A Prophet in His Own Country (Kirk/McCoy, NC-17), 2/3
<< Part 1
McCoy’s provisional sense of peace ended the moment he put on his dress uniform. It was itchy, stiff-necked and so unforgiving of cut that he thought starships ought to travel with a tailor on board. He slapped on some beard suppressor and combed his hair, overdue for a cut, into reasonable shape. He'd gotten used to the blue tunic, but he never seemed right to himself in a full service uniform; it looked as if his head had been pasted on to some senior officer’s body. Although he weighed no more than the day he'd come on board, the damned thing seemed tight at the seams, as if it recognized him as a pretender and were trying to squeeze him out.
He hustled to the Flight Deck to find most of the senior officers already there, along with a phalanx of junior officers, all unbearably crisp and eager. Under the stage direction of the Protocol Officer, a man named Herrera, McCoy arranged himself in the middle of the lineup, between Scotty and Giotto. Scotty intercepted his glance as it dropped down to his dress kilt, and winked. “Don’t ask what’s under mine, and I won’t ask what’s under yours.”
Kirk strode onto the deck and every pair of eyes, including McCoy’s, swiveled toward him. It was impossible not to; in his dress uniform, light gray with two narrow white panels that accentuated his height and slimness, he was as handsome as someone’s dream of a captain. He nodded briefly to his officers and took up a position at a right angle to the line, hands clasped behind his back, facing the shuttle bay doors.
The voice of the comm officer on duty boomed through the bay. “The Kuyper is hailing. Admiral Subramanya is requesting permission to come aboard."
"Permission granted," Kirk said calmly.
The great, curved shuttle bay doors rolled open with a metallic whine, revealing a yawning crescent of open space. Thanks to the force field there was no sudden, lethal depressurization, not so much as a breeze to stir the air. It was one of those counter-intuitive marvels of technology that made surrendering to space seem as benign as opening the window on a summer night. The approaching shuttle appeared first like a bright dot, then like a shiny toy as it glided in noiselessly, hovering for a moment as it switched to thrusters to slip into the welcoming arms of the Enterprise.
The spectacle was majestic and beautiful, and something more. In McCoy's heart there swelled the excitement of some forgotten boyhood dream that against all probability he was living out. He was a senior officer on the best ship in the best service in the galaxy, serving under a captain who was already a watchword for boldness and heroism. These were the dreams of a stack of tattered books in an attic in Georgia, dreams most people gave up when they reached adulthood. Of all the long generations of McCoys who’d cracked those pages, he seemed to himself the least likely to be living them out. But here he was.
The shuttle hovered, insect-like, above the deck for a few moments before landing lightly, feet tapping the deck with a barely audible thud. Lt. Herrera called the crew to attention and there was a hiss as the door opened. The admiral’s staff emerged first; the last out offered a hand down to the admiral, who was quite short. Shaking hands with Kirk, she barely reached his shoulder. Her long hair, black except for a single white streak, was tied up in a bun at the back of her head, and her dark eyes glittered with determination.
“Admiral, may I present my senior staff,” Kirk said, walking her over. They went down the line, exchanging handshakes. Her grip was almost painfully firm. At the end, the admiral glanced around with her hawk-like eyes and said, “These are all your junior officers? And where are chief navigator and helmsman?”
“Preparing for the mission, sir,” Kirk said. “Given the, uh, exigency of the change in timeline, I thought it would be better let them continue their preparations.”
“Did you, though?” She looked at him sharply. “Well, I suppose that’s right. Mission before protocol. You do things your own way, don’t you, Kirk?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “All right, have your yeoman show me to my quarters. I’ll see you in half an hour. I’m going to want to see all of the ship, captain, not sections you’ve cordoned off for the official tour.” Kirk smiled and nodded, only the slightest bit of tension visible, to McCoy’s eyes, in his back and neck. None of it made it to his eyes, which sparkled with enthusiasm, as if he could think of no better way to spend the afternoon than letting the admiral run a gloved finger along the inside of a Jeffries tube. He gestured to the yeoman, who led the admiral out, followed by Kirk and, at the Herrera’s orders, the rest of the officers. Scotty exchanged a glance with McCoy, rolling his eyes to the ceiling as if to say that cracked panel on the intermix chamber isn’t going to stay undiscovered for long.
+++++
Predictably, the admiral never made it down to the Medical Bay. McCoy and his staff spent a fruitless couple of hours making stilted conversation and brushing imaginary specks of dust off equipment. He had settled on formidable as the most neutral adjective he could use to describe the admiral and stuck by it, the better not to alarm anyone. A few minutes before 2000, McCoy said good night to his staff and dismissed them.
In the officers’ mess, an impressive feast had been laid out, along with tablecloths and candelabra and a host of items McCoy wouldn’t have thought to find on a starship. Besides the senior staff, there were a handful of mission specialists and a few special guests, brought in to entertain the admiral on the subject of her expertise, which was logistics engineering. Scotty, seated next to him, leaned over and whispered behind his hand, “She’s an absolute nightmare, that woman. She found the cracked panel and a neutrino leak. Who carries their own particle detector, I ask you? The captain better have something damned impressive up his sleeve or we’re all going to finish this mission as ensigns.”
McCoy had been seated midway down the table, out of firing range of the admiral, but there was no avoiding the conversation, which consisted mainly of inquisitorial questions fired at Kirk, who sat at the other end with Spock beside him.
“Why are supplemental deuterium tanks being stored on the Flight Deck? Isn’t that a fire hazard?”
“Well, sir, it would be, but the Enterprise is involved in a pilot study using deuterium in pelletized form. Storing it in vacant shuttle bays leaves more room in the pressurized cargo holds, which means we can take on larger stores of temperature-sensitive items at starbase.”
“Our average time between reprovisioning stops has increased from 14.2 to 17.54 days in the last six months, admiral,” Spock said. “I can provide you with the fuel and mission productivity statistics if you wish.”
“I’m sure you can,” she said tartly. “You two have an answer for everything, don’t you? Perhaps we should just turn the Chief Quartermaster’s office over to you.”
“I have submitted a number of recommendations over the past several months,” Spock said.
“He has,” Kirk said, nodding earnestly. The admiral had a dry sense of humor, which made it hard to tell when she was joking. In response, Kirk had adopted an uncharacteristically neutral tone. If McCoy could have critiqued anything, it would have been a slight over eagerness to defend not himself, but the ship and crew.
With the high-speed squash game going on between ends of the table, conversation elsewhere labored along in fits and starts. McCoy thought the galley had done a fine job with the main course, chicken Marengo, a pleasant change from the starch-and-protein composites of the replicator. Having taken Kirk’s warning to heart, the other guests went easy on the wine, while the admiral did indeed put it away, glass after glass.
With the arrival of trays of cheese and bottles of brandy, Kirk rose and lifted his glass. “I’d like to thank everyone for joining me here tonight. I would also like to invite those without assigned duties to stay for further conversation, and for everyone to join me in a toast to Admiral Subramanya, wishing her a pleasant and productive stay on board the Enterprise.”
“The admiral!” they all said, hoisting their glasses.
“Thank you, captain,” the admiral said, rising as Kirk sat. “I’m delighted to be here supervising this important mission. We hear a lot about the Enterprise at the Admiralty. Naturally, as the flagship, it comes under a great deal of scrutiny. For that reason, and for others,” she said, glancing pointedly at Kirk. “I was impressed with what I saw today, barring some minor maintenance and protocol issues that I’m sure will be promptly addressed following my report.” McCoy felt Scotty kick him under the table. “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of the significance of the effort we’re undertaking in the morning. The Klingons would love to see us fail. In fact, I invite you, every time you consider cutting corners on a task or omitting a step, to ask yourselves, ‘Who stands to benefit from this omission? Starfleet, the Klingons, or the Romulans?’ To that end, I would like to propose a toast. To the success of our mission!”
“The success of our mission!” everyone parroted back.
With much screeching of chairs, the party broke up. The mission specialists scurried gratefully away, leaving only the senior officers, standing in somewhat awkward clusters at what they hoped was a safe distance. It was useless; the admiral circulated among the groups, firing her torpedo-like questions. McCoy had positioned himself-strategically, he thought-on the other side of a sofa with his back to her, but to no avail.
“Dr. McCoy!” The admiral grabbed his arm, swinging him around to her rather than crossing around to his other side. “Pleasure to meet you. I hoped to get down to the Medical Bay today but the truth is that there were quite a few things in Engineering that needed attention. Quite a few,” she shook her head disapprovingly. “I read your proposal on broadening the scope of medical screenings prior to deep space missions. Fine idea. I’m going to bring it up at the next Health & Safety Subcommittee meeting. You’re setting an excellent example for the other CMOs. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to take a position with the Admiralty?” She swirled the brandy in her glass before taking a healthy slug.
