The Immeasurable In-Between (Kirk/McCoy, R) part 3
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Day 8
With no post at Medical, McCoy improvises an office in a study cube in the Library. He’s got all the time he always said he wanted, but spends more of it skimming thrice-read novels than catching up on medical journals or visiting friends. He’s studying a particularly interesting crack on the wall when Uhura slides open the glass door and sticks her head in.
“Lunch?” she asks, and adds before he can answer, “no Mess Hall. Today’s special is Luau Redbat, I checked. Somewhere off campus.”
The old hydrofoil ferries, beloved of tourists, are running again, and over McCoy’s weak objections Uhura puts his communicator into emergency mode and pushes him onto one.
Halfway across the bay the fog stops like a magician’s trick and they’re in bright sunshine, the first McCoy feels like he’s had on his face in a week. They go to a little Mediterranean place in Sausalito with a grape arbor and fat clay pots brimming with grey sage and red geraniums. It’s lovely but nearly deserted, even on this fine day; so many have fled the city, and McCoy wonders how many of them will come back.
Uhura orders bread and olives for the table and a bottle of Orvieto. They’ve picked a table that faces Richardson Bay, away from the maimed skyline of San Francisco. McCoy watches a bead of water slide down the side of his glass and feels the corners of his mouth turn down.
“Don’t feel guilty,” Uhura says, reading his mind. “Us being miserable isn’t going to make any of this better.”
“I know. It’s worse than that; I feel like I have to do 10 times as much living, for the people who can’t. And I just don’t have the energy for it. Goddamn brass aren’t helping, either; when I ask how come I can’t return to duty, I get are a bunch of sorry excuses.”
“Count yourself lucky,” Uhura says. “I’ve probably given 20 hours of testimony in the last week. This thing’s going to drag on for a long time. The only thing moving fast is senior command, away from Admiral Marcus.”
“And that’s another thing,” McCoy says, jabbing the air with a breadstick. “How come they haven’t called me? I know everybody forgets about Medical during an attack, but I did--you know, stuff.”
Uhura gives a little snort. “I know you did. I did plenty of 'stuff' myself. They haven’t said it point-blank, but I think they’re suspicious of anyone who had contact with--with him.” A passing cloud throws the table into shadow, and for a moment McCoy feels like she’s summoned Khan like the Devil in an old story. “That could be the reason, though--him giving you his blood, I mean.”
“Giving? He didn’t give me anything.”
Uhura frowns and drops her voice, even though the only other couple on the terrace are clearly too wrapped up in each other to be eavesdropping. “He said he did. In the transcripts, I mean--he hasn’t testified publicly. But he said that he was the one who told you about what his blood could do, and that once we had him back on the ship, he let you take it.”
“No,” McCoy says. There’s a sudden, sharp pain between his eyes; he doesn’t want to think about Khan and his infinitely complex machinations. “No, no, no. I found out about the blood by--accident, I guess. Regular ol’ curiosity. And we took his blood. Spock helped hold him down; he must have told you that.”
“It’s been in our best interest not to tell each other too much,” Uhura says with a tight smile. “When it comes to Jim, Spock has a hard time controlling his emotions, no matter what he says. Also, he’s a terrible liar. Which is strange, because he corroborated what Khan said.”
“What, that Khan gave us his blood all wrapped up like a birthday present?” McCoy’s puzzlement turns to outright disbelief. “Why would he say that? Why would either of them say that?”
“Khan may want leverage. It’d be awfully hard to get rid of someone whose blood has the power to cure diseases. By the way, he’s claiming that he’s the only one of the Augments who has it, that he developed it himself. Sorry, doctor--if the Commission of Inquiry believes him, you won’t be going into the medical history books.”
“Fine with me, but then why Spock?”
“I think he learned something from the Nibiru inquiry. Something like Don’t throw your shipmates under a hoverbus.”
“Ah.” McCoy isn’t sure what to do with this information, as his resentment of Spock has been simmering nicely. “Thing is, if they call me, I’m going to have to tell the truth.”
“Maybe they won’t ask? Not about the particulars, anyway. And if they don’t, my advice is not to tell them.”
