oh, but I have, Captain," Kor replied. "So much so, in fact, that I have developed a new respect for your species."
Another chill racked Kirk's spine, an eerie contrast to the heat of his anger. Somehow he knew that Kor's newfound respect was not based upon the finest of human qualities.
"Your species possesses a deep-rooted barbarism which I found most refreshing. Far better than this arrogant charade you have devoted yourselves to, spreading your organized hypocrisy through the universe like a plague."
Kirk was really not in the mood for this lecture. "I don't know what you've been studying, Kor, but..."
"Your Roman Empire was fascinating, Captain!" the Klingon interjected with glee. "Your Spanish Inquisition...your French Revolution...and Adolph Hitler!...why, it was absolutely delightful, Kirk! It seems it has only been in the past century or so that you declined into this wretched state of morality."
Kirk's eyes suddenly fixed upon the club that Kor was clutching in his hand, and he wondered why he hadn't noticed it before. The Klingon apparently took note of the discovery, for he raised the weapon and began to smack it lightly against the palm of his other hand.
The Captain looked back into the Klingon's face. "Thank you for the trip through Earth's history, Kor, but what has any of this got to do with me or my ship?"
Kor stared at him smugly, silently, his rhythm with the club never missing a beat.
"What do you want, Kor?" Kirk snapped angrily.
A thin smile lit the Klingon's face. "I want your ship, to present as a gift to the Empire. As for the mighty James T. Kirk..." His smile broadened as he stepped forward to emphasize his point. "I want nothing more than to watch you die, Captain."
Kirk tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach and the interminable rap of the club in Kor's hand.
"Why don't you kill me, then, and be done with it?"
"I am disappointed in you, Kirk," Kor said. "Do you really believe I would dispatch this unique opportunity so easily as to merely run a dagger through your heart?" He chuckled. "No, Captain. And isn't it ironic that your own precious history will provide the foundation for your death?"
"What do you mean?" he said, although once the words were out of his mouth, he wasn't entirely certain that he wanted to know.
"Nothing that happens here," Kor replied, "will be the product of Klingon imagination or design. You shall die at the hands of your ancestors, Captain. And you will know true pain."
James Kirk was a student of history and knew full well the implications of Kor's words. The human race had emerged from its brutal, bloody past like a phoenix from the flames, yet he knew the cruelty his species had been capable of. And he began to wonder if he wouldn't prefer to die at the hands of Klingon brutality than of his own.
Kor moved as slowly and deliberately as he spoke.
"Do you realize, Captain, that you humans employed some of the most exquisite methods of physical and psychological torture in the universe?"
The smack of the club against his palm was becoming intolerable.
"Really most impressive," Kor continued. "For instance, I know that you are injured. I am sure that you are aware of it, too, but occasionally I may feel the need to...remind you of it."
The rhythmic drumming stopped abruptly, and it took every ounce of control in Kirk's possession to keep his eyes trained on his captor's face.
"Oh, nothing much," the Klingon taunted. "Just a nudge...like this."
Kirk's teeth clenched tightly as the club came to rest ever so gently against his ribs. Still, he refused to look away.
"Quite subtle," Kor said. "But immensely effective. Wouldn't you say, Captain?"
Kirk would not give him the satisfaction of a reply, but he had to agree. It was immensely effective.
Suddenly the club jammed harder into his ribs. It might just as well have been a dagger, for the pain pierced every nerve ending in his body in agonizing procession. Kirk groaned involuntarily, which seemed to please the Klingon greatly.
"Wouldn't you say, Captain?" Kor repeated in the same malevolently calm tone.
Kirk had to force his eyes back open. And with the club still pressing firmly into his ribs, it was an even greater effort to speak.
"What have I done that you could hate me so much?"
Kor cocked his head slightly, offering him a look of feigned bewilderment.
"On the contrary, Captain," he said. "I have the utmost respect for you. You are a soldier, as am I, and a very good one. For a human, that makes you dangerous. And your name is revered throughout the galaxy. That makes you not so much an enemy as a prize...a trophy...which I intend to carry back to the Empire."
Kirk struggled to find his voice. "You know this could spark a full-scale war."
"Yes, Kirk," the Klingon replied, as if it was obvious from the start. "And your screams will be the Klingon battle cry."
