Gardens in the Rain, chapter 9
Late in the ship's night, Spock sat in sickbay and gazed at the still figure on the bed before him. Shadows lay across her face, broken only by the faint glow of the diagnostics. The small red light illuminated her features like an eerie beacon, its rhythmic pulse a talisman against pain and harm, and he found himself listening for the next beep, the next beep, the next beep of the monitor.
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, seeking a way to rest his back without aggravating his injuries. After events had finally calmed in the early hours of the new day, McCoy had removed forty-three tiny pieces of shrapnel from his shoulders, back, and scalp, and the resulting tenderness was yet another remnant of their ordeal. Of course, his own discomfort was meaningless. The insignificant wounds in his flesh would heal. The memory of his earlier desolate fright, however, and the vague undercurrent of panic that had hovered beneath his actions in the aftermath of the blast, would not leave him so quickly.
He had worked with Kirk, Scott, and a number of specialists to brace the damage to the ship and inspect French's quarters for any clues to her covert activities. He knew that his conduct had been efficient, his mind no less sharp and his attention uncompromised, yet he had not been able to shake the sense of impending dread throughout the entire four hours and twelve minutes they had worked. When he and Kirk finally received the call from sickbay informing them that Nyota had come through surgery and would survive, he had been unable to stop himself from closing his eyes and sagging in relief. But the sense of precariousness had not eased.
Humans were fragile beings. They possessed great strength of will and bottomless emotional fortitude, but the vessels that contained their hardy souls were easily damaged. His mother was fragile. The humans that surrounded him were fragile. Nyota, her life preserved only because a skilled doctor could put the pieces back together, was fragile.
How could he tell her about the brutality of pon farr now?
She would be vulnerable when she awakened, weak and frail, and he could not burden her with the knowledge. Indeed, how could he even think of subjecting her to the strength of his desire someday, using her to satisfy his own uncontrolled urges, leaving her bruised and sore? He could not bear to see apprehension in her eyes as she gazed at him, or pity or disgust.
He thought again of his own mother. How could his father have taken an Earth woman? She had seemed tall and strong and invincible to his young eyes, yet as he gazed at Nyota's sunken features, he remembered a morning during his sixth year. His mother's sleeve had slipped as she placed his breakfast before him, and he saw a bruise, a vivid, ugly bruise on her arm, purple and red and yellow... and it had been in the shape of his father's hand.
He had hated his father at that moment. He had not understood exactly what it all meant, but when he had looked up at his mother's face, he had seen the exhaustion that pinched her features. She had quickly pulled down her sleeve and turned away, and he had picked up his spoon and eaten. He remembered clearly his bowl of oatmeal, sprinkled generously with raisins and nuts—the texture of it, the taste of it. But he had pushed away the rest of the memories from that day. How could he have forgotten? Even when placed in the context of inescapable Vulcan biology and viewed through mature eyes rather than those of an uncomprehending child, the event was disturbing.
His gaze fell again on Nyota's face. Instead of the rich brown shade that he always found so lovely, her color was almost gray. Great circles marred the smooth skin under her eyes, and her lips were parched. If he removed the thin layers of fabric that covered her, he would find a shiny expanse of new skin, slick and unwelcoming to his touch, covering the patched and mended violation that had nearly drained her life's blood.
It was time for him to think of his future with this woman. Although he would not be forced into a decision for well over three years, he had come to understand only recently that he could not expect to merely maintain the status quo until then. Ironically, it was Saavik who had driven him to this realization. In the four months since his trip to England with Nyota, Saavik had repeatedly demanded that he and Nyota wed. Finally, he had told Saavik that he did not want to hear it anymore, but the idea had been planted. The expectations were obvious. A Vulcan, driven by the cycles of his biological drive, could allow events to unfold as they may until the time came to change them, but a human, driven by the desires of the heart, would expect something else entirely.
This all led to only one conclusion. He should terminate his relationship with her. As McCoy would say, he should "fish or cut bait." If he could not envision the long-term, he should not continue the short-term.
But...
He could envision the long-term. As he had known since that very first night, she filled an emptiness that he had not even known existed until suddenly she was there. He would be incomplete without her. Did he really have the strength to push her away and live with the emptiness that would be left behind?
In addition, he must consider the fact that this was not a decision to be made by himself. He had operated his entire life in a vacuum of sorts, knowing that his actions directly impacted no one but himself. Now, however, that had changed. He had Nyota, and he had Saavik. They both would be greatly affected were he to sunder the relationship without an explanation. And the explanation was the problem in the first place.
Could he truly make her happy? Satisfy her needs? She asked so little of him, yet she deserved so much. And he knew her too well to think that she would ultimately desire anything less than a rich life, with all the fullness and joys that might bring. He could not laugh with her. He could not even smile with her. He obviously could not keep her safe from harm.
But neither could he envision his life without her.
...
Kirk nodded at McCoy's nurse as he walked into sickbay. The young man's eyes widened at Kirk's disreputable appearance, and Kirk could only smile and shake his head. He hadn't seen a mirror recently, but there was no doubt that he looked pretty ragged. After hitting the floor like a ton of bricks, digging through rubble, combing a crewman's quarters, supervising a long interrogation, and missing out on at least five hours sleep, he figured that he was probably scary enough to frighten small children.
His smile faded when he stepped into the back room. There sat his friend in the dark, hands folded, posture slumped, staring without expression at Uhura's inert form.
He cleared his throat, and Spock blinked and straightened. "Admiral."
"How's it going?" Kirk pulled over a chair and sat down.
Turning back toward Uhura, Spock said, "Her condition is unchanged but stable."
"That's good."
They gazed at her until Kirk said, "French finally talked."
