A hot, dry desert wind buffeted McCoy's face. He squinted, eyes burning with sand. A rocky, barren landscape blazed endlessly before him in the red sunlight.
"Damn it, Jim," he muttered. He took out his tricorder. "McCoy to Captain Kirk." The lights flashed weakly. "McCoy to Captain Kirk."
Static crackled on the other end. He looked all around him, but saw no relief to the inexorable desert landscape. With no choice, he began walking.
As hours of searching passed, the sun burned his neck and forehead. Hot sweat crawled down his back and down his face. He touched his hand to his face to gain a moment's relief, only to find that his hand was also feverishly hot.
Once again, he spoke into his tricorder, "McCoy to Kirk."
A hot silence greeted him. Frowning, McCoy turned around, going in the opposite direction.
A burst of dizziness and lightheadedness accompanied each step, and each swallow came with a sear of pain in his parched throat. McCoy reached into his satchel and drew out an emergency nutritional hypospray, holding the hot glass in his sweaty palm and struggling to think. He pushed it back into his satchel and kept going. If Jim had been in that desert for even a day longer than him…
He pushed the thought out of his mind and continued walking, comming every few minutes.
At last, the fierce red of the sky rusted and hardened to maroon, and the roast of the sun dulled to a throb on the back of his neck. The dry winds cooled the sweat on his flushed face. As the sun set behind him, it thrust long, severe shadows ahead of him. McCoy glanced around at the wide, endless desert around him, and as the shadows lengthened and the landscape darkened, the anxiety gnawing in his chest tightened to a hard knot of fear.
For what must have been the thousandth time, he took out his communicator and said wearily, "McCoy to Kirk."
In the darkness, the lights flashed, and he could hear occasional pops of static. Squaring his jaw, he picked up his pace, and each time he commed, the signal grew stronger and stronger.
Darkness seeped over the dusty expanse, and the desert transformed into a land of hard shadows and jagged outlines. Taking in a shaky breath, he paused and scanned the landscape. To the east, low, rocky hills edged the land, breaking the scene into harsh fragments.
"McCoy to Kirk."
The comm flashed and whirred. Comming every minute to a strengthening signal, McCoy stumbled in the direction of the mountains. Now that the sun no longer beat on his face, he grew keenly aware of the sharp ache in his feet, pulling at the sinews. He grit his teeth, ignored it, and went on, the hills looming larger.
In the last light, McCoy limped to the rocky foot of the mountain, the comm buzzing and flashing in his hand. He pushed himself up the slope, all of his muscles straining.
"Jesus," he gasped. "Goddamn son of a—"
"Bones?"
Both the voice itself and the raspy, helpless tone surprised him. McCoy whipped around.
"Jim?"
"Here."
Kirk crawled out of the crevasse between two boulders. Even in the darkness, McCoy could see his state. His Vulcan attire was ripped and dirt-caked, and his flushed face raw from the desert winds. His deep-sunken eyes shone bright with fever.
"Jim!" McCoy immediately knelt by his side. Even more worryingly, Jim didn't even protest as McCoy pushed him onto his back and began running his tricorder over him. When he glanced at it for readings, he swore under his breath.
"The sand got into it," he murmured. "It's broken, goddamnit."
He dropped the tricorder and placed his hand on Jim's forehead, then opened his mouth to look into his throat.
"You're running a very high fever and you're severely dehydrated," he murmured. "My God, Jim, how long have you been out here?"
"Five sunsets," he grunted. "Including this one. How did you find me?"
"Well, it wasn't easy," McCoy huffed, rummaging in his satchel. "Shut up and I'll—" He fell silent.
Kirk looked up. "Bones?" he rasped.
"The hyposprays. The heat denatured everything. It's all right, Jim, we'll get you to civilization, we'll—"
"No," Jim replied hoarsely. "This is Vulcan, 4th Century. Vulcan before the great leader Surak united the planet with his philosophy of logic. There is no such thing as civilization. All the Vulcans are savage, hostile." He paused. "We can't go back?"
"We can, in a little while, but not until…" He sighed. "Look, it's complicated, Jim. Just stop talking and let me figure something—"
A savage cry cut him off. McCoy snapped around. Jim quickly sat up.
"Who's there?" McCoy demanded.
Three tunic-clad figures stepped out from the shadows. They closed in around them, daggers gripped in their hands.
Both men clambered to their feet.
"We have no intention to harm you," Kirk managed hoarsely, raising his hands unsteadily. Cursing under his breath, he switched to Vulcan, which he had last used in the mandatory Linguistics courses back at the Academy. "We have no intention to harm you," he repeated in Vulcan. "Put down the daggers."