Kor drew back and brought the club in hard, crashing into Kirk's battered ribs. His legs buckled under him and he began to black out, but that was apparently not in the Klingon's game plan. Kirk was roused by several quick, stinging slaps to his face, and again he fought to raise his eyelids.
"Lesson number two, Captain," Kor purred, holding Kirk's face between his hands. "Sleep is a human necessity. Therefore, it cannot be allowed."
Kor finally released him, and Kirk's head dropped to his chest. He raised it just in time to see the Commander heading for the doorway.
"You may damage him," he told the two enthusiastic centurions. He spoke in English, apparently for the benefit of his captives. "But I want him alive...for now."
Kirk did not have a chance to speak to Lieutenant Girard before the guards closed in, but he did catch a glimpse of her. She was visibly trembling, and a stream of silent tears streaked her face.
Her eyes met his for a brief moment before she clenched them tightly shut. Kirk privately hoped they would stay that way until this was over.
Her eyes would be closed for quite some time.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It seemed to McCoy that he had been shuffling the same two computer tapes for hours. He kept trying to console himself with the thought that help was on the way. It was turning out to be small consolation.
He had nearly decided it was time to get some sleep when the door buzzer sounded. The Doctor rose wearily and headed to release the lock on his office door.
"Spock," he said with mild surprise. "I thought you'd be asleep by now."
"Am I disturbing you, Doctor?"
McCoy turned and moved back to his desk. "No, Spock. I was just kind of restless, that's all. Thought I'd come down here and..." He had seated himself before finally looking back at the Vulcan, who was still standing in the open doorway. "Are you coming in, or are you just going to stand there all night?"
Spock stepped forward just enough to allow the doors to slide closed behind him.
McCoy studied him closely. "What's wrong?" he asked, not really sure he wanted to know.
"I was also finding it difficult to rest, Doctor," he replied. His feet were still planted firmly just inside the door.
McCoy rolled his eyes and waved him to a chair. "Will you please sit down? You're giving me the creeps."
"I was attempting to ascertain," Spock began, moving toward the chair McCoy had offered, "if there was something we may have..."
Suddenly he faltered in his stride. He grasped the back of the chair for support and raised his other hand to his temple.
McCoy was halfway out of his chair. "What is it, Spock? Are you all right?"
Spock closed his eyes for a moment. He then lowered his hand, straightened his shoulders, and moved to sink gracefully into his seat. His eyes finally met McCoy's.
"What was that all about?" the Doctor demanded.
Spock's voice was as calm as his manner. "We cannot afford to wait for assistance, Doctor."
McCoy's chest tightened as he stared at Spock in silence. The other shoe was about to drop, he could feel it. He slowly lowered himself back into his own chair.
"The Captain is in grave danger," Spock continued. "I have heard him."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I have...heard him."
McCoy was stunned. Spock's face was completely expressionless, his tone simple and direct. It was as if he had just explained the theory of quantum physics rather than what had actually come out of his mouth.
"Wait a minute...are you telling me you're in some sort of telepathic contact with Jim?"
"So it would seem."
"But how is that possible?"
"I do not know."
McCoy was not sure if he was just overly tired or if the Vulcan was being unusually mysterious. In any event, he was having a definite problem figuring this out.
"Spock, you've got to help me here," he said, exasperated. "You said you heard him. Can you hear him all the time? Is he actually talking to you, or...?"
"My apologies, Doctor," Spock said. "I do not wish to be difficult, but I am not certain that I understand it myself. I hear...his thoughts. They are brief, random flashes...but it is him. I am fairly certain that he is not even aware of the contact. The only plausible explanation I can find is that the Captain and I have mind-melded in the past. It is possible that, in a moment of intense need, his subconscious mind has somehow managed to reestablish the link."
Spock exhaled, and McCoy could have sworn he heard the whisper of a quiver in the tone.
"Regardless of the reason...I can sense his anguish, Doctor. He has been in great pain for nearly an hour now."
McCoy covered his face with his hands. This was just too much. After a moment, he lowered his hands to look back at the Vulcan seated across from him.
"I've been sitting here half the night trying to imagine what was happening out there. But, my God, Spock! You actually know! How can you stand that?"
