Chapter Eight

He saw it all perfectly in a dream, in vivid colors and flawless, crystalline vision – a place set in the open ground of a tiny village whose very existence contradicted itself. He stood in the center of it all, an intruder obviously alien, a giant towering over the dwarfed frames of the people. They stood no taller than his hip, but there was nothing delicate about them. Sturdy and muscular, clothed only in thin linen dyed to the color of the setting sun, they moved about as if he didn't exist. He watched them with a kind of startled wonder, fascinated by the single-mindedness they showed as they performed their tasks. They seemed to be taking care of the planet. Even the way they walked on the ground was with care, stepping quickly, but lightly across the black soil in the way one would navigate delicate rice paper.

The sky was alabaster white, brilliant and blinding. It covered them like a living net, securing them to the planet.

"You're not supposed to be here," he said to them. But they paid him no mind, never pausing in their duties, always moving, tending. His temper rose. "I said you're not supposed to be here."

Though they did not acknowledge him, he had the distinct feeling that they had been waiting for him. He moved to take a step, but could not, his legs frozen in place. He looked down to see his legs sunken deep in the black soil, but not buried, and whole. They were part of the soil, part of the planet and all the living things that thrived beneath the sun, his own flesh and bones integrating, no longer his, no longer separate. Roots moved through his calf, pinching and digging their way into the muscle, causing a biting pain that crawled up his thigh.

He looked up. The entire village had stopped and were now watching him, the tiny copper-colored eyes shining like beacons. There were no pupils in the eyes. They looked like shiny coins laid side-by-side against a green terrain. For a moment they remained unmoving, like miniature pieces of a chess set on a giant board. Then, in an instant…they moved on him.

They pressed against him, pushing him back. He lost his balance, his legs still imbedded in the soil. His knee wretched painfully as the full weight of the beings pressed him to the ground. Their hands held him down, securing him in place. He stared up at the blinding, white sky. The intensity of it shot ribbons of pain into his eyes and he cried out, struggling against the hands. His knee throbbed in agony.

Countless hands held him immobile, firm but not cruel. The ache in his head dulled. His respiration slowed, and everything seemed to stall.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. A figure stood over him. Somewhat taller than the others and dressed in a simple, colorful headdress, the being looked at him with fond recognition, like two old friends reconciling after a long separation.

"I am the gatekeeper," he said. "We have been waiting for you." A long thin finger touched Jim's forehead.

His vision erupted in a dazzling explosion of white light.

He shot up in bed with a startled cry, arms flaying out to ward off unseen hands, trying to break free. Heart hammering, pulse racing, he drew in frantic breaths. The lights in his quarters rose automatically in response to his shout. The sudden intensity of the light sent deep stabs of pain into his eyes.

"Computer, lights twenty percent!"

Christ, his head hurt. With a trembling hand, he brushed the sweat from his forehead then pressed his palm to the cool flesh. Sitting up in the bed he knew was his, he tried quickly to orient himself, but he couldn't see enough of the room to get his full bearings. He remembered that he had been released to his quarters even before the familiar scent of the ship took hold and began to calm his shattered nerves.

A tearing agony in his knee drew his attention and he dropped his hand from his head to steady himself on the bed while his other reached for his injured knee. His leg was not imbedded in some alien planet; it was trapped in a damn brace. Bones had secured it in place, and it was tight and unyielding, biting into his flesh with a persistence that set his teeth on edge. He kicked the blankets off with his good leg and released the brace with a quick flick of his wrist.

Free of the contraption, his knee still throbbed painfully and that irritated him more. With his breathing steadier, he lowered himself to lie flat on the bed. He stared at the flat grey ceiling, only vaguely aware of the soft lights. The ache behind his eyes was dull, but unwavering. Had his vision gotten worse? Or was it the informal quarters his eyes were now unaccustomed to seeing that made it seem so? Sickbay was always too bright and exposing for him. Part of why he hated it. The very nature of medicine stripped a person of any notion of privacy. He preferred the solitude of his quarters, even though that privacy was an illusion.