“Can’t say I’ve ever been tempted, sir.” He ventured a half smile, and was pleasantly surprised when she smiled back at him.
“Quite right. Here’s my honest advice about the Admiralty: if anyone offers, and they will, run in the opposite direction. You’d hate it.” She clapped him on the arm and left her hand there, dropping to a confidential tone so that McCoy had to bend his head down to hear her. “By the way, I understand you and Kirk are an item. You know, regardless of what happens with this mission, that’s going to be the big news at the Admiralty? You see, that’s just what I mean about them-nothing but gossip. Damn bunch of teenagers.” Not seeing, or perhaps ignoring, McCoy’s look of mild horror, she patted his arm again. “Well, I hope to see more of you in the next few days. Good luck, doctor.” And with that, she moved on to the next unfortunate group.
Uhura glided to his side. “I think she likes you,” she said wonderingly.
“Believe me, I’m just as surprised as you. And I have no idea why.”
Uhura folded her arms and lowered her head, dropping her already soft voice. “Hey, I wanted to say that the captain apologized to me for this morning. I told him I understood. It’s not easy doing this when the whole ship knows you’re-well, when your business is public. And I’m just sorry it happened that way because I wanted to wish you the best. Whatever the professional implications are, you’re both great guys. I’m sure you’ll be very happy.”
“Thank you,” he said, genuinely grateful but not surprised. Uhura was innately gracious, and only Kirk’s most persistently annoying attentions had ever made her otherwise.
“You’re probably getting tons of free advice. Want some more?”
“Sure.”
“Make sure the admiral keeps liking you.” She wrinkled her nose. “I could swear she made Spock sweat, and you know that’s physiologically impossible.”
+++++
The party had been mercifully dismissed at 2300, but not before the admiral had requested a full mission plan from Kirk, loaded to her secure comm link, so she could review it with her morning coffee. Kirk, whose gracious-host smile had started to fray around the edges, had promised to have them to her before he turned in for the night.
In the course of the long evening, he hadn’t caught McCoy’s eye once, hadn’t found a moment to take him aside or exchange soto voce commentary. He was unlikely to have a moment free for days. That left McCoy to continue the conversation-the argument, he supposed-one-sided.
It seemed selfish to ask for anything else from Jim when he gave so much already, but McCoy’s instincts for self-preservation had been honed over the merciless years of his break-up. It would be so easy for things to continue as they were. Their lives were busy and interesting; they could make witty conversation or laugh and the same stupid jokes; they worked together and worked out together and spent most of their free time together.
And yes, they slept together. After Jocelyn there had been only grin-and-bear-it dates arranged by friends that ended in pro forma (and, he hoped, not utterly terrible) intercourse followed by awkward breakfasts and an absence of follow-up calls. Since shipping out on the Enterprise, there had been only his own hand, applied like a medical treatment, with dispassionate efficiency, to ward off further problems. Sex with Jim had been all of the clichés and none; though undoubtedly, enthusiastically masterful, he was not a walking encyclopedia of exotic techniques or acrobatic maneuvers. Jim was simply himself: relentless focus and boundless imagination held together with a genuine, selfless kindness. Starfleet had given McCoy back a professional identity, a purpose and self-respect. Jim had bound him to his body again, given him pleasure and hope. As much as he might like to think he cherished principles and pride, it was not something he was likely to walk away from readily, however frustrating his attempts to characterize it might be.
He lay on his bed, dress uniform half-unbuttoned in a desultory fashion, legs crossed, staring at the ceiling, more confused and preoccupied than a 32-year-old man should be. In his own defense there was a great deal tied up in what he was to Jim. His professional identity, at minimum, was safe; he knew Jim respected and coveted his abilities and was not nearly petty enough to toss him off the ship because of a love affair gone wrong. Their friendship he was nearly as certain of, for the same reasons. Spock’s at times disturbingly close proximity to the captain notwithstanding, what existed between them was solid, and for a man with so little apparent history of his own, Kirk valued loyalty and shared experience. A captain, moreover, needed someone who could call him on his shit, and McCoy had never hesitated to do that. All this left him with the question, what were you left with if you subtracted whatever it was that had recently been added? Could he be content to go back, or was he past the point of no return already?
The door chimed. McCoy was so abstracted that he was not actually expecting to see Kirk when he opened it. Jim lingered, sheepish, one arm leaning against the frame of the door, eyes downcast, and McCoy recognized again the futility of trying to sustain a grudge against him.
“I’m an idiot,” Jim said, not moving as McCoy rolled heavily off the bed and walked to meet him.
“Yes, you are. But that was-“ he glanced at the chrono “-almost 17 hours ago. There's a statute of limitations on that kind of idiocy, just so’s you know.” From force of habit he flicked his eyes around the empty corridor before leaning in to kiss him. “Go to bed. You can still get a few hours’ sleep before that bulldog of an admiral starts taking bites out of your ass again.”
Kirk smiled wistfully, undeterred. “Can I come in?”
McCoy eyed him a bit warily. “Depends. What do you want?”
“Oh, lots of things.” It was the worst possible answer, but of course McCoy let him in anyway. Kirk drifted to the bed and sat down, shoulders slumping. “What I really want is for you to fuck me good and hard and then let me fall asleep in your bed. I have a feeling that’s not a good idea, though.”
McCoy shrugged, trying to seem reticent, or at least indifferent. It would be so easy to do just Jim wanted: fuck and fall asleep together, forget about what had happened, and that was exactly the problem. The barriers were as porous as fishing nets.
“Not the worst idea in the world, but yeah, that wouldn’t be at the top of my list.”
“What would? An apology?” He scanned McCoy’s face. “No? An explanation? OK.” He braced his hands against the edge of the bed and huffed out a breath. “It’s a given that I suck at this, right? As long as that’s understood. Well. It seems to me that maybe you were angry because I acted embarrassed this morning, when I was telling everyone. Like I was ashamed of our relationship or something.”
McCoy felt a stab of surprise. It was the one thing he hadn’t considered, and a disappointing conclusion to all his maundering introspection: his ego had simply been hurt. Kirk-surprise, surprise-was pretty good at this, too. To cover his embarrassment, he asked, “Are you?”
“No!” Jim said, emphatically. “Do I really need to say that? I mean, look at you. You’re you. And you’re a doctor! If there’s an afterlife, my grandmother is there right now, dancing the Highland fling and passing out cigars.”
“I’m glad Grandma approves. So what’s the problem with everyone else knowing?”
Kirk shifted uncomfortably, clasping and unclasping his hands. “I don’t know, I just don’t like to think about people thinking about us. Do you know what I mean?”
“Thinking about us-“
“Fucking.”
McCoy gave a surprised bark of laughter. “You're worried about people thinking about you fucking? Jim, I guarantee you that pretty much everybody on the ship has thought about you fucking, either them or in general. You told me that yourself.”
“That’s different,” Kirk objected. “That’s fantasy. This is my actual life.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Jim, but you’re the one who wanted to be a starship captain. Being you, you want to be the best captain in the Fleet-hell, the best captain in history. There’s nothing you don’t use-your brains, your charisma, and yes, your sexuality, and don’t tell me you don’t. So you can’t expect your crew not to be curious about your private life. And in case you haven’t noticed, the world hasn’t ended. Nobody was tapping their glasses with their forks at dinner demanding we kiss. No pretty young ensigns have slit their wrists because James T. Kirk has a boyfriend.”
“Is that what you are?” Kirk asked, eyes wide. “My boyfriend?”
“You tell me, you’re the one who filled out the forms.” McCoy paused. “You did fill out the forms?”
“Sure,” Kirk said, sounded tired again. “You said it was up to me.” That was in fact far from what McCoy had said, but he didn’t dispute it.
McCoy shrugged. “Well, then.”
But Jim kept sitting on the edge of the bed, head down, hands between his legs, rubbing them nervously. His eyes darted guiltily around the room and his knee bounced up and down until McCoy was ready to scream spit it out already. Finally, at just about the moment he thought he couldn’t stand it any more, Kirk said suddenly, “Are you as scared of fucking this up as I am?”
It stopped McCoy dead, halting the impatient words that were halfway to his lips. Kirk was looking at him with what might have been apprehension, and when he caught McCoy’s eyes he actually flinched a little.
He sat down beside Jim on the bed with extreme caution, as if Kirk were a bomb he were trying to defuse. When he wrapped an arm around Jim’s shoulders, they sagged a little, so he put the other hand on his bicep and said, “There’s nothing to worry about. If it’s about this morning-I’m sorry if it rattled you, but it was a perfectly ordinary argument. A walk in the park. There were months with Jocelyn when that would have been god-damned foreplay.”
