Cara thumbed the button opening the doors to her quarters and looked up greeting the ship's chief medical officer with a smile. There was no response; the pause lengthened. She noted the doctor was staring at her chest rather than making eye contact. Remembering she studied briefing notes while dressing, Cara cutoff her pithy remark after the first word, uttered a mild curse under her breath, and presented McCoy with her back. Her hands quickly fastened the missed buttons closing the gap in the blouse highlighting her lacy bra. "I really can dress myself most of the time," she apologized over her shoulder.
"No complaints here ma'am," McCoy said in his southern drawl.
The compliment pinked her cheeks, it pleased her. A reaction she was unready and unwilling to admit to. Composure regained she faced the doctor. "I think I'm presentable now." His unblinking up and down assessment colored her cheeks again.
"Yep, you'll more than do." One of the problems with a starship, and the aggravations are measured in legions, he thought, there's no place to take a leisurely stroll with an interesting woman. He said while gesturing to the hallway, "Shall we?" McCoy then added in his head, Though there is no reason we can't take the long way round.
ooooo
The ship's senior officers milled about in small groups, chatting as they waited. Jim leaned close to Spock whispering, "Bones does remember how to find deck three?"
"A logical conclusion as this area houses his quarters," the Vulcan replied in his usual intonation.
"I realize he's not happy with the situation, but as the metaphor goes, that ship has sailed. And given Pike's rigid insistence, it's sailed twice. The journalist is here to stay for at least the next year. Bones might as well get over it."
"Indeed. Passive aggression is a favored tactic often used by the good doctor," Spock replied with a slight nod. As he spoke, Cara entered the room with McCoy a couple of paces behind her. For different reasons both Kirk and Spock raised eyebrows; Kirk two, his attention focused on Cara, Spock one, his attention focused on the statistical negation of coincidence arranging McCoy's concurrent arrival with the journalist.
Noticing Kirk's expression, Pike politely and rapidly disengaged from Scotty. Kirk drifted towards the doorway. Chekov beat him to it, introducing himself to Cara while enthusiastically pumping her hand then tugging her in the direction of Sulu. Spock joined Uhura bringing her a flute of Vulcan gespar juice. McCoy retreated alone to a corner.
As a child Kirk never bothered learning the names of the ever-turning revolving door of men his mother brought home, assigning each the honorific 'dickhead.' And although he utilized a more adult term for them now, the sentiment remained. Except for one. Bruce? No, he was an ass … Cee … no … Jason … yes. Jasonhad taken an interest in the eight-year-old boy lonely for his mother's attention and seeking a father figure. And, as was her pattern, once Jason indicated he'd like to stay, that he was willing to take on a ready-made family, Kirk's mother took up with another man. Yet Jason remained present in Jim's life, attending his athletic events, taking him out for pizza, listening to his whispered confidences. Jason remained a steady and welcome friend until the inevitable occurred and once again Kirk and his mother moved away. As usual they left in the middle of the night without a word to those who might care.
Jason loved old movies, ones from what he labeled the 'golden-age' of Hollywood. Jim fondly recalled those Saturday night cinema marathons stretching until the wee hours of Sunday morning, the coffee table littered with bowls of popcorn remnants and steak sandwiches, the two men debating which pin-up girl was prettier: Rita Hayworth, Lena Horne, Lauren Bacall, or Gina Lollobrigida. For the record, Jason claimed Gina, Jim claimed Lauren.
When Cara walked into the room it was, at least to Jim, as if one of those 1940's actresses had traveled through time. Yes, he admitted, her nose is slightly crooked, and while her legs are long she isn't as tall, and her eyes are a bit too large for her face, although this minor flaw lent Cara an ethereal quality he found enticing. Even her outfit mimicked the era, the soft draping high-waisted, wide-legged dark pants, the silky, creamy blouse with capped sleeves and a peter pan collar. Without needing words, she channeled the smarts, innate confidence, and feisty personality of those golden age characters.
Before Kirk could maneuver Cara away from Sulu and Chekov, Pike intercepted Jim and guided him to the opposite side of the room. "No," the Admiral said in his sternest command tone. "Don't."
Kirk adopted his most innocent expression and asked in what he hoped sounded like confusion, sounded as if he didn't comprehend Pike's very correct assumption. "Don't greet our guest? Don't welcome her on board?" He added for emphasis and misdirection, "Wouldn't that be rude?"
His tone now beyond stern commander and approaching protective father Pike continued, "Don't play coy and don't pretend your intentions aren't vastly different. Listen carefully, I won't repeat myself and the repercussions will be swift. Cara is off-limits to you in any manner beyond professional activities or brotherly friendship."
"I didn't …"
Pike glared at the younger captain.
"But …" Kirk sputtered.
Pike's eyes lased holes through the officer.