He closed his eyes and threw a still trembling arm over his eyes as if the single appendage would offer an additional layer of protection. As his heart calmed, he began to sort his fragmented thoughts. The dream had been vividly real, not only in intensity but in content. It was as if he had been revisiting a memory.

His thoughts stilled and he mulled over that idea for a moment. Had it been a memory? Or had his mind conjured the scenario in response to his recalled sensations?

A flash of white…hands held him down…. hard, unrelenting.

Or was that also a dream? Bones had told him the toxin was affecting the part of his brain that controlled memory. Christ, he couldn't even see clearly. The only way he could identify the people around him was from their scent and the sound of their voices. He sure as hell couldn't trust what he was seeing. The haunting images could easily be things that happened in Sickbay or even residual effects of the transporter. Was any of it real?

I am the gatekeeper.

A sharp stabbing pain in his knee drew his attention. With a suppressed grunt, he sat up and pushed a pillow beneath his leg, supporting his knee in the hope of offering some relief. He sat in the darkness, absently rubbing his knee. His thoughts turned to the gatekeeper…and to Spock.

"Who's the gatekeeper?" The words came from deep inside and slipped past his lips to fall softly into the air.

"That, Jim, is what I am attempting to discover."

Startled, he looked up at Spock, desperately wanting to be able to see the lines and muscles on the taciturn face. A lifetime of discipline made it damn near impossible to read the Vulcan, but when Spock wanted, he allowed his emotions to peek through in the dark eyes, the way he had as Jim lay dying in the radiation chamber. Was he revealing his emotions now?

"How do you know about the gatekeeper?"

Silence stretched between them. In the back of his mind he remembered that Vulcans do not lie.

"Spock? Answer me." His words were tight, his expression guarded. "I dreamed the gatekeeper. How could you possibly know about that?"

"It was unintentional and…unexpected," Spock said with discomfort.

"What was?" He scowled, leaning forward as if to close the distance between them. Spock remained in place, a pillar of cerulean blue. The pain in his temples increased as he strained to see. The muscles in his shoulders bunched with tension as he braced for what he knew Spock would say.

"I had not intended to…join with your mind," Spock said quietly.

"Join with my mind?" His thoughts spun. They had melded? He had hoped, on some level, that he had told Spock of the gatekeeper in his delirium, that somehow the Vulcan had discerned the information from his feverish chatter or some other means. "You melded with me?"

He posed the question incredulously, but they both heard the unspoken: without my permission.

"Not in the true sense of a meld," Spock answered uneasily. He had made no move to come closer. "There is a link…our minds seemed drawn to one another in—"

"Get out," he said shortly, leaning back onto the bed. "Leave."

He closed his eyes as the memory faded. Spock had left without another word and they had not spoken since. It had been unfair of him to lash out at the man who had saved his life, but he had felt exposed, violated…betrayed. The only mind-meld he had experienced had been with the other Spock, and the memory of that single encounter caused him to shudder. He remembered the nightmares that had resulted from the meld, the headache that lingered for weeks and the raw intensity of the other Spock's emotions that had poured unchecked through him.

Had it been that way for this Spock? Had the First Officer felt his fear, his pain? Was the Vulcan feeling it now?

With a low growl, he rolled out of bed, clinging to the pain that shot through his knee. He gritted his teeth against it and forced his weight onto the aching leg.

McCoy stood outside Jim's quarters and took a moment to compose himself. He didn't want to go barging in, barking orders and giving Jim a piece of his mind before he had an opportunity to properly assess the situation, though he was fairly certain he knew what it was. He glanced down at the display on his PADD and scowled. Jim had been out of Sickbay for less than twenty hours and, from the looks of it, had not complied with even one of his orders.

He had checked on Jim last night at the end of shift. Still groggy from the pain meds, Jim had been sound asleep on the top of the bed, curled gently on his side. He had covered his friend with a blanket and left, hoping Jim would sleep soundly through the night. But a warning beep on the monitor in the middle of the night dashed that hope. He could almost see the nightmare play out on the display. The monitoring bracelet was thorough, if not intrusive. He could understand why Jim hated it.

