I'm glad you folks are enjoying this. Just one question, LeoTurtle, too much suspense? How do you get too much suspense? That reminds me of something I said to a friend once when I was overworked: "I need way too much sleep!" I guess you prefer really dull stories, huh? Well, I'll try to cut down on the suspense, I suppose. Oh, wait, never mind, the ending is suspenseful. Sorry.
Okay, I said there was a plot. I didn't say how important it actually was to the story, nor did I mention anything about the pace of the story. Here's a chapter which doesn't seem to particularly advance the plot, but…oh, well. I neglected my studies for this, so you'd better like it!
Chapter 2: Still Trapped!
"Dead bodies?" Spock repeated, as if little more than seconds had passed since McCoy first said it, which, in fact, was true. "What sort of dead bodies?"
"What do you mean, 'what sort?'" McCoy retorted. "Bodies which are dead."
"Are they bodies belonging to our crewmembers or to some other form of life?"
"What? Oh." McCoy thought for a minute. "Well, these ones have been here for a while. They're already decomposing. We haven't been here long enough for people to decompose." He paused. "Or have we?"
"We cannot be certain. There is no way to determine how much time has passed since we were apprehended."
McCoy held up a hand to stop him, then realized Spock couldn't see it. "Wait a minute. There is a way to tell." He rubbed his chin. "Yes. We can't have been here any longer than a day."
"How did you determine that?" Spock asked skeptically.
"Vulcans grow beards!" McCoy exclaimed. "Think logically, man!"
"Ah," Spock replied with sudden recognition. He stroked his chin stubble. "I would disagree."
"Disagree about what?" McCoy asked, annoyed.
"I believe a more precise estimate of our unaccounted time would be fifteen hours and…" he paused as he considered another stroke of the chin, "forty three minutes."
McCoy didn't say anything for a minute. If there had been light in the chamber, Spock would have seen a particularly interesting-looking gaped-mouth expression on McCoy's face. As it were, Spock presumed that McCoy was considering this estimation in the context of his own evaluation.
Finally, McCoy spoke. "Under what circumstances, exactly, have you had the occasion to time your beard growth down to the minute?"
Spock sighed. "It is simply an estimation based on natural hair growth, taking into account the recent absence of certain vitamins—"
"Never mind," McCoy interrupted. "I don't want to know."
Spock paused. "Why do you—"
McCoy went on, raising his voice to overwhelm Spock's. "So that means these bodies aren't those of our landing party."
"It would seem not," Spock agreed.
"Unless…" McCoy trailed off.
"Unless?" Spock asked. If he could feel the sort of dread McCoy felt whenever he prompted an idea out of Spock, he would have felt it now.
"Well, say we're on a planet with a higher metabolism, so to speak," McCoy began amiably, rising to the bait.
"Higher metabolism?" Spock said, even at the expense of fueling the doctor's illogical suggestion.
"Sure! Life grows at a different rate here than on Earth—or Vulcan—which, consequently, includes bacteria and other decaying agents. So, while by Earth's standards, these bodies have been here for several weeks, by this planet's standards—what's the name of it again?"
Spock was still working his way through the explanation, and nearly missed his cue. "Skeptia Ture 6," he provided.
"Exactly. By Skeptia Ture 6's standards, they've been dead here for…fifteen hours and forty minutes." McCoy finished with a satisfied air.
"Forty six," Spock corrected. "Approximately."
"Of course," McCoy conceded, undaunted.
"I do not believe that is so."
"It's just a hypothesis, Spock."
"This hypothesis has no evidence to support it."
McCoy scowled. "Well, I'd like to see you come up with a working hypothesis—in the dark—with all the evidence we've got here to work with."
"They are not the bodies of our landing party for the simple reason that they are not large enough to represent a human body. This one, for example," and McCoy could only presume that Spock was indicating one of the bodies in front of them, "is approximately two and one-half feet in length."
McCoy was silent.
"Doctor?"
"That might work," he grudgingly admitted.
They were quiet for several seconds, both still kneeling before the rotting corpses that, apparently, were indigenous to the planet.
"Perhaps we should return to our earlier location. We shall be able to evaluate your injuries more thoroughly with the scanner."
"Oh. Yeah," McCoy said, feeling beside him for the nearly forgotten (by him, at least) scanner. He picked it up.
Spock stood and reached down to pull McCoy up after him. "At least the scanner will allow me to examine your head."
McCoy struggled to his feet, trying to ignore the screaming of bruised or cracked ribs. Slowly, but not as slowly as McCoy would have gone if he were alone, they returned to the spot Spock had been when he was tied up. "That's all I need," McCoy grumbled on the way, "getting my head examined by you."