“I hate arguing with you,” he said, almost meekly.
“No, you don’t.” It barely raised a smile.
“About this shit, yes, I do.”
“Look I don’t know what the big problem is, and I kind of wish you’d tell me, but maybe you don’t know yourself. So I’ll just say this. Whatever we decide to do or not to-and it will be our decision-I’ll still be your friend. I’ll stay on this ship as long as you’ll have me. You made that promise to me, and now I’m making it to you. Unless you turn out to be evil or boneheaded, which you won’t, those things won’t change.” Kirk nodded slowly, contemplative, as if letting it soak in. The knot in McCoy’s stomach began to unwind a little. He inched his hips closer so he could put his arms around Jim properly, past the point where words could make a difference. Jim took a few deep breaths, as if drawing strength, and then nodded with a little more certainty.
“OK. OK, that’s good to know.” He rubbed McCoy’s arms, up and down, as if reassured by the strength of them. “I guess I was just-“
“Being an idiot?” McCoy finished. “Well, you know what they say, we’re all fools in-“ he stopped abruptly. “Look, I’m not going to pretend I know what’s going through your head most of the time. What I’m trying to say is that the foundation’s secure. If you want more than that, if you like where this is going-well, you're going to have to tell me. You’re the silver-tongued genius. I’m just some poor old SOB who needs a map to find his ass. And I don’t have the best record when it comes to understanding what people want out of relationships. So you decide what you want, and you tell me. I’ll abide by your decision.”
Kirk nodded, that atypical indecision still bothering McCoy. But Jim turned and looked at him with earnest blue eyes and said, “I’ll do that. Thanks.” He patted McCoy’s knee, as if he were being let out of the infirmary after a unpleasant but necessary treatment. “I feel better.” He rose and stretched, arching his back and yawning. “I’m actually grateful that you didn’t offer to fuck it all better. I can’t stay here tonight, anyway. The madness begins at 0600, and Subramanya’s probably going to have a wicked hangover, so I better be there with a sunny smile and a cup of strong tea.”
“You have my profound sympathy. I, on the other hand, am on beta shift tomorrow, so I’m going to sleep in. Unless you‘re planning any fistfights on the bridge I should know about?”
“Not planning any, but the mission’s still young.” He gave McCoy a quick peck on the lips, as practiced and perfunctory as if he’d been doing it for years. “Sorry for getting all weird on you. Blame it on-ah, I don’t know, less than the recommended daily allowance of Klingons or something.” He turned the door without a backward glance and began to walk out.
“Hey, Jim?” McCoy remembered the other thing he’d wanted to talk to Jim about, the thing that was probably actually more important.
“Yeah?”
“This may sound like a strange question, but is there any chance this mission is a setup? You know, that you’re supposed to fail at it? I hear Subramanya doesn’t like you.”
“Where did you hear that?” Jim asked sharply.
“Oh, you know. Around.”
“Sulu?”
“Well-“
“Sulu has a lot of friends in San Francisco, and he’s a worrier,” Kirk said bluntly. “If he were here, I’d tell him to worry about getting us to all those planets and leave the politics to me.”
“But just in case-“
“I have friends in San Francisco, too.”
“OK, but there’s another thing. Did you tell the admiral that we’re-“
“Fucking?”
“Involved. Don’t you start with me,” he said, jabbing a finger at Kirk. “You’re going to make me regret feeling bad for you.”
“No, I didn’t tell the admiral. Why, does she know?”
“Yeah, she mentioned it at dinner. Did you send the, uh, thing?”
“Of course. But it went out low-priority subspace. That was the point: so she couldn’t say afterward we were concealing anything, but so she wouldn’t get it before her visit.” He ran a hand through his hair. “That’s weird. Well, any of the officers could have mentioned it, although I’m not sure how that topic would have come up. Shit, it’s probably all over the ship by now.” He tried a shadow of a leer on McCoy. “Not that I have anything to show for it.”
“Go to bed,” McCoy said, waving Kirk away. “Your own. Alone, if you can arrange it.”
+++++
McCoy slept in as he’d threatened, nursing a bit of a red wine headache and reveling in the satisfaction of being in bed when it seemed like everyone was up and working. The halls fairly thrummed with tense activity; an ensign with her head down in a PADD half-collided with him coming around a corner and almost jumped out of her skin when he grabbed her arm to steady her.
The Medical Bay, on the other hand, was a virtual ghost town. Even with the ship in its current state of agitation, it would be 12 hours before crew members started begging him for stimulants and another 24 before they came back complaining of insomnia. McCoy decided to calibrate the phoretic analyzer, a demanding task that would eat up a few hours quite nicely. M’Benga had taken alpha shift, leaving Galena and Khoury to play a desultory game of gin rummy while occasionally offering comments-but not help-to McCoy, who was having more fun than he would have admitted making weird, random combinations of organic substances-wood, nylon and banana being the latest-and having the analyzer attempt to separate them. Hard to believe that while, in this quiet room, McCoy could pry two molecules apart, the Enterprise hurtled through space, bathing planets in electromagnetism, dropping probes, dragging secrets out of world after world. He felt an itch to visit the bridge, but it was a bad day to indulge that itch.
The door opened and McCoy glanced up, expecting to see a crew member nursing a singed body part, and instead saw Admiral Subramanya. Khoury got his feet off the console a second too late, but she ignored him. She was without her entourage and waited patiently while McCoy finished transferring a sticky resin to a test plate .
“Admiral!” He wiped his hands on his trousers, trying to tug the wrinkles out of his shirt. “I’m sorry, sir, we weren’t expecting you. I’d, uh, be happy to give you a tour if you’d like me to call up the rest of the staff.”
“No need, doctor.” She waved a hand, pushing away his offer. "I’d like to speak with you in your office.”
McCoy’s heart sank, and he exchanged a slightly panicky glance with Galena, who was telegraphing this is not good. Trying to look unconcerned, he held out a courtly hand to guide the admiral, who strode into his office and pulled up a chair with a thud. McCoy took a seat behind his desk for what might well be the last time.
“I’ve heard good things about you, doctor,” she began in her customary blunt manner. “Chris Pike says you saved his life. And it may interest you to know that the death rate on the Enterprise has averaged 1.13 beings per month, as compared to a pre-launch projection of 2.35, the lowest in the Fleet. That’s according to Mr. Spock, who assures me his statistics are always accurate,” she said with a faint smile. “But I’m not just here to pay you compliments. I’d actually like a consultation.”
“A consultation?” McCoy said with surprise. “If you’re suffering from a medical complaint, I’m sure Starfleet Medical-“
“Yes, yes, I have access to the best doctors in the galaxy,” she interrupted. “I’ve already got their opinions. Now I want yours. Doctor McCoy, I have Tenyllin Syndrome.”
“Admiral!” McCoy said with surprise. “That’s an extremely serious condition. If you’re able to keep up such a demanding schedule, I have to assume your current treatment has been effective."
She made a “more or less” gesture with her hand . “I’ve been lucky. It’s been stable for three years or so. But in the last few months, it’s been bothering me more. I sleep more, and I’m drowsy during the day. I seem to be losing fine motor control. I drop things more often.”
“You obviously manage it extremely well,” McCoy said sincerely. “I never would have suspected you had a serious neurological condition.”
“No,” she said with a wry smile, “usually when I’m around I manage to keep people’s attention elsewhere. But my doctor is recommending transgenic gene therapy. He said he’s seen a great deal of success with his patients, but I simply don’t like the idea of having part of my genetic material replaced with that of another humanoid species.”
“That’s not unusual, sir, but I don’t have to tell you that Tenyllin is degenerative. And a number of my patients have changed their minds on the subject of transgenic therapy when they’ve experienced excellent results.”
“Of course, of course.” The admiral drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “Nevertheless, could I ask you for a second opinion? Just between the two of us?”
“I don’t see why not. I’ll have to conduct an exam, and I’ll need access to your medical records.”
“That’s not a problem. I’ll see that you’re given permission.” She relaxed a little, the hard lines of her mouth curving into a faint smile. “To be honest, that was the main reason I wanted to come here myself, instead of monitoring the mission from the Al-Batani.”
“That’s what you’re doing here?” he laughed with relief. “You do realize half the ship is working double shifts and thinking they’re one mistake away from being demoted? That includes the captain.”
“Doctor,” the admiral waved a dismissive hand. “It’s good for him. I’ve seen young officers like Kirk before-oh, all right, I’ve never seen one exactly like Kirk before. But it’s never good for officers to become too confident in their own abilities. It leads to bad decisions. You know what his nickname is around the Admiralty? ‘God.’ As in ‘God works in mysterious ways.’”