With a deep breath, he pressed the entrance chime. He hadn't liked releasing Jim to his quarters, but he had hoped more comfortable and familiar surroundings would relieve some of the tension and stress that was impeding Jim's recovery, possibly eliminate the headaches, as well. Jim didn't heal well in Sickbay, despite the advanced medical technology it had to offer. The constant monitoring and interventions drove his stress-levels higher, which was causing its own concern to McCoy. It didn't help that Jim's impaired vision was adding to the young man's frustration and sense of helplessness. Short temper aside, Jim had skipped his physical therapy session, abruptly dismissing the therapist from his quarters.

He stared at the sealed door and frowned. Glancing down at the PADD to reassure himself, he pressed the entrance chime again. Jim was still conscious and very much active according to his vitals, which meant the vision McCoy had of him lying on the floor was totally unwarranted. He hadn't had a chance to check on Jim earlier, as he had intended. A minor emergency in Sickbay had delayed him more than three hours.

I should have sent Chapel. Jim could be intimidating when he wanted, and it was easy for a junior officer to accept his directions, even when they went against that of the CMO's. He looked down at the PADD again, frowning. What the hell was taking him so lo—

The door suddenly hissed open and he quickly stepped inside. The lights were at forty percent, casting a soft glow around the tightly configured quarters, and that was odd because Jim didn't see well in dim lighting. Was the light causing him pain?

He stood in the office area, just inside the entrance. The private sleeping area lay just beyond a smoky glass partition. Though his instruments told him differently, he half expected Jim to be sitting at his desk or on the small sofa just beyond, as if it were a normal day and McCoy was stopping by at the end of a long shift to share a well-deserved bourbon with his friend. But Jim wasn't in the main area and he couldn't see any sign of him in the sleeping area, either. It wasn't as if the man could have gone far. The quarters, while larger than his own, were not that big and didn't lend well to hiding.

"Jim?" He shifted his weight and was about to take a step forward when Jim appeared from behind the privacy partition, favoring his good leg.

"Bones?"

"Yeah." The word fell flatly off his tongue as he stared at Jim. The soft bruises under the blue eyes stood out stark against the bloodless complexion. He looked gaunt and worried and even from the short distance between them McCoy could see the tremors ripple through the lean body. Christ.

With a deepening frown, Jim walked into the office area, limping heavily with a noticeably hobbled and hasty gait. McCoy moved to the side as Jim stepped past him with determination. It took all his medical training not to swear out loud. His grip tightened on the PADD in his hand as he studied his patient who was making an unsteady turn around the small desk. He could see the pattern Jim had developed easily enough, a path from the office to the head and back again.

"Damn it," he said under his breath at the sight of the tray of uneaten food resting on the desk. He turned his gaze to Jim. "What the hell are you doing? I told you to rest."

"I am rested," Jim said shortly and continued his pacing, passing the small sofa.

"Like hell." He studied Jim, noting the pallor of his skin, the tightening around the eyes and mouth. No wonder the man's vitals were high. Jim was no doubt pushing his pain thresholds, as well. He followed Jim into the sleeping area. With every step, Jim cringed. He could see the muscle along Jim's jaw jump as he clenched his teeth, forcing his pace with an uncompromising determination. "You're supposed to be staying off your leg. Jesus, Jim, you look worse than when you were in Sickbay – and that takes some doing. Why aren't you eating?"

And more importantly, why was he pacing when he clearly looked ready to drop? What had happened to set the young man off? He knew Jim well enough to know it was more than a nightmare.

"I'm not hungry," Jim said shortly.

McCoy didn't miss the shudder that passed through Jim.

"You can't keep pushing your body like this. I released you to rest and recuperate." He motioned with the PADD. "Your vitals are way out of line. You're not eating, not sleeping, and I come in here to find you pacing like a goddamned caged tiger and putting unnecessary stress on your ligaments – which are new by the way – and…damn it, will you stand still?"

But Jim continued his path, his expression closed. McCoy knew that look and knew what it meant. He felt his temper rise. "I'm about five seconds away from hauling your ass into Medical Bay and sedating you."

