"You do realize this looks suspicious."Suspicious?
Christine favored Commander Spock a look that rivaled twenty daggers from across the Briefing Table. M'Benga's sash didn't fit her very well, but she'd adjust it later.
"I'm not certain I understand you, sir."
Spock actually paused from atop his Padd and regarded her thoughtfully. They were quite alone in the large room. Kirk no longer concerned himself with the scientific aspects of the ENTPERPRISE, leaving that duty to his First Officer. Dr. Chapel's status was now "self-appointed" on the ship's rolls, as anyone was who acquired their rank through assassination. Some called it "field promotion" and for reasons unknown to Spock, considered that humorous.
McCoy's last conversation in the hallway had been on his mind a great deal. He had not been inclined to take the doctor's worries of Uhura and Scott seriously. Now he did. Time was growing short for Spock of Vulcan. If Kirk had grown irrational enough to come to this...
Chapel continued to study him with Vulcan-like regard. She was not about to break. Some humanoids were prone to such behavior, flush with the adrenaline of their advantageous kill, many rarely survived the first day of heir "field promotion." Chapel's advantage was she had killed her two worst rivals out of rage, not selfishconcerns. And frankly, the ENTERPRISE was the better for it. Kirk's sudden favortism of an openly bribable M'Benga had been...disconcerting. Moreso because M'Benga had been the "official" expert on Vulcan physiology, albeit McCoy had been the upcoming expert on Spock's unique hybrid nature. Chapel had been McCoy's assistant in everything, and he had no doubt she would soon approach her predecessor's level of skill.
McCoy's words came back to haunt him at that particular moment: Chapel would give him loyalty, but not blind obedience. If Spock was willing to accept that brand of faith, he would have more than an ally with the new CMO. But that would mean taking on a special responsibility. He hoped he had the time for it.
Spock set his report down on the triangular briefing table that rested between them. They were alone in a room that was far too large for a simple conversation. A psychological edge he'd often found over humans. It was not working on Chapel, who was no debutante with psychology.
"Perhaps you would permit me to use the language of your people, Dr. Chapel, and say, "shall we put our cards on the table?"
Chapel's haggared blue eyes sank deep into his, bolder than most women would, and dangerous for her if he should choose to use his mental controls. But whatever she was searching for, she seemed to have found it. She nodded, letting her gaze politely break from his again. "Please speak, Mr. Spock."
Spock nodded a silent thanks and rested one arm on his rim of the table. "As Head of Life Sciences, you answer directly to me now. Do you feel you can cope with the power vacuum in your Sickbay, or will you need to request assistance?"
"If you mean additional physicians and a nurse, I'm sure that can wait until after our admittedly delicate mission is over with."
Tactically intelligent. Spock approved. "If you feel you are capable, then there is no problem in that regard." Inwardly, he doubted she could not; Chapel had never shirked her duties, nor was she known to complain. "I am to assume Dr. McCoy had you...prepared for this eventuality?"
"You might say that." Chapel murmured.
Spock slid his stylus back into his carrying slot. "It is not common procedure for a Nurse, however qualified, to be responsible for the Dangerous Drugs Storeroom. McCoy was training you?"
"He was."
"And how do you rate your performance?"
"Lacking, of course."
"Of course?" His eyebrows shot up.
"Dr. McCoy suggested I go through the storeroom checks. Had I done so earlier, I may have been able to prevent the loss of life."
Spock had listened to her words closely. She had been cautious in saying "may have", and referred to the general loss of life as everyone on the now-wrecked COPERNICUS. Again, tactical. It was fortunate for him that he had no cause to distrust her; otherwise she would be one to watch with caution.
"Mr. Spock...I would like to know what happened."
Spock did not reply at first. "I cannot say precisely what happened. I can only give you the Bridgeview."
"That will have to do."
"Pilot Methuen had signed off contact with the ENTERPRISE before the time you said you atttempted to contact Dr. McCoy. Romulans are not savvy about humans, Dr. Chapel. Because they consider it normal procedure to keep radio silence whenever possible, they assumed--foolishly--that our procedures are the same."
Chapel said nothing to that, but her eyebrows met in mild surprise. At least in *their* Empire, humans were taught to never assume. Then again, Charvenek's people were not known for being overly flexible in their thinking. Even other Romulans complained about that.
"The COPERNICUS simply continued on its registered flight plan, which was approved by the Romulan flagship."
"I see." Chapel mulled that over. "What was the destination?"
"Daran V."
"So nothing was seen amiss until the COPERNICUS...began to degrade over the atmosphere."
"Correct." Spock was privately impressed Chapel was taking the details of her predecessor's death so clinically. "Complying with our treaty agreement, the NIGHTEAGLE did not attempt to interfere with the failing craft, but alerted us. There was nothing we could do."
Chapel absorbed the grisly facts stoically. Whatever had happened, McCoy must have done something, possibly killed everyone else on board who could pilot. She knew he was a fair pilot; either he had been dead or incapacitated...
"Daran V is heavily populated." She commented at last.
"Not at the polar region. By happenstance, the craft degraded over the Northern Barrier Reef."
She hoped Leonard was dead. Had been dead fairly quickly. She didn't want to think of him going through the cordrazine madness a second time. The risk of flashbacks had haunted his world enough.
In a way, maybe she was relieved that he wouldn't have to live with the nightmares anymore.
"Doctor, what was the extent of your communique with McCoy?"
Back to the present. Chapel rallied. "I was warning Leonard that cordrazine was missing from the stores."
"And you suspected M'Benga?" Spock wanted to be very clear on this.
"And Hollister. They were not subtle about their desires, sir."
"I see. What logical reasons do you have for suspecting M'Benga?"
"He'd been in a private meeting with the captain previously. He'd also been extremely late to work this morning. Generally, the only time he is not punctual is when he's doing something he shouldn't. He knew how dangerous cordrazine was to Leonard."
"Not necessarily, Dr. Cordrazine is an infamous drug."
"Agreed, but not many people outside the Laymen's world know of its true nature." Chapel then hesitated, and to Spock's private curiosity, turned a dusky rose.
"What nature would that be?" He wondered.
"Mr. Spock, cordrazine causes extreme paranoia, delusions of persecution, and delirium. And there are few cases of anyone surviving a full dose like he had." Chapel swallowed, hard and loudly. "The truth is, its a fine tool for assassination for those who don't like to get their hands dirty. Anyone has a good chance of surviving, but when they're an obvious risk to the public..."
