McCoy accepted another mug of coffee on his way back in. M'Benga hovered around one of the larger monitors, so he turned to join him, rather than go to the privacy of his office.
"Progress?"
"Youseff has separated the remaining nerve clusters. There's more salvageable than I first thought," he replied, pointing out where the younger woman had not only teased loose the fine filaments, but separated them all the way back to the elbow.
"A little extreme?"
"There was some signs of scorching. When they pulled him out to test what was left, there was a dead spot where the middle finger would be connecting to. She ran the line up, rather than just replace the section in the palm."
"Ah. Good choice."
They watched in silence as Team Two picked and plied away what remained of the left hand.
McCoy watched Doctor Youseff work over the patient with a frown. "Damnit, her hands are shaking."
M'Benga watched a while himself. "Damn, your right. And here I was thinking I'd get a bit more of a break than this."
They exchanged a glance, a bit of a smile, and headed over to the sanitation station. With the help of a couple nurses they got prepped and ready to go back in in record time.
"Doctor?"
"It's alright Spock. I've got three cups of coffee in me, and I'm ready and raring to go again."
He stepped up next to Youseff, offering to pick up pieces where needed. She didn't back away, kept hold of her tools. McCoy stood next to her and simply commented here, or there, as she prepped and pulled.
Three hours in. Half the time he'd taken to do the comparatively simple job of replacing the whole unit.
"Are we going to make it?"
McCoy shook his head, after a moment of working out his internal timetable. "Go ahead and start the legs. The moment we've laid out the rest of the nerves. I don't want to loose any time while we're doing this."
"That could be dangerous," M'Benga said. "Starting to miss the days when we used prosthetics."
McCoy's mind raced while he started calling for muscle tissue to be passed up. Sections of forearm muscle had atrophied, just like the other arm, but the uneven nature of it made McCoy risk removing sections and replacing them with new. Already had the parts, might as well.
He found a couple little bubbles of radiation damage when he lifted away one gnarled section of ulnar tissue. He pointed these out, the small hard nodules that had passed first observation, and told all the folks standing around twiddling their thumbs to start palpating muscle tissue to see if they could find any others while they were at it.
Forearm muscles reattached with relative ease. McCoy laid out the muscles and bones with Youseff's assistance. Laid out like puzzle pieces, waiting to be attached. A hard jerk twitched Cygnus' hand out of place.
"Easy on those nervous stimulators up there," McCoy grumbled, not looking up at the doctor tracing the bare muscle up on the shoulders.
"I didn't hit anything."
McCoy stood back a moment, eyes flicking back and forth, trying to find the source of the irritation.
"What do you think-" Another twitch, the whole hand spasming, pulling the muscle from the bone. "Shit."
"That reaction was indicative of-"
"I know, Spock, I know. Synaptic collapse. Are you ready?"
"I am prepared, Doctor." Spock's hands hovered over Cygnus' face. "I can not touch him yet... the meld will be incomplete."
"Go ahead and touch him, damnit. If we burn out his synaptic system there won't be a immune system to fight for."
"Indeed," Spock said. He removed his gloves and placed his hands over the melt points. "Your mind to my mind, your thoughts to my thoughts."
McCoy bent back over Cygnus' hand. "Everyone, step up your speed."
"Won't that make the probability of neural burn out higher?"
"Just do it," McCoy growled. Calling for the bones in the hands in sequence, the muscles soon afterwards. Sweat trickled down his neck as he worked. Sets of hands wavered in and out of focus as his people fought to get the job completed.
"Doctor, I believe you have some of the nerves twisted through the radial bones," Spock said. Cygnus' voice echoed with him.
"What's going on with that?" Youseff asked, staring up at their patient.
"I am doing the best that I can, Doctor."
"Vulcan's have conscious control of their autonomic systems," M'Benga clarified as he slipped in to correct the issue. "It is well within Spock's abilities to sync in with Cygnus, but that might mean a little spill over."
"The way you state it makes it seem like I have little control over the situation, Doctor M'Benga," that odd dual voice said.
"You're going to have to tell me what he think's of the Egg Stealer," McCoy teased as he tried to keep his concentration up.
"I have no interest in delving into any other being's memories, I am taking control where need be. Please turn your attentions to your own work." An uncomfortable sort of quiet filled the room. Requests for muscle, bone, vein, arteries, nerves muffled under collective strain. The puzzle set in neat columns, checked, then woven together.
