****Her dreams of Roger were always the same: standing before her, pleading with his eyes to understand what had happened to him. Sometimes it was the android she saw spilling from the charred cloth of his suit, all wires and relays.
And sometimes, it was the human; pale twitching intestines laced with fine red and blue blood vessels, the dark organs behind the slippery curtain.
She could smell in these dreams; the scorched fabric, the melted plastine and silvery drops of metal falling to the floor like the iron-stinking drops of blood and burned tissue. And always, no matter what Roger was in her nightly visits, the dream was the same. He always turned the phaser on himself.*
**
<Christine blinks. After all this time (not years, but mileage of anguish), she no longer wakes up with a wet face. Her eyes burn hot and dry.>
<She cannot wait to leave the ghosts and get to Sickbay. Her only concern is Leonard. He knows when she has the nightmares. If she looks bad enough, he'll make her take a Reminex.>
<No. No sleep-aids. She hates the dreams, but she hates the oblivion of deep sleep even more. Anyway, Leonard won't take the Reminex for his *own* nightmares, and in her book, what he went through was even more ghoulish.>
<Shower. Dress. Beat your boss to work today. Start in on the paperwork and be too busy to pay him much attention. Maybe then he won't notice. Sometimes she won; sometimes he won. At least in the daytime struggles, of human and human. But when it came to the monsters at night, they always lost.>
***
Vulcans rarely slept. They had other ways of refreshing themselves, but even Spock had to take a subconscious rest on occasion.
He rose from his kneeling position in the dark alcove of his sleeping chamber, red as the sky above his home and murky. The sculpt of Ares watched by his computer as he prepared.
He folded his long legs down to the floor and went to the firepot beast that eternally burnt the scents of his home desert. Lifting his hands in the dry smoke, he washed his hands in it, then brushed his face and the back of his neck. His hair absorbed the odor of Vulcan and carried with him; a calming presence on a ship that was too cold, too dark, too damp for his liking.
He was not sanguine about today's profit. Logically this confrontation with the captain was to be expected; had been fuming since the Halkan Delimna. Never before had he weighed his allies and enemies with as much reason.
He did not think Marlena would change her mind about being his ally. Her fear of the captain returning had been genuine. "Do you know what he'll do to me?" Her hiss had carried reasonable fear, and Spock knew why. Marlena was not a woman who asked for help of any kind, ever. Her pride would never allow it...
Kirk was not forgiving of himself for failure, and less so for his crew. All he needed was to imagine her spending time with his double. The result would be nothing but agony for a woman who had always been loyal to him.
Uhura and Scott were loyal to him, in their own fashion. Like himself, they followed Kirk's orders and tended to their own business. They had the seniority of the Bridge Crew, and for that had more stability, and less fear for their position. Sulu was out for himself, for power. Of all the officers, he was the most like Kirk. Spock considered him the captain's equal in brilliance, and in cutthroat initiative.
Chekov he never bothered with considering. He might be a formidable foe someday, but not while he remained a victim of his own whims.
Preparing for the damp chill outside his cabin, he reached for his thermal jacket. It did much to improve his level of comfort.
His mother, who knew him better than anyone, would have called him "frustrated" this morning. Of course he would have denied it. He was simply under many factors.
And one of his larger factors was an extremely annoying, dangerously unpredictable human CMO.
The algorithm would be much neater, he thought, if Chapel was in McCoy's place.
***
*The defective hypo explodes in his hand. Designed to pull a man from death, the drug refuses him oblivion. The pain is beyond all imagination. He should have lost consciousness at the first touch of cordrazine. He should have collapsed on top of the near-electrocuted Sulu. But cordrazine doesn't work that way. One drop can save a dying man; ten drops can kill a healthy one. It is powerful as a bolt of lighttning, and as unpredictable in its result.
His last conscious thought before the burning curtain descends, is the memory of Piper handing him this medikit, and ordering him to the Bridge to treat Sulu.*
***
He was awake before his chrono went off. In the simulated light cycle of the ship it was still "dawn." Time for another day.
He fumbled for his Officer's Blade in the dark and switched the lights on low. He dressed mechanically and strapped the thin holster inside his boot (wondering again how often he had performed this particular action. Considering the times he'd actually had to use the thing...too many). The standard reg "Hollowhilt" went to the right in his sash. It always gave McCoy a faint chill to see himself wearing the gold. After all, he'd got it from killing Piper, but there had been no joy in the action. Not even relief--Piper's actions on his being lingered too strongly to ever feel free of the man. McCoy didn't laugh at people who believed in ghosts. He was haunted by one.
The morning mail was filtering in while he punched out several cups' worth of coffee. Mostly the usual Empire balderdash--the news about the Romulan Alliance was interesting, considering the ENTERPRISE was slated to be sent to Altair for the latest Treaty.
*....hmn...at least that sector was pretty dead-quiet...about as interesting as an iron meteorite...*
The doctor frowned slightly when he read the projected list of names. The Flagship for the Warbird Fleet would be there--well that without a doubt meant the ENTERPRISE would be too. Wonder what the Klingons would think about that? Three Empires, and all of them at least respected each other, but McCoy usually felt the Klingons had the better sense of humor. Kang could even make Kirk laugh, hard as that was to believe.
Unfortunately for all Kahless-descended Klingons like Kang, Kor and Koloth, the caste-race was on the rise. Who was to say what that area of space would look like in a few years? Unsettling prospects in an unsettling Galaxy.
Christine had dropped him a note under his day's worksheet: word had gotten out that he was scheduled for a confidential talk with The Big Two. That was all she said, but McCoy was grateful. She was warning him that the gossipwagons were already rolling. Best he get ready for it now.