"I believe I understand. You are saying M'Benga did not actually assassinate McCoy, he only instigated matters so that someone else would do the killing."
Chapel glanced down, nodding.
Spock disliked the implications, although they fit what he knew of the AMO. He had bodyguards, it was true, but when he killed, he killed by his own hand and he did not respect anyone who relied on others to be their physical strength. Chapel would be good for the Medical Department. She obviously shared his distastes.
Kirk had never held anything but contempt for people who "hired death". But that was before he had discovered the Tantalus device. Perhaps he still thought he did his own killing when his enemies (and admittedly, Moreau's) disappeared. But making an enemy vanish into thin air was not a responsible way to deal with opposition. There had been a time when the captain would have never considered such actions.
***
Spock walked in silence, his bodyguards respectfully in tow, automatically sharpening their awareness to permit him the means to think.
McCoy had tried to warn him. Not for himself, but to warn where Kirk was headed. Now the doctor was dead, and Scott and Uhura could soon follow.
Spock considered the Chief Engineer and Chief of Communications absolutely indispensible to the safety of the ENTERPRISE. If they were to be disposed of, everyone would be all the more vulnerable. Angela Martine-Teller and DeSalle were adequate replacements, but lacked the training and experience of their seniors.
Spock stopped before his door and quietly coded it open. His guards posted themselves silently at each side. Arid warmth and comfortingly high gravity enfolded him like a cloud. While he always sought calm, it was easier to do so in the privacy of his quarters.
Kirk had not always been this way. Early in the mission when he had been less eager to kill. Less paranoid of his position and power. But with the "invincible weapon" in his quarters, the absolute power had begun a slow corruption.
Spock considered himself corrupted by the simple knowledge of the Tantalus Device. Kirk's counterpart had been clever. Like the legend of Eden, Spock could not more avoid thinking of the Device, than Eve could stop thinking of the forbidden fruit. After setting Spock up to take control and end the illogical wasate of the Empire, he had literally made it impossible for Spock to turn his back and walk away from it. The trap was elegant; worthy of any Kirk in any universe.
He could not walk away from the Device now that he knew it was there. So far he had only stalled in the inevitable action. It was his old hatred of assuming unwanted responsibility, and his love of personal freedom.
It was that love of freedom that had sent him to space, on a mostly-human ship, exploring and risking his life far away from the confines of family and Vulcan. "You can't run forever." His mother had murmured wistfully, brushing her son's hair back for the last time. "I hope you'll have fun while you run, though."
It was time to stop running. Before more lives were lost.
It was time to have that long-overdue, promised conversation with Marlena Moreau.
= = = = =
*Stardate 5476.3*
*Under a painted red sky that reflected the artifical light of a sun crafted of rose quartz and radiation, the ISS Ship's Surgeon was trying to fulfil his assigned tasks without being aware of the powergame going on just behind his crawling back.
"Captain, the Fabrini are a unique relic of their world. The possibilities of knowledge--"
Kirk whirled on Spock. "Not one more word out of you, Mister! I let you save the Halkans--that should be enough for one lifetime!"
Spock backed away, eyes wary. "My apologies, captain."
Kirk didn't deign to answer, just turned his back on the Vulcan. "I'll expect your report as soon as we get beamup."
Spock stood motionless in a field of dead or dying Fabrini, watching his captain stalk away from him as if he were no longer of note.
**She's been heavily stunned.** Kirk's crisp voice had clicked and popped over the communicator. **Get her back in shape, doctor.**
"Aye, sir." McCoy responded mechanically. Revive another valuable pawn in Kirk's endless conquests. Revive for future subjugation. The fact that Spock had faithfully repeated Kirk's orders to McCoy was an open gall; either Kirk wanted to prove a point with him, or prove a point with Spock at the public snubbing. McCoy suspected it might be a little of both.
(Very pretty.) McCoy couldn't refrain from noting that any more than he could miss seeing the color of the sky. (And that's a lot of hair!) It swept down her head in a loose, thick wave of brown as dark as his own with gold lights. Her skin almost didn't look real, it was so smooth and flawless. But after glancing at the stunned or dead Fabrini on the ground, he could see that must be an anthropological trait of the people. The faint red spectrum of the strange Pellucid world made him feel as though he'd spent three weeks tanning on a beach.
He noticed something else, too. *Why isn't she wearing plaid like everybody else?* The color scheme was truly, in his mind, godawful. But typical of subterranean races with little contact with sunlight; an old trick of enforcing retinal stimulation and delaying the effects of sun-deprived ailments and depressions. He'd no doubt they coped in other ways...probably had the Saami version of black current vodka and subsonic music to stimulate/depress portions of the brain.
And these people only thought they had a real sun...Oh Lord, what a mess !
After consulting the tricorder's readings in silence, he matched up a suitable vitamin shot that would help her recover from the heavy stunning. Almost as soon as the hypo finished its soft hiss, a blush of color came to the smooth cheeks and her long lashes fluttered.
"Lady Natira." He whispered her name at first, not wanting to pull her into a fresh shock. "Lady Natira. Can you open your eyes? It's important that you do so."
***
Natira heard the voice before her eyes could see the owner. She thought that was a very strange accent, even for an outsider.
She remembered her men were dead. As bad as it had been when the Surface Rebels attacked in her mother's time. But these people were from outside their world. They all wore solid colors like the Clanless Ones and carried weapons. Soldiers. The shorter man in gold--the leader? Who was speaking to her?
"Who speaks?" She demanded, still not opening her eyes.
McCoy privately sighed in relief. "Leonard McCoy, Ma'am. Ship's physician." *For now, at least.* He couldn't avoid feeling self-sarcastic. "You had a heavy stun from the Empire's weapons and you'll be feeling weak and dizzy for the rest of the day."
"I have felt similar under the Oracle." Natira answered stoically. "We have ways of recovering our strength."
"I'm glad to hear that." The strange voice was quiet. "Would you prefer those methods?"
"You would permit the choice?" Her voice was sharper than she should have let it.
"I don't quarrel with ways that work, ma'am."
***
Those incredible eyes were on him, going through him.
"Look." He swallowed dryly, and was ashamed of himself for reacting like a stupid kid. "We don't have much time, and I'm sorry if this is rushing things. If your people are going to survive, they're going to look to you to guide them." He forced every iota of his personality into meeting those green-flecked gems. A tiny flicker in those depths, and he realized she was unused to being met like this. "The Empire is a cruel place--and the military the cruelest of all. Kirk won't hesitate to make an example of you."