Jim stopped just in front of the sofa, facing McCoy with an expression that bordered the incredulous, as if to say 'what did I do?' Maybe it was the fact that Jim couldn't see him clearly from the distance, or maybe it was the paleness of his skin in the dim lighting, but Jim looked incredibly young and vulnerable standing in the black long-sleeved shirt that hung slightly on his thin frame. Nothing like the man who had unblinkingly faced down irate Romulans and battled enraged Klingons with a confidence that would have put Vulcans to shame.

"Come on, Jim," he said softly, taking advantage of his friend's momentary lapse. "You need to rest."

Jim's shoulders remained squared, his spine stiff as stared blankly ahead with a very conflicted expression. For a moment, McCoy wasn't certain whether Jim was going to surrender or fight. Then, before either man could move, Jim's injured leg collapsed and he crashed unceremoniously to the floor, cursing as he struck the hard surface.

McCoy was at his side in seconds, kneeling down beside him.

Jim had both hands on his injured knee, writhing in pain and cursing a blue streak. "Your ligaments are for shit," he ground out.

McCoy had his scanner out and focused on the knee, worried Jim had torn his newly constructed knee. "Those ligaments are fine. I said to take it easy on them and why in the hell aren't you wearing your brace?"

"I told you, it's too tight." Jim let go of his knee and used his hands to try and push himself up, but McCoy was faster.

He placed a firm hand on the rising shoulder and held his patient in place. "Stay still while I check you out."

"I'm on the deck," Jim complained.

"And you're going to stay there until I say you can move." He studied the scanner. No damage, just strain and fatigue…a little swelling. The blood chemistry looked off and his blood pressure was high. Idiot. "Computer, request a level two medical kit to the Captain's quarters."

"Voice recognition accepted. Order confirmed."

He ignored Jim's growl of frustration and moved the scanner over Jim's torso, scowling at the readings. The oxygen saturation was low again. Not critical, obviously, but lower than normal. He shook his head. He still hadn't discovered what had caused Jim's high fever or why it had suddenly stopped. The unknown nature of the toxin made him cautious and uncertain. Not understanding how to predict how the toxin would affect Jim, he wasn't sure if he should keep the man on bed rest or continue with a normal recovery plan and hope for the best. It seemed that no matter what course of treatment he prescribed, Jim was at risk. A bioengineered toxin could do anything. What he didn't understand was why it was still affecting Jim. The blood screens had looked normal. There was no trace of the toxin in his body.

"Can I get up now?"

He turned his irritation to the man lying on the floor. Pale and shivering slightly, Jim still looked defiant. "No."

He moved the scan to Jim's head and noticed the blue eyes were unfocused and the pupils dilated. The usual straining he'd seen Jim do the past week was absent. "Are you seeing me okay, Jim?"

"Of course not."

He ignored the remark and tightened the scanner to read just the eyes. "Is the light bothering you?"

"Lying on the floor is bothering me, Bones," he said and made a feeble attempt to push the scanner away.

"Jim, if your vision is getting worse, I want to know about it." He glared down at the stunned blue eyes, holding the scanner as if it were a weapon trained on its victim. The results of the last ocular scan showed an increase in intraocular pressure.

The door chime sounded, but he didn't move.

Jim let out a soft breath. "I had a headache."

He studied the pale features. Jim was an expert at deception and could easily bluff his way out of anything without so much as an increased pulse beat. He knew the young man hid pain like a pro and had no qualms about deflecting McCoy away from imposing medical care, but Jim had never lied to him.

The chime sounded again, more insistent.

Jim held still under his scrutiny. If the man was bluffing, he was doing a master job of it. With a deep breath, McCoy set his scanner aside and stood. "Stay put."

He took the medical kit from the nurse with a single dismissing nod and went back to his patient. "Okay, let's get you up."

It was the only cooperative thing Jim had done since McCoy had arrived. With a strong arm around the narrow waist and Jim's arm around his shoulder, they managed to maneuver to the bed, Jim leaning heavily on him for support. As Jim settled onto the bed with a soft groan, he ordered the man to remove his pants. "I want a closer look at your knee."