“So this is some sort of object lesson? Are you setting him up to fail?”
“No, even I’m more subtle than that. The mission is achievable, and I’m sure your crew find a way. But a little introspection and self-doubt is good for the soul. Haven’t you found that, doctor?”
“I suppose,” McCoy said cautiously. “Provided it doesn’t lead to a complete breakdown from stress.”
“You’re worried about him,” the admiral said, not unkindly. “Well, that is your job, after all.” She paused, reflective. “Have you ever been married, Leonard? Is it all right if I call you Leonard?”
“Yes, sir. Once, sir."
“I’m on number three. This time I got smart and went outside the service. He’s a sculptor who wouldn’t know a warp core if it fell on him. Useless as an escort at Fleet events, but he grows flowers and takes me to the opera. I don’t know what your first was like, but you picked a hell of a second. He’s a handsome son of a bitch, I’ll give you that.”
McCoy, nonplussed, didn’t respond, and the admiral continued. “We all fall for the adventure at some point. With some people it’s the technology, with others it’s the unknown. In your case, it’s six feet of blond-haired, blue-eyed hero. I’ve had my turn. Now I sit around conference tables arguing about the optimal thickness of stem bolts so the rest of you can explore the last frontier or whatever the hell they’re calling it these days.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “This is the part where I give you advice and you pretend to listen. These five years are going to go by in a flash, and before you know it you’re going to be sitting behind a desk in Starfleet Medical, working out a new policy on decon procedures and trying to wrangle a bunch of starry-eyed recruits. So here’s the advice: enjoy yourself more and worry less. But don’t tell your boyfriend I said so,” she said, rapping on the desk. “I don’t mind if he stays worried.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, feeling himself flush a little, curiously touched. “Can I ask you a question, sir? How did you find out-well, find out about me and Jim? Did someone mention it to you?”
“No one had to,” she said, with a sudden, girlish smile. “I may be an engineer, but I'm good at reading faces. It was written all over yours.”
+++++
After his conference with the admiral, anything else that happened on the shift was likely to be anticlimactic, and so it was. A steady but light flow of patients came in and out, mostly for routine appointments. Kirk sent him occasional, staccato messages, ranging from Progress, three down, that gas giant is going to expect me to call it in the morning on the open channel to I swear if she says “slow and steady wins the race” one more time I’m going to fire her out of a launch tube encrypted with his personal key. He asked if Kirk needed him on the bridge to dole out stimulants or tranquilizers, and Kirk replied No, that’s OK, we’re cranky and groggy enough on our own. He spent, somewhat guiltily, a quiet evening reading in the Deck F aft lounge, and then went to bed at a reasonable hour.
The morning found him back on alpha shift, feeling like a solid citizen reporting for duty at 0800 to find an ensign with blurry vision and dizziness, and calculated how long he should go before giving the captain (and the admiral) his “duty is duty but enough is enough” speech.
Just before lunch, he got a cryptic private message from Jim: We’re going to do this. If I’m called before a disciplinary panel, you’ll certify that I’m crazy, right? He was burning with curiosity over what “this” might be, but nervous about the possibility of getting between Jim and the admiral. He had no faith at all in his ability to talk Kirk out of a decision he’d already made, and even less in his newfound camaraderie with Subramanya. He avoiding the “reply” and mentally tossed a coin: go to the bridge, don’t go to the bridge. After a few minutes of this, the doors parted and Spock walked in.
“Oh, lord. This can’t be good.”
“Indeed, doctor, it is not.” Spock clasped his hands behind his back and focused on the middle distance, his good-and-patient-officer stance. “I am here to request that you use your medical authority to remove the captain from the bridge, as his state of sleep deprivation is impairing his judgment.”
“Sleep deprivation? It’s 11 o’clock in the morning. He had a shift down last night.”
“The captain did not leave the bridge last night, and I doubt he slept more than a few hours the night before. I am surprised to find you were not aware of that fact.”
“God damn it, do you think if I’d been aware I would have-“ McCoy stopped abruptly, realizing how quickly he was digging himself a hole. He should have known, as either the captain’s doctor or Jim’s lover; he should have suspected, if he’d thought about it for even a minute, that a little thing like common sense wouldn’t have gotten in Jim’s way with a mission to carry out. He had, it seemed, been thinking too much about Jim to actually think about Jim.
“I appreciate you bringing it to my attention, commander,” he said with a semblance of calm. “Now that I’m aware of the situation, I’ll certainly insist that the captain get a full night’s rest tonight.”
“I do not believe the situation can wait. The captain is on the verge of making a decision that imperils the success of this mission. Under Regulation 121, Section A, the Chief Medical Officer may relieve any officer of command if, in his or her judgment, he is medically unfit. Officers so relieved under this regulation need only prove they are fully recovered before resuming duty. I, on the other, may only relieve the captain under Regulation 619, Section B, which requires proof that the captain has acted in violation of a Starfleet regulation, or of a direct and legal order from a superior, and is a much more serious offense.”
“And what exactly is this error in judgment that Jim is about to make?”
“While performing long-range sensor scans in the area of PPM 37283, we detected a small fabricated object of unknown origin. The captain wishes to take it on board, determine its purpose, and if appropriate, return it to its original location. This will require anywhere from 6 to 12 hours, resulting in a significant delay in our mission.”
“I’m presuming Jim has a good reason for wanting to do this?”
“He referred to it as a ‘hunch,’” Spock said, with an air of bafflement McCoy didn’t buy for a minute. He grinned with relief.
“Well, you know he has pretty good hunches. I’ll check him out, read him the riot act if you want. But from what you’ve told me, there’s no reason to relieve him of command. It’s the captain doing what the captain does.”
Spock frowned, considering. “In general, I do not dispute your observation. But in this case, I believe the captain is being closely monitored by Admiral Subramanya. Given the tenor of the admiral’s critique of the crew’s performance, I believe she would welcome the opportunity to find fault with him.”
“So why isn’t she countermanding the order?”
“She made it clear at the outset that she would not interfere. It is from that that I conclude her true intention is to evaluate the captain’s performance, not achieve the mission objective, which is dubious at best. This mission is operational in nature, what the captain calls ‘paint-by-numbers.’ Once all the planning steps are complete, the task is simply to execute to the best of the crew’s ability. Barring unusual circumstances, there is no justification for deviating from that plan.”
“Exactly the kind of mission that Jim hates.”
“Indeed. And usually one that he would not feel the need to personally supervise, except that-“
“Except that he’s got an admiral up his ass. I understand. You know, you may have a point.” He held out a hand toward the door. “What are we waiting for?"
+++++
McCoy could never step onto the bridge without remembering his first high school football game, which was also his last. The lights, twice as bright as anywhere else on the ship, left no shadows; it was shiny and perfect and hyper real. Kirk was not sitting in the captain’s chair but leaning over Spock’s station, with a science officer McCoy didn’t recognize peering over one shoulder and Uhura peering around the other one. The other two peeled away at McCoy’s approach, but Kirk didn’t look up. McCoy tapped him on the shoulder and got a startle reaction worth at least two lines in a medical report.
“Captain, I'm sorry to interrupt,” he said, as Kirk surprise settled into annoyance. “Could I have a word with you for a moment? In private?"
Kirk frowned. “Something wrong?”
“Maybe.” Kirk hesitated, the whatever-it-was on the monitor pulling him back like a lodestone. To counterbalance it, McCoy jerked his head toward the turbolift, feeling like he was leading a dog away from a particularly odiferous patch of grass.
The ready room had clearly been an afterthought in the design, carved out of a service area as the result of some commission report or study. There was a small, utilitarian desk and two chairs, and a low beam requiring anyone over Uhura's height to duck. With a captain more prone to sulking, McCoy could see that this little nest might be a temptation, but Kirk’s rear was more or less permanently welded to the captain’s chair, so he came in there rarely.
“What’s up?” Kirk said, turning bloodshot eyes on him, his body language heavy with can we get this over with?
“Captain, it’s come to my attention that you’ve been awake for 54 hours, a fact I should have been aware of, except it never occurred to me that a man of your age needed constant supervision to-“
“Spock,” Kirk huffed. “So that’s where he went. Running off to mommy because daddy wouldn’t give him the answer he wanted. Oh, sure, go ahead,” he said as McCoy waved the medical tricorder at him. “This isn’t a medical issue. This is Spock trying to avoid a direct order by using his dog whistle to get you up to the bridge. Seriously,” he said, staying McCoy’s scan with a hand on his wrist, “don’t go along with this. It’s well-intentioned, but it’s wrong.”