But ready for what? He didn't quite know. It wasn't a good thing to have an Officer's Meeting in the privacy of the captain's room. Best to be ready for the worst.
*If life moved half as fast as rumor,* McCoy thought with well-deserved morbid humor, *I'd be at my own funeral now.*
No matter what, it was unthinkable to have a bad showing. Even if it *was* that theoretical funeral. The Empire did *not* look kindly upon debility or any other kind of weakness. Worse when it was an officer. And if he died badly, then Joanna would have an unfortunate legacy indeed to struggle against. He barely knew her, but he couldn't do that to her.
At any rate, when Dr. McCoy slipped his Officer's Blade into his boot, it was with the knowledge that it might be the last time.
*And am I relieved? Or am I not?*
He had to wonder as he walked down the hallway, answering salutes on automatic. McCoy was unique among the officers in that he had no bodyguards. But it was not so unique for the medical field. You just didn't want to get a doctor angry at you. Their forms of revenge could be as horrible as they were impossible to trace. The fact that McCoy didn't play such games couldn't over-ride the long-engrained tradition of layman's fears. And frankly, why should he be trusted when he was fairly abnormal for a starship?
When it came to cutthroat pirate policies, the starships were the worst in the fleet. You could get autonomy in the smaller ships, and even practice pacifism without too much derision on the pure-research vessels, but the payoff was in your sheer vulnerability elsewhere. McCoy had paid his dues on such ships pre ENTERPRISE, and considered it a growth environment for ulcers. After all, if you found something of importance, what was to keep a starship captain from seizing it, and wiping you out for being the witness, and every man-jack of you on board? A lot of captains had made Praetor on the blood of hapless explorers. It was the stuff of forensic-fiction novels.
No; better to have the aggression out in the open. If you lived with the lions do it where you could put your back to the wall and defend yourself. It was much more honest that way...if honest was the word for it...
*Ethical?* He smiled to himself slightly, startling a passing tech (scaring the hell out of him might be a better description). *Well that's one way to put it. More like a case of very bad parenting, to hear Spock...*
But Spock had cut down on his gibes of late. McCoy didn't know to be grateful or nervous at that. The Vulcan ignored him when he wasn't making a contemptuous comment about his lack of spine, or his favorite accusation, "sentimental...soft!!!"
Things had changed since their hellish trip to that parallel universe. And now it was as if the Vulcan was *waiting* and *watching* for him to display some kind of particular behavior. McCoy compared it to being the only human in a bar of hungry Gorn and disliked his predictament immensely. Kirk was enough to watch out for. At least Spock tried to ignore him, but that status seemed to be changing...
***
Christine took a moment to look at him in the bad light. Her boss was slumping with fatigue, his head hanging down over his desk. If M'Benga or Hollister saw him like that...
But they weren't there. She was relieved at that. Especially Hollister. Her own personal version of M'Benga to McCoy.
"You know what your problem is?"
McCoy felt Christine's husky voice soak into his central nervous system. "I need to be cloned?" He muttered into his hands.
"God help the aliens who attempt *that*." Christine sat on the edge of the table next to him. "You need to find yourself a woman."
"No, thanks." He barely repressed his shudder.
"Why not? I know you have an eye for the ladies."
"Not on *this* ship, I don't. C'mon, Christine, get real. I can barely afford to keep afloat, much less keep a woman."
"You wouldn't be so strapped if you didn't keep funneling every credit away." *To a daughter you never see,* she added silently.
He heard her not say it. It was an old issue between them. He acknowledged what she didn't say by not saying anything right back. That was one of the mixed blessings of being old friends. You could have long, drawn out and in-depth conversations just by the quality of your silence.
"You've got to meet with the captain tonight." Christine murmured uneasily. "Anything I can do to help clear your desk?"
"Um." Chills went down his spine. "I couldn't say. Just duty as usual, Nurse." So said, he got to his feet, leaving the relative safety of his desk. "Just make sure you've got those biochem specs for Spock."
"Always." Christine said confidently. Dryly.
He gave her a look. "Can't blame you for setting your eyes on him, but don't get yourself hurt."
Not that he really worried about her survival skills. It was just that as far as Spock was concerned, there was a long, long list of potential First Officer's Women on ship. God pity the woman the taciturn Vulcan ever did choose, because unless she had her own starship, she'd have to worry about a lot of jealous rival assassins.
"I don't intend to, quit being my mother hen."
"Mother hen you? What a laugh. Christine Chapel, you're my insanely overqualified Head Nurse, and I'm very fond of you indeed, but I don't think you'd accept help from *the Caesar himself* if he offered!"
Still shaking his head, he left his office for the supply room.
= = = = =
You had the regular storeroom, the security of which rivaled the front door to Engineering. And then you had the private stores, which only the CMO and AMO had access to. Technically, Chapel wasn't allowed inside, but McCoy trusted her over M'Benga anyday--and the AMO was nearly insane with jealousy.
McCoy loathed the circumstances that made daily scanning necessary. Aiming his sensory tricorder upon box after platic box on the narrow shelves, he waited as the beams read the digital "ID" on the labels of each vial, and matched it up with the contents. It was supposedly the only way to ensure no one could switch drugs for something deadlier.
Substance abuse among the medical staff was the stuff of legends.
His eyes narrowed at the cordrazine box. It was smaller than the others, with only three vials and what those three held could drive the entire ship (Vulcans too) insane. It was the most dangerous thing they owned. And after Piper's botched attempt on his life, he never wanted to look at it again. Keeping his thoughts at surface level was the only way he could handle being in the same room with it. Anything else...