"I am a Vulcan, Doctor," came the standard reply. "I have..."
"No, Spock..." McCoy shook his head. "Not this time."
The last thing he wanted to do was sound overly sentimental to Spock. But this had been eating away at him, and he needed to talk to someone. Ordinarily at a time like this, he would have sought the company of the Captain. Right now, though, he would have to settle for the man across the desk.
"Jim Kirk and I have been friends for a long time," he said. "We've been through a lot together. And I don't think there's anyone who is any closer to him than I am...except for you."
"Doctor, I fail to see..."
"Just hear me out," McCoy interrupted. "This is hard enough as it is. I don't know of two other people whose lives mean more to each other than they do to themselves. You can call it friendship, or loyalty...frankly, I don't know a word that could adequately describe it. But I know what you're feeling, Spock. You can deny it all you want."
Spock was staring at him intently, and it was making him extremely uncomfortable. He pressed on anyway.
"It's just that...well, right now I'm afraid I'll never see my best friend alive again. I'm just glad to know there's someone who cares as much about that as I do."
McCoy expected Spock to spout some perfectly logical lie to dispel the emotional accusation, and he braced himself for it. Spock, however, remained silent, and McCoy got the uneasy feeling that he was looking right through him.
"You know," he continued, "I always thought that Jim was one of the luckiest people I have ever known. I mean, he's been closer to death more often than I even care to remember...but it's like he has this guardian angel or something..." Spock had not moved a muscle. "This probably sounds pretty silly to you, doesn't it?"
Spock did not reply, but he did finally look away from McCoy and fixed his gaze on the edge of the Doctor's desk.
"Maybe I just got used to happy endings," he continued, finding it much easier to speak now that Spock's eyes were not boring through his skull. "No matter what happens or how bad things appear to be, I've always had this feeling of...well, confidence...that Jim would be coming home."
It was becoming increasingly difficult to find the right words, and even more difficult to steady his voice.
"But somehow it's different this time. I mean, what are the odds that one person can be so consistently lucky? Doesn't there have to come a time when his luck just has to run out?" McCoy exhaled shakily. "I'm scared, Spock. What if he doesn't come home?"
McCoy finally sat back in his chair and waited. Spock would undoubtedly dismiss him as a sentimental idiot, and that would be that. At least he had the chance to say it out loud, an emotional catharsis he had desperately needed all day.
"I shall find a way to get him back, Doctor," Spock said softly. Without another word, he rose to leave.
It was not what McCoy had expected, and he had to swallow hard to find his voice.
"Spock..."
The Vulcan stopped in the open doorway but did not turn back. McCoy was suddenly at a loss for words.
"Thank you," he said simply.
Spock squared his shoulders and strode through the open doors.
Doctor McCoy watched after him for what seemed like an eternity before he finally said aloud, "And may God have mercy on us all."
by Trish Bennett
Throughout his illustrious career, James T. Kirk had received a variety of medals and citations: The Palm Leaf of Axanar Peace Mission; The Medal of Honor, Silver Palm with Cluster; the Galactic Citation for Conspicuous Gallantry; the Heragite Order of Heroism...
He had earned these commendations and many more because of his fierce devotion to Starfleet and to the United Federation of Planets which it serves. He cherished each one of them from the very depths of his soul.
Right now, though, he would trade them all for a drink of water. His throat was painfully dry. He was cold, and tired, and decidedly uncomfortable. And he was angry, growing angrier by the minute.
He had barely spoken to Lieutenant Girard in their captivity, since he could only assume they were still being monitored. But he was tired of being silent, and furious for being held blind and immobile for so long. It was time for some answers.
"All right, Kor!" he called loudly, his voice echoing throughout the chamber. "I know you're here somewhere. It's time for an explanation."
He waited briefly but was answered with silence. He decided to try again.
"What's the matter, Kor?" Kirk taunted. "A force field and shackles aren't enough to make you feel secure?"
The persistent hum was suddenly silenced, and Kirk could feel his heart pounding in his chest.
The voice that responded was laced with morbid delight. "It would seem your ego, Kirk, is surpassed only by your impudence."
Kirk did his best to control the rage inside him. "I suppose it would take a Klingon to recognize those qualities."