“Are you sure about the well-intentioned part? He was talking about Regulation 619.”
“Really?” Kirk cocked an eyebrow. “He’s getting good at pushing your buttons, isn’t he? I promise you, it’s all a bluff. He’s afraid that if I blow this mission, it’ll give the admiral ammunition against me. If I’m removed from command, Subramanya, as a flag officer, takes over and it becomes her de facto responsibility. Pretty clever, but entirely unnecessary, since we’re not going to fail.”
“Jim, your faith in Spock is touching, but-“
“Not possible.” He seemed genuinely amused.
“Even if he thought it was-“
“No. Just…no.”
“How can you be sure?” The question hung suspended for a moment, like a lightly tossed ball.
“Bones,” Kirk said, abruptly serious, “Spock and I know each other’s minds.”
“Know’ in what sense?”
“’Know’ as in, our thoughts have become one and I know that I can trust him.”
“Y’know, that last part sounded awfully Vulcan to me.” McCoy pinched the bridge of his nose. “You let Spock perform a mind meld, didn’t you? You let an alien consciousness merge with your own, and it’s something you forget to mention to your doctor? Have you finally gone completely insane?”
“It’s not an ‘alien consciousness,’ it’s Spock,” Kirk said, having the nerve to look affronted.
“Spock is a god-damned alien! I know you’re fond of him, Jim, but it was reckless at best, on both your parts.”
“Vulcans do it all the time. It’s like a normal conversation.”
“Yes, Vulcans do it all the time. But there are no studies on its effect on humans because no Vulcan in history has allowed those studies to be conducted.”
“Spock wouldn’t hurt me,” Kirk said flatly. “Now will you render your verdict and let me get back to work? If we’re in here alone together much longer, tongues will wag.”
McCoy heaved a sigh, past exasperation. “Look, you’ve just given me about a dozen reasons to declare you medically unfit if I wanted to. Your stress hormone levels are high, your brain activity is out of whack, and for all I know you’re under the influence of an alien intelligence. But instinct is telling me that you've got a better handle on the situation than Spock, so I’m going to forget this conversation for now. I’m going to give you a shot of dalaphaline and make you promise me on your life that as soon as you’re done with that sensor thing you’ll head straight to quarters. I know the admiral's got everybody dialed up but it's not worth risking your health over.”
“You have my word: once this is over, I’ll sleep for a week.” He tapped his comm. badge. “Mr. Spock, will you join us in my ready room?” He turned back to McCoy. “Now tongues will really wag.”
The door slid closed again and McCoy found himself under a penetrating black gaze. “Mr. Spock,” Kirk began, “Dr. McCoy has examined me for physical symptoms of fatigue that would impede my ability to perform.Your findings, doctor?”
“The captain is very tired but isn't manifesting any signs of exhaustion that would lead to impaired judgment. He’s under the allowable limits for humanoids in non-combat situations. He’s fine, Spock.”
Spock cocked an eyebrow and his eyes, unreadable, slid toward Kirk. McCoy thought uncomfortably that he would never be able to see their eyes meet again without wondering what had-or was-passing between them.
“How about it Spock?” Kirk said, crossing his arms. “Is that enough to put an end to this back-channel mutiny, or are you going to throw some more regulations at me?”
“I would be more inclined to accept Dr. McCoy ‘s opinion,” Spock said, “if I thought it were purely professional in nature and not unduly influenced by his personal relationship with you.”
“Oh!” McCoy said, throwing up his hands. “There it is! I’m surprised it even took 24 hours. My personal relationship? Really? This from the man who-“
“Gentlemen!” Kirk put up a warning hand. “I’m seeing my life flash in front of my eyes. Take me to the brig,” he said looking at Spock, “or to Sickbay,” looking at McCoy, “or let me get back to my business.”
Spock and McCoy were silent. “Good. Spock,” he said clapping him on the shoulder, “Scotty should have that device on board by the time we get to Engineering. Let’s go have a look. Bones, order up some horse tranquilizers for me for later. Hell, for the whole crew,” he said, calling behind him as the turbolift doors slid closed. “We’ll make it a party.”
Part 3 >>
McCoy’s provisional sense of peace ended the moment he put on his dress uniform. It was itchy, stiff-necked and so unforgiving of cut that he thought starships ought to travel with a tailor on board. He slapped on some beard suppressor and combed his hair, overdue for a cut, into reasonable shape. He'd gotten used to the blue tunic, but he never seemed right to himself in a full service uniform; it looked as if his head had been pasted on to some senior officer’s body. Although he weighed no more than the day he'd come on board, the damned thing seemed tight at the seams, as if it recognized him as a pretender and were trying to squeeze him out.
He hustled to the Flight Deck to find most of the senior officers already there, along with a phalanx of junior officers, all unbearably crisp and eager. Under the stage direction of the Protocol Officer, a man named Herrera, McCoy arranged himself in the middle of the lineup, between Scotty and Giotto. Scotty intercepted his glance as it dropped down to his dress kilt, and winked. “Don’t ask what’s under mine, and I won’t ask what’s under yours.”
Kirk strode onto the deck and every pair of eyes, including McCoy’s, swiveled toward him. It was impossible not to; in his dress uniform, light gray with two narrow white panels that accentuated his height and slimness, he was as handsome as someone’s dream of a captain. He nodded briefly to his officers and took up a position at a right angle to the line, hands clasped behind his back, facing the shuttle bay doors.
The voice of the comm officer on duty boomed through the bay. “The Kuyper is hailing. Admiral Subramanya is requesting permission to come aboard."
"Permission granted," Kirk said calmly.
The great, curved shuttle bay doors rolled open with a metallic whine, revealing a yawning crescent of open space. Thanks to the force field there was no sudden, lethal depressurization, not so much as a breeze to stir the air. It was one of those counter-intuitive marvels of technology that made surrendering to space seem as benign as opening the window on a summer night. The approaching shuttle appeared first like a bright dot, then like a shiny toy as it glided in noiselessly, hovering for a moment as it switched to thrusters to slip into the welcoming arms of the Enterprise.
The spectacle was majestic and beautiful, and something more. In McCoy's heart there swelled the excitement of some forgotten boyhood dream that against all probability he was living out. He was a senior officer on the best ship in the best service in the galaxy, serving under a captain who was already a watchword for boldness and heroism. These were the dreams of a stack of tattered books in an attic in Georgia, dreams most people gave up when they reached adulthood. Of all the long generations of McCoys who’d cracked those pages, he seemed to himself the least likely to be living them out. But here he was.
The shuttle hovered, insect-like, above the deck for a few moments before landing lightly, feet tapping the deck with a barely audible thud. Lt. Herrera called the crew to attention and there was a hiss as the door opened. The admiral’s staff emerged first; the last out offered a hand down to the admiral, who was quite short. Shaking hands with Kirk, she barely reached his shoulder. Her long hair, black except for a single white streak, was tied up in a bun at the back of her head, and her dark eyes glittered with determination.
“Admiral, may I present my senior staff,” Kirk said, walking her over. They went down the line, exchanging handshakes. Her grip was almost painfully firm. At the end, the admiral glanced around with her hawk-like eyes and said, “These are all your junior officers? And where are chief navigator and helmsman?”
“Preparing for the mission, sir,” Kirk said. “Given the, uh, exigency of the change in timeline, I thought it would be better let them continue their preparations.”
“Did you, though?” She looked at him sharply. “Well, I suppose that’s right. Mission before protocol. You do things your own way, don’t you, Kirk?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “All right, have your yeoman show me to my quarters. I’ll see you in half an hour. I’m going to want to see all of the ship, captain, not sections you’ve cordoned off for the official tour.” Kirk smiled and nodded, only the slightest bit of tension visible, to McCoy’s eyes, in his back and neck. None of it made it to his eyes, which sparkled with enthusiasm, as if he could think of no better way to spend the afternoon than letting the admiral run a gloved finger along the inside of a Jeffries tube. He gestured to the yeoman, who led the admiral out, followed by Kirk and, at the Herrera’s orders, the rest of the officers. Scotty exchanged a glance with McCoy, rolling his eyes to the ceiling as if to say that cracked panel on the intermix chamber isn’t going to stay undiscovered for long.
+++++
Predictably, the admiral never made it down to the Medical Bay. McCoy and his staff spent a fruitless couple of hours making stilted conversation and brushing imaginary specks of dust off equipment. He had settled on formidable as the most neutral adjective he could use to describe the admiral and stuck by it, the better not to alarm anyone. A few minutes before 2000, McCoy said good night to his staff and dismissed them.