Nobody knew if he would ever flashback on the drug. And as the survivor of the largest dose ever taken, he was the subject of much attention. Living in a veritable fishbowl, but if anything could trigger it, stress might.
It said a lot about M'Benga, that Kirk preferred a CMO who *might* someday try to kill him under a drug haze, as opposed to having a man weak to bribes and coercion take his place.
***
Christine had done as much work as was required, and now she was free to file the biochems to Spock's department. She had no fear that it would get to him; nearly all the Vulcans aboard were in Bio. Most were also his bodyguards, and no Vulcan would ever go against Spock. He was simply too much of a legend to his people. He was considered inestimable in value, and his work had in its own way, improved the living conditions of all Vulcans.
Spock's name meant "Unifier" a symbol between to warrior-races. His mother had been a not-inconsiderable officer in the Diplomatic Corps, handling the finer points of speech and espionage with equal skill. Sarek had taken her as his consort, possibly urged on by the unpleasantness of his "true" wife who had already born a fullblooded (but reputedly insane) son. In a world where a warrior could keep as many as five consorts, Amanda was strong-willed enough to remain the only one. And after the death of his wife, Sarek had pointedly not taken another, though there were infinite possibilities for a honorably retired warrior-turned-treaty writer. Spock, then, had grown up surrounded by potential and opportunity. And had thrived.
Despite Leonard's teasing, he had no more illusions about her position than she did. Spock was...well, Spock. If he had ever wanted a woman, he would have taken one. Past history indicated he preferred humans when he had the choice--no doubt a desired change against his legally bonded wife. But even Spock's affairs were...boring. Few and far between, and over with quickly.
*Except for the Romulan Flagship Commander...* Chapel shook her head as her thoughts persued the point, spiral-like, to their inevitable conclusion. *He'd seemed serious as a heart attack over that romance.* Too bad the way it had ended.
Vulcan mores were not unlike Humans'. Chapel understood the dynamic of legitmate/illegitimate, concubine and actual wife. Spock was the product of his father's human concubine, while his older brother Sybok, 100% Vulcan if not 80% stable, was the "true" inheiritor of the clan's property. Chapel had no doubt Spock was content with being the non-attached and long-shot, last-resort heir to the House of Sharien. He seemed to carry distaste for any responsibility that would detract from his never ending love of science and exploration. Spock could take on any concubine he desired, so long as T'Pring ruled his House at home.
God forbid something ever happen to Sybok, because Spock would be catapulted into being the one and only valued heir and then he'd have to start putting out more than an occasional letter home.
*He'd probably even be sent home.* Nerves clawed her gut, all the way up her throat. *And I don't want to think about that.*
She listened to the quiet thump-clink as Leonard maneuvered his way around the claustrophobic maze of the Dangerous Drugs Storeroom. One eye was on the door, in case of any outcome. Christine never lied to herself. It was a guaranteed way to die. She dreaded the idea of an ENTERPRISE without Spock.
Not just because she was interested in him. Spock kept Kirk in check. Controlled his growing homicidal urges. What if Sulu or somebody killed him? What then? Even Leonard, who was in space as an exile, might have to consider killing Kirk in order to save the ship someday. In fact, she had been ready for him to do that, after Yonada. Even Leonard had his breaking point, and the deliberately messy slaughter of men and women armed with only curved knives had driven the CMO ballistic.
*Spock risked everything to keep the Fabrini from dying altogether, and now what?* Chapel wondered sadly. *They might as well be dead.* When the borders of Rigel had shifted, many planets, including those of the Daran System, had fallen to Romulan rule. A double loss. Kirk might have siezed their computer banks, but military men never considered the value of the living.
***
McCoy took a break and punched up a lunch in the mess. He found himself re-reading what was known as Rehasher News as he ate; Uhura had piped in updates from earlier beams. And despite all efforts not to be stupid, he went right to the latest on the upcoming Antares Treaty.
Fortunately (or not) for his nerves, there was actually something about the Daran System. He cursed himself to feel the skip in his chest as he went over the brief paragraph. The actual conquest of that, and the Old Rigellian Rim Territory had been one of the more humiliating defeats for the Empire. Those in charge of defense had been utterly and totally asleep at the helm; the Romulans didn't even have to do much to get it. Just sailed right in and set up housekeeping.
The Empire couldn't do a damn thing about it now; there was no prying an established Romulan force. The best they could hope for was a re-opening of trade, and maybe an exchange of prisoners.
Lord only knew how the Ambassadors could pull *that* off. Romulans weren't against humanoids per se, but it tickled them to have Terrans and Centaurians as slaves. To their thinking, it was a bloodless revenge against old scores. Not unlike ancient tribal warfare policies on the doctor's home planet. What the Empire disliked was that human captives and "indentured servants" tended to resist rescue after they'd been held for so many years. It was demoralizing against their campaign of the Filthy Enemy, and nobody relished the idea of going up against a long-lost relative inside an enemy warship.
He wondered how the Yonadan colony was faring under Romulan rule.
Natira was a survivor, but she didn't want to be. He couldn't encounter thoughts of the High Priestess without terrific guilt.
*I'd never interferred with anyone's desire to die before. If anything, he'd risked his own to defend that right. Why the hell did I stop then?*
Damn it, but he knew why.
The Fabrini had needed Natira more than they needed their own worldship. He'd pulled some dirty emotional blackmail to pull her out of her self-destructive funk. And while he'd won, she'd never thank him.
There was nothing more about the Treaty. He sighed and reached for another spring roll.
And that was when the security alert sounded.
All around the doctor, people were jumping to their feet. McCoy jumped too, a terrific twist in his heart. He knew that particular pattern to the klaxxon. Somebody had just attempted--or succeeded--an attempt against the captain.