"Sonics, please. I want to make sure all these blood vessels are clear." Little ultra sonic pulsars introduced, run up and down the length of each minute line. Small clogs from the charred tissue eased out before new pieces attached.
"Just about ready for the skin," McCoy called out, as he passed a regenerator over the surface muscle, binding them together. "Spock? You ready for a test?"
"Yes. The other hand too." Before McCoy could ask for one of the probes, Cygnus' hands jerked up into the air again. This time, instead of a hazy grasp, they went through a series of articulations. Fingers closed and opened in loose fists, then tightened enough that the knuckles turned pale from stress. Thumb closed to the tip of each digit, then ran along the base of each finger. Not all of the fingers closed to the same extent. Perhaps with some physical therapy...
"Do you feel up to testing flexibility?" McCoy asked.
"There is pain with the movement," Spock/Cygnus replied, as they used one hand to press the fingers of the other. "But it is not unwelcome. Are there any other tests you wish to preform?"
"Tactile and temperature sensation," McCoy replied. He traced lines from the palm to the tip of each finger in turn with a thin metal probe.
"Sensation," The pair commented. A strange tilt to Cygnus' voice, even as Spock's remained placid.
"Yes, Mr. Spock, that's the idea. Care to tell us which ones are missing section?"
"Please repeat it," they asked. Again, McCoy preformed the test. This time, Spock/Cygnus spoke out when there was a numb spot. "Will the numb locations repair themselves eventually?"
"No, Mr. Spock," McCoy replied, knowing that he should be saying "No, Cygnus," but talking to a unconscious patient on the table, might be just a tad too strange, even for a doctor way-too-familiar with the strange. "Let's open the skin back up, see what we can repair now."
"I believe my control over total synaptic failure will be... more difficult, as you reopen those sections."
"Are you saying we shouldn't be reopening, Mr. Spock? Or do it quickly?"
Spock's head tilted to M'Benga. His eyes still closed. "Focus on the tips of the fingers first. I will attempt to keep control for as long as possible."
"Temperature sensation first," McCoy suggested. Someone handed him an ice cube, then a towelette moistened with alcohol, and finally a probe heated to a little over fifty degrees Celsius. Several of the previous numb spots, from the tactile test, also tested negative for the heat, or cold. A few other negative locations were new. Frustrating that not all of them were in the same spots, of course.
"Okay, open him back up again." Keyhole surgery now. Little holes here and there opened up, nerves touched with tiny sparks of electricity to see if they were nonfunctioning or ineffective. Replaced as needed.
"Doctor... Cygnus is experiencing intense pain in his left leg. He- ah!" Spock's shout of pain surprised the lot of them. Attention turned to the leg in question.
"Shit, blood clot," one of the doctors working there shouted out. An entire section had blackened from lack of fresh blood.
So little time needed for flesh to die away.
Just a moment's inattention.
"Come on folks, we've got the replacement parts, we can do the job." They put their collected noses to the grindstone. Removed the whole vein and surrounding muscle tissue, since they had enough replacement pieces to build another avian on the next table.
"I believe another one has traveled into the torso... can not detect the precise location. Close to where I swallow."
"Shit. Someone find where the clots are being thrown from. All the moving around to get him to the table must have knocked them loose. Sanders, trace that vein, will ya?"
"Aye, sir."
McCoy, M'Benga, Youseff and a couple others grabbed medical scanners, each claiming a major vein or artery to trace.
"Got it!" Youseff shouted. "Outer surface of the left lung."
"Damn Murphy to hell," McCoy grumbled. "Someone go grab me the thoracic kit. We're going to need to open him up for this. Spock, should you pull out while we go in-"
His face screwed up a little; Cygnus's shoulders twitched in a rough shrug.
"No. I will remain," Spock said, Cygnus quiet this time. "I am withdrawing as much as is feasible, while still being in control of certain regions of his nervous function. I am not able to tell you where the damage is within his torso, so there is no need for me-"
"Of course no, Mr. Spock," M'Benga said. "If you stay in, you'd just be feeling the pain he'd be dealing with."
"No, he's not feeling any in there," McCoy corrected. "One of the few places he doesn't have a lot of sensory nerves. For once, someone's on our side. Keep working on those legs."
McCoy grumbled, when he noticed there was a pause in the work from that team.
"We've gone too long as it is."
McCoy passed the work on Cygnus' left hand to Youseff again, while he turned to the lungs.
"Of course we didn't replicate any other organ tissue," he mumbled, his fingers tracing the dead sections.