Raising an eyebrow in surprise, Spock faced him again. "Indeed? What did you learn?"
"She was selling information to the Orions, who were in turn selling it to the Klingons. She's filled with unfocused hatred, and she rigged that suicide bomb in case she was discovered."
"Do you know her motives?"
Kirk took a deep breath and leaned back in his seat. "Money. Revenge. I don't know what else. She's unbalanced, and we had a hard time getting clear answers out of her. Said that the Klingons were building some sort of 'secret base' near Epsilon Triana, and that they were going to take over the Federation and enslave everyone except her and the people who were nice to her. She's so delusional we don't know what to believe. It does appear that she was acting alone, however."
"It is likely that the truth is buried somewhere in her statement, for someone is clearly passing information to the Klingons, and both the Klingons and the Orions would benefit from a base in the neutral zone."
"That's what I thought, too. I contacted Captain Ames, and the Lexington is en route to the Epsilon Triana area. Maybe they can find out what's going on, since we aren't moving anytime soon."
"Has Mr. Scott established a plan to fix the damage?"
"Yes. He won't know for certain until he gets into it, but he thinks that it will be about eighteen hours before we can go into warp again."
Spock nodded and turned back toward Uhura, and a moment later Kirk turned, too. She seemed diminished as she lay in the bed, her only movement the barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest, and Kirk couldn't remember ever seeing her stilled so completely. Even though she lived her life with an inner serenity, she was always lively and animated. So different than Spock. He propped his forearms on his knees and leaned close.
"The last time I was alone with her, we quarreled," Spock said, so quietly that Kirk could hardly understand him.
Kirk sat up and turned toward Spock. "What?"
Spock sighed but did not look away from Uhura. "Two evenings ago, we argued," he said dispassionately. "She became angry. I left. I have not been alone with her since, unless you count my time here in sickbay."
Kirk frowned, uncertain how to respond. "I was with the two of you almost all day yesterday, and she didn't act mad."
"I believe that she was no longer angry, but I could see that she was hurt and uncomfortable."
"And now you regret it?"
"Regret is illogical. But... yes. I would change my behavior given the opportunity."
Kirk smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry. You'll have plenty of time to tell her that. Later."
"Yes. Fortunately."
They fell silent again until Kirk stood. "I believe that it's time for me to get some sleep. Are you going to stay here?"
"Yes, Jim. I will see you on the bridge at 0800 hours."
"Don't be in a hurry. Everything is under control, and Marliss is prepared to take the beginning of your shift. Stay here as long as you need. And try to get some rest."
Spock nodded, so Kirk patted his friend lightly on the shoulder and left the room.
...
Dimly aware that something wasn't right, Uhura licked her lips and stirred slightly. Her mouth was utterly dry, like it was full of cotton. And what was that awful beeping sound? She'd been dreaming about it all night, the dull repetition a tortuous intrusion into her sleep, and she wished someone would just turn it off.
Moaning softly, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut and mumbled, "Make it stop."
"Nyota?"
She swallowed. Her lips and voice wouldn't cooperate. "Turn it off."
"Doctor? She is awakening."
Her eyes fluttered open. "Spock?"
"Yes, Nyota."
"Where..." She licked her lips again. "Where am I?"
"You are in sickbay, recovering from injuries you sustained in the explosion. Do you remember?"
Blinking, she realized that she was on a diagnostic bed, and Spock was sitting in a chair by her side. She tried to focus on his features. "The bomb... You tore it off the wall..."
"It exploded before it was completely out the airlock. The force of the blast blew the cover off the pressure vent disposal, and you were hit by the shrapnel."
She closed her eyes for a moment, but reopened them when she heard footsteps.
"Good morning, Commander. I'm glad you decided to wake up and join us." Dr. McCoy stood beside Spock and rested his hand on her arm. "How do you feel?"
"Sore. Thirsty." She moved to sit up, but a sharp pain forced her to flop back onto the bed. Bringing her hand up to her stomach, she groaned. "Oh. It hurts."
"I'm sure it does, my dear." McCoy held his scanner over the source of her pain. "Hang on a moment, and I'll get something to take care of that."
She watched him walk away, then looked at Spock. "Was anyone else hurt?" Her words were so slurred that she sounded drunk.
"Other than a few minor injuries, no. Only you. Nyota..." He studied his hands, clasped in his lap. "Your injuries were very severe. We did not know if Dr. McCoy could save you, and as I waited, our disagreement of two nights ago played continuously through my mind."
She waited until he looked back up at her. "It doesn't matter," she whispered weakly.
McCoy returned with a hypo and pressed it to her arm. "There. That ought to take care of the discomfort in your abdominal muscles. I had to do quite a bit of repair work in there."
"Spock said that I almost died."
"Yes, you gave us all quite a scare. Your liver was sliced nearly clean in half, with puncture wounds in your diaphragm, lung, and small intestine. It's a good thing I was able to get to you so quickly, because just a few more minutes..."
His words drifted away, and the diagnostic bed beeped in the silence.
"We were lucky," said Spock.
McCoy turned toward Spock in disbelief, and Uhura smiled despite the soreness of her dry lips. Before they could respond, Spock stood and straightened his jacket.
"It is 0820 hours, and I am past due on the bridge. I will return later."
He turned crisply and walked away. McCoy watched until the sickbay door closed behind him, then shook his head.
"That damned Vulcan. He's been hovering over you for the past seven hours, pale as a ghost, but as soon as you're awake he pretends like he doesn't even care."
Uhura could feel McCoy's painkillers coursing through her veins, and suddenly her eyes were so heavy she couldn't keep them open. "S'okay. I know... cares..."
McCoy continued to grumble, but his words were drowned out by the rhythmic beeping of her chemically-induced haze.
End chapter 9