COLORS: Luminosity
COLORS: Luminosity
TERTIARY:
Indigo (blue-violet) & Magenta (red-violet)
Ur’Vidian tentacles are magenta.
When wounded, Ur’Vidians bleed indigo
Hikaru Sulu dances sideways, blade flashing as he brings it down in a kesa giri strike, severing reddish-violet tentacles. His opponent flails its hundreds of remaining limbs in a wild frenzy as the amputated appendages fall to the damp ground and lie twitching, leaking a deep blue-violet ichor. Sulu backpedals, dodging the grasping, sucker covered limbs of his nearly three-meter tall adversary. The young Starfleet officer looks for an opening. Dashing under a sweep of thrashing limbs, he spins into a graceful mayoko giri which bi-sects the thick trunk of the Ur’Vidian and takes it down. He pauses a moment to wipe a trickle of sweat from his brow. The humid air is cloying and heavy, the viscous ground unsteady under his feet. He is tiring. To his left, he glimpses a flash of light, satin green - the captain’s dress tunic - somewhere in the midst of a knot of undulating Ur’Vidian bodies. He grimaces in frustration. They have the captain. He catches sight of Commander Spock, a whirl of Vulcan rage as he literally rips limbs from another of their attackers in his desperate struggle to get to the captain. Sulu wonders if Kirk is even alive, or if he, like many of the security team, has been stung into submission and brutally devoured.
For his part, Sulu’s current efforts are focused upon a figure in gold. Grappling in the multi-tentacled embrace of a large Ur’Vidian clan elder, Pavel Chekov is trying desperately to keep from falling victim to either the tooth-lined maw atop his attacker’s stocky, cylindrical body, or to the paralytic sting of the fringe of feelers surrounding the nightmare of a mouth. So far, Chekov has managed to evade both, but Sulu can see that the ensign’s efforts are growing weaker. He must act quickly. Baring his teeth in challenge, Sulu slips into Jodan Kamae and steps forward. Not for the first time, he wonders if exploring new planets and new civilizations is really supposed to be this fucked-up, or if the universe has some perverse grudge against the Enterprise and her crew.
The attack came without warning. There had been nothing to alert them. No hint that they had been invited to attend the Ur’Vidian banquet, not as honored guests, but rather as the main course. Granted, ever since the Enterprise made first contact with the actiniaria-like inhabitants of Ur’Vidia, interspecies communication has proven somewhat problematic. The Ur’Vidians do not communicate verbally, but rather convey meaning through pheromones, electrical impulses, and a minutia of kinesics through use of their bioluminescent appendages. And as each one has numerous tentacles surrounding its splotchy, column- shaped, magenta-toned body, a single Ur’Vidian can conceivably carry on hundreds of informational transfers simultaneously.
Despite Lieutenant Uhura and her linguistic team’s best efforts, there have been several instances of miscommunication between the non-vocal natives and the crew of Enterprise. Most have been harmless, though occasionally embarrassing, such as when Kirk’s initial request for a good-will exchange of cultural knowledge had apparently been interpreted as a desire to engage in sexual reproduction with the clan leader. However, Sulu is quite certain that, despite the inherent difficulties of heterospecific translation, Uhura would never have let something like, “Please join us for dinner so we may eat you,” slip by without noticing.
The Ur’Vidians are clever, Sulu has to give them that. In a gesture of galactic friendship, Kirk and most of the invited guests had beamed down unarmed. Thus, their phaser-toting security escort had been the first members of the landing party targeted in the ambush. The doomed security personnel had been taken completely by surprise when the Ur’Vidians suddenly swarmed over them, dispatching them with terrifying efficiency.
Sulu had been seated atop a living tuffet of spongy, organic material, enjoying a fish-based soup dish, when the Ur’Vidians made their move. Seated a short distance away, the captain and Mister Spock had been picking at a plate of rather colorful seaweed when the clan leader squatting beside Kirk suddenly reared to its impressive full height and seized John Reed, the security officer assigned to Kirk. Reed had given a yelp of surprise as he was lifted into the air, secure in the grip of multiple limbs. Shouting in fear and pain, the young security officer had been shoved headfirst into the clan leader’s open maw. Kirk had lurched to his feet just as the Ur’Vidian leader’s mouth snapped shut with a slushy, wet, crunch.
The screaming had stopped.
Time itself seemed to pause in shock…
Then, the decapitated body of John Reed had tumbled out of the grip of the Ur’Vidian, and slid to the ground, drenching Kirk with a gout of arterial blood.
Sulu had a mere instant to note the blur of science dress-blue as Spock snatched Kirk out of the reach of the Ur’Vidian leader.
Then chaos erupted.
Screams and shouts had burst forth, as, all across the open expanse of marshy land being used for the banquet, Ur’Vidians turned upon their guests. Sulu had watched in horror as fellow crewmembers in security red were besieged, many being stung into quiescence or dismembered before they had time to draw their weapons. Efforts to contact the ship resulted in nothing but static. Apparently, the Ur’Vidians had planned well, dropping a dampening field over the area as soon as the attack began.
However, true to their training, the Enterprise crew reacted quickly. They hadn’t gained a reputation for being Starfleet’s finest for nothing.
Even as Sulu had thrown himself out of the reach of the Ur’Vidian that was shuffling towards him, he’d seen Uhura crouch to retrieve Reed’s weapon from his holster and dash after Commander Spock. The whine of phaser fire from various positions around the marsh had further reassured him that Team Enterprise was still kicking butt.
As he’d rolled to his feet, he had retrieved his specially-designed retractable Katana from its decorative scabbard at his side. Although Kirk had asked the landing party to eschew phasers, he had allowed Sulu to wear the sword as part of his dress uniform. Engineer Scott was similarly armed with a ceremonial sgian dubh tucked into his boot. The hand-held weapons might not be of much use against eight foot tall, multi-limbed, mobile, stinging polyps, but they provided some means of defense.
He had begun to dash after Uhura, when a familiar voice caught him short. “Hikaru! Hikaru!”
Pavel?
“Hikaru! Pomogite mne! Help!”
There had been a note of pained desperation in Chekov’s voice that he wasn’t used to hearing from his unfailingly cheerful friend. Spinning around, Sulu had searched the melee of undulating Ur’Vidian bodies and brightly garbed Starfleet personnel for the young navigator. He’d caught sight of him grappling in the multi-tentacled clutches of one of their Ur’Vidian hosts. Unfortunately, his efforts to enact an immediate rescue had been hampered by the interference of a pair of common class Ur’Vidians. Suffused cerise with distress and anger, the two had shuffled into position, effectively blocking Sulu from reaching the Ur’Vidian clan elder who held Chekov captive. Thanks to their cultural briefings on board, Sulu understood something of Ur’Vidian society. He knew the common class were little more than servants who had little say in their lives. These two had likely only been doing what their leaders had ordered. However, that did not stop Sulu from engaging them with deadly intent.
The skirmish had been brief, for common class Ur’Vidians were apparently more adept at serving fish soup than at combat.
Presently, however, Sulu is finding the large clan elder, which has Chekov clasped in its supple grip, to be more difficult to defeat. He circles cautiously, seeking an opening. The Ur’Vidian’s numerous eyes swivel nervously in his direction, the fuchsia orbs bobbing and waving on their eyestalks as they follow his movements. At least the Ur’Vidian’s attention is focused upon Sulu, which seems to be giving Chekov a break. The elder no longer seems intent upon shoving the protesting navigator into its mouth, but rather is content to merely clutch him in an intractable embrace while watching Sulu closely.
“Okay, big guy,” Sulu mutters under his breath. “It’s calamari time.”
As he steps forward, the Ur’Vidian proves it is an observant adversary. Not only has it apparently learned to anticipate Sulu’s fighting style, but it has also picked up something of human interaction. As Sulu shifts his Katana into position for a side cut, he sees the creature’s tentacles tighten upon Chekov, and his friend suddenly squirms, crying out in pain. “Ah… ah… I think it is … breaking… me!” His voice is strained and breathless, his cheeks flushed pink.
With a grimace, Sulu steps back. The tentacles relax and Chekov moans in relief.
Son of a bitch.
Sulu eyes his opponent in chagrin. The Ur’Vidian is using Chekov as a pawn, threatening him to keep Sulu’s attack at bay. It is a classic hostage play, but also a situation for which he has trained. So has Chekov.
