CHAPTER FOUR

Six long hours later, the indicators on the biobed monitor confirmed that the patient was stable.

"Damn right she is," McCoy muttered, flipping the switch that placed the resuscitation unit on standby. It beeped twice then went into rest mode. McCoy felt a flash of envy. He was beyond exhausted—it was nearly 1:30 in the morning his time—and it was irritating to see the bright lights outside the surgical room. "Day" and "night" were only concepts in space and he hated the reminder.

He'd dismissed Chapel over an hour ago when the patient's vitals had finally made a turn for the better and the Beta Head Nurse—a short, redheaded man named Jones—was staring at him with expectant eyes.

If it had been Christine standing there he would have left the room with barely a word, confident that everything would be taken care of. Now, he found himself listing off items that a second-year medical student would know to check.

To his credit, the Beta Nurse stood there patiently until McCoy couldn't think of anything else to add.

"Any changes, and I mean any changes in her life scans," McCoy said, repeating himself for the third time, "And you get me, ya hear?"

"Yes, Dr. McCoy."

"All right, then," McCoy said with a dismissive gesture. "Go on. I'm sure you have other duties. I'll just . . . I'll just check a few more things before I leave."

With a quick nod and an acknowledging "doctor," the nurse left the room.

McCoy sagged against the resuscitation unit, feeling somewhat bewildered. In truth there was nothing else for him to do, certainly nothing needed checking. The biobed ran scans constantly and would alert the staff if anything were remiss. With his work done, McCoy should have been heading for his quarters for much needed rest, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was supposed to stay.

Dimming the overhead lights to a soft glow, he stood next to the bed and gazed down at his patient. It was the first time he was able to really look at her. Her face had been partially hidden within the cryo-unit and a breathing assist unit had been needed for the duration of surgery.

If possible, she was more beautiful than he'd originally thought. Not the sort of perfected beauty that strutted across the drama holos or the kind that was pitched from cosmetic ad-hubs, but a beauty that was completely natural, and all the more profound for what some might call its "imperfections."

Freckles. There were three of them. Two on the nose and one on the left cheek. Her skin, which had been bone white, was still pale but now had soft pink undertones. Her hair had lightened as it dried to a warmer shade of brown and had also become slightly wavy. Within the heart-shaped face, her eyes remained closed beneath straight eyebrows.

McCoy let out a long breathe as he studied the sleeping woman. She was older than he had first thought, perhaps closer to mid-twenties than twenty. Her thin frame, somewhat malnourished, had given him the initial impression of someone younger.

"When you wake up," he said softly. "I'll treat you to a big ol' slice of pie. I'll warn you now that it's reconstituted—God forbid Star Fleet invest in fresh apples—but it's better than nothing."

There was, McCoy knew, no guarantee that the woman would ever wake up. Despite stabilizing the body, the brain and psychological trauma of cryo-stasis were simply impossible to determine. Still, McCoy had always held onto a very simple truth, one that Spock, with all his logic and intellect, failed to grasp.

It was hope.

An outwardly simple concept, much like a distant star, but hold it close and it would not only warm the body but occasionally restore it. McCoy had seen it happen before: survivors crawling from twisted and burnt wrecks, bodies overcoming fatal infections on their own, babies being born to supposedly infertile parents. It was the one emotion that gave McCoy strength to face the long nights, the courage to face every new emergency, and the compassion to handle every less-than-perfect diagnosis.

McCoy's eyes were lingering on the woman's lips. Too bad the old Sleeping Beauty cure wouldn't work on this one, he thought before realizing where his thoughts had begun to drift. "I bet Jim wouldn't mind helping you out there," he said out loud, then felt a flash of bitterness that he instantly regretted. Besides being McCoy's best friend —a brother, even—Jim Kirk was a good man.

Starship captains naturally outshined country doctors; it was a just a simple fact. "But if you ever need a shot of Nadrenline or bourbon," McCoy said, poking at his chest with a thumb. "Then I'm your man."

A glance at the chronometer revealed that another half hour had slipped by. Gently, McCoy placed his fingers around the woman's wrist and began counting. The medical staff —excluding Chapel who would not have allowed such gossip—called it his "quaint, old-fashioned habit." If he had heard it, he would have given them a sound lecture on their blind belief that technology would always be available or reliable, followed by a mandatory course in off-the-grid emergency response.

Once satisfied and unable to find any more excuses to remain, McCoy forced himself to leave the room, and it's patient, behind.