He'd stopped talking again. McCoy swore at himself and forced himself to keep going. "They'll want you to swear loyalty to the Empire. They'll demand tithes of your resources. And they'll make sure no one will contest your rule."
Outrage flared her nostrils. "No one would contest my rule!"
"THEY will." He said grimly. "Believe me, Lady Natira. They will. They'll put a puppet in your place." He looked away, unable to watch those eyes any more. "I've seen it happen over and over."
"You are not like them." She was stating this, not questioning.
"I work for them. That makes me like them." He said it harshly, lashing himself with his own words. When she said nothing he realized she deserved a better explanation than that. "Lady Natira, I'm from a different generation. My Empire is under the rule of the blood eagles now. Conquest is all."
"How did you come here then?" She was like a dog with a bone, worrying at this until she understood it.
He sighed. "Exile." He said simply. "There was nothing for me at home, so I went for the stars." He rubbed his forehead, feeling another spell of nausea.
"As I said, we don't have much time. When I've declared you recovered from the stun you'll be expected to speak with the captain. He'll demand your surrender and if you won't give it to him, your entire world will be nothing more than a cinder when he's done."
Natira's first emotions showed. She swallowed. "That might be best."
At one time, McCoy might have agreed with her. God knows, he'd helped many a person to suicide to spare them suffering. But this was different. He forgot himself and grabbed her arm, hard. "No." He hissed through his teeth. She was shocked at his presumption,too shocked to speak. "NO. Natira, if there is any good in your people, and I think there is, then you cannot let them die!" His own voice frightened him. "We need good people, who don't hide their feelings, hide their natures, hide period! It's what led us to the Empire of today--hiding! For the love of God, let your people live!"
They were both breathing harshly in the badly lit world. Her eyes were wide. Astonished at his temerity, he decided. She obviously wasn't vulnerable to fear.
His hand was stiff; he forced himself to let go. "I'm sorry." He hoped there wouldn't be a bruise under that sleeve. "I've seen too much death. I don't want to see any more."
He'd been prepared for her to say something to that, but she was merely silent.
His mouth was dry. "How much time do you think you need?"
"Time?" She echoed softly. He looked back at her. She was studying the ceiling-sky, her eyes lightyears away from the room. "I am ready now."
"No." He contraidicted. Again that flash of surprise. "You may think you can deal with this, but you cannot. I'm going to tell the captain that you'll be able to speak to him tomorrow morning. That should give you time to...think over your announcements."
"Who are you?" For the first time, something calculating was showing in her eyes.
"Name's McCoy." He answered brusquely. She was looking *through* him, and he didn't like the feeling.
"Ma'koi." She repeated, committing him to memory. "I will not forget."
Who could blame him for the chill that went down his spine at those slow, deliberate words?
***
Kirk was in a far better mood now that the Fabrini "military" was completely disabled. He gestured for Marlena to pour drinks for all of them. His woman complied with a pleasant smile, but McCoy hesitated just a touch, before taking his glass off the tray. Lately he'd been wondering if there was something going on with that little chemist.
If Spock hadn't told Kirk it was Marlena who discovered the presence of their doubles, the captain might have killed her out of jealousy, imagining his counterpart with her. Such things had happened before, and McCoy tried hard not to think about such scenarios. You'd think it would make a woman rethink becoming Kirk's, but at least it weeded out the chances of a *soft* woman aiming for the position...
"The Subduction went well, captain." Spock, as his usual fashion, set his own glass at his side and drew one leg across the other, foot perfectly level, Vulcan-style as a makeshift table. "Humanoid they be, the Fabrini are exceedingly well trained and unwilling to act without orders from the Oracle."
"Unsurprising, considering the punishment for infractions is pain." Kirk snorted. "Your proclamation?"
"The technology is beyond current Empire Abilities, but someone such as Mr. Scott would find little trouble discerning the designs. Despite the age of the world-ship, there is almost no damage. Self-healing circuits are apparantly reality to these people." Spock lifted his glass for the first time. "Searching the Oracle Room revealed the Book of the Fabrini, which is just as holy to the people as the Oracle herself. There is a great deal of medical information inside. They were the most famous healers of their heyday."
McCoy made a thoughtful sound.
"What, thinking of research?" Kirk asked with a knife-edged voice, slicing his thoughts.
"No, thinking of the contraidiction in terms." McCoy answered with his own bite. "Advanced medicine generally connotates a liberal slant--I was wondering of the circumstances that made them decide to go stale inside the control of a computer."
"Possibly for the good of the species' survival." Spock said placidly. "The creators would not wish to leave anything up to chance such as revolt, civil unrest or perhaps a mentally unstable Oracle."
"Ugh." McCoy thought that mentally unstable *computers* were nightmare enough.
"Prognosis on the Oracle?" Kirk leveled his hard eyes on McCoy.
"She'll be up to the Meet tomorrow morning. She's adjusting to the loss of the Implant more than the stun. Right now, she's experiencing a great deal of amazement that nothing will punish her thinking."
Kirk laughed. "Stay close to her, McCoy. She has reason to dislike *me* and I want it to stay that way. Use some of that charm you're famous for and be the Good Imperial. It shouldn't take her long to warm up to you."
McCoy took a swallow from his glass. "I have the charm of a Tellarite!"
Marlena muffled a choke into her hand from the back of the room. Spock lifted one eyebrow as a comment. It was probably the reaction of the stump-stolid Vulcan that made Kirk laugh.
"That's not what the women say in the sauna." Kirk answered sweetly. Just as swift, his hard bloodstone eyes flicked to Spock. "Now that most of this is out of the way, I want Sulu to arrange a public execution for those security guards who fired without my orders."
Spock bowed from his neck. "Agreed."
McCoy concentrated on finishing his drink. Yeah, agreed all right. Good policy to deal swift retribution to soldiers who acted on their own initiative...and failed. But Kirk had another reason for putting twelve men to death. Over half of them were in Sulu's pocket. Having the Security/Helmsman issue those orders out would keep him intimidated and away from Kirk and Spock for at least a month.
Politics. The games people played, to see who got what of someone else's.