In the officers’ mess, an impressive feast had been laid out, along with tablecloths and candelabra and a host of items McCoy wouldn’t have thought to find on a starship. Besides the senior staff, there were a handful of mission specialists and a few special guests, brought in to entertain the admiral on the subject of her expertise, which was logistics engineering. Scotty, seated next to him, leaned over and whispered behind his hand, “She’s an absolute nightmare, that woman. She found the cracked panel and a neutrino leak. Who carries their own particle detector, I ask you? The captain better have something damned impressive up his sleeve or we’re all going to finish this mission as ensigns.”
McCoy had been seated midway down the table, out of firing range of the admiral, but there was no avoiding the conversation, which consisted mainly of inquisitorial questions fired at Kirk, who sat at the other end with Spock beside him.
“Why are supplemental deuterium tanks being stored on the Flight Deck? Isn’t that a fire hazard?”
“Well, sir, it would be, but the Enterprise is involved in a pilot study using deuterium in pelletized form. Storing it in vacant shuttle bays leaves more room in the pressurized cargo holds, which means we can take on larger stores of temperature-sensitive items at starbase.”
“Our average time between reprovisioning stops has increased from 14.2 to 17.54 days in the last six months, admiral,” Spock said. “I can provide you with the fuel and mission productivity statistics if you wish.”
“I’m sure you can,” she said tartly. “You two have an answer for everything, don’t you? Perhaps we should just turn the Chief Quartermaster’s office over to you.”
“I have submitted a number of recommendations over the past several months,” Spock said.
“He has,” Kirk said, nodding earnestly. The admiral had a dry sense of humor, which made it hard to tell when she was joking. In response, Kirk had adopted an uncharacteristically neutral tone. If McCoy could have critiqued anything, it would have been a slight over eagerness to defend not himself, but the ship and crew.
With the high-speed squash game going on between ends of the table, conversation elsewhere labored along in fits and starts. McCoy thought the galley had done a fine job with the main course, chicken Marengo, a pleasant change from the starch-and-protein composites of the replicator. Having taken Kirk’s warning to heart, the other guests went easy on the wine, while the admiral did indeed put it away, glass after glass.
With the arrival of trays of cheese and bottles of brandy, Kirk rose and lifted his glass. “I’d like to thank everyone for joining me here tonight. I would also like to invite those without assigned duties to stay for further conversation, and for everyone to join me in a toast to Admiral Subramanya, wishing her a pleasant and productive stay on board the Enterprise.”
“The admiral!” they all said, hoisting their glasses.
“Thank you, captain,” the admiral said, rising as Kirk sat. “I’m delighted to be here supervising this important mission. We hear a lot about the Enterprise at the Admiralty. Naturally, as the flagship, it comes under a great deal of scrutiny. For that reason, and for others,” she said, glancing pointedly at Kirk. “I was impressed with what I saw today, barring some minor maintenance and protocol issues that I’m sure will be promptly addressed following my report.” McCoy felt Scotty kick him under the table. “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of the significance of the effort we’re undertaking in the morning. The Klingons would love to see us fail. In fact, I invite you, every time you consider cutting corners on a task or omitting a step, to ask yourselves, ‘Who stands to benefit from this omission? Starfleet, the Klingons, or the Romulans?’ To that end, I would like to propose a toast. To the success of our mission!”
“The success of our mission!” everyone parroted back.
With much screeching of chairs, the party broke up. The mission specialists scurried gratefully away, leaving only the senior officers, standing in somewhat awkward clusters at what they hoped was a safe distance. It was useless; the admiral circulated among the groups, firing her torpedo-like questions. McCoy had positioned himself-strategically, he thought-on the other side of a sofa with his back to her, but to no avail.
“Dr. McCoy!” The admiral grabbed his arm, swinging him around to her rather than crossing around to his other side. “Pleasure to meet you. I hoped to get down to the Medical Bay today but the truth is that there were quite a few things in Engineering that needed attention. Quite a few,” she shook her head disapprovingly. “I read your proposal on broadening the scope of medical screenings prior to deep space missions. Fine idea. I’m going to bring it up at the next Health & Safety Subcommittee meeting. You’re setting an excellent example for the other CMOs. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to take a position with the Admiralty?” She swirled the brandy in her glass before taking a healthy slug.
“Can’t say I’ve ever been tempted, sir.” He ventured a half smile, and was pleasantly surprised when she smiled back at him.
“Quite right. Here’s my honest advice about the Admiralty: if anyone offers, and they will, run in the opposite direction. You’d hate it.” She clapped him on the arm and left her hand there, dropping to a confidential tone so that McCoy had to bend his head down to hear her. “By the way, I understand you and Kirk are an item. You know, regardless of what happens with this mission, that’s going to be the big news at the Admiralty? You see, that’s just what I mean about them-nothing but gossip. Damn bunch of teenagers.” Not seeing, or perhaps ignoring, McCoy’s look of mild horror, she patted his arm again. “Well, I hope to see more of you in the next few days. Good luck, doctor.” And with that, she moved on to the next unfortunate group.
Uhura glided to his side. “I think she likes you,” she said wonderingly.
“Believe me, I’m just as surprised as you. And I have no idea why.”
Uhura folded her arms and lowered her head, dropping her already soft voice. “Hey, I wanted to say that the captain apologized to me for this morning. I told him I understood. It’s not easy doing this when the whole ship knows you’re-well, when your business is public. And I’m just sorry it happened that way because I wanted to wish you the best. Whatever the professional implications are, you’re both great guys. I’m sure you’ll be very happy.”
“Thank you,” he said, genuinely grateful but not surprised. Uhura was innately gracious, and only Kirk’s most persistently annoying attentions had ever made her otherwise.
“You’re probably getting tons of free advice. Want some more?”
“Sure.”
“Make sure the admiral keeps liking you.” She wrinkled her nose. “I could swear she made Spock sweat, and you know that’s physiologically impossible.”
+++++
The party had been mercifully dismissed at 2300, but not before the admiral had requested a full mission plan from Kirk, loaded to her secure comm link, so she could review it with her morning coffee. Kirk, whose gracious-host smile had started to fray around the edges, had promised to have them to her before he turned in for the night.
In the course of the long evening, he hadn’t caught McCoy’s eye once, hadn’t found a moment to take him aside or exchange soto voce commentary. He was unlikely to have a moment free for days. That left McCoy to continue the conversation-the argument, he supposed-one-sided.
It seemed selfish to ask for anything else from Jim when he gave so much already, but McCoy’s instincts for self-preservation had been honed over the merciless years of his break-up. It would be so easy for things to continue as they were. Their lives were busy and interesting; they could make witty conversation or laugh and the same stupid jokes; they worked together and worked out together and spent most of their free time together.
And yes, they slept together. After Jocelyn there had been only grin-and-bear-it dates arranged by friends that ended in pro forma (and, he hoped, not utterly terrible) intercourse followed by awkward breakfasts and an absence of follow-up calls. Since shipping out on the Enterprise, there had been only his own hand, applied like a medical treatment, with dispassionate efficiency, to ward off further problems. Sex with Jim had been all of the clichés and none; though undoubtedly, enthusiastically masterful, he was not a walking encyclopedia of exotic techniques or acrobatic maneuvers. Jim was simply himself: relentless focus and boundless imagination held together with a genuine, selfless kindness. Starfleet had given McCoy back a professional identity, a purpose and self-respect. Jim had bound him to his body again, given him pleasure and hope. As much as he might like to think he cherished principles and pride, it was not something he was likely to walk away from readily, however frustrating his attempts to characterize it might be.
He lay on his bed, dress uniform half-unbuttoned in a desultory fashion, legs crossed, staring at the ceiling, more confused and preoccupied than a 32-year-old man should be. In his own defense there was a great deal tied up in what he was to Jim. His professional identity, at minimum, was safe; he knew Jim respected and coveted his abilities and was not nearly petty enough to toss him off the ship because of a love affair gone wrong. Their friendship he was nearly as certain of, for the same reasons. Spock’s at times disturbingly close proximity to the captain notwithstanding, what existed between them was solid, and for a man with so little apparent history of his own, Kirk valued loyalty and shared experience. A captain, moreover, needed someone who could call him on his shit, and McCoy had never hesitated to do that. All this left him with the question, what were you left with if you subtracted whatever it was that had recently been added? Could he be content to go back, or was he past the point of no return already?
The door chimed. McCoy was so abstracted that he was not actually expecting to see Kirk when he opened it. Jim lingered, sheepish, one arm leaning against the frame of the door, eyes downcast, and McCoy recognized again the futility of trying to sustain a grudge against him.
“I’m an idiot,” Jim said, not moving as McCoy rolled heavily off the bed and walked to meet him.