Long, intense hours of work often left McCoy exhausted but unable to sleep. Even after saving dozens of lives in a shuttlecraft accident last year, he'd been left feeling empty except for a deep well of melancholy. It had gotten so bad that Spock, of all people,had tried to offer some sort of consolation, saying that it was a common human reaction to prolonged periods of intense stress. McCoy already knew that—he did have a degree in psychology, after all—but the fact that Spock had still felt compelled to comment had left McCoy feeling both melancholic and embarrassed.

Finally, it had taken Jim's personal prescription to solve McCoy's problem: they got shit-faced drunk. It may not have been a medically approved method, by God, but it had worked.

McCoy winced at the memory of waking up on Jim's floor, cotton-mouthed and stiff, hugging an empty bottle of Romulan ale. His head had felt as though he'd been head-butted by a thousand pissed-off Klingons but, surprisingly, his heart had felt lighter than it had in weeks.

The odd part was that McCoy couldn't recall discussing his problems with Kirk. In all honestly though, he couldn't remember much after the first glass went down the hatch. In the end he supposed it was just being with the only other person who could understand the pressures of caring for the four hundred plus lives aboard the Enterprise.

So when McCoy stumbled from Sick Bay and into the turbo-lift with the single intent of crawling into his bed, he wasn't surprised when he hit the button for the deck above his instead.

"Bones, you look like hell."

Jim Kirk stood in the open door still wearing his uniform from earlier minus socks and boots.

"Compliments will get you everywhere," McCoy grumbled, then asked. "Can I come in for a spell?"

"I've been waiting," Jim said, stepping aside and holding out his arm. On the corner of his desk sat a bottle of Saurian brandy and two glasses. McCoy shot him a grateful smile as he walked in and poured the amber liquid into the glasses. His hand shook slightly as he held out Jim's glass.

It was one of the signs that he'd been pushed past his limit, which usually occurred after days spent in surgery, not six hours. Why it was happening now, he couldn't guess. McCoy saw Jim staring at the glass before he took it. He'd seen the ripples in the amber liquid but didn't comment.

"Reading anything interesting?" McCoy asked, nodding at the rumpled bed where an antique book lay propped open. He settled himself in his usual spot: an early twentieth century, Terran chair the captain had found on Andoria. The seller—despite having two sets of eyes—hadn't been able to spot its value, and Kirk had gotten it for a song and a dance. The cherry wood was scuffed and the stuffing was beaten down in the seat, but it had two things the Fleet-issued furniture was sorely lacking: style and comfort.

"I wouldn't know," Kirk admitted, settling into the swivel-chair behind the desk. "I've read the same page ten times now."

McCoy took a sip and winced as the fiery liquid slid down his throat. It wasn't as smooth as his Kentucky bourbon, but it would do the job. "Sounds like I should schedule your biannual eye exam a little sooner."

Jim took a sip from his own glass before answering. "Hardly. I've been thinking about the girl."

McCoy snorted. "Hate to break it to you, friend, but you're moving a little fast for this one." He waved his glass in front of him. "Even for you."

Jim smiled but nodded at the screen on his desk. "Just got word from Star Fleet a few hours ago: there's an outbreak of Starpox among the colonists on Halo V. We're already underway; eta five and a half days. So it looks like she's going to be our guest for awhile, at least for a few weeks."

McCoy shook his head in disgust. "Damn idiot pioneers, going off half-cocked in search of paradise. Instead of fixing the problems on the planet they were born on, they seek out the most reclusive, far-flung hunk of rock and hang a holier-than-thou moniker on it like 'Sanctuary,' 'New Eden,' or 'Heaven's Gates.'" McCoy sighed then raised an eyebrow. "Well, how many vaccines short are they?"

Kirk's lips twisted into a smile. "Oh, about three hundred thousand."

McCoy groaned. His staff would be working double shifts to get that many vaccines made in time.

"M'Benga's already started since you had your hands full," Kirk said, reading McCoy's mind. Then he caught his friend's gaze and held it. "Tell me, Bones. She going to be okay?"

McCoy rubbed his face, felt the scrape of stubble against his palm, and let his hand drop. The alcohol had combined with the fatigue to make his limbs feel noticeably heavier but in a comfortable sort of way.

"Honestly? I don't know. But I hope so," he answered. "This is new territory—or so damned old that it's new again. Right now, physicallyspeaking, she's stable. Damn idiot pioneers," McCoy said again but without any real anger. "Jim, that woman needs to get to a specialist. Someone with experience with this sort of thing."

Kirk nodded in satisfaction. "Good. Star Fleet Medical is in 100% agreement. She stays on the Enterprise." Kirk glanced at him, sighed as he saw the doctor's expression, then continued in a soothing tone. "Nobody else has your experience, Bones. Kahn Noonin Singh?"