"I believe he has enough surface area to remove that area without significant drop in functionality," Spock said after a glance up.
"I believe you're right. Laser scalpel."
He cut away and cauterized as he went. Slicing away dead tissue while someone else traced the clotted area.
"Will one of the veins for the thigh work here?"
"It's going to have to. We don't have any other options." McCoy called for one of the larger ones that hadn't utilized yet.
It'd be a tight fit, with a good chance that he'd have to keep an eye on it the rest of his life. Well, more than enough continual care to just add it to the list.
"Leonard," Spock/Cygnus whispered. "There is a certain shortness of breath."
McCoy glanced at the biobed readouts.
"Oxygen saturation rates are within acceptable levels. Heart beat is a little fast but-"
"I'm afraid." McCoy's eyes shot up at their dual, shaking voices. "I'm afraid. It hurts... It hurts so much... and all I can think about is-"
"It's okay, Cyg. Spock, open up the sensation in one of his hands, will you?" A slight head tilt, and then a nod. McCoy slipped his gloved hand into the left. Small cuts still opened up for work. "I'm here. We're all here. We're going to get you through it, alright? We haven't let you down yet."
"McCoy, the effort of 'false hope,' is not something to spend the time on when-"
"Ya know what Spock? It is damn strange arguing with you, and comforting Cyg here, when you're talking with the same voice. You green-blooded, featherless, cross species pervert."
Spock's eyebrows went down, but the fingers gripping his tightened.
"Thank you, Doctor Leonard."
"Now that's just damn strange," M'Benga muttered next to him.
"You're telling me. Cyg, how about you spend some time knocking sense into that mind-burrowing Vulcan in your head. I'm going to need my hand for a little bit to see if we can get this under control."
"I understand, Leonard." The hand fell slack again, Youseff jumping in to suction out blood that'd seeped from the handful of small cuts in the new flesh. McCoy delved back into the chest cavity.
"If you don't write a paper about this, I'm going to," M'Benga said. "In fact, I might approach the New Vulcan Colony, next time I'm in the area, and see if we can get a full-time Vulcan doctor in here."
"I doubt you'd find many others to volunteer to subject themselves to this... unique torture, Doctor M'Benga. Please release the clamp in there with expediency. I'm finding it difficult to regulate our heart rhythm."
McCoy frowned. "Someone get a read out on the First Officer. I don't want to see him have a heart attack while we're working."
"Improbable, Doctor. His current tempo is similar to mine in a state of second level meditation. In fact, I believe breathing would be the more difficult thing. Cygnus can speak while breathing in, or out."
"Thank God that's not a Vulcan trait. I'd go crazy." Discussion slipped away again as they searched out the clots that had slipped here and there. A small one in the atrium of the heart, another in a secondary lobe of the lung. Smaller ones in stomach and intestines. Small enough they hadn't been seen during the first round of tests. How we'd missed them all... Damn.
"We're going to have to finish the skin the moment this is done," McCoy declared. "No option now. We're making too many incisions. Too many chances for infection. Start placing pieces as we clear out each section. Status people."
Each section called out their status, one at a time. Left leg completed. Right leg needing one more toe attached. Right arm cleared, save a couple corrections left.
"Start applying the skin. Tactile and temp tests as you go. Spock, tell us if we go too far too fast."
"Yes," they said simply.
McCoy still approved section by section as they went. He checked and double checked each area himself before they completed the final seals in the new skin. The last thing he wanted was to have to open him up again and again.
Shock loomed.
Skin of legs and arms slipped up with relative ease. Some discomfort while dealing with Cygnus' "underwear area." Why hadn't he spent the time talking with Cygnus about all of the mess he'd made during that first drastic surgery when they'd cut away anything that might've continued the radiation poisoning within his body?
Asking Spock, with the various doctors all around, what his, meaning Cygnus', anatomy should look like, and having Spock responding in the first person, with both his and Cygnus' voices... whoo boy. Talk about awkward.
"I believe... it would be to everyone's ease if we left that area for a separate attempt?"
"Sorry, Spock, if we're going to get skin on everything, we've got to get everything accomplished."
They sighed in unison. A touch of relief for Cygnus, the distinct hint of annoyance in Spock.
A bit more of a discussion followed, clouded in clinical terms that Spock hunted for translations of.
"Can we start prepping his throat area?" One of the doctors from the first team asked. "I mean, will we be able to do his face if Spock is using his touch-telepathy?"
"If all other areas have been cleared, I should be able to remove my hands," Spock said.