"Recognize and appreciate them, Captain," Kor responded, slowly moving toward his hostage. "We are not so different as you would like to believe."
"You've told me that before," Kirk said. Kor would obviously not come to the point until he was good and ready, and there was nothing for him to do but play along for now. "I still fail to see the similarity."
"You humans are violent savages by nature," Kor explained. "As are we Klingons. The only difference is that you are also hypocritical creatures. We Klingons accept our brutal nature, for it is what makes us strong. You, on the other hand, make a great show of your lofty virtues. You brazenly display them like medals on your chest for others to see and admire." His voice fairly seethed wth contempt.
Kirk felt a hand at the back of his head, and before he could brace himself, the blindfold snapped and fell from his eyes. He cringed against the blinding light, but after a moment he could see the Klingon clearly standing before him.
"Noblesse oblige," Kirk muttered, feeling oddly like the Scarlet Pimpernel.
"I am not familiar with that expression," said the gloating Klingon. "Though I am certain that it was revoltingly honorable."
Kirk tensed as he watched the Commander release Girard's blindfold. His hand lingered a moment, tracing the line of her jaw with his fingertips. The Lieutenant did not flinch, and Kor seemed to lose interest. He turned his attention back to Kirk."
"In fact," he continued, "I have done quite a bit of research on your race. I must admit, I found it a fascinating study."
"What a shame you haven't learned anything from it."
"Oh, but I have, Captain," Kor replied. "So much so, in fact, that I have developed a new respect for your species."
Another chill racked Kirk's spine, an eerie contrast to the heat of his anger. Somehow he knew that Kor's newfound respect was not based upon the finest of human qualities.
"Your species possesses a deep-rooted barbarism which I found most refreshing. Far better than this arrogant charade you have devoted yourselves to, spreading your organized hypocrisy through the universe like a plague."
Kirk was really not in the mood for this lecture. "I don't know what you've been studying, Kor, but..."
"Your Roman Empire was fascinating, Captain!" the Klingon interjected with glee. "Your Spanish Inquisition...your French Revolution...and Adolph Hitler!...why, it was absolutely delightful, Kirk! It seems it has only been in the past century or so that you declined into this wretched state of morality."
Kirk's eyes suddenly fixed upon the club that Kor was clutching in his hand, and he wondered why he hadn't noticed it before. The Klingon apparently took note of the discovery, for he raised the weapon and began to smack it lightly against the palm of his other hand.
The Captain looked back into the Klingon's face. "Thank you for the trip through Earth's history, Kor, but what has any of this got to do with me or my ship?"
Kor stared at him smugly, silently, his rhythm with the club never missing a beat.
"What do you want, Kor?" Kirk snapped angrily.
A thin smile lit the Klingon's face. "I want your ship, to present as a gift to the Empire. As for the mighty James T. Kirk..." His smile broadened as he stepped forward to emphasize his point. "I want nothing more than to watch you die, Captain."
Kirk tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach and the interminable rap of the club in Kor's hand.
"Why don't you kill me, then, and be done with it?"
"I am disappointed in you, Kirk," Kor said. "Do you really believe I would dispatch this unique opportunity so easily as to merely run a dagger through your heart?" He chuckled. "No, Captain. And isn't it ironic that your own precious history will provide the foundation for your death?"
"What do you mean?" he said, although once the words were out of his mouth, he wasn't entirely certain that he wanted to know.
"Nothing that happens here," Kor replied, "will be the product of Klingon imagination or design. You shall die at the hands of your ancestors, Captain. And you will know true pain."
James Kirk was a student of history and knew full well the implications of Kor's words. The human race had emerged from its brutal, bloody past like a phoenix from the flames, yet he knew the cruelty his species had been capable of. And he began to wonder if he wouldn't prefer to die at the hands of Klingon brutality than of his own.
Kor moved as slowly and deliberately as he spoke.
"Do you realize, Captain, that you humans employed some of the most exquisite methods of physical and psychological torture in the universe?"
The smack of the club against his palm was becoming intolerable.
"Really most impressive," Kor continued. "For instance, I know that you are injured. I am sure that you are aware of it, too, but occasionally I may feel the need to...remind you of it."