***
The fog was dissipating. Maybe it was the cold. Or the wet. Condensation was dripping from somewhere overhead, on his wrist. It'd taken him long enough to be aware of it. Even longer to do something about it. His sense of up and down was royally confused. He *still* wasn't sure if he had it right. Or left. Or backwards. Or forwards or--
*shocky*
He dug his fingers into his temples, closing his eyes. Too quiet. Space-black and vacuum-silent. But the fog was still there, curling at the furthest edges of his consciousness. And it wanted in.
*Let me in let me in* the ghost rapping at the Bronte's window; the relentless drip of freezing water from overhead. Overhead from where? He didn't even know where *he* was.
Somebody was underneath him. Partly. He felt around in the blackness, couldn't tell more than it was a man, and a big one. His hand came away with a sticking sound and feel. Syrup that reeked of iron. His overstressed heart was pounding a drum in the darkness.
*What happened?*
He tried to think, but nothing was forthcoming. It hurt to try to remember.
***
Christine was cleaning out Leonard's desk--she'd taken a lot more satisfaction out of emptying M'Benga's and throwing most of what he had into the trash.
This was a hell of a chore, she thought bitterly. And she didn't know what the devil to do about the few personal effects. Leonard was about as material as Jesus Christ was a pro football player. About his only hobby was collecting archiac and frightening remnants of ancient medical technology; scalpels, bone-spreaders, forceps...all that primitive stuff that was guaranteed to throw a horror into anyone coming *in* to Sickbay. She didn't know how often she'd told him that it wasn't reassuring to anyone to see the 19th-century autopsy tray (replete with tools) mounted on the front wall.
Still, everyone had a dark side, and Leonard's native-born morbid streak manifested in his unstoppable fascination with the witch-doctor stuff. She shook her head at an ancient petroleum-byproduct stethescope and stuffed it on top of the other "questionable" stuff in the box. Some of this stuff was actually real plastic. Worth a fortune. Not that she had the stomach to sell anything. Maybe donate it to some museum...
She exhaled at the sight of the small address-wafer in the top shelf, and picked it up with a sigh. This was probably the only means of contacting Joanna. And from what she knew of the McCoy Family Dynamic, she'd be better off trying to reach the girl without her mother running interference. Maybe she should try through the university. Or use the medical branch channels. Joanna was almost through with her training to be a nurse.
*Drat! How's she going to afford school without Leonard?* The sudden thought hit her right between the eyes. Joanna's mother (referred to as "Cottonmouth" by the disgruntled former husband), had not approved of Joanna's career choice.
Chapel sat down hard, shocked at the amount of guilt that had struck her. She hadn't seen it coming. And now she was swamped with self-loathing for not being able to prevent his death.
*Oh, Lord.* She rubbed her face with both hands. Hard. Well, maybe it wasn't her responsibility, but on the other hand, if she'd any loyalty to Leonard at all, she should try to do something.
She didn't have a clue as to what.
Adjusting M'Benga's now-snug sash about her waist, Chapel drummed a pattern on the edge of her new desk. Possibly she should try to open communications with Joanna McCoy first, before she tried any noble heroics.
***
Nyota Uhura hadn't been expecting Christine at her door. A visitor, yes--one in particular, but not the new CMO.
"Well, I'm surprised." She confessed and stepped to the side. "Come on in. I haven't seen you in ages."
"Big ship." Chapel smiled without humor.
Nyota's eyebrows went up. "I'd congratulate you...but I don't think I should."
"No." Chapel suddenly stopped in the middle of the antelope-hide rug and looked lost.
"Have a drink?"
"Sounds great."
Nyota kept an eye on her as she reached for the millet beer. "D'you want to talk?"
"About what?" Christine wasn't losing that confused look in her eye.
"About...what happened." Nyota wasn't about to venture to say anything, because she wasn't sure what to call the recent events. "Kirk's Coronary" might cover it from the Bridge-view end of things.
"Ohhhh." Christine grabbed up the red-glass bottle and sank down on a cushion. "I didn't ask for this. I really didn't, Nyota. I'm suddenly taking on the work of three people on top of my own load. M'Benga wasn't a workaholic, but he was pretty blasted busy. Hollister was busy--busy trying to suck up to him and get close enough to my good graces for a knife. And Leonard was an insomniac who worked when he couldn't sleep. I need a medical secretary to take over *just* the filing!"
"Sounds bad. Anybody you can trust?"
"There's Barrows." Chapel said doubtfully.
"Barrows? Didn't she have a thing for your boss?"
"Sort of. Frankly, I don't think it was anything more than stress-release. What's so funny?"
"W-well...a lot of people thought you and McCoy were lovers."
Chapel blinked with tired, bloodshot eyes. "Including you, huh? Very funny. Very, *very* funny."
"You mean you weren't?" Nyota couldn't hide her surprise.
"We weren't going to ruin a good partnership with an ill-advised romance, Nyota." Chapel took a healthy gulp of the beverage. "Name me one Inner-Departmental Romance that didn't blow up later."
"You got me there." Nyota shrugged. "So you're needing to unwind some steam?"
"Whoof." Christine ran her fingers through her hair. "I was wondering how much it would cost to send a comm out to Earth."
"Earth?" Uhura winced. "A lot. Where exactly?"
"Mississippi University. I'm trying to get ahold of Leonard's daughter."
"Didn't know he had one."
"Well, to hear his ex talk, he didn't. But I feel like she should know about what happened to her father, besides an official Black Comm in the mail and a posthumus medal."
"Ulp." Nyota took her own drink. "It's expensive, but if you're willing to live simply for a few months, I could rent you a bandwidth. Are you hoping for a one-way, or twoway?"
"Two." Chapel confessed. "Might as well go all-photons."
"True." Nyota's response was halted by another chime. "That must be my company." She winked. "Come in."
Commander Scott stepped inside, pausing to look upon Christine. "Dr. Chapel." He nodded cautiously.
"Hello, Mr. Scott." Christine smiled softly and spoke gently. Of all the senior officers aboard, Scott and McCoy had the most in common. They'd been born before the warhawks, and remembered there had been other things to life besides anarchist command. She didn't insult him by offering her condolances. Scott never spoke of what bothered him.
Instead, she said, "Leonard left a bottle for you in Sickbay. I didn't think to bring it."
The big man smiled slightly. "Tis not necessary, doctor. I can stop by tomorrow. If ye'r sure its for me."
"Oh, I'm sure. The note tied to the bottle refers to a "woodscolted, tonedeaf sassenach."
