He heard someone moaning as if in pain. He attempted to get up, ready to help, but was overcome with waves of nausea and vertigo. The moaning continued. It took him a minute to realize he was the source. He closed his mouth tightly, biting his bottom lip and the moaning stopped.
The rush of vertigo lessened, and he slowly opened one eye. The view did not change from complete darkness. For a moment he thought he might be blind, but as he listened he could hear a slow drip of liquid falling into a puddle and the accompanying echo. Not blind, he thought, he must be in a cave. Relieved that he was not sightless, he began to take stock of his physical condition. Aside from the disorientation and nausea, he had a tremendous headache, and he was cold. He was lying on his side on a hard surface. His shoulders and arms ached fiercely. He tried to move them and found he could not. His hands were bound behind his back. His legs and feet were also tied. He shifted his position a bit in an effort to lessen the pressure on his arms, in the process discovering an extremely sore area on his left parietal bone. He waited again for the nausea to subside, while some perverse part of his brain cataloged symptoms of concussion and traumatic brain injury.
He tried to work his way backward through his memory to recall the sequence of events that led to his current condition. Judging from the awful metallic taste in his mouth and the general fuzziness of his thinking process, he must have been given some sort of strong tranquilizer in addition to the blow to his skull. He could remember neither, so he listened in the darkness to the plop of the water, counting the seconds between drips, which turned out to be eighteen, although he was sure Spock would say it was seventeen point six two four.
He lost consciousness again. When he came to the second time, he was shivering, his teeth chattering. 'Stage one mild hypothermia with a core temperature still above thirty-two degrees,' the helpful doctor inside cheerfully informed him. "At stage two, the shivering will stop.'
"Shut up," McCoy growled. He was not sure if he had spoken aloud, it seemed the silence was all prevailing and he imagined his words falling heavily from his mouth and being sucked into nothingness. The vivid illusion frightened him a little; truth was he hated caves and being underground, and was fighting to keep his thoughts away from the darkness on Minara II where he had been held captive and tortured. There he had Jim and Spock with him. Whatever he was facing here, it appeared he would be doing it alone.
He drifted in and out of awareness for some time. When he was lucid, he listened to the water, still dripping at its seventeen-point-whatever-second interval, the only external noise he could hear. The sounds his body made were amplified, his respiration seemed thunderous, borborygmi caused by peristalsis in his digestive system liquidly rumbled, and when he opened his eyes, the orbital sockets creaked. And he was cold.
Fortunately he was wearing his coat, although he could not remember when he put it on. 'Traumatic retrograde amnesia,' said the Internal Doctor. McCoy said nothing. Through a great deal of painful trial and error, he managed to hitch around and maneuver himself into a slightly less uncomfortable position. He began systematically moving his arms and legs to relieve the pain and try to generate some muscle heat, putting all his effort into moving his limbs as far as he could against the restraints. Soon an old rock and roll song sprang unbidden in his head, and he worked in its rhythm.
'That's the sound of the men, working on the chain ga-a-ang.
That's the sound of the men, working on the chain-gang.
All day long they're singing.
Hooh. Aah.
Hooh. Aah.'
He couldn't remember all the lyrics, so those lines played in a loop as he flexed and extended, flexed and extended. Internal Doctor joined the chant at some point.
'Triceps brachi.'
'Hooh.'
'Anconeus.'
'Aah.'
'Biceps brachi.'
'Hooh.'
'Brachialis.'
'Aah.'
'Brachioradialis.'
"Are you planning to recite all six hundred and fifty?"
'Eight forty if we count the sub-groups.'
"You smug bastard."
'We might have time for the origins and insertions, too.'
"Christ."
'We must have had a Tri-ox injection,' mused Internal Doctor. 'Surely it's been almost four hours.'
That started an unwelcome chain of thought. He had lost track of time and had little idea how long he had been there. Time enough for the darkness to weigh heavily on his psyche, as evidenced by his little mind game, an attempt to distract himself from a grim reality. He was less concerned about possible pulmonary complications at the moment, because he was more worried how long he could keep his wits about him and ward off going 'bat-shit crazy', a Grandma Lydie term he used to find humorous. Presently it didn't seem so funny..
