CHAPTER EIGHT
Leonard McCoy has lost count of the times he's come under fire since he began service with the Enterprise. It's certainly been a frequent enough occurrence for him to re-write Starfleet's mandatory training regime for the CMO of a starship to include modules in weaponry and hand to hand combat.
He suspects no amount of training will ever make him feel comfortable with a phaser in his hand. And, while he would never admit this to either of them, his discomfort is increased by the absence of Jim Kirk or a certain Vulcan officer fighting by his side. While it is usually their fault he finds himself on the front line, it is also usual for him to be able to rely on them to rescue the situation. His own long-established role is to point out the obvious flaws in the plan and treat the inevitable casualties. As another bolt of phaser fire explodes to his right leaving his ears ringing, he grits his teeth and squints round the corner of an empty packing crate to return fire. Goddammit. This is not how it's supposed to pan out. He's a doctor not a commando.
There's a groan from the anti-grav gurney beside him. The woman is in a bad way, one of three colonists from the Demeter they had to stabilise before they could move them from the holding cell. His tricorder readings confirm the bad news. Time isn't on their side. He calibrates the hypo-spray to administer as much sedative as he dares. Where the hell are the shuttles? And where's Giotto?
As if in answer to a prayer the security chief materialises silently by his side, phaser in hand.
"How are you doing, sir?" He's not looking at McCoy. His eyes are scanning the shadows at the back of the warehouse.
"Well, Commander, I'm just fine and dandy. But this woman is dying and I've got two more over there who'll follow her if we don't get out of here pronto. Where are those shuttles Scotty promised?"
Giotto steps carefully round the patient on the gurney at their feet. "On their way. There's a storm on the northern continent spreading south and they've had to divert around it. We just need to hold tight. Excuse me, sir..."
In one fluid motion the security chief pushes him to the ground as a flash of light explodes over their heads then crouches over him to return fire. A figure topples from the warehouse gantry and lies motionless.
On the captain's orders they're still using a heavy stun setting; orders given in the context of Kirkish optimism that the effects of the ore from Alpha 177 can be reversed. Privately McCoy thinks the chances of remerging the former Starfleet officers are becoming increasingly remote. For a start they have no idea what's happened to those officers' positive alter egos. Judging by the first Miller's report, they are presumably confined somewhere on the base.
Giotto flips open his communicator, "Giotto to Captain Kirk. Come in Captain." It's obvious he's not expecting a reply and those expectations are met. There has been no word from either Kirk or his First Officer since the moment the explosion down the tunnel did what it was intended to do and sent the guards running, leaving only a forcefield between the Enterprise team and the terrified colonists from the Demeter.
That something has happened to the best command team in the fleet is obvious. That Giotto would follow his captain's orders and lead a flawless rescue operation to the surface without waiting for his commanding officer was also obvious and McCoy knows, from long exposure to the steely professionalism of the Enterprise's chief of security, it is pointless to protest. Besides he's a doctor leading a team of junior medics who have only the most basic training in self-defence and his priority has to be their safety and the evacuation of the casualties. But that doesn't stop him worrying and disguising that worry under a cloak of acerbity.
"There comes a point when perseverance becomes just plain old stubbornness, Commander. If there was a way of contacting us, don't you think Jim Kirk would have found it by now?" Unless he can't, he adds silently. Unless he's unconscious. Or worse. His mind rebels. No. He's got Spock with him. At least they're together. And god help the man who tries to harm a hair of Jim's head as long as that Vulcan is by his side.
Giotto's face is grim as he changes the frequency on his communicator. "Ramirez, report."
"Perimeter's secure, sir. The...uh...enemy's retreating."
Enemy? thinks McCoy. It jars. But what the hell else are you supposed to call figures in Starfleet uniform when they appear determined to use you for target practice?
Ramirez continues. "And the shuttles, sir. I can hear them. They're on their way."
"Acknowledged. Giotto out." And now McCoy too can hear the roar of the shuttle engines, can see the puddles outside the warehouse doors ripple in vibration.
The chief turns to the CMO, all calm efficiency, his voice raised against the noise outside. "Right, Doctor. Triage. Let's get the most severely wounded out there first. We'll need at least one medic to each shuttle load. It's at least a 15 minute trip to orbital rendezvous, could be longer if that storm hits."
McCoy nods but before he has time to relay his orders to the team one of the juniors is up by his side, an injured colonist in blood-stained coveralls draped over one shoulder.
"Doctor McCoy. I can't find him."
"Can find who, ensign?" McCoy is distracted. He's weighing the damage it's likely to cause to remove his critical patients from their gurneys and place them in sitting positions versus the space factor. Enterprise shuttles aren't medivacs. Every horizontal patient transported will displace another who can ill afford to wait for the next transport. If only they could use the cargo space. Will Scotty have thought of that?
The medic tugs his sleeve.
"Doctor. I'm sorry. He's gone, sir. I was treating this guy. Leg wounds. And when I turned round he'd…well, he just vanished, sir."
"Wait a minute. Who are you talking about?"
But then he knows. Puts two and two together. A tousled head and a field dressing he hasn't seen since –
"Jake? Jake's gone?"
"Yes, sir. I think he's looking for his mother."
"God dammit, Rufus. You were supposed to -"
But he knows that's unfair. He should have guessed Jake wouldn't hang around once he realised his mom wasn't among the colonists in the holding cells. It's no excuse that his thoughts were with a missing figure in command gold and an unworkable ratio of patient to doctor relationships.
He sighs. "Never mind. We haven't got time to go looking for him." He runs his tricorder over the figure draped over the ensign's shoulder. "Get your patient out to the shuttles. We'll need to keep an eye on his fluids. He's going into shock."
He watches the retreating figures limp towards the door and frowns. We haven't got time to go looking for you either, Jim. You and Spock, you're on your own.
-oOo-
Mostly written and posted on the same day so apologies if this seems rushed. I was determined to update this week. Still with me?