"Hmph." Scott snorted. "Th' turnbrained miscrant WOULD get the last word on me."
"If you don't think that sounds like you, Scotty..." Nyota murmured with false demurity.
"And miss out on a bottle?" He wanted to know. "I'm gude for a few names."
Chapel suddenly felt out of place. "I should get out of here." She began to get to her feet.
"Och, stay, lass."
"Yes, stay." Nyota managed to be comforting and scolding at the same time. "You need to be fashionably absent from your quarters for at least a while, you know. Give Sulu time to rip his security spies through everything you own and turn over anything interesting to the captain."
"What he disnae keep t'hisself." Scott rolled his eyes with a wry grin.
"This is why I've avoided command." Chapel managed at last. "I don't see how you can handle the casual invasion of privacy."
"We're Military Lifers, Christine. You aren't. There's a...mental difference." Nyota passed a third bottle to her latest guest as she spoke. "Once you make the decision to be in the Fleet forever, you kind of...well, jettison a lot of sensibilities."
"Keeps ye sane." Scott said helpfully. "And speaking of, will ye be keeping the post or stepping down?"
Christine was astonished by the question. "I don't know." She confessed. "I never thought about it." She was *not* a creation of a cordracrazed mind. And so much of his personal identity was in pieces, that he didn't know if he was grateful to be back in reality or not. Once the first steps to awareness were made...
He remembered all too well the last time. The way genuine memories had become lies, and what he'd thought were insane images, actual reality. Days had been needed before he could even sift through the past and recover lucid thinking. Some people never recovered from the betrayal of their own minds. They suicided.
Impressions of a cavernously large room filtered in first; what had been a cacophany of clatter and dischord had turned out to be nothing more than a handful of rainbow-clad Fabrini talking in measured voices. On the few times a voice had lifted, McCoy had relived a new version of hell; sound had pierced his skin like being tattooed with bamboo splinters all over. Unable to pull away from vibrations that came from everywhere, his body had merely stiffened like a corpse, paralyzed with the auditory shock.
They'd tried keeping him upright, but the cold stone floor had grounded his burning body, and it was soon advised to leave him there.
Natira's silence was stone hard, stone heavy. It filled the room outward, weighed him down even worse than the restraints. He felt it press against the fatigue that crushed him, and felt himself yield to it. A lack of concern for himself had replaced his usual persona hours ago when he had prepared himself for death on the COPERNICUS. As far as things appeared, the inevitable was only delayed.
And if it meant never feeling the cordrazine again, he would be grateful for death. His first flashback. He didn't even know how he'd survived it. Hadn't wanted to. Why did he? Facing another spell of pure insanity was more than he could comprehend. Why hadn't his heart burst? Questions kept whirling, nonstop, piling upon each other and pulling against him like a tornado in his mind.
The black and white tile pattern on the floor suddenly opened up and collapsed into a black hole. Beyond this unquestionably riveting moment, he was aware that some kind of excitement was going on around him.
***
It took a lot of effort, but the floor tiles had become his definiton of reality, and he finally managed to get them to fall back together in the ordinary checkerboard pattern. It was slow going. He had to start at the hand lying inches from his face and decide if the tile under it was black or white. *That* took a long time. Like a synaptically confused victim of bad mushrooms, he kept getting confused on what he was looking at.
When his concentration lagged, squares fell away from the edges, and he had to work ever harder to bring them back. Exhausted and hopeless, he was starting to think it would be best to give up the ghost.
No...Joanna would *not* have to live with being the daughter of a raving lunatic. Disgrace enough he was an exile.
Audible checkerboard tiles floated around his ears, equally chaotic: conversation. Footfalls of low-soled Fabrini shoes. Military-style boots. He wasn't all that curious about discerning what was going on. It was enough to know he was cold, soaked in his own sweat, others' blood, and less than a modicum of rationality.
Unfortunately, as his visual reality slowly strengthened, so did his audible reality. It added to his distraction, and made focusing all the harder.
"...Ha'aff aliibii ken oraki..."
"...po'ri?"
"Bi...yana ma'kari tomo-e goezin."
*Wondering what the hell's wrong with me.* If things weren't so pathetic, it'd be funny. Another spurt of Fabrini worked its way through his subdermal translator and the humor congealed. *They found the shuttlecraft logs!* He couldn't imagine how else they could know about the assassination attempt. But how'd they know to crack the Imperial codes? Was there another Imperial spy working for the Romulans?
Too many mysteries right now. Too many assaults against his mind. He didn't know if his monsters would return again, but he didn't want to stick around and find out the hard way. Closing his eyes against the bewildering flicker of firelight against the zebra-colored floor, he let everything go.
***
*They'd dropped him back in the icy green field, or maybe this was just another hallucination. Or was it a memory that had finally caught up with him? He couldn't question his senses right now, not in *his* condition.
Bodies everywhere. The fine cold rain couldn't wash them clean any more than his uniform could empty out the maroon that had painted his shirt, dyed his sash crimson. Crimson. Command sashes should be that color; since one got their rank through killing another.
(Killing, killing, killing, killing...)
His hands went to his temples, fingers digging deep wanting to pierce his skull but that manic strength was gone. What had ripped his co-workers apart had spared him, and now his life was in shreds.
Co-workers...they had been about to kill him. Didn't make a difference though, did it? Piper had been about to kill him, only the faulty hypo hadn't worked quite the intended way. He didn't remember killing Piper at all, just the sight of the body when the curtain lifted. But this...this he was remembering. The images were fuzzed and confused. He wasn't certain how genuine his reality was. But enough remained in his mind. Just barely enough...
His strings cut loose, he folded up on the long wet grass that cut like razorwire into his legs and hands. Yeoman Barrs was just off to the edge of his eye, white as an ice floe, and as cold. The rain was silvering her skin, covering the red of her sleeve.
Who wanted a mad doctor? If aggression triggered the cordrazine, he'd never survive another ten minutes on the ship. They'd pack him to Ebla, where they threatened to send him all along, an "opportunity to learn" on the drug-study program. Permanent guest.
He wouldn't last more than a week before they cut his brain up beyond all recognition and held the slices up to the sunlight.
Slowly, the conclusion he'd been reaching for made its way through. The energy flux had rendered the phasers null, and probably the medical 'plasers, but there had to be something left in the shuttle. Something sharp. Sharp enough to cut open his throat. His daggers were gone, buried in various crewmembers. Someone else's? Had to find *something* before the fog came back.