Kirk knew Pike possessed, well, cajones of steel, but he had never experienced the intransigence aimed at him. "Shouldn't she make the choice?" Kirk was immensely pleased with himself for completing the sentence in a fairly steady tone of voice and not a faltering squeak.
"No," was the monosyllabic response. "Don't test me on this. I will hear about it. And distance will not save you. I have a vast and varied network to call upon."
That tidbit piqued Kirk's curiosity but in a surge of maturity he decided this wasn't the best time for further questions. "Sorry, what did you say … sir?"
"Do we understand one another?" Pike repeated patiently.
"Absolutely."
"Good." Pike's familiar, amenable mentor persona settled back into place.
Kirk, unable to stop himself, added with a mischievous grin, "I shall guard her honor from all foes." He pointed at Enterprise's navigator who was chatting with the journalist; Chekov gazed at Cara with adoration. "Such as youthful Pavel. He'll be quoting Russian poetry to her soon; I'd bet heavily on it."
Pike rolled his eyes. "Cara can handle a teenager." He cast a sideways glance at Kirk. "For that matter she can handle you as well, I'm simply saving her from the trouble of doing so."
The evening proceeded. Chekov quickly claimed a seat beside Cara, Kirk started to take the other but stepped aside for Spock after a slight frown and headshake from Pike who sat directly opposite the guest of honor. From the end of the table McCoy noted the subtle exchange between Admiral and Captain. On any other night it would have amused him; instead he toyed with his food and pushed away a growing annoyance at those monopolizing Cara's attention. It's professional concern, he insisted, she's tired from a day packed with interviews and facing a longer one tomorrow. McCoy had checked the schedule and personally amended its overcrowding. After all, this is my job as CMO. Don't want to break the journalist before we get her into space.
ooooo
McCoy slid into the turbolift as the doors began closing. The other occupant, Cara, pushed back from the wall she'd been resting against. "Aren't your quarters on this deck?
"Ah … yes … but where would my manners be if I didn't see you home?" the doctor replied with a question of his own. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
She regarded him for a few seconds. Squinting eyes gave way to amusement. "We're on a starship."
"True, but my Mama drilled into us a gentleman always walks a lady to her doorstep."
He's a mix of contradictions, indignant and bristly one minute, caring and solicitous the next, Cara thought before responding, "Thank you."
They rode in silence, she drained from the long day of conversations which continued over dinner; he in physician mode observing every nuance of her body language and mood. The normally smooth lift bounced slightly, dropped a few inches, then halted abruptly tumbling McCoy to his knees and Cara to the floor. He crawled to her and probed for broken bones. "Did you hit your head?" he asked while helping her sit up.
"No. I'm fine. What happened? Is this common?"
Before McCoy could answer the lights dimmed twice and remained off. He mumbled, "For goodness sakes, we're still in space dock." While feeling his way to the intercom he instructed, "Stay there." Unable to read the labeled control panel once at his destination, he punched randomly at the buttons.
"Engineering," came the reply after a fourth try.
McCoy demanded, "It's the CMO. What's going on? We're stuck in a turbolift somewhere between decks three and eight."
"Umbilicals to space dock went down in that section sir, cause unknown. We're rerouting power to the internal grid. Estimated repair time is 45 minutes. There are three stranded lifts in your tube, yours is in the middle. Sit tight. Engineering out."
"We're an elevator sandwich he tells me, as if such a statement is reassuring. Sit tight he tells me, as if we had a choice …" McCoy complained. Noticing Cara's hitched breathing his grumble drifted off. Exasperated officer gave way to engaged doctor. "Are you having pain or pressure in your chest? I'm coming." He gingerly felt his way to her, following the direction of her voice.
"I'm OK. Not … physical … just nervous."
He listened carefully to her breathing pattern. "Take smaller, slower breaths; you're close to hyperventilating." Reaching out his arm, probing with his hand until finding one of hers, McCoy clasped it. Squatting in front of Cara he coached, "Breathe with me. In … hold … exhale. No, still too fast. With me. In … hold … exhale. That's better. Again." He relaxed when her inhaling calmed. "Uncomfortable with enclosed spaces?"
Cara shook her head then remembered he couldn't see her. "No."
"If you quote me on this, I'll deny it. The ship's solid and safe. There's nothing to worry about."
"Of course," was her faint reply.
McCoy lightly squeezed her hand when her breathing became audible and rapid again. "It helps to talk."
Stop overreacting, Cara admonished herself. She exhaled slowly, counting to five. Inhaled slowly then sighed. "It's silly, I'm embarrassed to admit it. After all I'm supposed to be a grownup."
"Maybe … to the proclamation whatever is bothering you is inane, not to the grownup part. Anyway, I can't rule on the ridiculous factor until you share details."
His comment elicited a nervous chuckle from Cara. Then a snort followed by a genuine laugh. "You have an interesting bedside manner."
Darkness prevented her from seeing McCoy sweeping his arm through the air. "Chronological ages aside, I tend to adolescents on an almost daily basis. They require a firm hand. And I can assure you, I've heard it all."