“Oh, really?” McCoy cocks an eyebrow at her. “Are you getting cynical about Starfleet Command, Lieutenant?”
“Not enough to outright lie. But Len, they’re desperate--this is a first-order fuck up. Starfleet’s probably riddled with spies, secret organizations--it’s going to take years to sort out. They could pin it all on Marcus, but I have a feeling they’re looking to spread it around. Please don’t make their job any easier.”
“Lucky everybody always forgets about the doctor,” McCoy says gloomily, reaching for the bottle of wine. “Guess we should be glad Jim’s not around for this. He never has learned to keep his mouth shut.”
The corners of Uhura’s mouth twitch up. “Here’s to Jim coming back to cause trouble soon,” she says, and clinks her glass against his. McCoy manages to find the appetite for his plate of fettuccine with pesto, feeling lighter out of the shadow of the city despite all the talk of Khan and doom.
“You know who I think I feel worst for out of all of this?” Uhura says. “Among the living, I mean? Carol Marcus.”
McCoy realizes, guiltily, that he hasn’t thought about Carol since they got back. “Have you seen her? How’s she holding up?”
“How anyone would if their father was the greatest villain in Starfleet history. She wants to go home, but they won’t let her until the inquiry is over. She sends her best, by the way--she wanted to see Jim but she wasn’t sure if she’d be welcome.”
“Of course she would. By me, anyway. I liked her--very bright woman. Thought she’d make a nice addition to the crew, if only so’s she could tell Spock he’s wrong now and then.”
“I’ll let her know you said that.” Uhura pats McCoy’s sleeve in gratitude. “And now, can I talk you into sharing a tartuffo?”
“I’m in,” McCoy says, but not before stealing a glance over his shoulder and across the bay at the city, shrouded in fog, dust and hovering craft like a nightmare that won’t end.
Day 9
McCoy begins his day at Jim’s bedside, sipping coffee and watching a Kalkan serial drama on his padd when he isn’t watching Jim. Doctors and nurses drift in and out, greeting him with polite professionalism and then ignoring him. He has no idea why he feels compelled to be here day after day, or how many days his life can remain in stasis, but of all the alternatives, only one is welcome. For the rest, he’d rather stay in the familiar punctuated quiet of a hospital, soothed by the steady rise and fall of Jim’s living breath.
By mid-morning he’s feeling brave enough to look at the news feeds, and almost immediately shuts them off again. With the injured attended to and the worst of the damage under control, it’s turned into a feeding frenzy of blame; even the Federation News Network, that staid voice of officialdom, is falling off its chair at each new revelation of Admiral Marcus’s crimes and conspiracies.
He thinks of Carol, and messages Uhura for her contact key--not the official Fleet one that’s probably a constant screech of interview requests, but the one she gives to friends. Even so, it’s hours before she answers his friendly, nonspecific inquiry with So nice to hear from you! Do you have time for coffee? followed by a map reference.
The cafe she picks isn’t one of the rustic, burlap-and-brick places favored by the students, or even the gleaming replimats that attract the officers; it’s a drab and empty Denebian bakery on Beulah Street. McCoy finds her sitting alone at a corner table, looking small and pale in an oversized sweater, its azure blue color a reminder of less troubled time.
“Thanks, Leonard,” she says, rising and giving him a surprise peck on the cheek. “Len? Leo? I don’t know what you prefer. We never got to that bit.”
“We were too busy trying not to set off bombs. Len will do fine.” It’s not a nickname he usually favors, but he likes the way she says it, clipped and precise, with a slight roll of the tongue. “Interesting place.”
“Not popular on a Tuesday afternoon, though I hear the starch cubes are rather good,” Carol says, nodding toward the glutinous goodies turning dry-edged under an infrared light.
“Hmm,” McCoy says, pretending to deliberate. “You having anything?”
“Just a coffee, I think. The pastries are a bit gritty for my taste; I’m not really in the mood.”
McCoy can’t think of any question that would be appropriate, so he lets Carol talk.