He could feel the insanity tapping on his skull, wanting in, wanting in, like the Bronte ghost at the window *let me in! let me in!* He had to find a dagger. Something. Anything. It was coal-black in the shuttle, and he'd have to search with his hands.
His hand rested on the lip of the impact-bent shuttle, and that slight weight sent the overstressed metal to bow down. Rain, ice-cold from his overheated skin, tumbled down his head, sending blood-pinked water down his back.*
***
Water, hot enough to burn, tumbled down his face, rinsing against the caked blood. The smells of live grass, scorched earth and metal and death were slapped away. Incongruous change to soap and burning firewood. His hand rested on the lip of the stone sink, trying to support himself. As if sanity could be physically conjured. Clink of a wrist-restraint against the stone.
***
*Too dark to see anything, and the light was getting worse outside. He fell to his knees and went flat, trying to cover as much ground in the uneven craft as possible while his hands searched. A burn on his temple throbbed, revenge against the numbing of the rain.*
***
The burning on his temple struck something cold. His head twisted, shocked at just how incredibly icy it was; like liquid nitrogen it gave off its own split-second burn. A hand was holding him still and he tried to claw it away.
***
*Something soft. It gave like gelatin, millions of tiny air bubbles breaking under impact. A brain. A bone-shard raked his palm; he jerked away, and ridiculously, he thought of the dangers of infection in such an unsanitary cut. Humans were the filthiest species... Matted blood and worse things were drying from his body heat, stiffening the fabric of his uniform.*
***
His hand was forced palm-flat, that icy sensation going from his temple to the cut. He could hear someone talking to him, knew they were trying to get him to calm down, but he didn't know if it was a woman or a man, if they were lying or telling the truth. And actually, he didn't think it mattered. He might be sane for a while, but the monsters kept coming back.
*This isn't like the last time.* He thought.
*What isn't?* He asked himself. Or was someone asking him?
*Crazy. They didn't keep coming back.*
*Who didn't?*
*I can't stay here. I keep falling.*
*Do you know who I am?*
*I don't even understand that question.*
***
*The warped floor of the craft bowed up; pads off the broken seats scattered like clumsy pillows. His shoulder struck against one when he lost his balance and fell on his side. Coarse cold hair matted and sticky met his fingers. He pulled his hand away and his sleevecaught on something hard and narrow. Hollowhilt. But the blade was gone, cheap metal snapped away from an impact. He knelt down over the invisible body, hands searching among the cloth, trying to find a sash, a boot-knife...a sleeve weapon...something fell down from above in the blackness, smothering wet cloth reeking of blood and intestines...he pushed frantically with his arms, knocking the body backwards. It swung from the exposed powercords, and the last of the blood and air escaped from the severed stump of a neck, hissing and gurgling...*
***
He was too confused. Memory was overriding the present.
Slowly, things sorted itself out. Very very slowly.
The blood-clammy uniform was gone. He couldn't see what he was wearing, just felt the weave of cloth against his skin. He somehow knew the air was supposed to be chilly, but after bathing in the memory of freezing rain, the stone room felt warm. And dry. The blanket thrown on top of him was dark green. Thank god, not the red that the Fabrini used so much. He didn't think he could stand that dark dried-blood shade. The hissing was coming from wood in the fireplace, sap burning and giving off a sugary-pine stench.
Natira finished pouring out a large pitcher (the gurgling sound had triggered the memory of the headless body). She turned around to find him motionless, lying quietly and quietly watching. There was no expression in his eyes at all, sort of a glazed lack of sensation that she recognized very well.
Taking this in, she took the chair against the low,, cot-like bed and held up the slim glass. "Can you drink this?" A spark of alarm at the thought lit his eyes. Not trusting himself to speak, he shook his head mutely.
Thinking, Natira stepped away, her heavy skirt rustling past his ear. She returned a moment later with a clear fluid. "This is not wine." She said to his look of nausea. "It is water."
He thought about it, and shook his head again.
"Do you know where you are?" She tried.
She watched as he turned the question over. Finally, his lips parted. "Dar...an..."
"Yes." She almost whispered. "Daran. And you, Ma'koi, are extremely fortunate to be alive. If that is good fortune, or bad, I cannot say yet."
Force of habit made him try to rise. Sitting up went rather well, but he knew he couldn't go past that point for a while yet. A weak spell shook him and he closed his eyes, releasing his breath out.
At least, he frowned weakly at the dark brown cloth around his wrist, he wasn't wearing plaid. Just the thought of the vomitous Fabrini colors made his aching abdomen clench back up again.
Natira didn't speak for a long time. He was aware her eyes never left him while she paced. She was going to make this as raw as possible. Not surprising. The time had come to pay dues. He didn't know just how hard it had been for her to survive, but he knew she would match that difficulty, inch for inch, on him.
*Pay the Piper.* The unexpected pun ached; pay Piper, indeed. The man's actions still rippled after his death, and would probably still ripple until his intended victim died.
Behind him, Natira was sliding a drawer open; the sound of wood whispered, clicked shut, and she was walking around to the low table at his side. She set the object in her hand on the polished surface, and McCoy wondered if it was possible to have a heart attack on top of everything else. One Empire-issue Covert Operations File. Every starship had one. And this one had the familiar harpoon-sigil of the ENTERPRISE on its top.
Natira's lips smiled so slightly, with bitterness. "Our allies have their own allies on your ship." She announced. "You have...interesting co-workers, Ma'koi."
They were the first *real* words she had actually spoken to him. And he didn't know where she would take it. Privately, he was burning to know who would be friendly with the Romulans. The first guess would be Spock--would have been, before the disastrous falling-out withthe Flagship Commander...
*Unless that's what we were supposed to think.* The first trickle of suspicion rested cold fingers on his neck.
Long lashes flicked downward, veiling dark brown-green eyes. "I spent many hours studying this." She said softly. "I wanted revenge against Kirk. I wanted to find some way, however small, to ease my hatred against him."
*And me.* He added silently.
"And you." She agreed.
She'd always seemed to know his thoughts, to look through him and read the inside. The resonation between them had been what made his actions all the harder, knowing the agony she was feeling, and forcing her to live through it when all she wanted was sweet death. No wonder she saw him as the ultimate betrayer.
Her long nails tapped the plastic, a harsh woodpecker sound that went through his skeleton. "You have had your first cordrazine recurrance, have you not?" She wasn't asking. She knew damn well what it was. "I watched you."
