AN: Sorry for the slow update! Unfortunately, real life got in the way of more important things, like writing fanfics. The next update will also likely be late, as I will be out of town for a while. As always, thanks so much for reviews, favorites, etc.!
The sights that greeted McCoy on his way to the transporter room were troubling. The damage to the ship was bad enough—blown-out conduits, sealed-off corridors, scorched panels—but worse was the damage to the people. He had spent the last few hours—more than a few, now—dealing with the physical wounds. That was easy enough to fix, in its own way. More troubling were the mental wounds. Everywhere he looked he saw flattened spines, ruffled fur, wide eyes. The crew knew they were a long way from home, with no sure way of getting back. They were overworked and understaffed, and while the Vengeance crew were a welcome addition of helping hands, McCoy knew no one really trusted them. Perhaps, more than any of the many shocks that had been administered to the Enterprise crew, the most unsettling was being attacked by one of their own.
None of that, of course, was reflected in the impassive face of the half-Vulcan waiting for him in the transporter room, hands clasped behind his back. The room seemed smaller than usual due to the Mizarthu ensign, whose name McCoy couldn't remember, crammed behind the control console. McCoy stepped up beside Spock and mirrored the other man's pose in gentle mockery.
"Ready to meet our native guides?" he asked.
"I am adequately prepared to meet our guests, yes," Spock said. He nodded to the ensign. "Energize."
The ensign tapped delicately at the panel before her with one long, curving claw. Two shimmering points of light appeared on the transporter pad and resolved themselves into a pair of humanoid shapes.
They were a study in contrasts. One was the slender, purple-skinned female Kirk had described to him. McCoy immediately understood why his friend had called her "cute." She wore a colorful off-the-shoulder leotard that left her lavender midriff bare and did absolutely nothing to hide her plentiful curves. McCoy predicted trouble. Kirk always managed to get into trouble around beautiful women.
The other could not be more different. He—if it was a he—was stocky, covered in a coarse brown pelt and loose rust-colored robe that together concealed any of the familiar indicators of sex, though if pressed, McCoy would guess he was male. His robe might conceal weapons as well, but McCoy suspected the claws he bore on each three-fingered hand rendered most weapons unnecessary. His face reminded McCoy of one of the homelier bat species of Earth: dark and leathery-skinned, dominated by a large, splayed nose, framed by tall ears, supported by a mouth filled with needle-like teeth. He knew it was foolish to judge alien species by Human aesthetics, but the first word that came to mind was "hideous."
The second was "predator."
The purple female stepped off the transporter pad and walked—bounced, almost—toward Spock, smiling broadly. Her companion followed slowly, staring around the room with open curiosity.
"Welcome aboard the Enterprise," Spock said. "I am Commander Spock, the ship's first officer. This is Doctor McCoy, the Chief Medical Officer."
"Trance Gemini," she said. Her voice was light, almost girlish. "And this Reverend Behemial Far-Traveller—Rev Bem for short."
The bat-faced one bowed slightly from the waist. "That is a truly marvelous technology," he said in a low, rough voice. "The Federation is clearly an advanced culture."
"The Federation is made of many cultures," McCoy corrected him. If these two were going to spend any amount of time on the Enterprise, they may as well get that straight right off the bat. "For example, I'm Human." He jerked his thumb at Spock. "And he's Vulcan. Or half-Vulcan, anyhow. The ensign over there is Mizrathu."
The ensign raised her spines in a friendly greeting that inadvertently made her look every bit the predator she was. Trance smiled nervously, but Rev Bem skinned his lips back from his teeth in an expression that looked more like a snarl—more confirmation, if McCoy needed it, that his species was not generally a peaceful one.
Trance looked between Spock, McCoy, and the ensign. "And all these species coexist peacefully?"
McCoy couldn't help but chuckle. "I won't say we don't have our disagreements and misunderstandings," he said. "But yes, on the whole, we get along quite well."
"The United Federation of Planets is a coalition of planetary governments," Spock added, sounding, as usual, as if he'd swallowed a data chip, "unified by the principles of freedom and self-determination."
Rev Bem and Trance exchanged a glance. "Like the old stories," Rev Bem rumbled.
"The old stories?" McCoy asked.
Rev Bem gestured dismissively with one clawed hand. "Nothing. Only children's tales."
"Hm." McCoy eyed him, trying to read his alien features without much success. Was that an evasion? "I like an old yarn as much as the next man. Maybe you could share some of those tales with me later."
"It would be a pleasure to exchange stories from our distant corners of space," Rev Bem said, with another half-bow.
"Perhaps," Spock said, "you would like to see your quarters, first?"