Negotiation is out. They have no time, and the Ur’Vidians don’t seem open to re-evaluating their position. Besides, unlike Uhura, Sulu does not have a clue which gestures might mean, “Let’s discuss this like civilized beings.” However, he is fairly sure the thrashing tentacles that keep flicking in his direction are saying something far different. It is also unlikely, under the circumstances, that the cavalry is going to show up with a phaser rifle, so it looks like it is up to him and his Katana.
With a silent apology to his friend, Sulu takes a series of deep breaths and launches into a swift, whirling attack. The Ur’Vidian responds by using Chekov to try and sweep Sulu off his feet. Sulu finds himself leaping aside to avoid being knocked over by his friend, but Chekov is doing his best to interfere with the Ur’Vidian’s plans, kicking and punching his captor. He manages to slow down the Ur’Vidian long enough for Sulu to dart in and sever the limbs holding the younger man hostage. As Chekov tumbles free, the Ur’Vidian shakes wildly in agitation, limbs whipping around like branches in a cyclone. Enraged, it shambles towards Sulu, trying to envelope him in a tangle of writhing limbs. Maintaining his calm in the face of his opponent’s fury, Sulu ducks low, thrusting at the center of the Ur’Vidian’s stocky trunk. His sword sinks deep into the gelatinous body of the creature. The Ur’Vidian elder quivers and lets out a strange whistling sound. Sulu pulls his blade free at an angle, slicing through the jelly-like tissue. A thick slab of gummy flesh peels away from the Ur’Vidian’s core, leaving a gaping wound. The Ur’Vidian shudders again, more deeply this time, swaying unsteadily. Eyes widening, Sulu tries to scramble free, but the Ur’Vidian topples, bearing Sulu to the ground and flattening him beneath a gummy mass of flesh.
As he struggles for breath, Sulu makes another discovery. Up close and personal, Ur’Vidians smell unpleasantly of dead fish.
The heavy weight of the dead Ur’Vidian slowly rolls off of him, and he finds himself looking up into the drawn face of Pavel Chekov. Upon seeing him, his shipmate breaks into a tired, yet delighted smile. “You are breathing! Prikol’no! I was worrying you might be squashed.”
With a groan, Sulu drags himself into a sitting position and swipes ineffectually at the gooey slime coating his clothes and skin. “No. I’m fine. Just a little winded.”
Chekov grins and grasps Sulu by the forearm, giving his a small squeeze. “Spasibo,” he laughs breathlessly. “You are saving me with awesome fencing skills!”
Sulu answers with small, embarrassed grin of his own. Glancing around, he notes that skirmishes between Ur’Vidians and Enterprise personnel are still ongoing, and that, unfortunately, reinforcements have yet to arrive. Reaching out, he takes Chekov by the arm and tries to pull him down behind the cover of the fallen Ur’Vidian. As Sulu tugs, Chekov hisses and turns pale, tears springing to his eyes. Sulu frowns and let’s go immediately. “What’s wrong with your arm?
Chekov tries for a nonchalant shrug, but instead freezes. Face blanching, he clutches at his arm. “I am thinking it is pulled out of the socket.”
Remembering some of the glimpses he’s had of Starfleet personnel literately being ripped apart by the Ur’Vidians, Sulu swallows hard. He is very glad he’d come to Chekov’s aid as quickly as he had. “Yeah. It might be dislocated, but that’s an easy fix. We need to get you aboard.”
“Nyet.” Chekov’s expression is set and stubborn, looking far too earnest on his young face. “That is taking too much time. You can set it, da? You took the basic med classes at the Academy.”
“No,” Sulu counters with a brisk shake of his head. “I know you want to help fight, but I’m no doctor. Besides, you have no weapon and hand to hand against these guys is just going to get you eaten.” He leans forward, catching the younger man with his gaze, trying to convey the urgent nature of his words. “The best thing you can do is try to get outside the dampening field and contact the ship. We don’t know if anyone has managed yet, and we need them to know what is going on down here.” Looking around, he winces at the fracas surrounding them. Things are definitely not looking good for Team Enterprise. “Right now we are outmanned and out gunned. We need help fast. I’d go myself, but I actually have a weapon and can still fight. I’m needed here.”
Chekov looks miserable, but nods in agreement. “Yes. I will bring help. I promise.”
“You do that. Or just get them to beam us the hell out of here. At this point, I’m not picky.” Hoisting himself to his feet with a groan, Sulu wipes his blade clean against the silken fabric of his shirt sleeve, then spares one last glance for his friend. Chekov is crouching in shadows, waiting to make a run for the outer edges of the banquet grounds, and Sulu feels a catch in his throat as he wonders if they will ever see each other again. “Be careful,” he cautions.
“You also,” Chekov replies. “You still owe me dinner for losing that bet about those Sinthian dancing girls.”
Sulu waves an admonishing finger. “That bet is still under dispute.” Bending low, he scuttles out into the open, heading towards the nearest sounds of phaser fire.
SECONDARY:
Porphyrous (purple)
The sting of an Ur’Vidian leaves a porphyrous welt.
Spock is drenched in syrupy ichors, his hands still trembling in the aftermath of his frenzied attack upon the Ur’Vidians. In his arms, he cradles the captain of the Enterprise, a Human he has come to call friend. Aside from his laborious wheezing, Kirk lies quiescent - uncharacteristically so. Hands that recently tore Ur’Vidian limb from limb, now tend Jim Kirk with all the care afforded a newborn.
At Spock’s side, Nyota Uhura is making soft sounds of frustration deep in her throat. Her long hair, once artfully styled in a soft wave, is now disordered and begrimed with gore. With an exasperated huff, she hands him the phaser and takes a moment to strip the tangled mass away from her face. With a few deft moves, she fashions a simple bun to hold it back.
Under normal circumstance, Spock would find this technique captivating and inquire as to the mechanics, but these are not normal circumstances. He files away his interest to pursue at a later time, should they survive. He calculates there is a probability ratio of 76 to 100 that they will have the opportunity to enter into a conversation on the topic.
Nyota takes the phaser back. Their fingers brush. She is agitated, her usual composure compromised. He can feel her enmity toward the Ur’Vidians battering against his already weakened mental shields. He breaths deeply, striving to suppress his own emotions, seeking the objectivity of dispassion. Only then does he trust himself to further evaluate the captain’s current condition.
They have taken refuge behind a large calcareous structure, possibly formed by the exoskeletons of some species of coral-like creature. The divaricated limestone formation provides an exiguous measure of cover.
While Nyota provides coverfire, Spock assesses Jim’s injuries. The purple, ecchymosed wheal on the side of Kirk’s neck has already swollen to 3.2 centimeters in diameter, and is still expanding. At the center, a small, weeping puncture mark confirms a nematocyst sting from an Ur’Vidian. The afflicted area has turned a disconcerting shade of deep aubergine, radiating outward in a wash of violet and plum where the underlying tissue is growing necrotic. Apparently, there is a strong cytotoxic element to the Ur’Vidian’s venom. Kirk’s face, neck and hands are erythematic, the flush extending under his clothing. His eye lids and tongue are swollen, and his lips tinged blue. Under Spock’s fingers, the pulse in Jim’s wrist trips in a disconcertingly erratic staccato as though his heart is considering whether it is worth the effort to continue beating. The fluttering heartbeat suggests the presence of a hemotoxin in the poison as well. Kirk’s breathing is irregular and dyspneic, his open mouth straining to pull in oxygen like an aquatic dweller stranded on land. His eyes are rolled back in his head, showing eerie white crescents through half open lids. These signs are denotative of anaphylactic shock, and Spock suspects there may also be a neurotoxic quality to the injectable. The Ur’Vidian venom is obviously a complex combination of proteins and enzymes with unfortunate effects on the human system. However, Spock has witnessed other Human Starfleet personnel being stung by the Ur’Vidians, and the resulting paralysis, although undesirable, has not been this severe. This may evince yet another manifestations of the captain’s atopy. On the other hand, Spock reflects, it must also be taken into consideration that most of those stung had also been at least partially consumed within a short period. Thus, there is no way to accurately determine whether they would have suffered similar symptoms had they survived long enough to do so. Whether the captain’s reaction is atypical or not, it is unequivocally life-threatening. They must get him away from the Ur’Vidian dampening field and transported aboard the Enterprise with all haste.
For one of the few times he can recall, Spock regrets Doctor McCoy’s absence. The CMO had chosen not chose to accompany the landing party to the proffered banquet, claiming the Ur’Vidians gave him the “heebie-jeebies.” Whatever these “heebie-jeebies” were, Spock wishes the entire complement of the Enterprise had been susceptible.