So, they worked. Hands checked and double checked. Feet checked. Torso checked. Shunts and drains placed where appropriate. Body wrapped tight to help keep fluid from gathering under the patchwork of new skin. Muscles in the throat peeled back like an orange as a doctor on either side placed the intricate network of nerves that would lead to the throat tissues.
"I would recommend increased speed," Spock/Cygnus murmured. "The pain is escalating."
"Are you going to be okay to disengage?"
"Yes," Spock said. His voice hollow without Cygnus' baritone echoing under him. His hands lifted away woodenly. His face a hard set of lines.
"You're still connected?"
"I will do my best from here," Spock's single voice said, hands hovering like an old school puppeteer.
McCoy passed a glance over at the nurse keeping an eye on Spock's vitals. A slight nod that the Vulcan didn't see. Still going strong enough. Good.
"Someone get me that head," McCoy groused.
Cygnus' clay head appeared.
"Bet you're wishing you'd found a way to sign on that plastic surgeon fellow."
"You'd better believe it."
Diagnostician, surgeon, general healer... discovering the cause and effect of the myriad of ways that the human – or any species for that matter – might find themselves injured or sick while wandering the great transverse of space, that he could handle. Building muscle, bone, and seeding fat tissue so that, once covered with a good layer of skin and healed, would not only look like a species he'd never seen before, and a specific individual at that, this sat at a much higher caliber.
Cygnus' body twitched on occasion as they cut away, mapped out, and built up as they did elsewhere. Muscles spasmed under McCoy's hands.
Lungs shuttered as he pulled. Spock's breath echoed above them. The sound wet.
"Leonard-" the double voice returned before Spock crumbled to the ground. A dozen people shouted and darted towards the Vulcan.
M'Benga rushed to his side, waving off hands reaching for him.
"Don't! We don't know how additional contact will effect his touch-telepathy."
While the collective attention of the sickbay stall was turned to the ground, McCoy's hands stayed on his patient.
"He's going into shock," someone said.
"We need to get the rest of his skin back on. Now. We've had his nervous system exposed too long-"
"No, Spock's going into neural collapse."
"Damn! Get that second biobed cleared off. I want him close enough to keep working."
"He couldn't be-"
"Cygnus is still breathing; Spock's still doing his job. Get him over there! Keep him comfortable, touch him as little as possible. I want quiet so he can concentrate."
The surgical suite fell silent as they worked. McCoy focused on getting the muscles built up as much as he could. Testing new neural connections fell to the wayside. Cygnus had stated his priorities often enough. While his princess might find his face attractive, he needed his hands to care for his children, to hold his tools.
"You might end up looking like a botox addict by the time I'm done," McCoy grumbled. "But I'm going to get this done."
For all his haste, he kept one eye glued onto the sculpture, calling on whatever artistic skill he might have. Sweat pored down his face, pooling around the edge of the respirator and dripping down his collar in an uncomfortable river.
"Skin. Hurry."
Even with the "model" Spock had come up with, McCoy wasn't about to attempt a mold growth with this area. The hands, well, they needed to be strong and flexible. Faces, for all the facial expressions and seeming mobility, only flex and move in predictable patterns.
McCoy laid out the puzzle pieces, tacking sheets together here and there before stretching, pressing, and sealing everything away permanently.
"Shouldn't we test his facial nerves?" someone asked behind him.
"No. Dermal regenerator. Help me close up everything. Last chance to look for open edges, everyone. I want tricorders up and active."
A chorus of beeps followed his orders.
He felt cold glares on the back of his neck, but to hell with them. He was the cold, heartless CMO. They wouldn't notice the way his hands gentled over the stretch of skin over the new nasal ridge, couldn't see how his eyes watered as he thought about the way one charred, skeletal finger had grazed, just there, thinking about the mother of his children.
No. He knew that Cyg had enough muscle control to swallow, enough to speak and blink. Anything more than that was icing on the cake right now.
Alarms started going off above him, alerting him to just how close he was cutting it.
"Oxygen absorption rate dropping, Doctor."
"I'm seeing abnormal electrical activity-"
"There's a flare of-"
"Damnit all to hell," McCoy growled.
He reached for the hypospray, the last resort one, after a glance over at the scanner readout over Spock's bed.
"All sealed?"
He barely waited for the chorus of "Aye, sir" to die before he planted the instrument firmly against Cygnus' throat.
For ten, painful seconds, the room went silent.
Clear, yellow eyes flared open a moment before the screaming began.