= = = = =
His name was Technician Rochemont. He was three years older than Joanna, and he'd gone up against a much bigger opponant.
McCoy leaned forward and made a small adjustment on the K-3 graph of the bioindicator above the wax-white face. Behind him he could feel Kirk's presence, burning like an angry sun.
"I don't know." He said at last, not turning around as he enhanced gauge after gauge, left to right down the display. The heart that beat so strongly and calmly was under artifical stimulation. It would beat just as strongly if the brain finished shutting down.
"I want to know who hired him for such an idiotic stunt." Kirk's soft voice was tight. He rarely raised his voice, but when he did...
McCoy felt a bath of icewater at the memory. Ever since he'd embarassed himself in that cell in the Parallel Universe, Kirk had been idling. And McCoy knew he, Scott, and Uhura were just living on borrowed time because if the captain didn't forgive their witnessing, or put it past him, he was going to be thrice as easy to provoke.
Just as Marlena was no doubt living on borrowed time. Kirk's jealousy was amazing. McCoy didn't think there was much point in feeling threatened at one's counterpart, but the night after their return, Moreau showed up at Mess with a black eye.
"I'll do what I can, captain." McCoy spoke the truth easily. He'd already promised himself what to do. Kirk just didn't know what that would be. "But there's been a lot of damage to the brainstem; Farrell's the best knife on the ship, y'know."
Kirk nodded curtly. He did indeed know.
"I don't know how much longer I can keep the cortex viable."
Medical fact was 100% on his side. Humanoids were so variable from planet to planet, subspecies to sub, even space-born and planet-born, that anybody who ever tried to write a medical text on the generalities of the primitive brain would get laughed all the way to a straightjacket and a lifetime supply of happy pills. Even common laymen like Kirk knew that.
Not that Kirk was ever common, as in ordinary. He was damn near a genius, if not brilliant, and his mind could grasp anything...anything that it wanted to. McCoy quite often had nightmares that dealt with underestimating him.
"Estimation?" Kirk shifted his weight to his left. Not a good sign. It meant he was searching for an opponant to rip apart.
"Barring some unforeseen miracle, we've got about six hours to wring any information out of him."
Kirk spun on his heel, took three paces, stopped and spun back. "Do what you can. It's possible Spock might be able to do something."
McCoy nodded as if that announcement didn't make him ill. Mental invasion--whatever happened to just quietly killing somebody and being done with it?
Alone now, McCoy waited patiently until he was certain no one would interrupt in the next five seconds. Then the hypo he'd been forced to hide in his sash at the captain's arrival hissed quietly against Rochemont's throat. It would take time for Kirk to persuade Spockto even consider a distasteful meld, and by then, the boy would be quietly, peacefully, irreversibly dead.
***
He was finishing another spate of endless shift reports when AMO M'Benga rode in. And with M'Benga, Hollister would be someplace close. You might not see her, but they stuck together like glue.
"Heard another punk was paid to take a shot at the captain." M'Benga didn't waste time, he went over to the table for a look-see.
"Sure what it looks like." McCoy agreed neutrally. They never made casual conversation; this was no exception. Strict business, and on the AMO's part, professional curiosity.
M'Benga shook his head at the readings. "They never learn." He marveled under his breath. Sharp dark eyes that rivaled a laser's flicked over to McCoy. "He's not doing well. Is the captain going to question him?"
"I told the captain he didn't have much time to make that decision." McCoy shrugged with one shoulder, as stymied as M'Benga why Kirk would want to pay *that* much attention to some teenager who probably didn't even know who paid him in the first place.
The future corpse faced them blindly, unaware and unseeing. All senses turned off, not even able to hear. Farrell's knife across the back of the neck had all but severed the head from the trunk. Too bad he hadn't. McCoy had searched but found no signs of activity that would hint the boy was conscious in any way. God, but he hoped not.
"Any regime I need to stick to?" M'Benga asked. He was repeating McCoy's earlier actions of checking and rechecking the biogauges. They might have infinite differences between them, and they would never be friends, but there was that professional respect.
"Alert me and the captain if there's an obvious change." McCoy couldn't wait to leave today. He tossed his stylus and straightened his back. "I'm not hopeful that he'll pull through, but then, I've been surprised at Vegans before."
M'Benga started. "He's a Vegan?"
"Vegan-born, yeah." Deliberately lackadasial, McCoy yawned and adjusted his sash. "Ok, that's that. Later."
M'Benga's response was absently delivered. He was already thinking of how it would be to his advantage to inform Kirk of the assassin's background before his superior.
And hopefully, that would be exactly what happened. This particular CMO was o Kirk enough that he didn't volunteer any information unless he had to.
***
He was trying to resume that half-jettisoned plate of spring rolls and tea when an unexpected visitor showed up with his full cadre of bodyguards.
"At ease." Spock sounded as distracted as M'Benga had earlier. McCoy sat back down at picked up a roll. Without preamble, Spock sat down and promptly dominated 3/4ths of the space in McCoy's cabin.
"I'll try to be." McCoy muttered.
Spock's gaze flickered. At best, he was impatient with the doctor--or at least he had been. That "fishbowl" look was back, and McCoy felt absolutely demoralized to be the focus of it.
"What is your prognosis on the technician?"
At least Vulcans didn't mince words unless they were in court. McCoy bit down into his very late lunch and chewed before replying. "Full report?"
"Yes."
"I can't predict Vegan mental synaptic conditions anymore than I can a Rigellian's. You know more about mental interviews than I do; I can show you the graphs." He was already reaching for them, thin sheets of clear plastic colorpatterns superimposed over each other.