“Yes, you are. But that was-“ he glanced at the chrono “-almost 17 hours ago. There's a statute of limitations on that kind of idiocy, just so’s you know.” From force of habit he flicked his eyes around the empty corridor before leaning in to kiss him. “Go to bed. You can still get a few hours’ sleep before that bulldog of an admiral starts taking bites out of your ass again.”
Kirk smiled wistfully, undeterred. “Can I come in?”
McCoy eyed him a bit warily. “Depends. What do you want?”
“Oh, lots of things.” It was the worst possible answer, but of course McCoy let him in anyway. Kirk drifted to the bed and sat down, shoulders slumping. “What I really want is for you to fuck me good and hard and then let me fall asleep in your bed. I have a feeling that’s not a good idea, though.”
McCoy shrugged, trying to seem reticent, or at least indifferent. It would be so easy to do just Jim wanted: fuck and fall asleep together, forget about what had happened, and that was exactly the problem. The barriers were as porous as fishing nets.
“Not the worst idea in the world, but yeah, that wouldn’t be at the top of my list.”
“What would? An apology?” He scanned McCoy’s face. “No? An explanation? OK.” He braced his hands against the edge of the bed and huffed out a breath. “It’s a given that I suck at this, right? As long as that’s understood. Well. It seems to me that maybe you were angry because I acted embarrassed this morning, when I was telling everyone. Like I was ashamed of our relationship or something.”
McCoy felt a stab of surprise. It was the one thing he hadn’t considered, and a disappointing conclusion to all his maundering introspection: his ego had simply been hurt. Kirk-surprise, surprise-was pretty good at this, too. To cover his embarrassment, he asked, “Are you?”
“No!” Jim said, emphatically. “Do I really need to say that? I mean, look at you. You’re you. And you’re a doctor! If there’s an afterlife, my grandmother is there right now, dancing the Highland fling and passing out cigars.”
“I’m glad Grandma approves. So what’s the problem with everyone else knowing?”
Kirk shifted uncomfortably, clasping and unclasping his hands. “I don’t know, I just don’t like to think about people thinking about us. Do you know what I mean?”
“Thinking about us-“
“Fucking.”
McCoy gave a surprised bark of laughter. “You're worried about people thinking about you fucking? Jim, I guarantee you that pretty much everybody on the ship has thought about you fucking, either them or in general. You told me that yourself.”
“That’s different,” Kirk objected. “That’s fantasy. This is my actual life.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Jim, but you’re the one who wanted to be a starship captain. Being you, you want to be the best captain in the Fleet-hell, the best captain in history. There’s nothing you don’t use-your brains, your charisma, and yes, your sexuality, and don’t tell me you don’t. So you can’t expect your crew not to be curious about your private life. And in case you haven’t noticed, the world hasn’t ended. Nobody was tapping their glasses with their forks at dinner demanding we kiss. No pretty young ensigns have slit their wrists because James T. Kirk has a boyfriend.”
“Is that what you are?” Kirk asked, eyes wide. “My boyfriend?”
“You tell me, you’re the one who filled out the forms.” McCoy paused. “You did fill out the forms?”
“Sure,” Kirk said, sounded tired again. “You said it was up to me.” That was in fact far from what McCoy had said, but he didn’t dispute it.
McCoy shrugged. “Well, then.”
But Jim kept sitting on the edge of the bed, head down, hands between his legs, rubbing them nervously. His eyes darted guiltily around the room and his knee bounced up and down until McCoy was ready to scream spit it out already. Finally, at just about the moment he thought he couldn’t stand it any more, Kirk said suddenly, “Are you as scared of fucking this up as I am?”
It stopped McCoy dead, halting the impatient words that were halfway to his lips. Kirk was looking at him with what might have been apprehension, and when he caught McCoy’s eyes he actually flinched a little.
He sat down beside Jim on the bed with extreme caution, as if Kirk were a bomb he were trying to defuse. When he wrapped an arm around Jim’s shoulders, they sagged a little, so he put the other hand on his bicep and said, “There’s nothing to worry about. If it’s about this morning-I’m sorry if it rattled you, but it was a perfectly ordinary argument. A walk in the park. There were months with Jocelyn when that would have been god-damned foreplay.”
“I hate arguing with you,” he said, almost meekly.
“No, you don’t.” It barely raised a smile.
“About this shit, yes, I do.”
“Look I don’t know what the big problem is, and I kind of wish you’d tell me, but maybe you don’t know yourself. So I’ll just say this. Whatever we decide to do or not to-and it will be our decision-I’ll still be your friend. I’ll stay on this ship as long as you’ll have me. You made that promise to me, and now I’m making it to you. Unless you turn out to be evil or boneheaded, which you won’t, those things won’t change.” Kirk nodded slowly, contemplative, as if letting it soak in. The knot in McCoy’s stomach began to unwind a little. He inched his hips closer so he could put his arms around Jim properly, past the point where words could make a difference. Jim took a few deep breaths, as if drawing strength, and then nodded with a little more certainty.
“OK. OK, that’s good to know.” He rubbed McCoy’s arms, up and down, as if reassured by the strength of them. “I guess I was just-“
“Being an idiot?” McCoy finished. “Well, you know what they say, we’re all fools in-“ he stopped abruptly. “Look, I’m not going to pretend I know what’s going through your head most of the time. What I’m trying to say is that the foundation’s secure. If you want more than that, if you like where this is going-well, you're going to have to tell me. You’re the silver-tongued genius. I’m just some poor old SOB who needs a map to find his ass. And I don’t have the best record when it comes to understanding what people want out of relationships. So you decide what you want, and you tell me. I’ll abide by your decision.”
Kirk nodded, that atypical indecision still bothering McCoy. But Jim turned and looked at him with earnest blue eyes and said, “I’ll do that. Thanks.” He patted McCoy’s knee, as if he were being let out of the infirmary after a unpleasant but necessary treatment. “I feel better.” He rose and stretched, arching his back and yawning. “I’m actually grateful that you didn’t offer to fuck it all better. I can’t stay here tonight, anyway. The madness begins at 0600, and Subramanya’s probably going to have a wicked hangover, so I better be there with a sunny smile and a cup of strong tea.”
“You have my profound sympathy. I, on the other hand, am on beta shift tomorrow, so I’m going to sleep in. Unless you‘re planning any fistfights on the bridge I should know about?”
“Not planning any, but the mission’s still young.” He gave McCoy a quick peck on the lips, as practiced and perfunctory as if he’d been doing it for years. “Sorry for getting all weird on you. Blame it on-ah, I don’t know, less than the recommended daily allowance of Klingons or something.” He turned the door without a backward glance and began to walk out.
“Hey, Jim?” McCoy remembered the other thing he’d wanted to talk to Jim about, the thing that was probably actually more important.
“Yeah?”
“This may sound like a strange question, but is there any chance this mission is a setup? You know, that you’re supposed to fail at it? I hear Subramanya doesn’t like you.”
“Where did you hear that?” Jim asked sharply.
“Oh, you know. Around.”
“Sulu?”
“Well-“
“Sulu has a lot of friends in San Francisco, and he’s a worrier,” Kirk said bluntly. “If he were here, I’d tell him to worry about getting us to all those planets and leave the politics to me.”
“But just in case-“
“I have friends in San Francisco, too.”
“OK, but there’s another thing. Did you tell the admiral that we’re-“
“Fucking?”
“Involved. Don’t you start with me,” he said, jabbing a finger at Kirk. “You’re going to make me regret feeling bad for you.”
“No, I didn’t tell the admiral. Why, does she know?”
“Yeah, she mentioned it at dinner. Did you send the, uh, thing?”
“Of course. But it went out low-priority subspace. That was the point: so she couldn’t say afterward we were concealing anything, but so she wouldn’t get it before her visit.” He ran a hand through his hair. “That’s weird. Well, any of the officers could have mentioned it, although I’m not sure how that topic would have come up. Shit, it’s probably all over the ship by now.” He tried a shadow of a leer on McCoy. “Not that I have anything to show for it.”
“Go to bed,” McCoy said, waving Kirk away. “Your own. Alone, if you can arrange it.”
+++++
McCoy slept in as he’d threatened, nursing a bit of a red wine headache and reveling in the satisfaction of being in bed when it seemed like everyone was up and working. The halls fairly thrummed with tense activity; an ensign with her head down in a PADD half-collided with him coming around a corner and almost jumped out of her skin when he grabbed her arm to steady her.