Spock seemed slightly nonplussed. "I realize I am not a doctor; however, I may be able to provide some assistance with your injuries. To reject that assistance would be illogical."
"Forget it, Spock," McCoy said through clenched teeth.
"Sit," was Spock's response.
"What?"
"We have reached the wall. You may sit down now."
"Oh." McCoy did so, painfully. And with a few groans. Spock kneeled beside him.
McCoy waited. "Well?"
"The scanner," Spock prompted.
"Oh!" McCoy realized the device in question was still in his hand. He passed it over, a feat made more clumsy by the fact that neither knew where the other's hands were. Even Spock had trouble smoothly taking the scanner in what probably amounted to his only awkward moment. Ever.
Spock turned the scanner on and held it over McCoy's head. The LED display lit up, allowing him to read the results. "You appear to have been struck on the back of your head with a blunt object."
"Really? Thank you, Doctor."
Spock ran the scanner over the rest of McCoy's body. "Are you experiencing pain in your right wrist?"
"Why, no," McCoy said with mock surprise. "In fact, that's the only part of my body that isn't screaming in pain right now."
Spock paused. "That is odd. According to the scanner, the end of your radius is fractured, which is causing considerable swelling. In addition, the trapezoid bone is slightly dislocated."
"What's so odd about that?"
"These injuries would likely result in considerable pain; however, you claim to feel nothing in this area."
"I was joking, Spock."
"Pain does not seem a particularly welcome topic for humor. Especially for humans. I may be able to lessen this pain." Without waiting for McCoy's response, Spock grasped his wrist in both his hands and performed a minute adjustment. He did so very calmly.
McCoy did not react very calmly. He didn't even have time to yelp in pain, so he resigned himself to sucking air in through his teeth at the sudden jolt to the affected nerve endings. When he recovered his bearings enough to think in words, the only ones he could think of were obscenities. He made do with a few of those. "What was that for?" he finally growled.
Spock was entirely unaffected. "That was for the proper healing of your wrist. It was not aligned correctly. Also, I believe your wrist will not be as pained when you move. I would have thought that you, a doctor, would have known that."
"I do know that!" McCoy continued to growl as he cradled his wrist to his chest. "You could have warned me about it first!"
"That would not have altered the amount of pain you felt," Spock said mildly.
"I don't care!" McCoy willed himself to calm down. "Spock…"
"Yes, Doctor?"
"Don't do me any more favors."
"Do you mean in the foreseeable future—"
"Ever."
"I shall take that into consideration."
"Don't…consider, Spock."
Spock paused. "I believe I am losing the thread of this conversation."
"So am I."
They didn't say anything for a while.
"You also have several fractures in your ribs," Spock offered.
"That's nice," McCoy said with a grimace. "You're not touching my ribs."
"Yes, Doctor."
McCoy gradually relaxed and pulled himself out of a fetal position. "Spock, is there anything else in here? A tricorder or communicator…small explosives? Anything we could use?"
"I shall check," Spock said and slipped away like a jungle cat.
While he was gone, McCoy wondered idly if there were any jungle cats on this planet. And if so, whether they spent much time in caves.
"There is nothing else," Spock said in McCoy's ear. McCoy jumped.
"Where did you come from?" he exclaimed.
"I have been in this cave with you the entire time. That is, the entire time we have both been conscious…"
"Did you find anything?"
"No."
"Terrific." McCoy scratched the back of his head. Then he winced as his hand scratched the bruised area. His hair was crusted with blood. "So, our entire hopes of escape lie in that pathetic little scanner?"
Spock flicked the scanner on again. It made a funny little whirring sound and emitted the faintest light onto McCoy's arm. "Apparently."
McCoy glanced over at the greenish glow. "You can't turn it into a phaser or something, can you?"
"No. I cannot."
"Of course not."
"What exactly does that mean, Doctor?" Spock asked quietly.
"Nothing," McCoy said, perhaps too innocently.
"I see," Spock replied, in a tone which subtly indicated his annoyance at the doctor.
They stopped talking for an undetermined amount of time. Actually, it was only undetermined to McCoy. Spock knew that a time span of 6 minutes and 32 seconds passed between his last words and McCoy's next words. Also, in this time, he debated whether the previously mentioned rock blocking the only accessible exit to the chamber could be moved with McCoy's assistance. And if so, exactly what pressure points would allow the most force to be targeted in an outward direction. In McCoy's debilitated condition, exactly what amount of force could he reasonably be expected to produce? Normally, he did not display any great amount of strength, and he would likely protest at any particularly strenuous activity. If Spock could convince McCoy that it could be their only escape route…
"Well," McCoy interrupted his thoughts, in a tone indicating a certain decisiveness, as if McCoy had been carefully considering this possibility, "someone must have a pretty cruel sense of humor, throwing us together like this."
