T'Phol slept lightly for an hour or so. Then she was fully awake. McCoy's arm was draped across her, his breath stirring the hair on her neck, his heat comforting and pleasant. She listened to him breathe, gradually relaxing into a meditative but aware state between waking and dreaming. She thought about pain and triumph and redemption. Preconceptions and misconceptions, denial and acceptance. After a time her thoughts wondered into mostly unexplored and uncomfortable territory. She thought of how warm and sure his hands had been when they had held hers, and wondered how the texture of his hair might feel if she moved that little errant strand and ran her fingers through it. She came back to full wakefulness with a start. He was still asleep, but she sensed he would wake soon. She was sure she could hear wheezing during his respiration, but he appeared to be in no distress. She carefully slipped out from underneath his arm and got up, hurrying through the sonic shower and dressing.

McCoy was stirring when she finished. She ordered tea from the synthesizer, sat the cup on the desk and busied herself with the tablet. He sat on the edge of the bunk, rubbing his eyes.

"Good morning," she said. "I believe you prefer coffee?"

"Mornin'. Yes, in a minute." He visited the bathroom. When he emerged he ordered his coffee and sat at the desk, taking a sip before speaking.

"Not just coffee. Black and strong. Good morning." He tested his voice. Although still hoarse, some of the soreness was gone.

"How do you feel?" T'Phol asked, noting his eyes were red and swollen, but his face now had some color rather than the terrible paleness of the day before.

McCoy considered his emotional state and the many replies he might make to that question and opted for a simple physical update. "I forgot the eye drops. Apparently I really need them. Other than that, better." He did not tell her he could hear numerous whistles and crackles when taking a deep breath. His plan was to stop by Sickbay for another breathing treatment even before getting dressed.

He indicated the PADD. "Have you finished planning your stage?"

"Yes. I will need to speak to Mister Scott."

"With all the commotion yesterday we didn't finish the plans, or have our tour. Let's do that this afternoon."

"Are you certain you feel well enough? I can hear wheezing when you breathe."

"Yeah, I think so. I'll get another breathing treatment this morning." He finished his coffee and pushed the empty cup around the desktop with his finger. He did indeed feel better in several ways. He knew her nearness and Vulcan calm had allowed him the relief to sleep without dreaming, but he could hardly mention that without having to admit his own awful frailty. She had told him he wasn't ready for that, and he knew she was right. He wanted her to understand his appreciation for what she had shared with him, and for welcoming him without reservation and despite his quirks, but words seemed inadequate. Finally he simply said, "Thank you."

She nodded, a slight flush creeping onto her cheeks and ears. She met his eyes and he stood, caught in her steady gaze. She got to her feet as well. He felt a connection course between them, a feeling that moved through his body. The tabletop was between them, otherwise he thought he would have taken her into his arms. He looked away, not sure if he was willing the moment to break or never end. T'Phol also lowered her eyes.

The moment passed. He slid his feet into his slippers.

"I'll come around later. Get Cass to contact Scotty for you and arrange a trip to engineering for this afternoon. We'll drop by the bridge, too." McCoy tried for a light tone to counteract the somberness of the moment before.

"All right. I would like to get in some piano time as well. And I hope to see Miss Uhura."

"I believe you are enjoyin' your time on the Enterprise."

T'Phol rewarded him with her unguarded smile. "Your Southern accent is prevalent sometimes. It is an endearing characteristic. Indeed, I am finding my time here is most agreeable."

He smiled. "You can take the boy out of the South..." He picked up the mostly forgotten epinephrine hypo. "I'll take this back to Sickbay and see you later."


McCoy went straight to Sickbay. Chapel was there with Doctor Sanchez in an otherwise deserted section. Chapel met him at the door to the treatment room.

"It's about time. Your SaO2 is dropping below ninety percent, and the monitor is showing increasing bronchospasm and edema. I was about to come and get you."

"That's why I'm here. I was afraid T'Phol was gonna stick me with this thing." He handed Chapel the hypo. "I can hear all sorts of rales this morning."

"Let's have a look," Sanchez said, sitting him on the biobed, and watching the readings for a minute. He finished the scan and then got a stethoscope from the drawer, warming the bell in his hands. McCoy rolled his eyes. "For such a young guy, you sure are old school, Bill."

"Be nice," he warned as he put it to McCoy's chest, "or I'll put it in the freezer. Now breathe."

Sanchez listened for a minute, then straightened, putting the stethoscope away.

"I do hear the cacophony of wheezes and whistles. Yesterday you got a short acting beta agonist. I'll add a long acting with the corticosteroid. And maybe racemic epinephrine."

"Leave off the epi. It'll make me feel like hell. I have things I want to do this afternoon."

"How about some IV atropine or pantropine?"

"That's hell via a different route."

"I'll defer to you on this. We're still waiting on the full tox report. There are some unknown botanic components in the defkato that are proving hard to isolate. M'Benga thinks it may be less like a tear gas and more like a toxin."

McCoy thought a moment. "Try IM benzatropine instead. If that doesn't bring it around, we'll do a pantropine drip later."And let me know when the toxicology report is ready."