McCoy's lips flattened. "Kahn was a damned augment. That's how he survived." McCoy looked down at his glass. "Cryostasis is not something that I've been trained in, Jim. It's a tricky beast—there's the physical shock of reanimation and then there's the psychological aspect of it. I could . . . well, I could do more harm than good." The last had been said in a subdued voice.

"Bones, she would have died already without your help," Jim argued gently, clearly recognizing the source of his friend's worry. "There wasn't a choice: the unit's seal had broken. Not only do you have the best chance in helping her, you'll treat her with more dignity than the medical think-tank back at hq. You've said it yourself that they're more interested in getting published than actual medicine." Jim seemed to deliberately pause to allow McCoy time to think and then held his hands up as if in surrender. "All right. Name someone who could help her better than you, and I will arrange the transport. Just give me a name."

McCoy's insides squirmed as the seconds ticked by. He didn't understand the sudden reluctance he felt at letting the woman go but with sudden clarity, he also knew that Jim was right. He couldn't name a single doctor that had more experience with cryostasis than himself.

"No," McCoy admitted. "I can't think of anyone."

Jim nodded as though he'd already known McCoy's answer. "Star Fleet will start searching the medical databases as soon as you send her genetic information and facial images, maybe they'll be able to find descendants or other distant relatives."

There would be no direct descendants, McCoy knew, but refrained from saying it out loud. From the bio-scans he could see that the patient was still a virgin and there was no evidence that any of her eggs had been harvested. McCoy frowned suddenly as Jim's words registered. "Wait a cotton-pickin' minute, Jim. Just how long do you think she was in that thing, anyway?"

Jim shrugged. "Scotty thinks no less than a hundred years."

The glass of brandy almost slipped from McCoy's fingers. "A hundred? My God," he breathed. "Did Mudd say where he found her?"

"Still unconscious," Jim said with a tipsy smirk. "I don't think our commander cares much for Harcourt Fenton Mudd, not that he would ever admit to such a thing."

McCoy was torn between fascination and horror as a new thought struck him. "Jim, you don't think she could be from a . . . a sleeper ship, do you?"

Every cadet at Star Fleet Academy had to take the Ethics & Eugenics class in order to graduate. It was impossible to forget the horrible images from the Eugenics Wars of the 1990's; they were burned into every cadet's brain so that the prejudice and horror would never be repeated.

Some of the most haunting images had been of the sleeper ships. Families, whole communities in some cases, had lined up to have their holographs taken before boarding the massive ships pictured behind them. All of them were pictured laughing and smiling at the camera mere hours before being placed in suspended animation. Computers would then monitor and guide these ships through the long periods of interplanetary travel and, when their destination had been reached, awaken its passengers to a brighter, safer future.

That had been the sales pitch, anyway.

Thousands of ships had been launched to escape the holocaust of the 1990's but none, as far as was known, had ever reached their destinations. It was discovered later that the company providing the navigation units had decided against upgrading them with the latest star charts in favor of keeping the company in the black. Despite the shortcuts the company had still folded, six months after the last ship had launched.

"I doubt it," Kirk said quietly, obviously recalling the same images as McCoy. He threw back the last of his drink before adding in a louder voice. "There can't be too many of them left anymore. Besides, her unit looks nothing like the units of the 90's. Scotty thinks her design was more for"—his lip curled upward in disgust—"long-term storage."

"Storage," McCoy repeated feeling a gut-wrenching sorrow wash over him. He couldn't imagine a life being treated so callously: boxed up like last year's fashion and trundled up to the attic. Whoever she was, or whatever she might have done, she didn't deserve that. Nobody did.

It was times like these that McCoy wished he could be as numb as Spock claimed to be, because right then, he felt sick. He needed his bed, he needed to sleep, and he needed to stop thinking of the beautiful mystery lying in his Sick Bay.

"I think I'll call it a night, Captain."

Kirk frowned. Usually there late night chats lasted until one of them passed out or was, at the very least, too drunk to talk. "Bones, are you sure you're all—"

"Just tired," McCoy interrupted, suddenly not wanting to talk about the unsettling emotions he was feeling. "I'm getting older every day, y'know."

Kirk chuckled, his attention apparently diverted. "Aren't we all? Good night, Bones."

"Night, Jim."

I like the intimacy of these two friends. How comfortable they are with each other. Wouldn't it be great if we all had someone like that? Someplace to go where we'd always be welcomed. (*singing the theme to Cheers*) Anyway, any thoughts? Is it worth posting another chapter? ~Cooper