Darkness prevented him from seeing the haunted look in her eyes. Her voice was tiny, almost inaudible. "I'm … I'm afraid of the dark."
"Oh. Well. Not silly it turns out. So are over ten percent of all Terrans. Unease with pitch black surroundings is more common than a fear of heights. You'll need to try harder if you desire an absurd fear."
"It's not like I want … I didn't choose it …" Cara sputtered then stopped. "Thanks, I feel better now."
McCoy heard the smile on her lips in her tone of voice. "There is a rumor you were imprisoned on Metus when investigating the warlords there."
"That's true. For two months."
"Like house arrest?"
"Not exactly, unless a cave counts as a home," Cara said. "It's entrance was blocked with an almost solid iron door."
The doctor cocked an eyebrow. "How did you manage so long in a such a dark and damp space?" He made a mental note to examine her lungs more thoroughly.
"Oh. My captors believed I'd be more pliable if they disrupted my sleep. So they kept a light on day and night. I encouraged their tactic."
McCoy scooted to her side. She continued clasping his hand, finding reassurance and comfort in the strong get gentle grip. He asked, "When your malleability remained unchanged they wised up and released you?"
"Hmmm. Not exactly. No." Cara paused.
"Go on."
"I was liberated by a force on the side of the angels."
"Starfleet?" he prompted.
"No. Not exactly."
"Do you ever answer a question directly?"
Cara flashed an impish grin. Amusement rang in her voice, "Sometimes."
"I'm not noted for my patience. Nor any tendency to back off a subject of interest," McCoy countered.
"Very well. A local captain staged a jail break and rescued me. He's a … sort of frenemy of Chris, of Admiral Pike. He owed Chris a favor. Or Chris owed him a favor; it's a long history of chits and I'm not sure who held one at that point. Anyway, with Hiten's help, I smuggled out the evidence needed to prosecute those bastards." She continued in a tone laced with anger, "Those warlords were enslaving entire families! Children aged six worked sixteen-hour days in factories! Yet the Federation continued trading with them!" Cara emphasized the last phrase.
McCoy couldn't decide whether to admire her tenacity or to scold this disregard for her own safety. At the moment he was leaning towards the rebuke. "And this Captain Hiten …"
"Hiten is his first name."
"Whatever, and whether Hiten is his given name or last name is not salient to my point. What side of the law does he operate on?"
"The right side," Cara said.
"I meant legal or illegal."
"Not exactly …" she began.
McCoy rolled his eyes. "Here we go again."
"On the rim of Federation space, where rules are ignored, where Starfleet's presence is rare, where exploitation is rampant, where families who cannot afford passage eke out a meager and desperate existence generation by generation, Hiten of Vayu is the modern-day incarnation of Robin of Locksley," Cara explained.
"Nice prose," McCoy said.
"Thanks. I wrote it for his one of his press releases. As a thank you for helping me with the detention inconvenience."
"Detention! Inconvenience? As in a minor, insignificant, teensy problem?" McCoy geared up for a full rant.
"I hate to be a critic, but you just used three adjectives which essentially mean the same thing. That's bad form."
"I am underscoring my point," McCoy informed with a huff. "As in there were better, safer ways to shine light on that story."
"Perhaps. But none were as timely. By the way, you sound like my uncle. Those were almost his exact words," Cara said.
"Does your uncle have any hair left?"
"Hmmm. In my defense, he didn't have much when I first went to live with him."
McCoy pivoted, "So, Hiten is a pirate."
"He prefers the term wealth redistributor."
"So a thief," McCoy pronounced but he couldn't keep a hint of approval out of his tone.
"Yes, a thief … but a thief with standards. And for the record, an Oxford educated bandit who turned down a fellowship at the Daystrom Institute."
"Are those credentials included in his brochure?" McCoy queried in a sarcastic tone.
"No. But I will message him, they'd be great additions," Cara said in reply.
Heavens to Betsy, we live in a galaxy where pirates advertise. Time for a change of subject, he thought. "Is your name French?"
"Cara is Italian as is my mother. My father was born in South America, Chile to be more exact. Now it's my turn for a question. Off the record," she quickly added anticipating the doctor's reluctance.
"Do I have a choice?"
"Not really, no. Well, you have a choice as to whether you answer it. Why the disparate advanced studies and specialties? Xenobiochemistry, and neuroscience. Surgery and psychiatry. What are the connections?"
The lights returned; the lift resumed and completed its short trip precluding an answer. After leaving Cara at her quarters, McCoy posed a question of his own, If you fear the dark, why did you take a lengthy assignment in space?
ooooo
The next morning Enterprise's CMO opened his eyes, swung his long legs over the bed's side and stretched his back. He started to grumble aloud, "I hate waking up alone." But stopped before the first word was uttered.
Because today he didn't feel so lonely.