Chapter 18. An Equitable Trade.
Time passes in a haze after this as Spock finds himself expending more and more energy on fighting the creature, burning up his reserves, and slowly but surely losing.
He has failed. He has failed to save himself, Peter, the million colonists down below. And, more than that, he has brought the problem to a starship, is risking expansion simply because he lingered for too long on the planet.
Simply because he then wanted to help, unable to just lie there, powerless.
He has failed.
He and McCoy spend their time in a state of scientific ping pong, unable to make progress and unable to let it go, bouncing the same ideas back and forth, back and forth, the pain ebbing and flowing with it.
He can't do it. He has nothing left.
And now… now he has to go and face Jim and tell him that they have nothing.
McCoy is mid-tirade about how "the thing just won't die," when Spock hears, as if from far away, his own voice speaking.
"Doctor, it is time."
McCoy stutters to a halt. Spock watches his gaze flicker up and down his body, unable to meet his eyes, before coming to rest on the PADD containing the test results. His shoulders are slumped, pure defeat rolling off him in waves.
"Doctor."
McCoy sighs deeply. "Yeah, Spock, I heard you."
He clambers to his feet as if it's him personally walking to the gallows, and Spock reflects not for the first time on just how personally McCoy takes each of his assignments.
"Alright, let's go find Jim."
Spock wishes that the crew would not stare at him as they make their way from the labs to Jim's quarters. More than once, he senses eyes on him and finds himself gritting his teeth as he struggles to keep his composure. He is hyper aware of his whole body, of every tic on his face, of every step he takes, the way his arms hang by his sides…
After what feels like the longest walk he has ever taken, they reach Jim's quarters. McCoy seems to have recovered some of his fire at this point – perhaps he thinks Jim will blame him for his inability to find a cure. Indeed, he goes on the defensive as soon as Jim demands their report.
"I'm sorry, Jim, we've been over it and over it, we've made every conceivable test…"
"I therefore," Spock interrupts, unable to contain himself, "request permission to beam down to the planet's surface. I also suggest your nephew accompany me."
Jim's expression shutters, and he too seems unable to meet Spock's eyes. "Request denied."
"Captain, I do not make this request lightly. I do not know how much longer I can hold out against the pain. But I do know what the boy will go through should he regain consciousness."
"Request denied."
The words ring through him. That's it. He has no choice now but to continue fighting for control, or he risks the lives of countless people in this star system, possibly even beyond.
His heart is hammering in his side, his mouth dry, his knees weak, his ears woolly. He straightens back up, tries to resist the urge to slump to the floor. Perhaps he will be lucky and die before the creature can make use of him.
But for now… for now, Jim needs him.
So he keeps his back straight, keeps his arms behind him so Jim cannot see his hands shaking, and mechanically answers his questions about the sun's physical properties.
And then Jim, as he quite often does, thinks of something so far beyond the realm of possibility that it had not occurred to anyone with experience in the field. A 'curveball', as his mother may perhaps have called it.
As Spock digests the thought of light being the creature's weakness, a wave of pain nearly takes his breath away.
Yes… yes, this must be it…
This time, it is Spock who is first out the door, desperate to find a release that isn't death before the agony can completely overwhelm him.
In ordinary circumstances, Spock would have liked to try and gather more data (after all, throwing every type of light at the creature is hardly evidence of scientific finesse), but they are running out of time.
Regrets, however, prove plainly illogical when the tests work.
The pain is so bad now that his heart is hammering in his ears, his vision going black, and he knows he only has one chance left.
He has no idea what he says, no idea what Jim and McCoy say; he only knows that he finds himself sitting in the chair in the test booth, soaked in cold sweat…
The door is closing, but he doesn't hear it. Jim and McCoy are talking, but he doesn't hear the words. All he knows is agony, then a blinding white light, and then… nothing.
The screaming in his mind begins to quieten, the pain fades away…
And then the door is opening.
He is so relieved he nearly smiles, forces himself to maintain control, to move towards the door as if he is completely unaffected.
"Spock, are you alright?"
His vision is black as he stands, but given how weak he feels, he does not find that surprising.
"The creature within me is gone. I am free of it, and the pain."
He does not mention that the nausea and weakness remain, that he is so lightheaded he feels as though he could faint. Instead, he walks purposefully out of the test chamber, his footsteps muffled to his woolly ears, his thoughts of nothing but his quarters and the sweet release of sleep.
Instead, he crashes into cold, hard reality, and remembers just how much light he had been subjected to in his feverish, emotional attempt to be free of the creature.
"I am also… quite blind."
He feels warm hands steady him, Jim's hands, and sluggishly thinks that McCoy will no doubt be hanging back, already blaming himself. Mechanically, he says, "An equitable trade, Doctor, thank you."
The world spins around him as Jim leads him to a chair – or it would, he somehow thinks ruefully, if he could even see it spinning.