*Watched me constantly.* It was her eyes he'd felt in his delirium.
"Do you know you spoke in your fever?"
The question, leveled like a phaser, struck hard. He felt the edges of his view fuzz out to gray, then with a force of will remembered to breathe again.
"No." He finally remembered how to talk. It hurt. From his broken lip down to his throat.
"You spoke." She repeated in the short, crisp way Fabrini did. "I asked you questions. You answered them."
He wouldn't ask what he'd told her. There was no point. The Empire took a dim view of officers who cracked under pressure. Even an Admiral could be assassinated, or executed, for giving the enemy information.
*I'm dead. I've BEEN dead since the flashback. Why can't they hurry up and make it official?*
"You knew that we might meet again." Natira's greengold eyes were citrine.
"I knew." He agreed. There had been no other possible route. His last vision of her on Yonada had been the determination on her face. An answering for what had happened.
"You made me live, Ma'koi." Her pale hand tightened on the plastic square. His eyes automatically slid to the motion, and she took it for avoidance. The hand reached, gripped his chin and forced it up. "I wanted nothing more than to die, and I was going to die. But you made me live. You forced me to see that I could not be so selfish as to leave what was left of my poor people behind. You used words I could not argue against."
Her grip went hard, and the blow came. "So now our positions are reversed, and I see the same look in your eyes. Do you deny that the Empire owes the Fabrini?"
"No." He forced out. "I never did."
"Agreed. You wish for death, Ma'koi, but you will never find it. My decree on you, is that you will live."
What she feared and hated was his own fear. And she was going to make him endure what he had made her do. He wasn't surprised. Just sick inside.
But he had to know something, and all this could wait. "Tell me something." He whispered.
Her gaze never wavered. "What?"
"You have the ship's logs. You saw what happened."
"Yes."
"Did I kill anyone?"
For the first time, a genuine emotion broke the ice of her calm. Astonishment. "You do not know?" She asked.
"I can't remember. I think I did. But cordrazine...it lies." He couldn't describe the confusion any other way.
Her brown eyebrows tilted, meeting in a light frown. He wondered what the devil she had to debate about. Either he did kill, or he didn't.
"I will tell you." She said at last. "But now is not the time, Ma'koi. If you are still this confused..." A shrug was her answer.
Finally, slowly, a smile that was completely without humor ghosted the side of his mouth. "Have it your way." She had her reasons for being deceptive. So be it. His life was no longer his, and he was in no position to demand.
Again, the green-gold eyes vivisected him. "You think you're permanently mad?"
"Probably." It was all he could conjecture at this point.
Her head cocked to one side. "You had more than the cordrazine to worry about." He didn't understand what she meant. "There are...other factors. You'll learn of them when you're...recovered."
"Oh." He wondered if it mattered. Maybe he cared only from habit. Didn't seem like he was really concerned about what happened. All he really knew, was he was tired, too tired to to anything but close his eyes and watch the nightmares that would come.
= = = = =
Chapel couldn't remember drinking this much beer while on ship before. And Nyota was determined to keep pouring it in.
"Will you hold on." She finally clunked her bottle down. Scott chortled in the background, his face cheerfully flushed.
"Sorry." Nyota shrugged. "Anyway, where was I?"
"Halka." Scott reminded her.
"Oh, thanks, Monty. Halka."
"What about Halka?"
"Well, don't you think its odd Mr. Spock persuaded the Empire to save them?"
Chapel mused over the question, and, enslaved to habit, actually took another drink. "Couldn't argue with his reasoning." She said at last. "I mean, *why* kill them all when we need slave labor to mine the crystals?"
"Aye, but no one ever thought about that before." Scott pointed out. "Most of the time, we just level the main cities or even th'whole planet."
"Not like we have to worry about *Halkans* rising up against the Flag." Nyota snorted. "You should have been down there, Christine. Pacifist is just not the word for them."
"They'd sooner die as a race than let one life be taken from their dilithium." Disgust painted a Scottish burr as the big man leaned over for another millet. "Can ye ken thot?"
"The whole race??" Christine was nonplussed. "They'd let their own children and old people die for that?" The other two nodded seriously. "That's just wierd." She said flatly. "And frankly, irresponsible! Leonard called people like that "parasites."
"Huh?" Uhura blinked with an alcoholic bleariness.
"Parasites. He said people who are too good to kill are too good to get their hands dirty. That makes them helpless, so they have to be taken care of. At least if they're mining crystals for us, they're not being useless." She shook her head in scorn. "Hmph. They should count themselves lucky. Think of what the *Klingons* would have done to them!"
"Or Orions."
"Oh, you know how it is. People look at their "finer"contributions, like art, music, literature, poetry, as if that justifies the lack of a spine." Uhura snickered. "Does that make me a Philistine?"
"You? Just open your mouth and sing." Scott grinned at the tiny woman with open adoration.
"Maybe I should leave." Christine said again.
"Och. What's yer hurry?"
*No hurry, just don't want to interfere with a romance...* Christine shrugged sheepishly.
"Well, where was I?" Uhura wondered.
"Halka." The Engineer and CMO said together.
"Oh, yes. Halka. Anyway. I think it's good that they're sweating their highbrow lives away in those mines. People that don't fight, they're useless."
"Um." Christine agreed. Nyota wasn't going off tangent, as much as talking in circles. "Makes you wonder if any Halkans will start signing up for the military to get away from the mines."
"Hah. As highbrow as those prissies were? Honey, you weren't THERE!"
"Glad I wasn't, considering where the lot of you went before you got back."
"Honey, you weren't THERE." Nyota repeated. She poked Christine in the chest insignia. "Nobody lifted their voice, they all spoke one at a time, and we were under-evolved mud under their pansy sandals!"
"Pansy sandals?" Christine tried to picture it.
"Pansy sandals." Nyota repeated.
"If they're so evolved, you think anyone will join the military?"
"Hah. There's deviants in EVERY society! I give 'em high odds that once they really understand what it's like to be like any of us--fighting poverty, hunger and scrabbling for shelter--they're gonna go back down the evo-looshunary scale and sign up for Fleet-sponsored food and supplies!"
"'Join the Empire. See the Galaxy.'" Scott quoted, ever so seriously. "Take a share in loot und kill lots of Klingons."
"I think we kill Klingons for free." Uhura frowned.
Christine opened her mouth to say...something...but her communicator chirped at the same time.
