Gardens in the Rain, chapter 11
Leaning back in his chair while he waited for Spock and Feinstein to join the briefing, Kirk listened to Ames, Lenox, and Scotty speculate on the connection between Torsall and the Klingons. Spirits were high. The Lexington had arrived less than ten minutes ago, covering the distance between Epsilon Triana and Nistras Three at top speed, and now both ships orbited the planet as it was decided what to do next.
The door opened and Kirk glanced up, expecting to hear Spock's analysis of the Nistran shipping records. Instead, however, Uhura walked into the room. She was still a bit shaky, but the expression on her face made it obvious that she was glad to be present.
Ames was the first to react. "Commander! Come on in! We heard about your injuries, and we were all worried sick. How are you doing?"
She took a seat next to him. "Oh, I guess I'm not much the worse for wear. How are things on the Lexington?"
"It was pretty dull while we waited to hear from the Enterprise, but from what I hear we got the better part of the deal. We've been going full speed since Admiral Kirk gave us the go-ahead."
Everyone turned as the door opened again, and this time Spock strode briskly through the door followed closely by Feinstein. Obviously unaware that Uhura had been released from sickbay, Spock checked his step so abruptly that Feinstein almost ran into him. Kirk rested his elbow on the table and covered his mouth so that no one would see him smile.
Quickly regaining his composure, Spock said, "Commander, it is agreeable to see you. Did Dr. McCoy release you with a clean bill of health?"
Uhura grinned, obviously delighted at his reaction. "Yes, he did. I had to promise him I'd take it easy for a few days, but I'm back with you."
Kirk waited until Spock and Feinstein found places at the table. "So, Spock. What did you find?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary, Admiral. The amount of dilithium shipped from Nistras Three is commensurate with an operation of this size. All entries appear valid, appropriately notated and filed. We found no evidence of forgery."
Uhura frowned. "Forgery? You were looking for forgery?"
"Our working theory is that Torsall misrepresented the mine in some manner," replied Spock. "It is possible that there is more on Nistras Three than dilithium, thus his continued interest, and that he enlisted the Klingons' assistance in pursuing it. Where the Orions fit into this, and why Torsall would sell the mine in the first place, I do not know."
"What about French?" asked Ames. "Has she told you anything new?"
Kirk shook his head. "No, but she is the weak link in the chain. I spoke briefly with Command this morning, and they agreed to offer her a reduced sentence in exchange for cooperation. McCoy administered a battery of psychological tests and corroborated our theory that she's telling what she believes to be the truth, no matter how twisted it sounds to our ears."
"Spock told me that both French and Torsall lived in Hong Kong," said Uhura, "which indicates that they know one another. Could it be that he deceived her into thinking that the Klingons were building a base near Epsilon Triana? Have you asked her about him?"
"We haven't told her yet that we connected her with Torsall, but I think it's time to do that. When she finds out that he used her, it might put her in an entirely new frame of mind. She might help us go after him."
Ames smiled. "I like that approach, Admiral. This Torsall is evidently a shady character, and it's fitting that we use his own manipulations to manipulate him."
"That's what I thought." Kirk stood. "Feinstein, bring Uhura up to speed on our investigation into the mining company, and you two pursue that. Captain Ames, I would like for you and Lenox to work with French. Mr. Spock, I believe that it's time for us to pay a visit to the offices of the mining company."
"Agreed, Admiral."
Already halfway to the door, Kirk paused as Spock hovered protectively behind Uhura, waiting for her to come to her feet. It was clear that she was still in some pain, for she winced and let Spock grasp her elbow to assist her. Kirk was reminded of the times on the bridge when she got into difficulty, and Spock was always right there to help.
A moment later, Spock joined Kirk, and they headed for the transporter room.
...
Back in her quarters on the Lexington, Uhura carried the last of her toiletries into the fresher and shoved them into the cabinet. Who would have thought she'd accumulate so much stuff in her year on the Lexington? It sure hadn't seemed like she'd lugged this much from the Enterprise when she'd transferred, but maybe having to pack and unpack twice in less than a week had something to do with it.
She watched as Spock pulled garments from her suitcase and methodically refolded them, then carried the stack to her dresser. She knew that she'd have to rearrange it all later, but right now, she didn't care.
"Spock? Let's go on to bed. I'll take care of the rest sometime else."
"If you are tired, I will continue."
"No, thanks." She shrugged out of her jacket. "I'd rather just leave it."
"Very well."