The rhythmic drumming stopped abruptly, and it took every ounce of control in Kirk's possession to keep his eyes trained on his captor's face.
"Oh, nothing much," the Klingon taunted. "Just a nudge...like this."
Kirk's teeth clenched tightly as the club came to rest ever so gently against his ribs. Still, he refused to look away.
"Quite subtle," Kor said. "But immensely effective. Wouldn't you say, Captain?"
Kirk would not give him the satisfaction of a reply, but he had to agree. It was immensely effective.
Suddenly the club jammed harder into his ribs. It might just as well have been a dagger, for the pain pierced every nerve ending in his body in agonizing procession. Kirk groaned involuntarily, which seemed to please the Klingon greatly.
"Wouldn't you say, Captain?" Kor repeated in the same malevolently calm tone.
Kirk had to force his eyes back open. And with the club still pressing firmly into his ribs, it was an even greater effort to speak.
"What have I done that you could hate me so much?"
Kor cocked his head slightly, offering him a look of feigned bewilderment.
"On the contrary, Captain," he said. "I have the utmost respect for you. You are a soldier, as am I, and a very good one. For a human, that makes you dangerous. And your name is revered throughout the galaxy. That makes you not so much an enemy as a prize...a trophy...which I intend to carry back to the Empire."
Kirk struggled to find his voice. "You know this could spark a full-scale war."
"Yes, Kirk," the Klingon replied, as if it was obvious from the start. "And your screams will be the Klingon battle cry."
Kor drew back and brought the club in hard, crashing into Kirk's battered ribs. His legs buckled under him and he began to black out, but that was apparently not in the Klingon's game plan. Kirk was roused by several quick, stinging slaps to his face, and again he fought to raise his eyelids.
"Lesson number two, Captain," Kor purred, holding Kirk's face between his hands. "Sleep is a human necessity. Therefore, it cannot be allowed."
Kor finally released him, and Kirk's head dropped to his chest. He raised it just in time to see the Commander heading for the doorway.
"You may damage him," he told the two enthusiastic centurions. He spoke in English, apparently for the benefit of his captives. "But I want him alive...for now."
Kirk did not have a chance to speak to Lieutenant Girard before the guards closed in, but he did catch a glimpse of her. She was visibly trembling, and a stream of silent tears streaked her face.
Her eyes met his for a brief moment before she clenched them tightly shut. Kirk privately hoped they would stay that way until this was over.
Her eyes would be closed for quite some time.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It seemed to McCoy that he had been shuffling the same two computer tapes for hours. He kept trying to console himself with the thought that help was on the way. It was turning out to be small consolation.
He had nearly decided it was time to get some sleep when the door buzzer sounded. The Doctor rose wearily and headed to release the lock on his office door.
"Spock," he said with mild surprise. "I thought you'd be asleep by now."
"Am I disturbing you, Doctor?"
McCoy turned and moved back to his desk. "No, Spock. I was just kind of restless, that's all. Thought I'd come down here and..." He had seated himself before finally looking back at the Vulcan, who was still standing in the open doorway. "Are you coming in, or are you just going to stand there all night?"
Spock stepped forward just enough to allow the doors to slide closed behind him.
McCoy studied him closely. "What's wrong?" he asked, not really sure he wanted to know.
"I was also finding it difficult to rest, Doctor," he replied. His feet were still planted firmly just inside the door.
McCoy rolled his eyes and waved him to a chair. "Will you please sit down? You're giving me the creeps."
"I was attempting to ascertain," Spock began, moving toward the chair McCoy had offered, "if there was something we may have..."
Suddenly he faltered in his stride. He grasped the back of the chair for support and raised his other hand to his temple.
McCoy was halfway out of his chair. "What is it, Spock? Are you all right?"
Spock closed his eyes for a moment. He then lowered his hand, straightened his shoulders, and moved to sink gracefully into his seat. His eyes finally met McCoy's.
"What was that all about?" the Doctor demanded.
Spock's voice was as calm as his manner. "We cannot afford to wait for assistance, Doctor."
McCoy's chest tightened as he stared at Spock in silence. The other shoe was about to drop, he could feel it. He slowly lowered himself back into his own chair.
"The Captain is in grave danger," Spock continued. "I have heard him."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I have...heard him."