“You don’t know how happy I was to get your text,” she says. “My friends have all been very sweet, but everything they say is wrong. And my family--they put my mother in an inpatient counseling program. They were afraid--” She chokes a little, taking a swig of coffee to cover it up. “Anyway, it’s all gotten to be a bit much. All I want is an offworld assignment, but they won’t let me leave until the hearings are over, which will be the 10th of Never. Oh, God--this all sounds so miserably self-centered, I know.” She brushes his sleeve in apology. “Thousands of people dead, and I haven’t even asked about Jim--”
“Just because others have it worse, doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to have feelings.” It makes Leonard feel guilty for the bubble he’s been living in, maybe using Jim as a shield against dealing with everything else. “And Jim’s--the same. They may try bringing him out of the coma in a couple of days, or weeks--I don’t know. But I know what you mean: the whole damn world comes apart in a day, and you can’t ever put it back together the way it was. A doctor’s not supposed to say that, but it’s the truth.”
There’s a long moment of gloomy, coffee-sipping silence, during which McCoy sees Jim’s still face in the depths of his mug.
“Aren’t we a pair?” he says after a while, trying to rouse himself to gallantry. “Looks like you picked the wrong person to cheer you up.”
“I’m not sure I was looking to be cheered up.” She’s looking down, but she’s got those bright, undimmable eyes, so like Jim’s. “I surprised myself, wanting company. For the last week, all I wanted was to be left alone; the press were camped outside my flat, until Security ran them off. I can’t imagine what my neighbors thought. It’s just around the corner, you know. My flat."
“I didn’t.” He doesn’t know anything about her, except what he’s read in the press--the usual Starfleet resume of glittering accomplishments, plus a famous father.
“Mmm. It’s a bit small, but it’s got a balcony and--” She stops, and McCoy’s conscious of a reset, her head tilting with that birdlike quickness as she makes a decision. “Would you like to come up to my flat?”
She leaves the invitation undecorated by offers of more coffee or views of the bay. McCoy briefly considers and then discards the idea that he’d be taking advantage; she’s not out of her mind or desperate, just as frustrated, as he is, with the lack of anything to do to make any of it better.
“Sure,” he says. “Why not?”
Carol’s flat may be big or small; McCoy doesn’t see much of it. They’re taking each others’ clothes off before the door closes. There’s a speed born of nervous energy, but without real passion to drive them forward, there are also awkward pauses: a disjointed moment when McCoy hesitates before cupping the smooth curves of Carol’s behind, another before she slides a small, deft hand into his underwear to rearrange him before tugging it off.
Her bed is pale yellow and her skin is so fine-grained and perfect it almost seems inhuman, but she’s all flesh and blood in the way she kisses him, over his collarbone and across his pecs, down his tender sides and the hollow of his pelvis, anywhere but on the mouth. He lets her stay on top, lets her take whatever she wants, because whatever the motives, it’s blissfully distracting and it’s real, the first thing in more than a week that’s felt that way. He takes the distraction and defers the rest--her beauty, her crappy situation, the fact that her father is the greatest monster in Starfleet history. She slides down onto him with a look of purest relief that melts into blissful blankness. The sun breaks out from behind the clouds and floods the apartment with light and it’s all McCoy sees behind his closed eyes. After what seems like a long time, Carol tightens on him and cries out, and he comes himself with as much discretion as he can, not wanting to break the fragile peace.
She withdraws and reclines on his chest, face flushed and hair tangled, looking like a living thing at last. She pats his sweat-damp belly and says, “Thank you, Len. You’re a good friend.”
Lulled with endorphins and sunshine and skin, he’s drifting off to his first comfortable sleep in days when his commlink chirps. His heart skips a beat--Jim--and he lunges for it.
“What is it?” Carol asks drowsily.
“The Commission of Inquiry. They’ve called me to testify tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry,” she mutters into his chest. “It’s just a bunch of sour old admirals. What could they do to you, anyway, after what you’ve been through?”
McCoy runs a strand of Carol’s hair between his fingers and lets her fall asleep on his chest, wondering if it’s better or worse to have nothing left to lose.