Years earlier, when he was in medical school, he had entered a sensory deprivation tank, floating in total darkness and silence in a body temperature bath of magnesium sulfate. The experience was supposed to relax and rejuvenate, enhance mental function, connect with the inner self, smooth the skin, whatever. He lasted less than fifteen minutes before he emerged from the pod shaken and panicked. If not for the attendants, he probably would have run naked into the street. He supposed his inner self didn't want to make a connection. For weeks after the episode, he slept with a night light. The experience still felt fresh, still provoked a visceral reaction as if it had happened yesterday rather than years before.
'At least the brain pod was warm.'
McCoy huffed and resumed his exercise, helping stave off the chill and giving him something to do other than contemplate the darkness. For a while he worked his wrists against the strong plastic zip tie binding, past the point of bringing blood, but the restraint had been applied too snugly to wiggle his hands free, even when lubricated.
He could not dredge up any memory of being captured, but he could remember most of the morning. He recalled T'Phol asking to stay with him. He was now doubly glad he sent her with the others on the trip. He finished the physicals later in the morning, filed reports, cleaned and tidied the clinic. His plan had been to return to quarters and rest, maybe study the information from the biological reports on the talon sample, but something happened on his way to their area. He could recall a feeling of urgency, but the actual event still eluded him.
He stopped his movements suddenly, senses hyper-alert. He heard voices, not Internal Doctor, but someone else, a whispering echo off the cave walls. He wasn't sure if his eyes were already open or if he opened them, but after a moment he could see a faint wavering light reflecting in the distance. As it drew closer, he could distinguish at least two speakers, speaking guttural Standard. His heart hammered in his chest. These people might be his captors, but maybe they would take him to another location.. He would take his chances with unknown, cruel kidnappers over the certainty of the cold dark any time. The light rounded a corner and he closed his eyes, feigning unconsciousness, hoping he could learn something useful if they talked unguarded. He saw the light red through his lids as it shone on his face.
"He's still out," followed by a grunt that sounded impatient. "You'll have to carry him."
The second voice laughed. "I think not. We wake him. The slug can walk."
McCoy felt the hard toe of a boot in his side. When he didn't react, he was nudged harder, then kicked with enough force to roll him over. He couldn't stop the groan of pain that escaped. He opened his eyes, squinting into the light, blinding after the darkness.
"There you are. Stand."
"I can't," he answered, truthfully.
"Gah. Flimsy Humans." His attacker reached down, hauling him to his feet in one movement. McCoy gasped, he thought his shoulders would be pulled from their sockets. His knees immediately buckled and he fell. He was saved from real injury by his captor's grasp, his fall was broken and he didn't hit the stone floor as hard as he might have. His head swam, for a minute he thought he would pass out again. He hung on to consciousness as Voice Two cursed above him. Then he heard the unmistakeable sound of a knife being unsheathed. He hoped the aim was true and death would come immediately. He steeled himself for the blow.
Instead the knife sliced through his restraints, first his legs, then his hands. His arms fell into position at his sides, a delicious dose of pain and relief. His hands started to tingle, he welcomed the pins and needles, before they had been numb.
"Get up."
McCoy struggled to his feet and stood, swaying, hoping he could stay upright and avoid vomiting on his captors' shoes.
"Let's go."
Somehow he forced his legs to function and he began walking between the two figures. He stumbled twice but didn't fall. The guard on his right kept a firm hold on his upper arm. Between his aching head and the unsteady flashlight, he couldn't tell much about his surroundings or his captors. They made a couple of turns and he began to see daylight seeping into the dark. Another turn and he could see through to the outside world. The opening was small, they had to duck to pass through. McCoy's eyes watered with the sudden change in brightness. The light was not yet fading into twilight. He wondered if it was the same day.
Then he saw his captors clearly, bright green skin identifing one as Orion, a species he had seldom encountered. The other was unmistakably Klingon.
McCoy's mind reeled at the implication of an Orion-Klingon alliance even as he wondered why such a partnership would manifest itself on Aminta. Certainly it was not to facilitate scholarly research on extinct dialects or to catalog the spread of starfaring races centuries ago.