One of the men snarled. He lunged forward, slashing at Kirk with his weapon. Kirk ducked, sending his fist towards the man's gut. Side-stepping easily, the man knocked him aside with a swing of his arm to Kirk's head. McCoy leapt forward, caught Kirk in one arm, and kicked the man in the knees. Howling, the man collapsed. Kicking him again in the forehead, McCoy swiped the blade out of his hand, parrying just in time as the second savage lunged towards him. Regaining his footing, Kirk twisted out of McCoy's grip and leapt towards the third man, fist hurtling. The man leapt to the side and slashed across Kirk's side. Kirk reeled, grabbing a fistful of the man's tunic as he stumbled backwards. Yanking the man towards him and digging his fingers into his wrists, Kirk drove his knee into the savage's groin. The man bellowed and fell to the ground. Wrenching the weapon out of the man's hand, Kirk sprinted over to McCoy, who was locked in dagger combat with the last man standing.
As Kirk arrived, the savage parried McCoy's dagger and halted. Breathing raggedly, he backed up, dropped his weapon, and raised his hands. McCoy, frowning, slowly lowered his own dagger.
"He's surrendering," murmured McCoy, turning to Kirk.
The savage raised his fingers to his lips, and a sharp whistle pierced the desert landscape. Kirk and McCoy exchanged a glance.
"Jim—"
A coarse growl sounded. The two turned. A slender beast leapt from boulder to boulder, its muscles bunched and haunches heaving. Its golden eyes and yellow-dappled back glinted in the last light. It paused on a broad, flat rock, arching its back and stretching its mouth open. Its long, curved fangs glittered with venom. The creature affixed his golden eyes to the savage's. The man whistled once again.
The beast pounced down to a lower rock, snarling. Wide-eyed, Kirk pulled McCoy back towards the boulder shelter, but the savage snatched up his dagger and ran in pursuit. As McCoy whipped around to engage him, Kirk turned to face the beast, poised on a rock with muscles tensed in preparation. The beast stared at him with narrowed eyes, nostrils flaring.
Taking a deep breath and raising his dagger, Kirk sprinted towards the beast. The beast roared, leaping at him with claws extended. Kirk stepped to the side, thrusting the dagger towards the creature's throat. Twisting away from the blade, the beast roared again, spraying hot saliva into Kirk's face. Growling, it slashed at Kirk's chest with its claws. Pain seared through his body, electrifying each nerve. He reeled. The beast, eyes glowing, slowly opened its mouth again. Then, it sprang forward and sank its fangs into Kirk's shoulder.
As Kirk collapsed to the ground, the creature prowled over his body, its supple limbs rippling with muscle. Its heavy paws pressed down his pounding chest, the claws piercing his skin. Kirk, pinned to the ground, gasped for air, fists clenching. The creature's hot breath steamed over Kirk's face. The golden eyes narrowed. The beast opened its mouth for the kill.
The creature tensed and stiffened. Its eyes widened, and all its hairs prickled. Air puffed out of its nostrils and hanging mouth. Without warning, the pressure of its paws on Kirk's chest lifted, and the creature collapsed to the ground.
Kirk gasped for air. Panting and heart racing, Kirk coughed, shakily sitting up. He looked around. Cornered against the boulders, McCoy was engaged in heated combat with the savage. Before Kirk could rise, a figure stepped up behind the dueling men, reaching for the savage's neck. Within moments, the savage, too, had collapsed to the ground.
A wave of blackness washed over him. When he next opened his eyes, a Vulcan man stood over him, tall and slender. In lilting Traditional Golic Vulcan, he asked quietly, "Mamut bolau du ha?"
Kirk struggled to push a translation through his dizzied brain. "Do you require assistance?"
"Ri," replied Kirk, though pain needled through all of his veins as he struggled to sit up. He gazed up at his savior, looking from his worn laced boots to his blue tunic to his angular face. The man's sides heaved slightly from exertion, but his broad shoulders and clear gaze spoke of steadfastness and natural dignity. While the savagery of the other Vulcans made their garb seem savage and primitive, the quietness in this man's dark eyes endowed his tunic with a noble, venerable quality.
McCoy came running over. "Jim!" Noticing the stranger, he stumbled to a halt. "Now who the hell are you?"
The Vulcan turned towards him. "Though I do not understand your tongue, I am assuming you are telling me to leave immediately."
"Close enough," muttered McCoy in heavily accented Vulcan, eyeing the translator hidden in his sleeve.
The Vulcan arched an eyebrow. Then, he turned back to Kirk, his eyes falling on the claw marks on his chest. "The le-matya has poisoned you. Come with me."