Uhura is checking the phaser. She curses in some obscure Klingon dialect. Spock absently translates the phrase as something to do with intestinal problems and a lack of facilities. “I’m losing the charge,” she snaps. “The dampening field must be affecting the energy inverter.”
Spock does not find this unexpected news. Considering the negating effect of the energy-suppression zone, he had presumed the phasers, like their communicators, would simply not function. That the weapons have been operational to this point has proven fortuitous in their altercation with the Ur’Vidians, and it is regrettable that the members of the landing party will soon be deprived of their most effective means of defense. Spock revises his earlier estimation of their odds of survival downward from 76% to 34%, and strokes a hand through Jim’s sweat-damp hair. “That is… unpropitious.”
Uhura swears again, and bangs the heel of her hand against her phaser, as though doing so might encourage it to last longer. “What do you suggest?”
“It appears we are out of options. If we wish the captain to live, we must get him medical aid immediately, and your phaser will soon become inoperative. I submit that our best recourse under these circumstances is to make a sustained effort to reach the edges of the dampening field and contact the ship.”
She presses her lips together, quashing what might have been a fond smile. “You mean we should make a run for it.”
Spock considers. Human language is a constant source of fascination. “I believe that is what I said.” Carefully, he lifts Kirk into his arms. “I will carry the captain.” One eyebrow shifts in an inquiry. “If you will cover our retreat?”
She answers with a quick, affirmative nod.
At the edge of their meager shelter, he pauses for a moment, glancing back at the exceptional young woman huddled in the shadows of the twisted coral - Nyota Uhura, the first Human, aside from his mother, to truly breech his self-imposed solitude. Their relationship has awoken in him a confusing disorder of emotions - long suppressed feelings with which he still grapples as he strives to understand and integrate. She is… ashayam.
“Nyota, you will be careful?”
He tries to conceal his apprehension, but from the knowing look she gives him, he is less than successful. “Just get him to safety, Spock. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be right behind you.”
Spock runs.
Vulcan strength means that his sprint is not impeded by carrying the captain. Kirk is fragile in his arms, much too inconsequential a weight for someone with such presence. It seems as though Jim could simply fade into nothingness between one heartbeat and the next.
Instinctively, Spock nestles him closer.
He bends low, striving to shield his captain and friend from further injury. His long legs eat up the marshy ground, propelling him towards the edge of the meadow and, theoretically, beyond the effect of the dampening field. An Ur’Vidian elder suddenly rises before him, limbs whipping in a violent frenzy - then jerks back as phaser fire from over Spock’s shoulder flashes and burns through several tentacles. Spock’s trajectory shifts only slightly, allowing him to skirt the outer reach of the now huddled Ur’Vidian.
He continues on.
The edge of the marshland is closing. He sees familiar figures moving, and the whirling lights of the transporter as reinforcements begin to arrive. “Soon, Jim,” he soothes, his breathing somewhat heavier than norm due to his exertions. “We are almost beyond the perimeter of the dampening effect.”
He is mere meters from the edge when he hears Nyota scream, a high pitched shriek that resonates with indignation and fear.
Spock stumbles, rhythm lost, and almost falls. His ankle twists beneath him, and he feels something snap. Sharp, fiery pain flares the length of his leg. He staggers for a moment trying to keep his footing. His right leg does not want to support him. He has damaged something. Protectively hugging Jim to his chest, he turns. He feels sick and tight with tension, dreading what he might see. A small voice in his mind is chanting, “rai. rai. rai. rai.”
An Ur’Vidian has Nyota, literally dangling her upside down by one leg while she twists in the air, spitting invectives. As he watches, it slams her down, trying to bash her head against the ground. She has the presence of mind to cover her head with her arms and curl into the impact.
“Nyota!” Spock staggers a few steps in her direction. In his hold, Kirk begins to convulse. Spock looks down at his charge in horror. The little chant gets louder. “rai. rai. rai. rai.”
The Ur’Vidian is now swinging Nyota gently in the air. It lightly tosses her from one tentacle to another, catching her around the waist and spinning her enthusiastically. Her hair fans out in a dark curtain.
It is toying with her, Spock realizes. Like a sehlat playing with prey. The sight fills him with impotent rage. He growls, “Nyota! No!” and takes another determined step in her direction. Agony spikes along his leg. It is inconsequential. He dismisses it.
Uhura is wriggling in the grip of the Ur’Vidian, pushing ineffectively at the tentacle wrapped around her waist. “S'chn T'gai Spock,” she shouts, voice sharp and imperious, her pronunciation as near flawless as possible for human tongue. “Don’t you dare! You get the captain out of here!”
He pauses, torn, breath heaving in his chest. Jim is shaking in his arms. Turning grey. Dying.
No time.
There is no time.
“rai. rai. rai. rai.”
“Go now!” Nyota yells, and he knows that not all of her ire is directed at the Ur’Vidian. “Now! Or I swear… I’ll shove… your biocomp… so far up… your….”
Whatever the threat, it is lost in a shriek as the Ur’Vidian tosses her up in the air and catches her again as she tumbles out of control, legs and arms flung wide.
Ashayam!
Spock heaves one great breath, sucking at the air as though his lungs have collapsed, then lets go with a wild howl of primal fury and grief that roars through him like the hot wind of the Paki’sbahshi desert. In that moment, he is Kal-ap-ton - Grief given life. He is Kat-cheleb - Anger given breath. He is Trufemu - the Martyr personified.
Trembling, and half blinded by turmoil, he turns his back on Nyota and stumbles towards the edge of the marshland. There lies Oigen’rik’korsovaya, both the promise of his salvation and the threat of damnation, as it is told in the storaya.
PRIMARY:
Sapphire (blue)
Jim Kirk’s eyes shine sapphire under the Sickbay lights.
Jim Kirk has blue eyes - brilliant blue eyes. Leonard McCoy knows this, but it is not something he dwells upon in particular. But at certain moments, when Jim flashes him a glance under those thick lashes, or is wound up with passionate enthusiasm or vexation, his eyes gleam with laser-energy, and McCoy is stuck once again with just how very blue they are.
Now, is such a moment. The last few hours have been hell, and Leonard hasn’t been sure he would ever see the sapphire of those eyes again. When Commander Spock had arrived carrying the captain, Jim Kirk had been closer to dead than alive. So seeing Kirk’s eyes finally twitch open, blinking as they take in the hustle and bustle of Sickbay, leave McCoy giddy with relief an perhaps a bit misty eyed.
He’s lost his practice.
He’s lost his wife.
He’s lost his daughter.
He’ll be damned if he is going to lose Jim Kirk without a hell of a fight.
“Jim…” McCoy dodges a nurse to hurry to Kirk’s bedside. With the high number of casualties resulting from the Ur’Vidian’s attack, he hasn’t exactly been able to sit vigil, but he’s been hyper-aware of Kirk’s condition since the moment Spock had hobbled into Sickbay on a fractured medial malleolus, the limp body of the captain cradled in his arms.
Kirk’s eyes stop roving and settle on McCoy. “Bones….?” The voice is thin and raspy, but hearing his silly nickname again fills McCoy with joy.
“Well now, you’re a sight for sore eyes!” Past experience has McCoy well trained. He is already reaching out to press down on a shoulder, keeping Kirk supine. He knows what is coming.
Kirk’s eyes go wide as memory returns, and he immediately struggles to sit up. “The Ur’Vidians… They attacked. My people… I have to…”
“You don’t have to do anything except stay put,” McCoy orders, adding a second hand to press Kirk into the mattress by both shoulders. “We have it covered.”
“But…”
“No ‘buts’ Jim,” McCoy cuts him off, adopting his fiercest scowl - for all the good it will do. “I mean it. I didn’t put all that effort into patching you up just to have you go gallivantin’ off and undo my handiwork.”
“Bones…” The familiar whine is creeping in, the one that usually chafes, but today Leonard can forgive anything.
“Look,” he says, knowing he’ll have a better chance keeping Kirk under lock and key if he can reassure him the ship isn’t going to implode without him. “Spock has a handle on it. Chekov worked out the calculations, and we punched through the dampening field. Everyone is back aboard, and the injured are being treated.” He shakes his head ruefully. The Enterprise crew had been caught with their britches down, and the cost had been high. “Apparently we ended up pawns in some kind of power struggle among warring factions of those Ur’Vidian bastards. We’re maintaining orbit while we contact Starfleet for further instructions.”