He wants to tell Jim and McCoy to stop arguing about who is to blame, isn't sure if he says so out loud – he is too lost in his mind, now. Too exhausted, too cold, too trapped in the dark.
Are you telling me that Spock need not have been blinded?
The words seem to reverberate around his skull for hours, though he knows logically that only minutes could have passed.
He is only vaguely aware of Jim leaving the room, his palpable anger and grief trailing after him like a cloud, leaving Spock alone in the dark with McCoy and his guilt.
The dark seems to roil and pulse, to change colours and tones in the aftermath of the blinding white light – the last light he will ever see. McCoy's guilt pounds at his battered mental shields, swirling around him, dragging him down…
"Spock?" A hand on his shoulder. He cannot help but flinch slightly before he manages to master himself again. "Are you still with me?"
"With… you?"
Is his voice slurring? He blinks sluggishly, but the blackness does not fade. It will never fade, not now.
"Spock?"
He tries to tell McCoy that he is entirely conscious, but he cannot seem to form the words correctly. Something warm comes to rest against his side and cheek… No… He has leaned into something warm. It is holding him up, in fact.
McCoy swears. "Nurse Chapel! Get in here!"
Shuffling footsteps, a concerned voice somewhere to his left and behind him. "Doctor? What-"
"Adrenaline must have finally worn off," McCoy grunts. Spock is vaguely aware that he is leaning against him more heavily now, his eyes only half open.
Still dark. Still…
"…Spent so long fighting it, he must have just caved when it finally stopped. Add the shock to that…"
Woolly darkness. He can't…
"…his other side…"
He finds himself being hoisted to his feet, but his knees buckle and something on his right nearly gives.
"Don't drop him!" McCoy. What…
Vertigo slams into him, he doesn't know which way is up, his arms twitch as he tries to balance himself and he nearly topples them all over as he tries to stumble along with them, before his mind skitters into blessed, peaceful unconsciousness.
oOo
He jerks back awake 3.5 hours later, finds himself lurching into a sitting position, arm flailing out to the side, trying to find the edge of the bed.
"Woah! Lie still!"
Why is he…
He gulps back nausea. Ah.
He finds the edge of the bed, braces his right hand against it and fumbles for the blanket with his left. He blinks and blinks but the blackness does not fade…
Blind.
"Spock! I said lie still, damn it!"
He ignores McCoy, swings his legs round and tries to stand, but his legs somehow get caught in the blanket and he is too weak to correct his position. He trips forward… McCoy swears and he feels arms grabbing at him, trying to wrestle him back into the biobed.
Spock fights to remain standing but cannot, and all he achieves is sinking to the floor on his knees a foot away from the bed, McCoy trying to haul him back into it.
His stomach is roiling, the world swaying – he feels as though he is on a boat in a storm. He groans, unable to help himself, and McCoy's hands move from under his armpits to his shoulders as the doctor stops trying to lift him and switches to balancing him while help comes.
He feels a bowl being thrust into his hands and clutches at it gratefully as his stomach painfully empties itself, McCoy bracing him in an upright position so that he does not simply keel over. He fervently hopes he does not miss the bowl that he cannot see.
"Doctor?"
Nurse Chapel again.
"Pointy eared hobgoblin tried to get out of bed, I tried to stop him…"
Spock retches again.
He can practically hear McCoy wincing when he next speaks. "Nausea must have woken him. Luckily, I was halfway through checking up on him, or he would have broken his nose."
"Nausea?"
Spock punctuates her question with more vomit, his eyes squeezed shut as his already painfully sore stomach is forced to contract again.
"That creature was inside of him when it died, Nurse. Its remains have to get out somehow."
"Yes, of course. I'll go get something to keep him hydrated."
"Sorry, Spock, more potions."
He swallows painfully, the nausea momentarily subsiding. "I… am not ungrateful for them this time, Doc-"
He vomits again before he can finish the sentence.
McCoy squeezes his shoulder. "I would give you an anti-emetic, but crazy as it sounds, we need you to keep vomiting. Need to get that creature out – I'd hate to think what sort of infection you would pick up if we didn't."
"Here you are, Doctor."
"Thank you, Nurse. Right, Spock, we're going to get you back into bed. Get his other side, Nurse, lift on the count of three…"
This time, he manages to get his feet at least somewhat under him as they manhandle him back into bed, though admittedly most of his focus goes into not vomiting on McCoy's shoes.
There is a gentle hiss at his shoulder before McCoy speaks again. "This should help keep you hydrated, and I'll bring my work in here so I can keep an eye on you."
"Doctor, there is no need-"
Again, he cannot finish the sentence.
"I'll take that as a 'Yes, thank you, O Wise Doctor'. Hang tight, I'll be right back."
Despite his protests, Spock is glad when McCoy returns. He proves to be a steady, quiet presence in the dark, a reassuring constant as the hours tick by and the nausea gradually decreases for long enough for Spock to slip into a boneless, exhausted sleep.