McCoy was stunned. Spock's face was completely expressionless, his tone simple and direct. It was as if he had just explained the theory of quantum physics rather than what had actually come out of his mouth.
"Wait a minute...are you telling me you're in some sort of telepathic contact with Jim?"
"So it would seem."
"But how is that possible?"
"I do not know."
McCoy was not sure if he was just overly tired or if the Vulcan was being unusually mysterious. In any event, he was having a definite problem figuring this out.
"Spock, you've got to help me here," he said, exasperated. "You said you heard him. Can you hear him all the time? Is he actually talking to you, or...?"
"My apologies, Doctor," Spock said. "I do not wish to be difficult, but I am not certain that I understand it myself. I hear...his thoughts. They are brief, random flashes...but it is him. I am fairly certain that he is not even aware of the contact. The only plausible explanation I can find is that the Captain and I have mind-melded in the past. It is possible that, in a moment of intense need, his subconscious mind has somehow managed to reestablish the link."
Spock exhaled, and McCoy could have sworn he heard the whisper of a quiver in the tone.
"Regardless of the reason...I can sense his anguish, Doctor. He has been in great pain for nearly an hour now."
McCoy covered his face with his hands. This was just too much. After a moment, he lowered his hands to look back at the Vulcan seated across from him.
"I've been sitting here half the night trying to imagine what was happening out there. But, my God, Spock! You actually know! How can you stand that?"
"I am a Vulcan, Doctor," came the standard reply. "I have..."
"No, Spock..." McCoy shook his head. "Not this time."
The last thing he wanted to do was sound overly sentimental to Spock. But this had been eating away at him, and he needed to talk to someone. Ordinarily at a time like this, he would have sought the company of the Captain. Right now, though, he would have to settle for the man across the desk.
"Jim Kirk and I have been friends for a long time," he said. "We've been through a lot together. And I don't think there's anyone who is any closer to him than I am...except for you."
"Doctor, I fail to see..."
"Just hear me out," McCoy interrupted. "This is hard enough as it is. I don't know of two other people whose lives mean more to each other than they do to themselves. You can call it friendship, or loyalty...frankly, I don't know a word that could adequately describe it. But I know what you're feeling, Spock. You can deny it all you want."
Spock was staring at him intently, and it was making him extremely uncomfortable. He pressed on anyway.
"It's just that...well, right now I'm afraid I'll never see my best friend alive again. I'm just glad to know there's someone who cares as much about that as I do."
McCoy expected Spock to spout some perfectly logical lie to dispel the emotional accusation, and he braced himself for it. Spock, however, remained silent, and McCoy got the uneasy feeling that he was looking right through him.
"You know," he continued, "I always thought that Jim was one of the luckiest people I have ever known. I mean, he's been closer to death more often than I even care to remember...but it's like he has this guardian angel or something..." Spock had not moved a muscle. "This probably sounds pretty silly to you, doesn't it?"
Spock did not reply, but he did finally look away from McCoy and fixed his gaze on the edge of the Doctor's desk.
"Maybe I just got used to happy endings," he continued, finding it much easier to speak now that Spock's eyes were not boring through his skull. "No matter what happens or how bad things appear to be, I've always had this feeling of...well, confidence...that Jim would be coming home."
It was becoming increasingly difficult to find the right words, and even more difficult to steady his voice.
"But somehow it's different this time. I mean, what are the odds that one person can be so consistently lucky? Doesn't there have to come a time when his luck just has to run out?" McCoy exhaled shakily. "I'm scared, Spock. What if he doesn't come home?"
McCoy finally sat back in his chair and waited. Spock would undoubtedly dismiss him as a sentimental idiot, and that would be that. At least he had the chance to say it out loud, an emotional catharsis he had desperately needed all day.
"I shall find a way to get him back, Doctor," Spock said softly. Without another word, he rose to leave.
It was not what McCoy had expected, and he had to swallow hard to find his voice.
"Spock..."
The Vulcan stopped in the open doorway but did not turn back. McCoy was suddenly at a loss for words.
"Thank you," he said simply.
Spock squared his shoulders and strode through the open doors.
Doctor McCoy watched after him for what seemed like an eternity before he finally said aloud, "And may God have mercy on us all."