He conveniently fails to mention the eight dead crewmembers whose bodies have been retrieved, the two who died of massive wounds while being treated in Sickbay or the four missing and presumed eaten. Fourteen dead. They’ve just suffered their greatest losses on any mission since starting their tour of duty, and there is a general sense of shock aboard. He’ll spare Jim that as long as he can. The loss of even one life weighs too heavily on the kid, and he’s in for a heap of hurt. He can already see shadows of guilt darkening those bright eyes. His grip on Kirk’ shoulders tightens involuntarily. “You couldn’t have known, kid. No one could.”
The haunted look doesn’t retreat, and McCoy sighs, his head dropping. He knows Kirk’s strong sense of personal responsibility for his crew is both a blessing and a curse. It tend to encourage feelings of camaraderie and undying loyalty in those aboard the Enterprise, but it also tears Jim apart when there is a death among the crew.
Speaking past the tightening in his chest, he grates out, “When Spock brought you in here, you were grey, Jim. You weren’t breathing, and I thought you were dead.” He catches Kirk’s eye, and gives him a small shake. “So you’re going to stay put till I clear you, or I swear, I’ll hypo you.”
Kirk must see something in his face, for he relaxes back with a nod, the fight going out of him. “Okay, but I need to talk to Spock.”
McCoy acknowledges that with a sour grunt, releasing Kirk’s shoulders now that he knows the kid isn’t going to bolt. “Okay, you can either wait till I clear you, or I can com him. He asked to be notified when you woke up anyway…” He glances across the room at the com unit and runs a finger across his upper lip as he muses absently, “Besides if I can get him in here that will give me an excuse to do a bone-knit on that ankle of his.”
And kicks himself when Kirk’s demeanor shifts from resigned to alarmed once again. “What’s wrong with Spock? What happened to him?”
“He’s fine,” McCoy hastily reassures, making placating gestures with his hands. “He fractured his ankle is all. He’s in a temporary pressure cast.”
Kirk seems to be wavering between lying back, and leaping to his feet. “But he is okay?”
“Anal and uppity as always. Don’t worry about him, Jim. It apparently takes more than an attack by giant, man-eating sea anemones to ruffle his feathers.”
That wasn’t entirely the truth, but McCoy isn’t about to worry Jim any further. In actuality, the Spock that had come bursting through the doors of Sickbay with Kirk nestled in his arms had been anything but composed. Clothes torn, hair a disarray, dripping with gore, the Vulcan had stood panting heavily and gazing down at Kirk with an expression McCoy could only describe as broken. He hadn’t seen such raw emotion from the Commander since the day of Vulcan’s destruction and his mother’s death. Spock’s dark eyes when they lifted and found his own had been filled with a pleading desperation. “The captain… Please. You must help Jim.”
Then Leonard and his team had taken possession of Kirk, and the doctor had lost tract of the Vulcan, only learning later that Spock had beamed back down to the planet to assist in the rescue of the remaining members of the landing party.
The command crew had taken a beating. Besides the injuries Kirk had acquired, there was Spock’s tibial fracture, Chekov’s dislocated shoulder and tears to his glenoid labrum, and Sulu’s patchwork of nasty contusions and abrasions. Added to that were those still confined to Sickbay, Uhura, with a fractured pelvis and concussion, and Mister Scott who had undergone surgery for crush injuries. But it was the Security Division that was hardest hit. Security Chief Giotto was still critical and ten of the fourteen lost had been from Security.
Yet more facts Leonard has decided to keep to himself for the time being.
Kirk is eyeing him warily. It is the look that reminds McCoy that Jim’s veneer of casual frivolity masks a razor sharp mind. Kirk can read people very well. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”
He huffs in exasperation as he prepares a stimulant. “I’m not lying.” And he isn’t. He is just leaving out a few details. He presses the hypo into Jim’s neck, expertly dodging Kirk’s attempt to knock it aside. “That should help.”
Once more, Kirk falls back on the biobed, pale under the bright overhead lighting. “I hate this.”
McCoy pats his shoulder in complete understanding. “I know you do, and I promise I’ll let you out of here just as soon as I’m convinced you’re not going to bottom out on the bridge.” He studies the readings above the biobed with a scowl. Kirk may still look like hell, but the readings all assure him that the kid is stable enough to be released. Not exactly fit as a fiddle but close enough. Still, he’ll trust good old fashioned hands-on diagnostics over computer readouts any day. Reaching out, he wraps a hand around Jim’s wrist, automatically seeking the radial pulse point. The pulse throbs, reassuringly steady under his fingers. Alive, it sings. He’s alive. And he feels just a bit of the anxiety of the last few hours bleed away.
A wan smile tugs up one corner of Kirk’s mouth. “Thanks, Bones. I’m sorry I scared you.”
McCoy feels a lump rise in his throat and swallows it down. “It’s okay, he mutters, battling to keep his emotions in check. “Just don’t do it again.”
That earns him a patented Kirk grin. “No promises.”
He has to make a concerted effort to uncurl his grip from around Kirk’s wrist, but allows his touch to linger against warm skin for a moment - a small personal indulgence. Then he forces himself to step away from the bedside. As long as he has Jim in that bed, he can keep him safe, or relatively safe, in a universe filled with unexpected dangers. They both know it. They also both know it can’t be. Starship captains don’t have that luxury, and Jim Kirk would never accept it even if he did. “You’re free to go,” he mutters, hating himself for the words and knowing there is nothing else he can say.
Kirk sits up with a groan, and for a moment, the blue eyes hold his own, and in that steady gaze Leonard reads awareness and a profound sadness. Then Jim slips off the bed, reaching out to give McCoy’s shoulder a squeeze before being swallowed up by the bustle of sickbay personnel.
Leonard shouts after him, “And when you’re finished playing patty-cake with that pointy-eared computer, send him my way, would you? He owes me an hour in the regen unit.”
Kirk waves his affirmation as he slips out the door. McCoy watches him go, his chest hollow and aching, knowing Jim’s short reprieve has come to an end. Soon the crushing realities of command will bury him once more.
“Dammit,” McCoy spits, tossing the spent hypo cartridge into the waste chute and wishing he could somehow insulate Kirk from a universe of hard knocks.
Leonard McCoy has always felt the need to fix things. Even as a child, he found it more distressful to see others suffering than to suffer himself. He is well aware that his desire to take away the pain of the world is not necessarily healthy for himself or those around him. His determination to rescue his wife from every responsibility had helped undermine his marriage by enabling her dependency. That, coupled with his inability to remain emotionally detached from his patients, had led to depression and drink. But here, serving aboard the Enterprise, he’s found a niche where his sense of obligation to others generally works for the benefit of the crew. Still, try as he might, he can’t fix everything. Shit happens, and there is nothing he can do about it.
But sometimes, the universe gives him a break, and lets him go on believing that he can make a difference for just a while longer.
Jim Kirk is alive, and McCoy will count that a victory for today.
Glossary: (With thanks to the various internet sources, the Vulcan Language Dictionary -and a bit of artistic license.)
j = Japanese (marital arts)
mt = medical terminology
r = Russian
v = Vulcan
ms = made up shit
Note to readers: I apologize for the abundance of what my beta refers to as “polysyllabical” words in the Secondary section of this piece. Believe me, my vocabulary is not quite so advanced. However, since the Secondary portion of this story reflect Spock-Speak, it tends to be a bit abstruse. I will attempt to alleviate some of the possible confusion by at least providing some translation for a few of the medical terms used.
anaphylactic shock - (mt) potentially life-threatening allergic reaction
Ashayam - (v) beloved person
atopy - (mt) genetic tendency to develop allergic diseases
dyspneic - (mt) air hunger, short of breath
ecchymosed - (mt) bruised
erythematic - (mt) redness of the skin caused by dilatation and congestion of the capillaries
cytotoxic - (mt) affecting the localized area of the wound
hemotoxin - (mt) venom that acts on the heart and cardiovascular system
Kal-ap-ton - (v) Grief -personification of grief
Kat-cheleb - (v) Destroyer/Blood-drinker - personification of anger
kesa giri - (j) downward diagonal cut
mayoko giri - (j) side-cut
necrotic - (mt) dead tissue
neurotoxic - (mt) acting upon the nervous system and brain
nyet - (r) no
Oigen’rik’korsovaya - (vms) literally ‘heaven without salvation’
Paki’sbahshi desert - (vms) a desert on Vulcan - literally a mix of “place,” “red,” and “lost”
pomogite mne - (r) help me
prikol’no - (r) cool, awesome
rai - (v) no
spasibo -(r) thank you
storaya - (v) the first book of the Old Testament
trufemu - (v) one who makes great sacrifices or suffers much or dies in order to further a belief, cause, or principle or religious causes
COLORS:Achromatic - Part One
TERTIARY:
Indigo (blue-violet) & Magenta (red-violet)
Ur’Vidian tentacles are magenta.