She rummaged around until she discovered where he had put her nightclothes, and handed him the soft, faded silk pajama pants she had bought so long ago. Changing into her nightgown, she quickly prepared for bed, but when she came out of the fresher, she saw that he'd been unable to resist unpacking the last few items and hadn't even started getting ready yet.
She stretched out on the bed. "Are you coming?"
"Yes. I will be there shortly."
He hung his uniform in her closet, then stepped into the pajama pants and tied the drawstring. What a beautiful man—tall and lean—she loved watching him move around without his clothes on, unself-conscious with his poise and grace. She smiled at the domesticity of their setting as he walked into the fresher and began brushing his teeth. Maybe, finally, they could get back to some semblance of normality around here. It would only last as long as the current mission, but she'd take every moment she could get.
She closed her eyes until she felt him sit on the edge of the bed.
Concern in his expression, he leaned over her and asked, "Are you feeling worse?"
"No, I'm just worn out. Probably overdid it today. All I need is a good night's rest in my own bed."
He held his hands over the front of her nightgown. "May I?"
"Sure."
He carefully opened her gown until he had exposed the new skin on her belly. When she had looked earlier, herself, she had been reminded of the patchwork quilt draped across her grandmother's bed, but the old quilt was a thing of beauty, whereas her belly was just plain ugly, the new skin shiny and rubbery, the color and texture all wrong.
He was very quiet as he ran his fingers gently across her stomach. She could hardly feel his touch. The area was numb, and if she didn't know that he had pulled away her clothing, she might have thought that she was still dressed.
Staring at the area where her wounds had been, he murmured, "We did not even understand that you were severely wounded at first, Nyota. I thought that perhaps you had only hit your head. You were bleeding to death, right before my eyes, yet I did not see the blood on your red jacket. It was only when I accidentally brushed my fingers against it that I realized what had happened."
Her eyes wide at his trancelike manner, she didn't comment.
He continued. "I opened your jacket and saw the jagged metal protruding from your abdomen. I knew immediately that you might die, but I did not know what to do. Removing the metal myself would have caused more harm. Not removing the metal would have allowed you to bleed to death."
"What happened?" she whispered.
"McCoy arrived." He finally met her eyes. "He pushed me away and removed the shrapnel himself, and hurried you to sickbay."
"Oh, Spock."
Looking down again, he rested his palm on her stomach and spread his fingers, covering the new skin with his hand, then abruptly pulled away and stretched out next to her.
She propped herself up on her elbow. "I know that you would have done anything in your power to help me, Spock. Don't feel bad."
His expression, so open just an instant ago, became withdrawn and remote. "How I 'feel' is irrelevant. The fact of the matter is that I almost failed you. Indeed, I was not expedient enough in disposing of the bomb in the first place. And in refusing to leave, you placed yourself in unnecessary danger."
Her tender feelings vanished. "Are you telling me that it's all right for you to risk your neck, but not me? That your near-sacrifice was worthy, but mine was not? What would have happened if you hadn't been able to dispose of the bomb, and I'd left the corridor unsealed?"
"The damage to the ship would have been extensive either way."
"But less with the corridor sealed."
He grudgingly acknowledged her point. "Yes."
"And where the hell do you get off blaming yourself for not getting rid of the bomb in time? Didn't you try your best?"
"Of course—"
"Of course you did!" She took a deep breath. "Please, let's not argue. What happened was scary, and awful, but now it's over. We're here, we're together, and we're both in one piece. All I want is to relax and enjoy the warmth of your body next to mine."
Eyes downcast, he said, "Forgive me. I did not mean to imply that your actions were anything less than appropriate and professional. Perhaps I am reacting to the tensions of the past few days."
She placed her hand gently on his forearm. "I know that you are. We both are. Let's just turn off the lights and go to sleep."
He nodded, so she leaned close and kissed him tenderly on the lips, told the computer to turn off the light, and settled onto the bed. She was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow.
...
Staring at the ceiling, Spock replayed their discussion. How had he allowed it to get away from him like that? He had opened her gown, truly curious about her injuries. As he had looked at McCoy's handiwork, however, he had remembered her fragility during the long hours of the night, and he had remembered his thoughts as he sat by her bedside: his childhood, his mother's bruises, his helplessness years ago, his helplessness now, his continuing inability to tell her all she needed to know, the possibility that she deserved more than he could provide... and the next thing he knew, he was speaking of blame and recrimination, directed not only toward himself but toward her.
From where had those words come? They did not express his beliefs. Not knowing what he would say, he inhaled and turned, his mouth open to speak.
She was already asleep. He watched her for a long moment, then rolled back over.
End chapter 11