Chapel prepared the nebulizer and McCoy obediently donned the mask and breathed without talking until it was finished. She pushed a hypo against his arm, then instilled some more drops in his eyes causing almost instant relief.

"Thanks," he said. "I forgot my drops last night." He took a deep breath,

"Well, don't forget them tonight. Do I need to tell T'Phol to keep up with them for you?"

"Might not be a bad idea." He looked at Chapel, who seemed amused. "She took her job of looking after me very seriously."

"Someone needs to. I checked your monitor several times last night so I knew where you were. She cares about you."

"Vulcans don't wear their hearts on their sleeves, Christine." He slipped down from the bed.

"No?" Chapel wore the odd little half smirk she usually reserved for times when he was ranting or being thick-headed and obstinate. He expected more commentary, but instead she took a seat at her desk, picking up her PADD and stylus and began working. Sanchez reappeared with a tape which he handed to McCoy.

"Toxicology report, Doctor McCoy. Here's the real trouble maker. One of the components is actually a previously unknown botanical derivative closely resembling methyloropicrin, although fortunately not nearly as strong. Otherwise you'd be dead instead of dealing with some pulmonary edema. The good news, it should respond very well to the long acting beta agonist you just got. I suggest an oral dose of tributamol, too. Hang on and I'll grab it."

McCoy sat on the corner of Chapel's desk. "It just gets better and better. Methyloropicrin is a chemical warfare agent. Why the hell isn't Vartheb dead?"

Sanchez returned with the pill and a glass of water. McCoy swallowed it, draining the entire glass.

"I'll make sure Geoff sees this report when he comes in. He'll look at your chart first thing. He may want you to have another treatment this evening." He passed a scanner quickly over McCoy and studied the readings. "Looking better. Can you feel any improvement?"

McCoy drew a deep breath. "In fact, yes. Except for the headache." He held up his hand. "I'll live with it. Enough drugs already. My insides are jittery."

"Wear the monitor today at least. Do you still have the epi-mini?"

Chapel produced it immediately. McCoy took it with a sigh.

"You have a lot of meds on board. Take it easy. Drink a lot of fluids."

"That's exactly what I'm planning."


McCoy went to his quarters. He studied the toxicology report for a while, doing his own research into the components and various possible treatment options, finally deciding the course they had taken was on target.

When he finished, he sat in front of the blank terminal for a while. He eventually opened a library link and asked for "Polthea of Altaire concert video" in the entertainment search box. Immediately a list of over a hundred selections populated his screen. He then ordered them chronologically from oldest to newest. The list stared back from the screen. The first one was twenty-seven years old., the last just over sixteen. He left the screen and got a hot tea. He sipped, wondering why he felt like he was invading her privacy. It felt odd to think of her life being documented and available for anyone with computer access. Listening to her recordings did not seem as invasive as watching her former self on display in what she had repeatedly referred to as a circus.

He opened the first one. It was not a professional tape, but a local station's news broadcast of what appeared to be a home video. An impossibly tiny child playing the violin with skill, her small fingers dancing nimbly over the strings. He caught a glimpse of a woman in the background that he assumed might be her mother. He did the math. T'Phol would have been three.

He skipped several. In the next one she was older, but still a small child, on solo piano. It was a more skillful production, well lit with multiple camera angles. Her face was largely hidden by her hair and her fingers looked very small on the keys. Her bow at the end was quick. Her eyes did not meet the camera lens.

He looked for her first performances at Carnegie Hall. They were both slick and professional, and she was performing with a full orchestra. He watched a few minutes of both. Then he skipped another few years. She was taller, her fingers longer, she moved with more assurance and authority. By age twelve her style was growing and maturing. Even his untrained ear could hear subtleties that had been missing before. Still, her eyes rarely met the camera lens and except for glimpses, her long hair curtained her face from view.

Finally he clicked on the last in the list, the Brahms concert in Vienna. He knew that universally adolescents were insecure, including Vulcans, and despite T'Phol's rather disparaging assessment of herself he was not expecting Quasimodo.

The house lights dimmed and she walked onto the stage wearing a long sparkling dark gown that floated away from her body. Her hair was pulled back severely into a bun at the back of her neck. Her arms were bare, thin and sleek. The stage lighting rendered the planes of her face and neck in sharp relief. She bowed to the audience, and greeted the concert mistress and the conductor, shaking their hands. She was taller than either. He saw no sign of awkwardness. Then she took her seat at the piano.

He was unprepared for the intensity of her performance. She was on fire, raw emotionally, passionate. He could see it on her face and in her eyes. She was not hiding or holding back, but giving and taking everything, all unfolding on a summit of expertise and a powerful connection to the piece and the audience. He thought of a phrase he remembered hearing. Without a doubt, this was a world class performance. He had a sudden insight that she already knew it would be Polthea's last appearance.

That concert was almost an hour long. He watched it all, unable to look away. The standing ovation at the end was thunderous and ongoing. She rose, taking several bows. The Maestro kissed her on the cheek, and children not much younger than her brought huge bouquets of flowers to the stage. She looked at the cameras that night, eyes alight with fierce triumph and something he thought might be the culmination of the force she called her Rage.

He flicked the off switch and the screen went dark. He eventually showered and dressed and began his afternoon.