When wounded, Ur’Vidians bleed indigo
Hikaru Sulu dances sideways, blade flashing as he brings it down in a kesa giri strike, severing reddish-violet tentacles. His opponent flails its hundreds of remaining limbs in a wild frenzy as the amputated appendages fall to the damp ground and lie twitching, leaking a deep blue-violet ichor. Sulu backpedals, dodging the grasping, sucker covered limbs of his nearly three-meter tall adversary. The young Starfleet officer looks for an opening. Dashing under a sweep of thrashing limbs, he spins into a graceful mayoko giri which bi-sects the thick trunk of the Ur’Vidian and takes it down. He pauses a moment to wipe a trickle of sweat from his brow. The humid air is cloying and heavy, the viscous ground unsteady under his feet. He is tiring. To his left, he glimpses a flash of light, satin green - the captain’s dress tunic - somewhere in the midst of a knot of undulating Ur’Vidian bodies. He grimaces in frustration. They have the captain. He catches sight of Commander Spock, a whirl of Vulcan rage as he literally rips limbs from another of their attackers in his desperate struggle to get to the captain. Sulu wonders if Kirk is even alive, or if he, like many of the security team, has been stung into submission and brutally devoured.
For his part, Sulu’s current efforts are focused upon a figure in gold. Grappling in the multi-tentacled embrace of a large Ur’Vidian clan elder, Pavel Chekov is trying desperately to keep from falling victim to either the tooth-lined maw atop his attacker’s stocky, cylindrical body, or to the paralytic sting of the fringe of feelers surrounding the nightmare of a mouth. So far, Chekov has managed to evade both, but Sulu can see that the ensign’s efforts are growing weaker. He must act quickly. Baring his teeth in challenge, Sulu slips into Jodan Kamae and steps forward. Not for the first time, he wonders if exploring new planets and new civilizations is really supposed to be this fucked-up, or if the universe has some perverse grudge against the Enterprise and her crew.
The attack came without warning. There had been nothing to alert them. No hint that they had been invited to attend the Ur’Vidian banquet, not as honored guests, but rather as the main course. Granted, ever since the Enterprise made first contact with the actiniaria-like inhabitants of Ur’Vidia, interspecies communication has proven somewhat problematic. The Ur’Vidians do not communicate verbally, but rather convey meaning through pheromones, electrical impulses, and a minutia of kinesics through use of their bioluminescent appendages. And as each one has numerous tentacles surrounding its splotchy, column- shaped, magenta-toned body, a single Ur’Vidian can conceivably carry on hundreds of informational transfers simultaneously.
Despite Lieutenant Uhura and her linguistic team’s best efforts, there have been several instances of miscommunication between the non-vocal natives and the crew of Enterprise. Most have been harmless, though occasionally embarrassing, such as when Kirk’s initial request for a good-will exchange of cultural knowledge had apparently been interpreted as a desire to engage in sexual reproduction with the clan leader. However, Sulu is quite certain that, despite the inherent difficulties of heterospecific translation, Uhura would never have let something like, “Please join us for dinner so we may eat you,” slip by without noticing.
The Ur’Vidians are clever, Sulu has to give them that. In a gesture of galactic friendship, Kirk and most of the invited guests had beamed down unarmed. Thus, their phaser-toting security escort had been the first members of the landing party targeted in the ambush. The doomed security personnel had been taken completely by surprise when the Ur’Vidians suddenly swarmed over them, dispatching them with terrifying efficiency.
Sulu had been seated atop a living tuffet of spongy, organic material, enjoying a fish-based soup dish, when the Ur’Vidians made their move. Seated a short distance away, the captain and Mister Spock had been picking at a plate of rather colorful seaweed when the clan leader squatting beside Kirk suddenly reared to its impressive full height and seized John Reed, the security officer assigned to Kirk. Reed had given a yelp of surprise as he was lifted into the air, secure in the grip of multiple limbs. Shouting in fear and pain, the young security officer had been shoved headfirst into the clan leader’s open maw. Kirk had lurched to his feet just as the Ur’Vidian leader’s mouth snapped shut with a slushy, wet, crunch.
The screaming had stopped.
Time itself seemed to pause in shock…
Then, the decapitated body of John Reed had tumbled out of the grip of the Ur’Vidian, and slid to the ground, drenching Kirk with a gout of arterial blood.
Sulu had a mere instant to note the blur of science dress-blue as Spock snatched Kirk out of the reach of the Ur’Vidian leader.
Then chaos erupted.
Screams and shouts had burst forth, as, all across the open expanse of marshy land being used for the banquet, Ur’Vidians turned upon their guests. Sulu had watched in horror as fellow crewmembers in security red were besieged, many being stung into quiescence or dismembered before they had time to draw their weapons. Efforts to contact the ship resulted in nothing but static. Apparently, the Ur’Vidians had planned well, dropping a dampening field over the area as soon as the attack began.
However, true to their training, the Enterprise crew reacted quickly. They hadn’t gained a reputation for being Starfleet’s finest for nothing.
Even as Sulu had thrown himself out of the reach of the Ur’Vidian that was shuffling towards him, he’d seen Uhura crouch to retrieve Reed’s weapon from his holster and dash after Commander Spock. The whine of phaser fire from various positions around the marsh had further reassured him that Team Enterprise was still kicking butt.
As he’d rolled to his feet, he had retrieved his specially-designed retractable Katana from its decorative scabbard at his side. Although Kirk had asked the landing party to eschew phasers, he had allowed Sulu to wear the sword as part of his dress uniform. Engineer Scott was similarly armed with a ceremonial sgian dubh tucked into his boot. The hand-held weapons might not be of much use against eight foot tall, multi-limbed, mobile, stinging polyps, but they provided some means of defense.
He had begun to dash after Uhura, when a familiar voice caught him short. “Hikaru! Hikaru!”
Pavel?
“Hikaru! Pomogite mne! Help!”
There had been a note of pained desperation in Chekov’s voice that he wasn’t used to hearing from his unfailingly cheerful friend. Spinning around, Sulu had searched the melee of undulating Ur’Vidian bodies and brightly garbed Starfleet personnel for the young navigator. He’d caught sight of him grappling in the multi-tentacled clutches of one of their Ur’Vidian hosts. Unfortunately, his efforts to enact an immediate rescue had been hampered by the interference of a pair of common class Ur’Vidians. Suffused cerise with distress and anger, the two had shuffled into position, effectively blocking Sulu from reaching the Ur’Vidian clan elder who held Chekov captive. Thanks to their cultural briefings on board, Sulu understood something of Ur’Vidian society. He knew the common class were little more than servants who had little say in their lives. These two had likely only been doing what their leaders had ordered. However, that did not stop Sulu from engaging them with deadly intent.
The skirmish had been brief, for common class Ur’Vidians were apparently more adept at serving fish soup than at combat.
Presently, however, Sulu is finding the large clan elder, which has Chekov clasped in its supple grip, to be more difficult to defeat. He circles cautiously, seeking an opening. The Ur’Vidian’s numerous eyes swivel nervously in his direction, the fuchsia orbs bobbing and waving on their eyestalks as they follow his movements. At least the Ur’Vidian’s attention is focused upon Sulu, which seems to be giving Chekov a break. The elder no longer seems intent upon shoving the protesting navigator into its mouth, but rather is content to merely clutch him in an intractable embrace while watching Sulu closely.
“Okay, big guy,” Sulu mutters under his breath. “It’s calamari time.”
As he steps forward, the Ur’Vidian proves it is an observant adversary. Not only has it apparently learned to anticipate Sulu’s fighting style, but it has also picked up something of human interaction. As Sulu shifts his Katana into position for a side cut, he sees the creature’s tentacles tighten upon Chekov, and his friend suddenly squirms, crying out in pain. “Ah… ah… I think it is … breaking… me!” His voice is strained and breathless, his cheeks flushed pink.
With a grimace, Sulu steps back. The tentacles relax and Chekov moans in relief.
Son of a bitch.
Sulu eyes his opponent in chagrin. The Ur’Vidian is using Chekov as a pawn, threatening him to keep Sulu’s attack at bay. It is a classic hostage play, but also a situation for which he has trained. So has Chekov.