They ushered their charges out of the transporter room and down the Enterprise's spacious corridors. McCoy had never thought of the ship's interior as being particularly spacious before—true, it was less claustrophobic than most spaceships he'd had the misfortune of being aboard, but in his opinion that wasn't saying much—yet after a few minutes around Trance Gemini he found he had to revise his opinion. She pronounced the corridors spacious, the rooms they passed through airy, the design of the computer interfaces elegant. It was refreshing to see the Enterprise through her fresh, enthusiastic eyes, and McCoy found himself making excuses to show her different parts of the ship, turning what was supposed to be a simple escort into a grand tour. Reverend Behemial was equally interested, though less demonstrative, and seemed especially fascinated by the myriad species who passed them, all wearing some variety of Starfleet uniform, as their physiology permitted.
"Is this wise, Doctor?" Spock asked in an undertone, as Trance and Behemial admired the view from the wide windows of the Officer's Lounge.
"What are you talking about?" McCoy demanded. The lounge was almost deserted. A single exhausted-looking lieutenant sat at a table in a corner, hunched over a padd and a cold cup of coffee.
"I am not sure it is advisable to allow our guests such extensive knowledge of our technology and capabilities. They are, after all, complete unknowns."
McCoy made a noise of derision. "Do you think they're a threat to the safety of the ship? Look at them! They're friendly. They're harmless. And their technology is obviously light-years behind ours."
"That is precisely what concerns me, Doctor. We are at great risk of violating the Prime Directive—"
"Don't let Uhura catch you talking about the Prime Directive," McCoy muttered.
"—of violating the Prime Directive," Spock repeated, doggedly, "by our mere presence in this quadrant." He paused. "And I will thank you to leave Lieutenant Uhura out of this conversation."
"Alright, alright," McCoy grumbled. "Say you're right. Say we shouldn't blindly trust a pair of galactic hitchhikers. What then? We don't exactly have a lot of friends in this neighborhood, Spock. We have to trust someone."
"I am only advising caution—"
Spock broke off as Behemial rejoined them. "The size of you ship is truly astonishing," he said in his rough voice. "I feel as though I am walking through a flying city."
McCoy pounced on this opening. "Where are my manners?" he said. "We've been walking you all over the place and not offered you any refreshment. As long as we're in the lounge, why don't we sit down and have something to drink?"
In McCoy's experience, the best way to get someone to relax and open up was over a good meal and a drink. And while plying strange alien physiologies with Terran liquor probably wasn't the medically responsible thing to do, half the equation wouldn't do any harm, and might get them some information about their guests.
"That would be appreciated," Behemial said gravely. "Thank you."
McCoy showed them how to use the replicators, which produced more exclamations of admiration. Under Spock's mildly disapproving eye, he helped Trance sort through the dozens of food cards as she tried to decide which of the novel dishes she wanted to try. Eventually she settled on a bowl of chocolate ice cream, which McCoy didn't have the heart to tell her wasn't usually served on an occasion like this. Behemial, on the other hand, politely declined the offer of food and accepted only a glass of water. Carrying their trays, the four of them settled at a table beside one of the wide windows.
"Our scans of the area indicate there aren't a lot of people out here," McCoy said, by way of an opening move.
"There is little water in this region of space," Behemial said. He gestured with his water glass, clutched carefully in one clawed hand. "Not all of us have the ability to make water out of thin air, so settlements are scarce."
A desert in space. As if there weren't enough reasons to hate space travel already. "Then what brings you all the way to the middle of nowhere, Reverend?"
"Rev Bem, please," Behemial said. "It is my faith that brings me. I seek to bring the Way to the people living here, to open their eyes to the love of the Divine."
McCoy swallowed a spoonful of tomato soup—noting that, as usual, the replicator hadn't gotten it quite right—and eyed Behemial cautiously. It sounded like the sort of thing a crazy religious zealous might say, but Behemial didn't sound crazy or overzealous. He sounded sincere and thoughtful. McCoy would have liked to know about this religion, but Spock, pragmatic as ever, cut in.
"Were you assigned this region of space by a religious leader?"
Not the most subtle fishing lure, McCoy thought, but Behemial didn't seem to mind. "No," he said. "My order is rather decentralized. I choose where I go—though in this case, it was Trance who picked out destination."
Trance, who had been buried in her bowl of ice cream, looked up at the sound of her name. There was a smear of chocolate over her lip. "What? Sorry, this is just so good!"
"You don't strike me as the religious type," McCoy said. Though, what did he know? Perhaps religions in this part of the galaxy were more amenable to scantily-clad women than those on Earth.
"Oh, I'm not," Trance assured him. "Not that I don't like the Way. I agree completely with it's principles. Like you said, I'm just not the religious type. I'm just along for the ride."
"And for choosing the destination of missionary expeditions, apparently."
"Trance has a knack for… choosing things that turn out well," Behemial said.
Trance smiled shyly and scraped the last of the ice cream out of her bowl. "I guess I'm just lucky."