"Oops." She bent down and fumbled in her sash.
**Dr. Chapel. Are you indisposed?**
Chapel shivered at Spock's imperious baritone, and her audience respectfully shut up. "Not at all sir."
**Your presence is required in Sickbay.**
To the curious stares, she could only shrug.
***
Christine was just as surprised as anything to see Spock in the company of Marlena Moreau, and the little Latino was cradling a large red burn on her bare forearm.
"What seems to be the trouble?" She asked even as she pulled out the basikit.
"I burned my arm." Marlena grumbled. Her mouth was twisted up on one side, and she added with a growing smile, "It was the best way to get down here."
"We don't get many hypochondriacs." Chapel commented drily. "Masochists and sadists, yes...but not many hypo's."
Spock had his hands clasped behind his back. His eyebrow had slipped up. "It was the simplest way to have a private meeting." He said simply.
Christine paused while leveling Marlena's arm out. The spray of sterilite poised over the burn. "Oh?"
Spock did not answer her directly. "Despite what happened to the COPERNICUS, we will still need to meet with the Romulans. The meeting place has been moved to the flagship herself."
Chapel went chilly inside. "That's...interesting." She licked dry lips and applied the spray. Marlena watched with fascination as the solution's active enzymes devoured the layer of dead and damaged cells at record speed.
"As the new Chief Medical Officer, your presence is required."
Chapel's first thought was wholly absurd: *Easy come, easy go!* referring to her suddenly brief position as ship's doctor. Well, maybe they could get Dr. Chang up. She was a fair surgeon, after all...
"Who else will be attending?" She was proud of her neutral tone. Marlena looked up and cocked a wicked eyebrow, openly amused.
"For now, it will merely be myself and yourself." Spock was holding his calm quite well. Chapel wondered what was really going through his head. After what Commmander Charvenek had promised to do to him...or rather, to his nose, his ears, his thumbs and his beard...
"I see." Chapel managed. "For this we need to have a private meeting?"
"The captain can't spy on anyone while he's on duty." Marlena smiled. "We're just making a few shortcuts."
"Ah." Christine was still in the dark, but figured things would come out eventually. She picked up the regen and misted a fine gel bandage over the arm. "Keep it dry for ten minutes." She advised.
"Is that all you have to say?" Marlena asked in amusement.
"Well, no. I've found a new nurse for the ship. But some strings may have to be pulled to bring her aboard."
"Why would that be, Commander?" Spock asked placidly.
"She's Leonard's daughter." Christine didn't give them time to blink from surprise. "She's just graduated, she's been an EMT since 14, and grossly overqualified to be planetside."
"If she's been an EMT that long, she can't possibly be squeamish." Marlena commented.
"Squeamish is not a word that would come to anyone that encounters Joanna McCoy." Christine took a deep breath. "I would like her on the staff."
"Do you foresee difficulties?" Spock leveled.
"One." Christine looked him dead in the eye. "She is unfortunately attractive." Leonard still thought--had thought--she was 'cute as a bug'--but Christine knew it was a good thing the girl had all those black belts.
"Mmmmn." Marlena's smirk was not pleasant. "If you're worried about the captain's eye..."
"I'm not asking for anyone to lie, but if there were RUMORS she had a protector that no one wanted to cross..." Christine left it unsaid.
"I see." Spock folded his arms at the military at-rest. Christine might be going mad from the stress, but she could have sworn there was a glint of amusement in the dark eyes.
***
"What do you think?"
Marlena was always blunt. An appreciable trait. Spock did not answer at first. The hallway was momentarily crowded with saluting crewmen.
"The rest depends upon the captain." Spock replied slowly.
Marlena's expression was shrewd as she glanced up at him. "Still thinking, hmn? You Vulcans do that a lot."
"Compared to some, indeed." Spock did not rise to the limp bait.
It was Marlena's turn to be quiet. "We'll see." It was not a promise, or a writ upon stone. For a moment, she looked tired and older than her real years. Spock did not envy her the burdens she was bearing. There had been a time when she had cared deeply for the captain. And that care had been reciprocated. But now was not the case, and Kirk was keeping her either from habit; or because she was too useful to transfer or kill. It was not a good thing to be tolerated in any way; loss of pride led to homicides.
Spock knew no matter what, he owed her a debt. She had stayed with Kirk longer than she would have of her own volition, to keep her own promise to him. She could have been the captain's woman on the ship of her choice months ago. But without her help, Spock would very likely be dead.
Marlena broke the silence by changing the subject. He'd known she would do that eventually. Humans were oft predictable in that matter.
"I'm just hoping the Commander doesn't make that necklace of your fingerbones."
"It is not a prospect that pleases me either, Lieutenant."
Marlena knew Vulcan irony. It was the only humor they admitted to.
"Well. It could be worse. My great-grandfather's South Sea ancestors made pothooks from their enemies' digits."
"As you say." Spock agreed blandly. "And we shall see. Events are moving swiftly, Moreau. I advise caution, and a preparedness to move without hesitation."
Marlena snorted. "You'll never have to worry about that from me." She told him. "So long as I get what I want."
"We have discussed this." Spock agreed. It was also his way of dropping the subject.
***
Alone in her Sickbay--HER Sickbay. She was beginning to hate it. Christine sighed and toggled her comm.
**Uhura here.**
"It's me." Christine hesitated. "How soon can you set up the band for Earth?"
**I can probably do that as soon as I set up my diag's on the Board when I get back on duty.** Uhura yawned sleepily. **Stop it Monty! You'll make me pass out!**
Christine smiled wryly. The secret to Uhura and Scott's relationship, she knew, was the fact that they had almost nothing departmentally in common. Neither one would ever be jeopardized by the other. Talk about peace of mind... "When are you going back on duty? I thought you were off?"
**I thought I was too. But Angela called in sick. Don't worry. I gots... lotta soberalls. Um. I'll be back on in an hour.**
"You'd better add a stim on top of the soberalls."
**Thought they had stims.**
"Not all of them."
**Well that's just wonderful!** Uhura revived a little from her major annoyance. **What do you recommend?**
"Coffee. Black. Lots of. All the sugar you can hold."
**What good is that going to do me?**
"Not too much; just make you regret drinking too much in the first place."
**Some doctor.**
"Blame M'Benga." Christine was already tiring of the banter. "Look, I've got to go. Soon as you can set up the band, tell me."
* * *
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