Negotiation is out. They have no time, and the Ur’Vidians don’t seem open to re-evaluating their position. Besides, unlike Uhura, Sulu does not have a clue which gestures might mean, “Let’s discuss this like civilized beings.” However, he is fairly sure the thrashing tentacles that keep flicking in his direction are saying something far different. It is also unlikely, under the circumstances, that the cavalry is going to show up with a phaser rifle, so it looks like it is up to him and his Katana.
With a silent apology to his friend, Sulu takes a series of deep breaths and launches into a swift, whirling attack. The Ur’Vidian responds by using Chekov to try and sweep Sulu off his feet. Sulu finds himself leaping aside to avoid being knocked over by his friend, but Chekov is doing his best to interfere with the Ur’Vidian’s plans, kicking and punching his captor. He manages to slow down the Ur’Vidian long enough for Sulu to dart in and sever the limbs holding the younger man hostage. As Chekov tumbles free, the Ur’Vidian shakes wildly in agitation, limbs whipping around like branches in a cyclone. Enraged, it shambles towards Sulu, trying to envelope him in a tangle of writhing limbs. Maintaining his calm in the face of his opponent’s fury, Sulu ducks low, thrusting at the center of the Ur’Vidian’s stocky trunk. His sword sinks deep into the gelatinous body of the creature. The Ur’Vidian elder quivers and lets out a strange whistling sound. Sulu pulls his blade free at an angle, slicing through the jelly-like tissue. A thick slab of gummy flesh peels away from the Ur’Vidian’s core, leaving a gaping wound. The Ur’Vidian shudders again, more deeply this time, swaying unsteadily. Eyes widening, Sulu tries to scramble free, but the Ur’Vidian topples, bearing Sulu to the ground and flattening him beneath a gummy mass of flesh.
As he struggles for breath, Sulu makes another discovery. Up close and personal, Ur’Vidians smell unpleasantly of dead fish.
The heavy weight of the dead Ur’Vidian slowly rolls off of him, and he finds himself looking up into the drawn face of Pavel Chekov. Upon seeing him, his shipmate breaks into a tired, yet delighted smile. “You are breathing! Prikol’no! I was worrying you might be squashed.”
With a groan, Sulu drags himself into a sitting position and swipes ineffectually at the gooey slime coating his clothes and skin. “No. I’m fine. Just a little winded.”
Chekov grins and grasps Sulu by the forearm, giving his a small squeeze. “Spasibo,” he laughs breathlessly. “You are saving me with awesome fencing skills!”
Sulu answers with small, embarrassed grin of his own. Glancing around, he notes that skirmishes between Ur’Vidians and Enterprise personnel are still ongoing, and that, unfortunately, reinforcements have yet to arrive. Reaching out, he takes Chekov by the arm and tries to pull him down behind the cover of the fallen Ur’Vidian. As Sulu tugs, Chekov hisses and turns pale, tears springing to his eyes. Sulu frowns and let’s go immediately. “What’s wrong with your arm?
Chekov tries for a nonchalant shrug, but instead freezes. Face blanching, he clutches at his arm. “I am thinking it is pulled out of the socket.”
Remembering some of the glimpses he’s had of Starfleet personnel literately being ripped apart by the Ur’Vidians, Sulu swallows hard. He is very glad he’d come to Chekov’s aid as quickly as he had. “Yeah. It might be dislocated, but that’s an easy fix. We need to get you aboard.”
“Nyet.” Chekov’s expression is set and stubborn, looking far too earnest on his young face. “That is taking too much time. You can set it, da? You took the basic med classes at the Academy.”
“No,” Sulu counters with a brisk shake of his head. “I know you want to help fight, but I’m no doctor. Besides, you have no weapon and hand to hand against these guys is just going to get you eaten.” He leans forward, catching the younger man with his gaze, trying to convey the urgent nature of his words. “The best thing you can do is try to get outside the dampening field and contact the ship. We don’t know if anyone has managed yet, and we need them to know what is going on down here.” Looking around, he winces at the fracas surrounding them. Things are definitely not looking good for Team Enterprise. “Right now we are outmanned and out gunned. We need help fast. I’d go myself, but I actually have a weapon and can still fight. I’m needed here.”
Chekov looks miserable, but nods in agreement. “Yes. I will bring help. I promise.”
“You do that. Or just get them to beam us the hell out of here. At this point, I’m not picky.” Hoisting himself to his feet with a groan, Sulu wipes his blade clean against the silken fabric of his shirt sleeve, then spares one last glance for his friend. Chekov is crouching in shadows, waiting to make a run for the outer edges of the banquet grounds, and Sulu feels a catch in his throat as he wonders if they will ever see each other again. “Be careful,” he cautions.
“You also,” Chekov replies. “You still owe me dinner for losing that bet about those Sinthian dancing girls.”
Sulu waves an admonishing finger. “That bet is still under dispute.” Bending low, he scuttles out into the open, heading towards the nearest sounds of phaser fire.
SECONDARY:
Porphyrous (purple)
The sting of an Ur’Vidian leaves a porphyrous welt.
Spock is drenched in syrupy ichors, his hands still trembling in the aftermath of his frenzied attack upon the Ur’Vidians. In his arms, he cradles the captain of the Enterprise, a Human he has come to call friend. Aside from his laborious wheezing, Kirk lies quiescent - uncharacteristically so. Hands that recently tore Ur’Vidian limb from limb, now tend Jim Kirk with all the care afforded a newborn.
At Spock’s side, Nyota Uhura is making soft sounds of frustration deep in her throat. Her long hair, once artfully styled in a soft wave, is now disordered and begrimed with gore. With an exasperated huff, she hands him the phaser and takes a moment to strip the tangled mass away from her face. With a few deft moves, she fashions a simple bun to hold it back.
Under normal circumstance, Spock would find this technique captivating and inquire as to the mechanics, but these are not normal circumstances. He files away his interest to pursue at a later time, should they survive. He calculates there is a probability ratio of 76 to 100 that they will have the opportunity to enter into a conversation on the topic.
Nyota takes the phaser back. Their fingers brush. She is agitated, her usual composure compromised. He can feel her enmity toward the Ur’Vidians battering against his already weakened mental shields. He breaths deeply, striving to suppress his own emotions, seeking the objectivity of dispassion. Only then does he trust himself to further evaluate the captain’s current condition.
They have taken refuge behind a large calcareous structure, possibly formed by the exoskeletons of some species of coral-like creature. The divaricated limestone formation provides an exiguous measure of cover.
While Nyota provides coverfire, Spock assesses Jim’s injuries. The purple, ecchymosed wheal on the side of Kirk’s neck has already swollen to 3.2 centimeters in diameter, and is still expanding. At the center, a small, weeping puncture mark confirms a nematocyst sting from an Ur’Vidian. The afflicted area has turned a disconcerting shade of deep aubergine, radiating outward in a wash of violet and plum where the underlying tissue is growing necrotic. Apparently, there is a strong cytotoxic element to the Ur’Vidian’s venom. Kirk’s face, neck and hands are erythematic, the flush extending under his clothing. His eye lids and tongue are swollen, and his lips tinged blue. Under Spock’s fingers, the pulse in Jim’s wrist trips in a disconcertingly erratic staccato as though his heart is considering whether it is worth the effort to continue beating. The fluttering heartbeat suggests the presence of a hemotoxin in the poison as well. Kirk’s breathing is irregular and dyspneic, his open mouth straining to pull in oxygen like an aquatic dweller stranded on land. His eyes are rolled back in his head, showing eerie white crescents through half open lids. These signs are denotative of anaphylactic shock, and Spock suspects there may also be a neurotoxic quality to the injectable. The Ur’Vidian venom is obviously a complex combination of proteins and enzymes with unfortunate effects on the human system. However, Spock has witnessed other Human Starfleet personnel being stung by the Ur’Vidians, and the resulting paralysis, although undesirable, has not been this severe. This may evince yet another manifestations of the captain’s atopy. On the other hand, Spock reflects, it must also be taken into consideration that most of those stung had also been at least partially consumed within a short period. Thus, there is no way to accurately determine whether they would have suffered similar symptoms had they survived long enough to do so. Whether the captain’s reaction is atypical or not, it is unequivocally life-threatening. They must get him away from the Ur’Vidian dampening field and transported aboard the Enterprise with all haste.
For one of the few times he can recall, Spock regrets Doctor McCoy’s absence. The CMO had chosen not chose to accompany the landing party to the proffered banquet, claiming the Ur’Vidians gave him the “heebie-jeebies.” Whatever these “heebie-jeebies” were, Spock wishes the entire complement of the Enterprise had been susceptible.