Spock spared a single glance. "That is all I need to see." He nodded curtly.
McCoy leaned back. "Sorry. Do you want some tea?"
Spock paid into pure Vulcan culture norms by not verbally acknowledging the offer, just poured himself a serving from a cup taken out of the replicator.
"If the boy is a Vegan, his reasoning for attempting the captain's life might be understandable." As in 9,000 dead countrymen put to the sword under Kirk's command. Moral: uprisings can be costly. Of course, it was easier to focus one's rage on a single mortal target--Kirk--than try to take on the entire Empire at once.
"Possibly." McCoy was cautious before he agreed. It was his personal belief, but he didn't want anyone to know that. Let M'Benga and Spock feel they drew their conclusions by themselves.
"The question is, why was this never in the records."
"His background?" McCoy shook his head. "Imperial reports are very basic, you know. If he's never done anything before, then, he was either very very good at covering his trails, or as innocent as he looked."
"I'll never understand how your language can judge someone's mental perspective by appearance."
McCoy ignored the criticism. He was quite used to it. "Look, it's *not* SOP for the Empire to encourage anytthing more than an homogenized unity to the government; they don't ask too many questions about where you come from because it could encourage dangerous cultural unity and patriotism. But that's besides the point here. You don't have much time if Kirk's wanting an interview."
"I do not believe it is possible...or profitable." Spock's fingers tightened, just ever so slightly, around the cup. "Our meeting has been postponed until tomorrow morning."
Odd. McCoy only nodded, and worked on another roll. Kirk must have a lot on his plate.
And now, in the close confines of his cabin, another meeting was about to take place.
"Does the captain have a reason to harbor anger against you?"
Well, *that* question came right outta the ol' blue. McCoy actually stopped chewing, astonished that Spock would have to ask that question. Normally the Vulcan was better at reading dynamics. "It's no secret." He said finally.
"I would prefer your point of view." Spock's way of saying he was in the dark.
*I don't believe this. I just do not believe this...*
"Um." McCoy pushed back his plate and poured himself a refill. "Well, its not just me. You might have noticed his temper of late, aimed at Uhura and Scott as well."
Spock's expression barely changed, but McCoy had struck a nerve.
"When we were on the...Parallel Ship, Kirk said some things at your counter-part when he thought he was talking to you." McCoy suddenly scowled and looked down. "I feel no need to quote verse and chapter. It's my personal opinion that what he said was unimportant. Apparantly, the captain feels otherwise."
Loss of face got more inferior oficers killed than possibly any other factor. Spock digested this while McCoy went through the motions of drinking. The Vulcan was a pragmatist; the prospect of Kirk finding reasons to dispose of half the senior crew, could only result in a power vacuum. And if it was due to pride...
Spock was warrior enough to know that pride was important, yet not vital.
"I would suggest, then," Spock rose to his feet, interview over. "You tell your compatriots to be wary. I noticed M'Benga was visiting the captain today."
McCoy's response was unexpected. The human merely looked tired and resigned.
"Kirk can dispose of me any time he wants to." He pointed out. "I've been on parole ever since the cordrazine."
Spock had not realized McCoy could be so blunt. "Indeed." He did not insult the other with elaborate language. "And so far you have behaved adequately. But it may not be just the captain that wishes your replacement."
McCoy bristled at the not-so-subtle jab. "The only person I'd trust to take my place on this ship is Christine Chapel." He too, was on his feet. "But I don't think you or Kirk are capable of understanding what she's like."
McCoy's observation of Chapel as CMO was perilously close to Spock's own. "And what understanding does one require?" Spock asked with his usual even calm--a state that invariably annoyed McCoy.
"You'll never get Christine Chapel's blind obedience, Spock. Not you, not Kirk, not me, not anybody. What she gives is her *loyalty.* And that's a damn sight rarer, and a lot more valuable."
***
"The Altair Conference is going to be all about the Antares Treaty." Kirk rested his palms on the small table, leaning forward until the muscles in his arms thrust out. "There are other issues, naturally, but this is the real reason. Our diplomats will be expected to parlay for the Daran and Rigellian Rim System, and the Romulans will be expected to run them in circles." Disdain tightened Kirk's mouth on one side.
Spock made a thoughtful sound behind his beard. "What roles will we be expected to play in this affair?"
Trust Spock, McCoy mused. He did have a way with words. Made you wonder about the nuances of his native language.
"Roles? Good question." Kirk approved automatically, without warmth. "The Romulans have demanded a show of peace. Minimal weapons. And an open sharing of medical technology." (McCoy shifted at that, beginning to suspect.)
"We are the only starship allowed to attend, just as their flagship is the only one permitted. Dr. McCoy and four other members of Life Sciences will be on entourage with the same number of unknown Romulan Life Scientists. While this exchange of brittle civility is taking place, you, Mr. Spock, will be enduring your own acting with our old friend the Flagship Commander."
Spock instantly fossilized at the table.
*Oh, oh.* McCoy inwardly sighed. *Now if this isn't a recipe for Kitchen Antimatter...*
He didn't envy the Vulcan. Commander Charvenek, after all, had threatened to do things to him that nobody on the ISS ENTERPRISE had even *heard* of before. For his part, Spock invariably acted like the very mention of the woman was enough to send him to a life of contemplation at Gol.
Didn't envy the Vulcan? He didn't envy himself, damn it! M'Benga was going to be in charge of *his* sickbay while he put up with unsubtle Romulan contempt.
If Kirk was going to kill him, this'd be a pretty good way of doing it. The possibilities were damn near limited to only one's imagination.
And McCoy wasn't blessed with imagination. He was *cursed* with it.