Day 10
McCoy reports as instructed at 1100. The Starfleet Commission of Etcetera has set up shop in the amphitheater of Dyson Hall, whose multi-story windows admit a view of heavy grey clouds with occasional and appropriately dramatic flashes of lightning. The cavernous room is mostly empty; there’s no peanut gallery, just a handful of ‘Fleet underlings ferrying beverages and a few burly Security types, eyes darting around the room.
The Commission is made up mostly of retired admirals, none of whom McCoy knows by sight but a few of whom he knows by reputation. The Chair is Telav zh’Esh, an Andorian and something of a legend, at least among a few of McCoy’s former instructors who served under zhe on the USS Uruk. McCoy, waiting his turn in the front row and feeling every itchy centimeter of his dress uniform, is reminded of the old saying: There’s no such thing as a free lunch, an honest politician, or an Andorian without an opinion. McCoy doubts there’ll be much of his career or his professional reputation left by the time zh’Esh is done, but at least zhe’s likely to put him out of his misery quickly.
When the Commissioners file back in from their morning break (McCoy hadn’t been allowed to listen to the earlier testimony), a young lieutenant with a lawyerly air waves McCoy over to the witness’s conference table, which bears a padd and a pitcher of water..
“Dr. McCoy,” zh’Esh begins, “you have been summoned here to provide us with information concerning certain events aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise during its recent unauthorized mission to Qo’noS. This is not a military court and you are not being charged--yet--with any violation of Starfleet orders, but as an officer you are expected to fully cooperate. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, uh, zha.”
“Sir will suffice,” zhe says with a tight smile, and a twitch of the antenna; McCoy can’t remember whether that’s a good sign or a bad. “Now, Doctor, we wish to focus on the two interactions you had with Khan Noonien Singh. During the first, you drew blood from him, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. Khan appeared to be human, but he was extremely strong, and very resistant to injury. We needed to find out what he was in order to handle him.” This prompts a lot of frenzied note-taking, even though McCoy is sure he’s being recorded down to the molecular level.
“And what did you find?”
“That he had the normal human blood components, but a number of novel ones, as well. He had an abundance of granulocytes that resembled neutrophils.”
No one bothers to ask him what these white blood cells are or do; zh’Esh merely nods, as if ticking off a correct answer. “And did you ask him about this?”
McCoy frowns at the odd question. “No, there wasn’t time. I didn’t have much interest in talking to him, anyway; he was--”
A tall, white-haired woman whose name card reads Adm. Paredes leans forward in her chair. “He was what, Doctor?”
McCoy fishes for a word, aware that he’s sweating under the bright lights. “I don’t rightly know how to say it. Disturbing, maybe? Something about his voice, and the way he could twist words. He knew how to say what you wanted to hear.”
“And what things did he tell you, Dr. McCoy?” McCoy doesn’t recognized the burly, bearded human with the sharp-edged voice and no name card. “Did he tell you his blood could raise the dead?”
A ripple of consternation goes through the panel, and McCoy uses it to get a grip on himself. Here it comes, he thinks, but zh’Esh raises zhe’s hand for silence.
“Please,” zhe says, “this is a panel of inquiry. We are not here to level accusations, no matter how dramatic they may sound. Now, Doctor, let us proceed. You analyzed Khan’s blood and recorded your findings. Did you do pursue your inquiry any further?”
“Yes, sir. I had a tribble. That is, I still have it, but I, uh, realize that tribbles are banned in San Francisco since the recent unpleasantness--I mean, the unpleasantness with the tribbles. A friend is keeping it for me. Off planet.” As lies go, it’s not a very big one, although the friend is Scotty, and “off planet” is an improvised walk-in refrigerator at his house in Half Moon Bay.
“Very well, Dr. McCoy, you have a tribble.” McCoy can see Admiral Paredes smirking. “What of it?”
“The tribble was dead, sir. Mostly dead, anyway; it expired from old age. I kept it in cryostasis just in case--” McCoy knows it will sound ridiculous to say that he was essentially keeping it for sentimental reasons. “They’re interesting subjects. They have extremely high metabolisms and an extraordinarily high rate of cell death and regeneration. I was curious to see what effect the novel blood factor would have on the tribble. So I made a serum from Khan’s blood, and injected it.”