Uhura is checking the phaser. She curses in some obscure Klingon dialect. Spock absently translates the phrase as something to do with intestinal problems and a lack of facilities. “I’m losing the charge,” she snaps. “The dampening field must be affecting the energy inverter.”
Spock does not find this unexpected news. Considering the negating effect of the energy-suppression zone, he had presumed the phasers, like their communicators, would simply not function. That the weapons have been operational to this point has proven fortuitous in their altercation with the Ur’Vidians, and it is regrettable that the members of the landing party will soon be deprived of their most effective means of defense. Spock revises his earlier estimation of their odds of survival downward from 76% to 34%, and strokes a hand through Jim’s sweat-damp hair. “That is… unpropitious.”
Uhura swears again, and bangs the heel of her hand against her phaser, as though doing so might encourage it to last longer. “What do you suggest?”
“It appears we are out of options. If we wish the captain to live, we must get him medical aid immediately, and your phaser will soon become inoperative. I submit that our best recourse under these circumstances is to make a sustained effort to reach the edges of the dampening field and contact the ship.”
She presses her lips together, quashing what might have been a fond smile. “You mean we should make a run for it.”
Spock considers. Human language is a constant source of fascination. “I believe that is what I said.” Carefully, he lifts Kirk into his arms. “I will carry the captain.” One eyebrow shifts in an inquiry. “If you will cover our retreat?”
She answers with a quick, affirmative nod.
At the edge of their meager shelter, he pauses for a moment, glancing back at the exceptional young woman huddled in the shadows of the twisted coral - Nyota Uhura, the first Human, aside from his mother, to truly breech his self-imposed solitude. Their relationship has awoken in him a confusing disorder of emotions - long suppressed feelings with which he still grapples as he strives to understand and integrate. She is… ashayam.
“Nyota, you will be careful?”
He tries to conceal his apprehension, but from the knowing look she gives him, he is less than successful. “Just get him to safety, Spock. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be right behind you.”
Spock runs.
Vulcan strength means that his sprint is not impeded by carrying the captain. Kirk is fragile in his arms, much too inconsequential a weight for someone with such presence. It seems as though Jim could simply fade into nothingness between one heartbeat and the next.
Instinctively, Spock nestles him closer.
He bends low, striving to shield his captain and friend from further injury. His long legs eat up the marshy ground, propelling him towards the edge of the meadow and, theoretically, beyond the effect of the dampening field. An Ur’Vidian elder suddenly rises before him, limbs whipping in a violent frenzy - then jerks back as phaser fire from over Spock’s shoulder flashes and burns through several tentacles. Spock’s trajectory shifts only slightly, allowing him to skirt the outer reach of the now huddled Ur’Vidian.
He continues on.
The edge of the marshland is closing. He sees familiar figures moving, and the whirling lights of the transporter as reinforcements begin to arrive. “Soon, Jim,” he soothes, his breathing somewhat heavier than norm due to his exertions. “We are almost beyond the perimeter of the dampening effect.”
He is mere meters from the edge when he hears Nyota scream, a high pitched shriek that resonates with indignation and fear.
Spock stumbles, rhythm lost, and almost falls. His ankle twists beneath him, and he feels something snap. Sharp, fiery pain flares the length of his leg. He staggers for a moment trying to keep his footing. His right leg does not want to support him. He has damaged something. Protectively hugging Jim to his chest, he turns. He feels sick and tight with tension, dreading what he might see. A small voice in his mind is chanting, “rai. rai. rai. rai.”
An Ur’Vidian has Nyota, literally dangling her upside down by one leg while she twists in the air, spitting invectives. As he watches, it slams her down, trying to bash her head against the ground. She has the presence of mind to cover her head with her arms and curl into the impact.
“Nyota!” Spock staggers a few steps in her direction. In his hold, Kirk begins to convulse. Spock looks down at his charge in horror. The little chant gets louder. “rai. rai. rai. rai.”
The Ur’Vidian is now swinging Nyota gently in the air. It lightly tosses her from one tentacle to another, catching her around the waist and spinning her enthusiastically. Her hair fans out in a dark curtain.
It is toying with her, Spock realizes. Like a sehlat playing with prey. The sight fills him with impotent rage. He growls, “Nyota! No!” and takes another determined step in her direction. Agony spikes along his leg. It is inconsequential. He dismisses it.
Uhura is wriggling in the grip of the Ur’Vidian, pushing ineffectively at the tentacle wrapped around her waist. “S'chn T'gai Spock,” she shouts, voice sharp and imperious, her pronunciation as near flawless as possible for human tongue. “Don’t you dare! You get the captain out of here!”
He pauses, torn, breath heaving in his chest. Jim is shaking in his arms. Turning grey. Dying.
No time.
There is no time.
“rai. rai. rai. rai.”
“Go now!” Nyota yells, and he knows that not all of her ire is directed at the Ur’Vidian. “Now! Or I swear… I’ll shove… your biocomp… so far up… your….”
Whatever the threat, it is lost in a shriek as the Ur’Vidian tosses her up in the air and catches her again as she tumbles out of control, legs and arms flung wide.
Ashayam!
Spock heaves one great breath, sucking at the air as though his lungs have collapsed, then lets go with a wild howl of primal fury and grief that roars through him like the hot wind of the Paki’sbahshi desert. In that moment, he is Kal-ap-ton - Grief given life. He is Kat-cheleb - Anger given breath. He is Trufemu - the Martyr personified.
Trembling, and half blinded by turmoil, he turns his back on Nyota and stumbles towards the edge of the marshland. There lies Oigen’rik’korsovaya, both the promise of his salvation and the threat of damnation, as it is told in the storaya.
PRIMARY:
Sapphire (blue)
Jim Kirk’s eyes shine sapphire under the Sickbay lights.
Jim Kirk has blue eyes - brilliant blue eyes. Leonard McCoy knows this, but it is not something he dwells upon in particular. But at certain moments, when Jim flashes him a glance under those thick lashes, or is wound up with passionate enthusiasm or vexation, his eyes gleam with laser-energy, and McCoy is stuck once again with just how very blue they are.
Now, is such a moment. The last few hours have been hell, and Leonard hasn’t been sure he would ever see the sapphire of those eyes again. When Commander Spock had arrived carrying the captain, Jim Kirk had been closer to dead than alive. So seeing Kirk’s eyes finally twitch open, blinking as they take in the hustle and bustle of Sickbay, leave McCoy giddy with relief an perhaps a bit misty eyed.
He’s lost his practice.
He’s lost his wife.
He’s lost his daughter.
He’ll be damned if he is going to lose Jim Kirk without a hell of a fight.
“Jim…” McCoy dodges a nurse to hurry to Kirk’s bedside. With the high number of casualties resulting from the Ur’Vidian’s attack, he hasn’t exactly been able to sit vigil, but he’s been hyper-aware of Kirk’s condition since the moment Spock had hobbled into Sickbay on a fractured medial malleolus, the limp body of the captain cradled in his arms.
Kirk’s eyes stop roving and settle on McCoy. “Bones….?” The voice is thin and raspy, but hearing his silly nickname again fills McCoy with joy.
“Well now, you’re a sight for sore eyes!” Past experience has McCoy well trained. He is already reaching out to press down on a shoulder, keeping Kirk supine. He knows what is coming.
Kirk’s eyes go wide as memory returns, and he immediately struggles to sit up. “The Ur’Vidians… They attacked. My people… I have to…”
“You don’t have to do anything except stay put,” McCoy orders, adding a second hand to press Kirk into the mattress by both shoulders. “We have it covered.”
“But…”
“No ‘buts’ Jim,” McCoy cuts him off, adopting his fiercest scowl - for all the good it will do. “I mean it. I didn’t put all that effort into patching you up just to have you go gallivantin’ off and undo my handiwork.”
“Bones…” The familiar whine is creeping in, the one that usually chafes, but today Leonard can forgive anything.
“Look,” he says, knowing he’ll have a better chance keeping Kirk under lock and key if he can reassure him the ship isn’t going to implode without him. “Spock has a handle on it. Chekov worked out the calculations, and we punched through the dampening field. Everyone is back aboard, and the injured are being treated.” He shakes his head ruefully. The Enterprise crew had been caught with their britches down, and the cost had been high. “Apparently we ended up pawns in some kind of power struggle among warring factions of those Ur’Vidian bastards. We’re maintaining orbit while we contact Starfleet for further instructions.”