The Orion kept his arm in a strong grip as he activated a communication device, speaking in Orion instead of Standard. It was a short conversation on both ends. The Klingon looked at McCoy, leaning closer until they were almost nose to nose. "You shall soon see who wants you alive...For the present." He grinned through a row of jagged teeth. McCoy did not move. The Klingon laughed, spraying fine spittle. "Do you fear death, Starfleet man? Humans are weak, cowards. Perhaps you will meet our mind-sifter before it's over." His voice dropped to a low growl. "Are you afraid of me, Human?" He reached with a gloved hand and drew a leisurely finger across McCoy's cheek. McCoy drew back fractionally and the Klingon seized him around the throat in a sudden and vicious movement.
"Admit you're afraid," he hissed. "Plead for my mercy." When McCoy said nothing, his hand tightened. "I said beg!"
"You have bad breath," McCoy choked out.
The look of surprise and then rage on the Klingon's face was almost worth the punch to his celiac plexus. The hit wrenched him from the Orion's grasp and he dropped airlessly to the ground. The Klingon kicked ,wild in his anger, and the blow intended for his head landed on his shoulder instead. He saw the heavy boot draw back for another try, but the Orion moved between them, actually shoving the Klingon, who windmilled for balance.
"Enough of this, Uboq. Leave the Human alone. Dead, he is useless."
Uboq sneered. "I was not aware you are in charge, Ludedmi."
"Neither are you," the Orion replied, his voice low and dangerous. Uboq backed away, muttering. Ludedmi watched as McCoy, laying at his feet and still winded, tried to catch his breath.
McCoy fought through the diaphragmatic spasm, forcing air into starving lungs. He knew he needed a dose of Tri-ox, but didn't ask if either happened to have one in their pocket. He had partially recovered when Ludedmi reached down, hauling him to his feet. To his surprise, he was able to stand. His shoulder was painful as he held his left arm close to his body. Other than a dark glance that seemed to promise more to come, Uboq ignored him, and they waited in silence as McCoy wondered exactly what they were waiting for.
That question was answered by arrival of a vehicle. It came in silently, one minute it was not there and then it was. McCoy struggled with the impression of materialization from nowhere, and the illusion that it was invisible. As he stared, he could see the edges and form of a sleek vessel, so not invisible after all, nor was it like a cloaking device. It seemed the light waves hitting it were bent so that it reflected its surroundings, but not with the symmetry of a mirror. It settled on the ground and the door opened to reveal an Orion pilot. Ludedmi poked his back and he climbed inside where was room for six people. He was pushed to the back where he dropped thankfully into a seat.
The pilot swiveled to face them. "Apply restraints. You may need them." Then he turned back to a sophisticated cockpit. McCoy was no pilot, but he recognized warp capable configuration. He thought about how Scotty would appreciate seeing the ship as he fastened the seatbelt.
The front viewscreen wrapped around the front, offering a much better view than the Enterprise shuttlecraft. Takeoff was noiseless and vertical. They started forward slowly, then picked up speed. Soon they were skimming just feet above the treetops, following a river bed for some distance. Then the course veered toward a mountain range and into a valley, winding through the narrow passage between sheer cliff faces as G-forces pressed them this way and that in their seats. McCoy soon felt woozy, and his shoulder hurt where the restraint pressed on it. He white-knuckled the edge of his seat and swallowed his rising gorge for what seemed like an eternity. Finally the ship slowed, turning into a slot canyon. They passed into deep shadow as the canyon walls towered above them. In places the shuttle crept as it almost touched the walls on both sides. The space widened slightly, and the pilot set down without a quiver.
They disembarked onto level, sparkly, sandy, ground, a little more brown than grey. McCoy looked up. The rock faces reached far above, grey and obsidian. It was dim, almost dark on the ground, but the light was fading from the sky as day turned into twilight. He wondered if the canyon flooded and how often, or if some other force had shaped it. Ludedmi pushed him forward toward a fissure in the wall. He wondered if he would ever see daylight again. He took one final look at the sky, then stepped through the narrow slot and into the mountain..