“And what happened then?” The panel seems riveted; McCoy’s never had the attention of so many admirals at once.
“Things got a bit busy, sir. As I’m sure you know.”
“Very well. Let’s move on from the tribble to more pressing matters.” Admiral zh’Esh leads him through the whole sorry affair--from Qo'noS to Marcus to the moment he’d give a lot to not live over. He’s spent the past week actively trying not to think about it, but it’s haunted his dreams, appeared without warning in windows and on blank walls: Jim’s face, so young and naked with honest fear.
I’m sorry.
He blinks away the stinging water in his eyes, determined not to lose it in front of the admirals, trying to concentrate on what zh’Esh is saying, when the bearded human interrupts again.
“--And so your shipmates brought Khan back, not to the brig at Starfleet, but to the Enterprise, so you use Khan’s blood on Captain Kirk. Did it occur to you for one minute that doing so risked letting Khan loose again? And what about the other Augment that you removed from his cryotube?” The man’s voice rises, and he’s leaning so far forward in his chair that McCoy thinks he might make a lunge for him.
“I know it was irregular, Admiral, but under the circumstances--”
“Half of San Francisco on fire, a genocidal madman on the loose, Starfleet officers committing acts of sabotage and mutiny?” McCoy glances at zh’Esh, hoping for help, but zhe’s conferring with a colleague and seems inclined to let the belligerent questioning continue. “And you expect us to believe this revival of Kirk was a happy coincidence as a result of your medical curiosity?”
McCoy, unable to give anything more than the truth, holds his hands out in appeal. “I don’t know what else it would be, sir.”
“Admiral Marcus committed acts of highest treason because Khan gave him what he wanted--weapons capable of starting, if not winning, a war with the Klingons. What did he offer you, Doctor?” The man’s voice is arch, insinuating; it feels like a performance, but McCoy will be damned if he knows for whose benefit. “Was it the secret to a powerful drug whose discovery would make you one of the greatest doctors of our age? Because I find the chain of events as you describe them difficult to believe. Who conducts medical experiments in the middle of a battle? Who thinks of trying to revive a clearly dead man?”
“I do! I did it.” McCoy’s voice sounds as angry as he feels, but he doesn’t care. At least zh’Esh’s antennae have swivelled back to attention. “Because I’m a doctor, and that’s what doctors do.”
It’s a half truth at best; he wouldn’t have done it for anyone, he knows that--not put other people’s lives in danger, not tried something that defied medical knowledge and medical ethics to boot.
“What a nice platitude,” the bearded man says, rising from his chair and putting his hands behind his back like a prosecutor. “But you’re going to have to do better than that. Khan is a superhuman genius, and you’re--what? A medical officer with a year in space and a predilection for experimenting on tribbles?
He’d promised himself to be honest because that was the only possible way out of the concentric rings of lies building up around this whole mess, and because it’s how he was raised to be. He was willing to let Starfleet think he was a quack and an easily manipulated idiot and whatever else they wanted, because it seemed like a small price to pay. But it turns out now that that’s not the truth that the bearded man wants.
A long moment passes, with the eyes of the commissioners nowhere else but on him. He wracks his brain, trying to think what will make sense to them, what will be enough to explain what it felt like to have Jim’s lifeless body under his hands, its heat returning to the universe, the molecules and atoms that made up Jim Kirk shortly to follow, that awful entropy taking him where McCoy couldn’t follow.
“I’m Jim Kirk’s friend,” he says finally, in desperation. “I did it because it was Jim, and because he didn’t deserve to die that way. I did it for Jim because I would have done anything, anything for Jim Kirk not to be dead.”
The bearded man’s eyes narrow, but he sits back down. Admiral zh’Esh’s antennae turn an unreadable shade of blue.
“Thank you, Doctor,” zhe says quietly. “I think that will be enough for today.”
McCoy’s shoulders slump with relief. It may not be the whole truth, but it’s as much of it as he can put into words, and as much as the admirals deserve to hear.
Part 4 >>