Spock tried to follow his line of reasoning, wondering if he had somehow missed some of the argument. Then he recalled exactly who was sitting next to him. Spock decided on the safest response he could think of.
"I do not think this situation is a joke," he said.
"No kidding," McCoy said dryly.
"Again, you are apparently joking in a serious situation which does not warrant humor."
"What?"
"I do not understand your sense of humor, Doctor."
"Well, right now, I don't understand a damn thing about you!" McCoy retorted, not the most intelligent of his comebacks, but it had to suffice. Then he sighed. "See, this is exactly what I'm talking about. Whenever we're together for longer than ten seconds, we can't seem to avoid an argument."
Spock considered. "I agree."
"Exactly!"
Spock traced the conversation back to its starting point. "Therefore, you believe that our imprisonment together is an attempt at maliciousness?"
"Yes," McCoy said confidently.
Spock was skeptical. "How would an alien entity recognize our relationship and thus exploit it for no apparent benefit?"
"Well, the first part is very easily explained. How many aliens have we encountered now representing some form of energy or matter or life that we've never before seen? And how many of those introduce themselves to us and call us by name? We probably found another one of them."
"Perhaps," Spock said, thinking the exact opposite of "perhaps."
McCoy nudged Spock's arm in a sudden epiphany of understanding. "I've got it. Maybe this is a test, or, or, some sort of experiment. We're the lab rats of some ultra-sophisticated culture who've forgotten their humanity and they're testing to see how well we work together. We were probably bickering when they came upon us."
"That is most probable," Spock admitted.
'So they're probably testing us to see if we can cooperate, or if we royally screw up and get ourselves killed."
"Perhaps you should rest, Doctor," Spock murmured.
"Don't you think it's a valid possibility? We just have to work together and we'll get out of this fine."
"Of course," Spock said absently.
"Now you're just humoring me," McCoy said angrily.
"I would prefer if you stopped talking so I can determine a way out of here," Spock said in a slightly raised voice.
"Fine," McCoy said. "I won't say another word."
He was quiet for precisely seven minutes—Spock wondered if he'd somehow timed it. "Just a thought: if those aren't our crewmen over there…what are they doing in here?"
Spock's reflections had not been within twelve light years of McCoy's train of thought. "Doctor?"
"Those bodies," McCoy said by way of explanation.
"I have not given that much thought."
"Well, don't you think it's important? If we know why they're here, it might give us an idea of why we're here."
"Perhaps you should concentrate on how to escape rather than why we are here."
"I am, dammit! Can't you see they're connected?" McCoy snapped.
"Then feel free to consider the ramifications of that while I follow my own concerns."
"I think I'll do that," McCoy said defensively.
They sat there thinking for a longer period of time than would be reasonable to detail here. All that either could hear was the other's breathing. Not that that detail has any relevance; it's really just to set the mood. It's quiet. And dark, don't forget. It's always been dark. Hmm, does "set the mood" bring thoughts of a totally different nature to your mind? That wasn't my intention at all. Erase that thought from your heads. This isn't that kind of story at all. Go read some slash if you're going to think that.
McCoy interrupted the silence, as well as the narrator's ramblings. "Do you think we were attacked by Klingons?"
Spock almost didn't bother gracing that with an answer. Finally, he relented. "What sense does that make? There is no logic whatever to support that idea."
"Just a suggestion."
A little more silence. If you'd like to replicate this situation, turn out your lights (and your computer monitor) and sit in the dark for a while. Make sure it's quiet. If you have family, tell them to shut up. And if you're in a public computer lab (as I currently am, as a side note), well, don't even bother. Use your imagination. That's what I'm doing.
McCoy yawned, quite loudly in the comparative silence. "I wonder how long it's been since I've really slept."
"You might benefit from some sleep now," Spock replied.
"I don't know how I'll manage to. I've still got that throbbing in my temples," McCoy mumbled. "Although my wrist feels a bit better."
"I'm sure if you are tired, you will succeed in falling asleep," Spock said practically.
"Yeah, right."
"There is nothing else for you to do at this point."
"Maybe," McCoy admitted. "All right. I'll give it a try." He shifted himself into a more reclining position. But not a more comfortable one.
"Spock?"
"Yes, Doctor?"