McCoy turned, eyes narrowed. "Oh yeah? And how do we know we can trust you any more than those other hobgoblins?"
"Logically, it would be safer to follow a single 'hobgoblin' than to remain with three 'hobgoblins' and a le-matya. In addition, your companion is quite gravely wounded, and without immediate treatment, his wounds have a 98.98% chance of being fatal."
Kirk made eye contact with McCoy. McCoy sighed with resignation, then reached down to help his friend up. "All right," he sighed in Standard, pulling Jim to his feet. "Come on, Jim."
Without another word, the Vulcan led the way across the desert with the two men a little behind him, with Jim leaning on McCoy for support. At one point, Jim opened his mouth, leaned over, and took in a breath to speak to the Vulcan. McCoy silenced him with a look.
"Don't waste your breath," he warned. "If you pass out on me, I'll be forced to carry you."
Jim opened his mouth to assure McCoy that that wouldn't be necessary, but McCoy again silenced him with a look. The Vulcan glanced behind his shoulder and continued on.
As they continued on, the forms of great, craggy boulders rose into view. Within the rocky ring was the mass of a building, low to the ground, monasterial, cut out in rough planes. Looking back to make sure the two were following, the Vulcan walked to the door, took out a key, and slid it in. The door opened with a creak. McCoy and Jim exchanged a glance. Simultaneously, they pulled up their hoods, concealing their ears and eyebrows. Then, they cautiously entered.
The hallway was cool, with primitive orbs of electricity illuminating symbols and runes etched into the earthen walls. Taking one of the orbs from the wall, the Vulcan led them through a corridor, down a flight of stairs, and through another corridor. Opening the door, he gestured for them to enter the small circular room, the light glowing in his face.
Supporting Jim with one arm and glancing at the wrist translator fastened to the other, McCoy turned to face the Vulcan. "All right, would you care to tell us where the hell we are?"
"You are in the T'Karath Sanctuary," he replied, fitting the orb of light into a round ceiling fixture. "Whether or not you are of the rebels, you have no cause for fear. Both of you are safe here and may take shelter in my Sanctuary for as long as you wish."
The man's words and baritone voice soothed Kirk, who relaxed a little against McCoy. Sensing Kirk's limbs loosening, McCoy quickly reached out with his other arm.
"I'm fine, Bones," stated Kirk, wearily but firmly.
The Vulcan opened a latch in the wall and took out two mattresses, unrolling them on the ground. As McCoy lowered Kirk down onto one of them, the Vulcan strode out of the room, promptly returning with a tray of earthen jars and a bowl of water. He knelt on one side of the man, while McCoy knelt on the other, eying the Vulcan carefully as he began to mix herbs.
"Korash," the Vulcan explained without looking up. "The only known antidote to the le-matya's venom."
He dipped his fingers into the mixture, then skillfully began to apply it on Kirk's wounds. Kirk gritted his teeth and a hiss escaped his lips, but already, he felt a pleasant coolness soothing the heat and sting of his wounds. He closed his eyes. Along with the tingling on his chest, he grew keenly aware of something else. As the Vulcan's cool fingers graced his burning skin, a fresh warmth washed through his body, so different than the poison and fever spiking his blood. His mind vibrated, as if a sublime note had played and his soul resonated in response, completing a chord of wondrous harmony.
The Vulcan's fingers lifted, and Kirk's eyes flew open. The Vulcan gazed into his eyes, and he looked straight back. They blinked at each other for several moments.
His angular face slid out of Kirk's vision, replaced by the glowing electricity orb on the ceiling. Squinting against it, Kirk listened to the soft clatters as the Vulcan gathered up his jars.
"I have treated his wounds, but he is severely dehydrated and he is running a fever," said the Vulcan. "You must allow him to rest."
"God, the day I see him resting is the day I retire," McCoy declared. "Because then I'll know I've gone crazy." He looked up at the Vulcan. "Well, I suppose I've got to thank you," he said more gently. "You saved our lives."
"It was logical," he replied.
Setting aside the water bowl for Kirk and picking up the tray, he rose to leave. Kirk turned his head.
"Pen-ni-bek. Wait."
In the doorway, the Vulcan paused and turned. The light softened the lines of care in his face. "Ha?"
"You've never told us who you are."
"My name is Spock."
"I am Captain James T. Kirk." He smiled. "Good night, Mr. Spock."
He dipped his head. "I will see you tomorrow, Captain."
The door shut softly.
McCoy gazed at the closed door for a long moment. Then, he turned back to Kirk. However, Kirk's eyes had already closed.
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