"It's fine, Bones."

"That's why you ended up on the floor," he said, dismissing Jim's objection and opening the medical kit.

With an exaggerated sigh, Jim slipped out of his pants and tossed them on the floor then leaned back, letting the mattress take his weight. He lay still, doing his best impersonation of a cooperative patient.

McCoy looked at him for a moment, taking in the thinly disguised contempt and noticing how he suddenly appeared exhausted, his breathing slightly labored. Still shivering, but just barely. "Why'd you kick the physical therapist out? I thought you wanted to recover quickly."

Jim stared up at the ceiling, his face closed. "I just needed some space."

"Uh-huh," he said absently, trying to decipher Jim's mood and what had set the young man into a spiral. His hands were gentle as he settled them on Jim's calf, but his eyes were on Jim as he carefully applied pressure to the muscle, searching for any sign of pain. A small twitch across his left eye. A tightening of the mouth. "There's a lot of heat in this leg. Have the muscles been cramping?"

Jim shook his head.

He frowned at the man's reticence and retrieved a hypo from his kit, snapping in a vial. "I'm going to give you something to stabilize your blood chemistry. That should take care of the shivering and dizziness."

He delivered the hypo into Jim's carotid artery. The medication took effect quickly and he saw immediately the subtle relaxing in Jim's body. He discarded the empty vial and snapped another in place, resting a hand on Jim's left thigh. "This one is for the pain you're pretending you don't have."

"I don't nee—"

He pressed the hypo into the quad muscle, drawing a hiss from Jim.

"Damn it, Bones! That hurt."

"Don't be such an infant. If you'd taken the pills I discharged you with I wouldn't need to use a hypo." He put the hypo back into the medical kit and retrieved a pillow from the closet. "I'm going to get something to cool your leg," he said, supporting the injured knee with a pillow beneath it. "Don't move."

The replicator produced what he needed in moments. He returned with the cooling pad and fit it snugly over Jim's knee and calf muscle. He hoped the pad would draw some of the heat out of the leg and that it was just fatigue causing the swelling and not something more.

Jim moved uncomfortably, scowling. "It's too heavy."

"If you hadn't aggravated it by stressing it so much with your patrolling routine, it wouldn't be swollen." He stood by the side of the bed and motioned toward the leg. "I want this on for a few hours. If the swelling doesn't go down, I'll take a blood sample."

A low frustrated growl escaped Jim and he threw his arm over his eyes. "Don't you have other patients?"

"Not today." He walked around to the other side of the bed and rested his hip against the nightstand. He crossed his arms and looked down at Jim. "Want to tell me what's going on, Jim?"

"Not particularly," Jim said.

"This about you and Spock?" He wished Jim would uncover his eyes. It was impossible to interpret the young man's mood when half his face was covered. He suspected Jim knew it, too.

"You're out of your territory, Bones. Leave it be." Jim's voice sounded sleepy, the medication making him lethargic. His breathing had slowed down.

"Everything that happens to you is my territory, Jim. Spock's part of your command staff. You can't just shut him out."

Jim dropped his arm and stared blankly at the ceiling. "No, I guess I can't."

"Is that a confession?" he asked, scrutinizing the pale features.

Jim frowned and tried to rise up on his elbows.

McCoy put a hand on his chest and held him in place. "Where do you think you're going?"

The frown deepened and his respiration increased. "What'd you give me?"

"Something to help you sleep. You need rest."

Jim loosely grabbed McCoy's arm, but his grip was weak, his fingers slipping on the soft fabric. "I don't want to sleep." His words were slurred. His eyes began to close, though he struggled to keep them open. He was fighting the powerful drugs…and losing.

"Bones…"

He scowled. He knew Jim didn't like being sedated, but this was something else, something akin to fear he heard in the faint voice. "It's all right, Jim. Just sleep. You won't dream."

He stayed until he was certain the young man was fully asleep, then checked his vitals. Satisfied, he pulled the blanket around Jim, keeping his elevated leg exposed. He ordered the lights on ten percent, gathered his medical kit and left to see the one man who could give him answers.