He conveniently fails to mention the eight dead crewmembers whose bodies have been retrieved, the two who died of massive wounds while being treated in Sickbay or the four missing and presumed eaten. Fourteen dead. They’ve just suffered their greatest losses on any mission since starting their tour of duty, and there is a general sense of shock aboard. He’ll spare Jim that as long as he can. The loss of even one life weighs too heavily on the kid, and he’s in for a heap of hurt. He can already see shadows of guilt darkening those bright eyes. His grip on Kirk’ shoulders tightens involuntarily. “You couldn’t have known, kid. No one could.”
The haunted look doesn’t retreat, and McCoy sighs, his head dropping. He knows Kirk’s strong sense of personal responsibility for his crew is both a blessing and a curse. It tend to encourage feelings of camaraderie and undying loyalty in those aboard the Enterprise, but it also tears Jim apart when there is a death among the crew.
Speaking past the tightening in his chest, he grates out, “When Spock brought you in here, you were grey, Jim. You weren’t breathing, and I thought you were dead.” He catches Kirk’s eye, and gives him a small shake. “So you’re going to stay put till I clear you, or I swear, I’ll hypo you.”
Kirk must see something in his face, for he relaxes back with a nod, the fight going out of him. “Okay, but I need to talk to Spock.”
McCoy acknowledges that with a sour grunt, releasing Kirk’s shoulders now that he knows the kid isn’t going to bolt. “Okay, you can either wait till I clear you, or I can com him. He asked to be notified when you woke up anyway…” He glances across the room at the com unit and runs a finger across his upper lip as he muses absently, “Besides if I can get him in here that will give me an excuse to do a bone-knit on that ankle of his.”
And kicks himself when Kirk’s demeanor shifts from resigned to alarmed once again. “What’s wrong with Spock? What happened to him?”
“He’s fine,” McCoy hastily reassures, making placating gestures with his hands. “He fractured his ankle is all. He’s in a temporary pressure cast.”
Kirk seems to be wavering between lying back, and leaping to his feet. “But he is okay?”
“Anal and uppity as always. Don’t worry about him, Jim. It apparently takes more than an attack by giant, man-eating sea anemones to ruffle his feathers.”
That wasn’t entirely the truth, but McCoy isn’t about to worry Jim any further. In actuality, the Spock that had come bursting through the doors of Sickbay with Kirk nestled in his arms had been anything but composed. Clothes torn, hair a disarray, dripping with gore, the Vulcan had stood panting heavily and gazing down at Kirk with an expression McCoy could only describe as broken. He hadn’t seen such raw emotion from the Commander since the day of Vulcan’s destruction and his mother’s death. Spock’s dark eyes when they lifted and found his own had been filled with a pleading desperation. “The captain… Please. You must help Jim.”
Then Leonard and his team had taken possession of Kirk, and the doctor had lost tract of the Vulcan, only learning later that Spock had beamed back down to the planet to assist in the rescue of the remaining members of the landing party.
The command crew had taken a beating. Besides the injuries Kirk had acquired, there was Spock’s tibial fracture, Chekov’s dislocated shoulder and tears to his glenoid labrum, and Sulu’s patchwork of nasty contusions and abrasions. Added to that were those still confined to Sickbay, Uhura, with a fractured pelvis and concussion, and Mister Scott who had undergone surgery for crush injuries. But it was the Security Division that was hardest hit. Security Chief Giotto was still critical and ten of the fourteen lost had been from Security.
Yet more facts Leonard has decided to keep to himself for the time being.
Kirk is eyeing him warily. It is the look that reminds McCoy that Jim’s veneer of casual frivolity masks a razor sharp mind. Kirk can read people very well. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”
He huffs in exasperation as he prepares a stimulant. “I’m not lying.” And he isn’t. He is just leaving out a few details. He presses the hypo into Jim’s neck, expertly dodging Kirk’s attempt to knock it aside. “That should help.”
Once more, Kirk falls back on the biobed, pale under the bright overhead lighting. “I hate this.”
McCoy pats his shoulder in complete understanding. “I know you do, and I promise I’ll let you out of here just as soon as I’m convinced you’re not going to bottom out on the bridge.” He studies the readings above the biobed with a scowl. Kirk may still look like hell, but the readings all assure him that the kid is stable enough to be released. Not exactly fit as a fiddle but close enough. Still, he’ll trust good old fashioned hands-on diagnostics over computer readouts any day. Reaching out, he wraps a hand around Jim’s wrist, automatically seeking the radial pulse point. The pulse throbs, reassuringly steady under his fingers. Alive, it sings. He’s alive. And he feels just a bit of the anxiety of the last few hours bleed away.
A wan smile tugs up one corner of Kirk’s mouth. “Thanks, Bones. I’m sorry I scared you.”
McCoy feels a lump rise in his throat and swallows it down. “It’s okay, he mutters, battling to keep his emotions in check. “Just don’t do it again.”
That earns him a patented Kirk grin. “No promises.”
He has to make a concerted effort to uncurl his grip from around Kirk’s wrist, but allows his touch to linger against warm skin for a moment - a small personal indulgence. Then he forces himself to step away from the bedside. As long as he has Jim in that bed, he can keep him safe, or relatively safe, in a universe filled with unexpected dangers. They both know it. They also both know it can’t be. Starship captains don’t have that luxury, and Jim Kirk would never accept it even if he did. “You’re free to go,” he mutters, hating himself for the words and knowing there is nothing else he can say.
Kirk sits up with a groan, and for a moment, the blue eyes hold his own, and in that steady gaze Leonard reads awareness and a profound sadness. Then Jim slips off the bed, reaching out to give McCoy’s shoulder a squeeze before being swallowed up by the bustle of sickbay personnel.
Leonard shouts after him, “And when you’re finished playing patty-cake with that pointy-eared computer, send him my way, would you? He owes me an hour in the regen unit.”
Kirk waves his affirmation as he slips out the door. McCoy watches him go, his chest hollow and aching, knowing Jim’s short reprieve has come to an end. Soon the crushing realities of command will bury him once more.
“Dammit,” McCoy spits, tossing the spent hypo cartridge into the waste chute and wishing he could somehow insulate Kirk from a universe of hard knocks.
Leonard McCoy has always felt the need to fix things. Even as a child, he found it more distressful to see others suffering than to suffer himself. He is well aware that his desire to take away the pain of the world is not necessarily healthy for himself or those around him. His determination to rescue his wife from every responsibility had helped undermine his marriage by enabling her dependency. That, coupled with his inability to remain emotionally detached from his patients, had led to depression and drink. But here, serving aboard the Enterprise, he’s found a niche where his sense of obligation to others generally works for the benefit of the crew. Still, try as he might, he can’t fix everything. Shit happens, and there is nothing he can do about it.
But sometimes, the universe gives him a break, and lets him go on believing that he can make a difference for just a while longer.
Jim Kirk is alive, and McCoy will count that a victory for today.
Glossary: (With thanks to the various internet sources, the Vulcan Language Dictionary -and a bit of artistic license.)
j = Japanese (marital arts)
mt = medical terminology
r = Russian
v = Vulcan
ms = made up shit
Note to readers: I apologize for the abundance of what my beta refers to as “polysyllabical” words in the Secondary section of this piece. Believe me, my vocabulary is not quite so advanced. However, since the Secondary portion of this story reflect Spock-Speak, it tends to be a bit abstruse. I will attempt to alleviate some of the possible confusion by at least providing some translation for a few of the medical terms used.
anaphylactic shock - (mt) potentially life-threatening allergic reaction
Ashayam - (v) beloved person
atopy - (mt) genetic tendency to develop allergic diseases
dyspneic - (mt) air hunger, short of breath
ecchymosed - (mt) bruised
erythematic - (mt) redness of the skin caused by dilatation and congestion of the capillaries
cytotoxic - (mt) affecting the localized area of the wound
hemotoxin - (mt) venom that acts on the heart and cardiovascular system
Kal-ap-ton - (v) Grief -personification of grief
Kat-cheleb - (v) Destroyer/Blood-drinker - personification of anger
kesa giri - (j) downward diagonal cut
mayoko giri - (j) side-cut
necrotic - (mt) dead tissue
neurotoxic - (mt) acting upon the nervous system and brain
nyet - (r) no
Oigen’rik’korsovaya - (vms) literally ‘heaven without salvation’
Paki’sbahshi desert - (vms) a desert on Vulcan - literally a mix of “place,” “red,” and “lost”
pomogite mne - (r) help me
prikol’no - (r) cool, awesome
rai - (v) no
spasibo -(r) thank you
storaya - (v) the first book of the Old Testament
trufemu - (v) one who makes great sacrifices or suffers much or dies in order to further a belief, cause, or principle or religious causes
COLORS:Achromatic - Part One