***
Spock paused in the hallway. His guards paused too, a polite distance from their master. Each commander held datapacks in one hand, hardcopy preps for their assigned tasks.
"Were you speaking to me, doctor?"
McCoy bristled. "I was talking to God, if you must know."
Spock was flexible, as far as understanding humans went, but his mother's sense of humor was very different from the doctor's. He was almost going to assume McCoy was being defensive about his religious convictions.
McCoy turned to face him, stock-still in the hallway. "I meant what I said about Chapel."
Spock had no idea why the man was returning to a topic ended seven hours ago. "I remember what you said." He lifted one eyebrow.
The doctor pursed his lips, on the verge of saying something. As Spock watched, he made the decision. "She's loyal to you. M'Benga isn't."
Spock watched him stalk down the hall to the privacy of his small cabin. He wondered if McCoy was trying to tell him something else besides the literal.
McCoy let the doors of his room shut, and rested his back against them, closing his eyes. His restless night was coming back with a vengeance, and it was now time for bed.
But what he really wanted to do was never sleep again.
= = = = =
*He hadn't been there for the actual slaughter on Yonada. Hell, he wasn't even sure what *caused* it. Some word of defiance, a glance gone wrong, maybe the people looked too independant for the tastes of the captain. And Kirk was, of course, a starship captain; trained to take initiative and err on the side of caution. Any explanation of rebellion against a sword-sworn soldier of the Caesar was reason enough to aim a phalanax of phasers on KILL into 532 men, women and children.
Should Kirk have given mercy to a people without just cause, he, and possibly his entire ship's crew would have suffered the fate of the Yondans. It was just one of the pleasant things about working for the Empire.
He saw Spock first, when he beamed down. The Vulcan was standing stock-still under the red of the artifical sky, centered in a pile of rainbow-striped corpses. He looked like a raven sculpted of blue and black.
The phalanax had disbanded and were milling around, toeing corpses over and searching for souveniers. There were none; over the disappointed babble of the looters, McCoy could make out these people carried no ornaments, no jewelry.
*And why would they? Their world is too small to place value on the material.*
Spock's head was down; he had been regarding a child's body with an enviable calm. As the doctor picked his way around the killing field (he avoided the living looters more than the actual dead), Spock looked up to acknowledge his arrival. And for a shred of a second, McCoy almost stopped dead in his tracks, for the Vulcan was wearing a look of open loathing on his dark face.
McCoy was no stranger to massacres. He'd walked in cities phasered to molten glass, watched as continents were crushed of life.
He'd stood on thee Bridge and watched as Kirk rendered the entire colony of Deneb to ash.
But something had happened here between Spock and Kirk that he wasn't privy to.
*What the devil happened?*
Spock's expression frightened him. Spock never, *never* showed any disapproval in Kirk. Even a disagreement of opinion was considered blatant disloyalty to a Vulcan raised as traditionally as Spock. And Spock, for all his half-human heiritage, could and did out-Vulcan the Vulcans.
"The captain has a hostage for your perusal, doctor." Spock reported mechanically. "A heavy stun victim. Expidence would be appreciated."
McCoy nodded and made no other response. A hostage. That meant the leader of these people in this strange world-ship...or someone close to the leader. It was his job to make sure they were fit and well for inevitable "questioning" and "coercion" to the ways of the Empire.
***
This was not one of the "better days" in Sickbay. A technician had wounded himself days ago and walked around with the injury, too afraid of medical treatment to turn himself in. Now a simple burn had gone very bad, and the wound approached gangrene. Cautious questioning had revealed the kid had not inflicted the injury, unlike the man who had come in before him. The first man was a classic Goms (Get Out Of My Sickbay) and hoping to get a lot of nice painkillers for the price of a little pain.
McCoy had never, ever understood that mentality. He didn't consider himself of the "straight AND narrow" bend of mind, but to deliberately cultivate a habit that could leave you weak, slow of reflex and inattentive? Might as well make your own coffin and sleep in it until someone finally finished you off. The penalty for dereliction of duty while under influence was so harsh that it amazed him that *anyone* would even want to contemplate taking a mild tranquilizer.
*mining ore in a prison colony asteroid? Noooo thanks!* He flipped the pages of the finished report over and scanned the proofs of the on-duty physicians while a trio of green nurses got further training in with taking blood samples off the Andorian diabetic. They were going to replace the name of Satan with his before the job was done, to judge by the sounds wafting from the back of the ward, but women needed to get dead-on accustomed to the chauvinism of that particular species. Because if a medico backed down on a patient, they'd back down for the rest of their lives, and all that extensive education would be wasted; they'd be nothing more than paramedics.
Speaking of paramedics...he glanced over the list of the ones on duty for this week. Nakada had been tapped at random to stand as euthanologist if the captain ever ordered any criminal "put down" in the next four days. Much as he hated that job, he'd better hurry up and finish graduating; paramedics weren't bound by the Oath the physicians were, so it was morally fine for them to dispense death in the name of the legal system.
An ensign had been found stabbed to death in Engineering. Scott had written "occupational hazard" on his report, so it was a good bet the man had had it coming. McCoy glanced at the decedant's specs, noted he was 34 years old and felt that suppostion was right. You didn't stay an ensign for that long without something being fundamentally wrong...
He wrote Dr. Taljedal's name in for NECROPSY on the ensign.
"I hate this."
You could always trust Christine to be honest. He smiled ruefully over his desk and put last night's dreaming away with the last of the bureacracy. "Sorry."
Chapel exhaled and folded her arms across her insignia. "In other words, you're telling me that I'm *really* the one in charge of Sickbay, only M'Benga isn't supposed to know about it."
"Or Hollister. They'd be on you like hair on a tribble."