McCoy reached out and grabbed Spock's arm and held it for a moment. "Don't, uh…" he laughed a little, as if to make light of his request, "don't go too far away, huh? I don't want to wake up thinking I'm all alone."
Spock didn't say anything for several seconds. Just as McCoy was beginning to berate himself for even mentioning it, Spock answered softly. "I shall be right here, Doctor."
McCoy smiled slightly in the darkness and drew his hand back. He closed his eyes and folded his hands on his chest. He was not comfortable in the least. He wondered sometimes if the beds on the Enterprise were designed specifically to be uncomfortable—well, Jim's bed was probably feather-soft, he's the captain, after all, and Spock was immune to discomfort, anyway. He told himself he'd never complain about real beds again. At least not for a few weeks, anyway.
Before he knew it, he was actually relaxing. Sleep couldn't be too far away, then. McCoy tried to stop his mind from wandering into random thoughts (escape often came to the forefront).
Everything, once again, was quiet for some time. Spock had, of course, been keeping track of this (time, that is), but he was probably the only one who really cared at this point. McCoy certainly didn't.
McCoy, in fact, was just beginning to drift off into something resembling sleep when he felt it: just the barest of a feather touch on his cheek, the slightest draft of air over his face. He kept his eyes closed, not that opening them would have meant anything. And then Spock's fingers found their proper positions and McCoy felt the first twinges of a telepathic attachment. That sneaky bastard! was all he could think, wondering with a detached part of his brain how that might transfer into Spock's head—as words, or simply as the burst of emotion he felt.
McCoy pushed Spock's hand away, although Spock had already conceded and drew it back himself. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded.
"You were complaining of pain earlier. I was simply trying to aid you by alleviating that somewhat."
"I already told you, no. I'll deal with it."
Spock hesitated just a fraction of a second. "I was doing it for my own benefit, to stop your incessant complaining. It has been distracting me."
McCoy paused, wondering if Spock was telling the whole truth, or at least exaggerating somewhat. "Well, you know I'm going to complain anyway, so don't bother."
Spock nodded. "That is true."
McCoy waited for something more out of Spock. Then he said quietly, "Spock…thanks."
Spock didn't say anything.
McCoy decided to change the subject, realizing that neither of them were comfortable with the present one. "What do you think they're planning?"
"Planning?"
"Yes, planning. Most importantly, right now, are they planning on feeding us?"
"Are you hungry?" Spock asked.
McCoy rolled his eyes. "No, I'm just asking out of curiosity. I suppose eventually I'll be hungry. But no, right now I'm too busy cowering in the corner to worry about little things like sustenance."
"You have a keen tendency for sarcasm, Doctor."
"Really? Thank you." McCoy continued, "The point is, what's our status here? Are we prisoners? Are they intending on feeding us and keeping us alive, or have we just been left to die? Or are they going to kill us soon? In either of the latter cases, our escape will have to come from our own resources. And quickly."
"I have been taking that into account," Spock replied.
Just then, the rock at the end of the chamber began to shift in a rumbling, grinding growl. (Said rock's existence, the reader may note, is known to Spock, but not to McCoy.)
"What's that?" McCoy asked, startled.
"Quiet, Doctor."
"What? Don't tell me to—"
"Do not make noise. I believe we are about to learn the answers to your questions."
"I'd be satisfied with a release at this point. No questions asked," he grumbled.
The rock moved to the side, letting in the faintest light from outside the cave. It was night. Which made sense, Spock reasoned. It was at latest early afternoon when they had been abducted.
There was nothing there.
Just as McCoy had convinced himself that they were being released, and started to pull himself to his feet, with Spock firmly holding him back, an enormous bulk suddenly filled the space opened by the rock. It was quite a large hole. Therefore, whatever this bulk was, it was obviously pretty damn big.
McCoy sat back.
The Large Thing started to enter the cave. Very, very slowly.
* * *
Too much suspense for you? Tough noogies.
Question of the day: Who has been on the receiving end of the most mind melds? Spock's, to be specific. Offhand, I can think of two occasions for Bones, "Mirror, Mirror" and "Spectre of the Gun." Anyone know?
Do you think it's abnormal to be obsessed with a fictional character that was 20 years your senior 35 years ago? No? Of course not. That's what I thought, too.
I actually considered classifying this story as Action/Adventure, but then when I thought about it, it occurred to me that the adventure consisted solely of Bones and Spock being stuck in a cave, and the action featured Bones running into/tripping over things (or Spock). Not to mention their scintillating conversation. So, instead, it's a dramedy, which always reminds me of camels.