"Lovely. So who else is going to this medical-trade conference?"
"Um. Thermopolous, Wagner, R'i'kk, and Barr...I think. Don't know who'll be the pilot." He watched as Chapel shook her head again. "What is it?"
"I was just thinking...this is the fifth time inside what...a year...that the Romulans have offered a medical trade."
"Yeah, pretty amazing, isn't it?"
"They've been doing this since the Fabrini fell under their power."
McCoy was silent as he pondered this new insight. "You're right. I never thought about that...makes you wonder what's going on, doesn't it?"
"Extremely." Chapel rubbed her chin with the ball of her thumb. "So far they've not been asking for anything that could be overtly dangerous..."
"They wouldn't anyway, and you know it. You can make *any* information dangerous. But their medical technology is behind ours, even with the use of the Fabrini databanks. Spock projected it'd take at least fifty years to absorb all the information out of that galloping huge computer!" Just the thought of all that hard-won knowledge, lost, made him ill.
Chapel gave him a long look. "Don't you have the Fabrini encrypta in your translator program?"
"For what it's worth..." McCoy had started to shrug, then saw what she was getting at. They stared at each other in frozen silence, grateful no one else was around.
"You want some coffee?" McCoy finally managed.
"That sounds lovely." Chapel agreed gracefully. She watched from her place on the edge of his desk as he went to the replicator. Both of them were studiously trying to act normal. Maybe they'd fool a xenophobic alien...
"I'm just paranoid." Chapel tried to dismiss her fears. *Paranoid that my boss is going to get kidnapped or killed because of what he knows...* She took the cup from him and cleared her throat.
"Um...that's not being paranoid. Not when it comes to *my* safety." McCoy looked down at his desk as he spoke. Next to Spock, McCoy knew more about the Fabrini than any other member of the Empire. And Spock wasn't a physician. In a lot of ways, *he* was the penultimate expert of the people. What did that mean to the Romulans?
The Romulan Empire was the smallest of the Three circles of power in the Galaxy. What made their position even less enviable was the poverty level of the people. Disease was the surest killer, even more than war was. A Romulan who made the vaunted position of healer was forbidden weapons, and they were usually immune from violence.
The Fabrini medicines had been a spectrum of many species, for medicine had been the trade of the people for thousands of years.
So...taking that all in stride...What was that *worth* to the Romulans?
***
In the privacy of his cabin, James Tiberius Kirk was wondering the same thing.
Marlena watched from the bed, wineglass perched in her tiny fingers. Jim's back was solid and tight, strong as a tank and as hard to read.
"Are you going to kill him?" She murmured.
He turned slightly to look at her, the gold-green eyes catching on an Orion light-sculpture sitting by the table.
"That would be too obvious." He answered, and to her surprise, walked away from the screen to the winebottle. "He's just catching on to what's been brewing for weeks. Spies in Covert Ops reported the Romulans are offering substantial rewards for the capture of anyone skilled or knowledgeable about the Fabrini."
"I would think Spock is the first choice for that." Marlena commented. "He's fluent in their language, after all."
"He is, but the military wants him dead more than alive." Kirk reminded her.
Marlena shivered. "Just sounds like it would be a swift solution to kill McCoy." He'd been thinking of killing the CMO for months now, ever since the return from the other dimension. The fact that the members of the landing party were still alive meant Kirk (ever thrifty) was biding his time.
"Oh, it would be swift." He agreed, swirling the yellow liquid against the glass. "But I'm not going to do anything to him. My reputation for "vanishing enemies" is getting ahead of me."
Marlena was honestly confused. He smiled to see it.
"Other people are taking care of the good doctor for me." He clarified. "And I have no qualm with that. He'd be lucky to return from Romulan space no matter what; the rules they have on medicos are absurd."
Marlena made a semishrug as if to say, "it's all Greek to me" and paid attention to her drink. Inwardly she was thinking that if McCoy was already out of the count, then Uhura and Scott had better watch out because they would surely be next.
***
McCoy shivered a little as the implications sank in on top of more implications. The prep package, with its detailed information for this and that, was useless for what he *really* wanted to know about this upcoming conference.
Chapel was sorry she'd brought the subject up. No idea if this was all some kind of fanciful imagining. She hoped that was the case. There were rumors about the Romulan Empire, rumors that people didn't want to investigate on the chance they might be true. And a lot of the whispers had to do with the Romulan supposed interest in genetic buildup, augmentation, differentiation, and biological disease.
Humans traditionally avoided the idea of genetic tampering. The Eugenics Wars had left millions of nightmares in its wake; they were still paying for the foolish arrogance and callous manipulation of ancestors who believed they could change the race for the better with a few shots of serum and neural splicing.
"Where's M'Benga?" McCoy was twisting around in his desk with a frown. "He should have been on duty a quarter-hour ago."
Chapel shrugged helplessly. "I haven't seen Hollister either." She ran her fingers thru her dark brown hair and toyed with an earring.
"Oh, talk about paranoid; that'll give ya reason." McCoy muttered something that Chapel had no hope of comprehending--something about pork barbecues--and dropped his schedule padd with a sigh. "Ok, since he's nowhere in sight, I'm leaving it to you to check out the drugs stores this morning."
"Me?" Chapel winced. "Thanks a lot. I'll remember that."
"What the heck are you afraid of? Any man tries to assassinate *you* in *there*, you can just pop the lid off the humanoid copulin pheremones. While he's on his knees begging you for a good time, you can--"
"Don't think I won't consider that option." Chapel tried to snap, but she was smiling under her flaming blush.
"Well, think of something." He warned. "M'Benga met with the captain not too long ago. And I *hate* when that happens."
Chapel studied him in silence as they sipped black brew. M'Benga playing suck-up, that in itself was ISS SOP. On the other hand, it would mean something if M'Benga was able to reach Kirk.
Kirk had been iffy about Leonard ever since that trip into Parallel Time. And while not about to give ugly details, her CMO had implicated that the captain had felt he'd lost face in the mishap. It was true that Leonard had been very very careful about not making Kirk mad. She hoped it was good enough, because if Kirk decided on a new CMO, he'd be able to get one without too much effort.
And M'Benga in charge of Sickbay didn't bear worth thinking about.
"When are you leaving?" She finally asked.
He glanced at the wall chrono and sighed. "Twenty minutes. Ish. M'not looking forward to it." As he spoke, he rose and began rechecking the slender pouch of medical data. It would have to go through Security first, to make sure he wasn't giving the enemy the latest recipe for Denebian Typhus, etc...
"How long?" She was nervous; he'd been away from Sickbay before, but all this was odd and unusual.
Again, he shook his head. "I don't know. Kirk said the conference depended completely on the diplomats, *when* they show up. What fun. I'll probably get all kinds of hands-on experience with verbal assassination, innuendo, untraceable toxins, and Recreational Drugs; How to Make Opponants Look Silly, Use Of."
"How I envy you." Christine said sardonically.
"Umph." He sighed. "I'm gonna go ahead and get this down to the Bay. Sooner everybody's ready, I guess the sooner we can get it all over with."
"Anybody you need to keep an eye on?" Chapel thought of Thermopolous, but he hated *all* doctors, not just Leonard.
"I don't even know half of 'em. New transfers." McCoy made a "oh well" lift of his hands. "Good luck with your invisible promotion while I'm gone. Don't do anything strange to my lab specs either."
"I hope you're not trying to be flippant, because your mycelium cultures *define* strange."
"My Nurse, the fungiphobe." McCOy lifted his eyes upward for God's support, and rapped his knuckles on her forehead on his way out the door.
***
Ten more minutes, and M'Benga still hadn't shown up. Chapel decided time was wasting and she might as well do the storeroom before he showed up. He hated her being in there at all. Best she not make herself a tempting target.
She shouldered up the scanning tricorder and flipped the PROGRAM switch on; Leonard's personal code. First scan on the first box told her it was Retinax. Second scan verified that the box' contents was indeed what the label said. Third scan measured up the advertised amount on the digital bar, and found there was exactly the amount declared. She pressed the red button on the top of the scanner and with a short "wheeep!" the Retinax was declared PASS INSPECTION.
One box down in eight seconds. Only forty-three more to go. And HALF the stores didn't fit Chapel's idea of "dangerous drug." Just because some people were deathly allergic to all the Retinax numbers, it was over here taking up space and time.
*Honestly.* Chapel scolded the Imperial Pharmaecological Guild as she moved down the shelf. Sedamax 14, the label said. *Honestly, you can't really assassinate somebody with Retinax! You'd have to inject them with the whole box, and who'd hold still for that?*
Thoughts of military intelligence kept her somewhat distracted from the fact that, save too-few allies, she was a ship without a rudder as long as Leonard was gone. She took a peek at the chrono; ten more minutes had passed. The shuttle should be debarking the bay and aligning its course for the brief trip. How long would it take them? Hah. She wasn't even sure *where* they were going. Maybe the Romulan Flagship; maybe the Altair Palace just below them. Or maybe they'd go right over to the next system and touch down somewhere in the Daran System. It was less than nine hours away...if she was right about the Romulans wanting help on Fabrini Medicine, that'd be the best choice...
*Of course, Daran being inside Romulan space now, they'd hardly have to worry about us pesky Imperials causing any trouble with them...*
Christine sighed and aimed her scanning-gun at the last box. First scan: Cordrazine labeling. Second Scan: contents 100% cordrazine. Lahdedah... Third scan...
Her face went cold as all the blood fled her skin. The scanner clattered to the floor and her communicator clawed out of her sash.
"Oh god, oh god, oh god..." Her fingers clambored over the frequency keys; Leonard, answer! Answer! He'd be on the shuttle by now, in space, en route to--answer, answer!
**Christine?** Puzzled at her unusual call, McCoy's drawl was barely discernible over the background noise of the moving shuttle. **What's up?**
"Leonard!" She screamed. "There's cordrazine missing!"
Whatever he'd been about to say, she never heard it. There was the beginning of a voice, then a sharp, short *click* sound of plastic and metal.
Christine was left standing with a communicator full of white noise.
She was still staring at it when the doors to Sickbay opened.
"Good evening, Nurse." M'Benga didn't look up from his Padd. He was busy, he was efficient, he was perfectly innocuous.
He was Leonard's killer.
Christine had learned not to cry years ago. She never actually wept for Roger, or for her dead family. But her eyes stung at the thought of Leonard dying alone and mad, and the only consolation was her dagger in M'Benga's heart.
Through a red haze she heard an intake of breath. As she wiped the blade on M'Benga's own sleeve she looked up with mechanical disinterest. Nurse Hollister, her assistant, her rival in Sickbay, was standing white-faced and shocked in the doorway. The redhead's blue eyes were open to round circles.
Silly fool, Chapel thought. Just because she'd earned her rank through merit didn't mean she'd never gotten her hands messy. She was used to people not understanding that, and surprising them later. And judging from Hollister's face, she wasn't believing anything she was seeing.
You killed him too. She spoke without a sound. You and M'Benga.
The advantage of eternal nightmares, she thought as she rose to her feet, dagger leveled at its new target, was that it left you hardened against astonishment in the waking world.
* * *
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