The Medical Bay, on the other hand, was a virtual ghost town. Even with the ship in its current state of agitation, it would be 12 hours before crew members started begging him for stimulants and another 24 before they came back complaining of insomnia. McCoy decided to calibrate the phoretic analyzer, a demanding task that would eat up a few hours quite nicely. M’Benga had taken alpha shift, leaving Galena and Khoury to play a desultory game of gin rummy while occasionally offering comments-but not help-to McCoy, who was having more fun than he would have admitted making weird, random combinations of organic substances-wood, nylon and banana being the latest-and having the analyzer attempt to separate them. Hard to believe that while, in this quiet room, McCoy could pry two molecules apart, the Enterprise hurtled through space, bathing planets in electromagnetism, dropping probes, dragging secrets out of world after world. He felt an itch to visit the bridge, but it was a bad day to indulge that itch.
The door opened and McCoy glanced up, expecting to see a crew member nursing a singed body part, and instead saw Admiral Subramanya. Khoury got his feet off the console a second too late, but she ignored him. She was without her entourage and waited patiently while McCoy finished transferring a sticky resin to a test plate .
“Admiral!” He wiped his hands on his trousers, trying to tug the wrinkles out of his shirt. “I’m sorry, sir, we weren’t expecting you. I’d, uh, be happy to give you a tour if you’d like me to call up the rest of the staff.”
“No need, doctor.” She waved a hand, pushing away his offer. "I’d like to speak with you in your office.”
McCoy’s heart sank, and he exchanged a slightly panicky glance with Galena, who was telegraphing this is not good. Trying to look unconcerned, he held out a courtly hand to guide the admiral, who strode into his office and pulled up a chair with a thud. McCoy took a seat behind his desk for what might well be the last time.
“I’ve heard good things about you, doctor,” she began in her customary blunt manner. “Chris Pike says you saved his life. And it may interest you to know that the death rate on the Enterprise has averaged 1.13 beings per month, as compared to a pre-launch projection of 2.35, the lowest in the Fleet. That’s according to Mr. Spock, who assures me his statistics are always accurate,” she said with a faint smile. “But I’m not just here to pay you compliments. I’d actually like a consultation.”
“A consultation?” McCoy said with surprise. “If you’re suffering from a medical complaint, I’m sure Starfleet Medical-“
“Yes, yes, I have access to the best doctors in the galaxy,” she interrupted. “I’ve already got their opinions. Now I want yours. Doctor McCoy, I have Tenyllin Syndrome.”
“Admiral!” McCoy said with surprise. “That’s an extremely serious condition. If you’re able to keep up such a demanding schedule, I have to assume your current treatment has been effective."
She made a “more or less” gesture with her hand . “I’ve been lucky. It’s been stable for three years or so. But in the last few months, it’s been bothering me more. I sleep more, and I’m drowsy during the day. I seem to be losing fine motor control. I drop things more often.”
“You obviously manage it extremely well,” McCoy said sincerely. “I never would have suspected you had a serious neurological condition.”
“No,” she said with a wry smile, “usually when I’m around I manage to keep people’s attention elsewhere. But my doctor is recommending transgenic gene therapy. He said he’s seen a great deal of success with his patients, but I simply don’t like the idea of having part of my genetic material replaced with that of another humanoid species.”
“That’s not unusual, sir, but I don’t have to tell you that Tenyllin is degenerative. And a number of my patients have changed their minds on the subject of transgenic therapy when they’ve experienced excellent results.”
“Of course, of course.” The admiral drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “Nevertheless, could I ask you for a second opinion? Just between the two of us?”
“I don’t see why not. I’ll have to conduct an exam, and I’ll need access to your medical records.”
“That’s not a problem. I’ll see that you’re given permission.” She relaxed a little, the hard lines of her mouth curving into a faint smile. “To be honest, that was the main reason I wanted to come here myself, instead of monitoring the mission from the Al-Batani.”
“That’s what you’re doing here?” he laughed with relief. “You do realize half the ship is working double shifts and thinking they’re one mistake away from being demoted? That includes the captain.”
“Doctor,” the admiral waved a dismissive hand. “It’s good for him. I’ve seen young officers like Kirk before-oh, all right, I’ve never seen one exactly like Kirk before. But it’s never good for officers to become too confident in their own abilities. It leads to bad decisions. You know what his nickname is around the Admiralty? ‘God.’ As in ‘God works in mysterious ways.’”
“So this is some sort of object lesson? Are you setting him up to fail?”
“No, even I’m more subtle than that. The mission is achievable, and I’m sure your crew find a way. But a little introspection and self-doubt is good for the soul. Haven’t you found that, doctor?”
“I suppose,” McCoy said cautiously. “Provided it doesn’t lead to a complete breakdown from stress.”
“You’re worried about him,” the admiral said, not unkindly. “Well, that is your job, after all.” She paused, reflective. “Have you ever been married, Leonard? Is it all right if I call you Leonard?”
“Yes, sir. Once, sir."
“I’m on number three. This time I got smart and went outside the service. He’s a sculptor who wouldn’t know a warp core if it fell on him. Useless as an escort at Fleet events, but he grows flowers and takes me to the opera. I don’t know what your first was like, but you picked a hell of a second. He’s a handsome son of a bitch, I’ll give you that.”
McCoy, nonplussed, didn’t respond, and the admiral continued. “We all fall for the adventure at some point. With some people it’s the technology, with others it’s the unknown. In your case, it’s six feet of blond-haired, blue-eyed hero. I’ve had my turn. Now I sit around conference tables arguing about the optimal thickness of stem bolts so the rest of you can explore the last frontier or whatever the hell they’re calling it these days.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “This is the part where I give you advice and you pretend to listen. These five years are going to go by in a flash, and before you know it you’re going to be sitting behind a desk in Starfleet Medical, working out a new policy on decon procedures and trying to wrangle a bunch of starry-eyed recruits. So here’s the advice: enjoy yourself more and worry less. But don’t tell your boyfriend I said so,” she said, rapping on the desk. “I don’t mind if he stays worried.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, feeling himself flush a little, curiously touched. “Can I ask you a question, sir? How did you find out-well, find out about me and Jim? Did someone mention it to you?”
“No one had to,” she said, with a sudden, girlish smile. “I may be an engineer, but I'm good at reading faces. It was written all over yours.”
+++++
After his conference with the admiral, anything else that happened on the shift was likely to be anticlimactic, and so it was. A steady but light flow of patients came in and out, mostly for routine appointments. Kirk sent him occasional, staccato messages, ranging from Progress, three down, that gas giant is going to expect me to call it in the morning on the open channel to I swear if she says “slow and steady wins the race” one more time I’m going to fire her out of a launch tube encrypted with his personal key. He asked if Kirk needed him on the bridge to dole out stimulants or tranquilizers, and Kirk replied No, that’s OK, we’re cranky and groggy enough on our own. He spent, somewhat guiltily, a quiet evening reading in the Deck F aft lounge, and then went to bed at a reasonable hour.
The morning found him back on alpha shift, feeling like a solid citizen reporting for duty at 0800 to find an ensign with blurry vision and dizziness, and calculated how long he should go before giving the captain (and the admiral) his “duty is duty but enough is enough” speech.
Just before lunch, he got a cryptic private message from Jim: We’re going to do this. If I’m called before a disciplinary panel, you’ll certify that I’m crazy, right? He was burning with curiosity over what “this” might be, but nervous about the possibility of getting between Jim and the admiral. He had no faith at all in his ability to talk Kirk out of a decision he’d already made, and even less in his newfound camaraderie with Subramanya. He avoiding the “reply” and mentally tossed a coin: go to the bridge, don’t go to the bridge. After a few minutes of this, the doors parted and Spock walked in.
“Oh, lord. This can’t be good.”
“Indeed, doctor, it is not.” Spock clasped his hands behind his back and focused on the middle distance, his good-and-patient-officer stance. “I am here to request that you use your medical authority to remove the captain from the bridge, as his state of sleep deprivation is impairing his judgment.”
“Sleep deprivation? It’s 11 o’clock in the morning. He had a shift down last night.”
“The captain did not leave the bridge last night, and I doubt he slept more than a few hours the night before. I am surprised to find you were not aware of that fact.”
“God damn it, do you think if I’d been aware I would have-“ McCoy stopped abruptly, realizing how quickly he was digging himself a hole. He should have known, as either the captain’s doctor or Jim’s lover; he should have suspected, if he’d thought about it for even a minute, that a little thing like common sense wouldn’t have gotten in Jim’s way with a mission to carry out. He had, it seemed, been thinking too much about Jim to actually think about Jim.
“I appreciate you bringing it to my attention, commander,” he said with a semblance of calm. “Now that I’m aware of the situation, I’ll certainly insist that the captain get a full night’s rest tonight.”
“I do not believe the situation can wait. The captain is on the verge of making a decision that imperils the success of this mission. Under Regulation 121, Section A, the Chief Medical Officer may relieve any officer of command if, in his or her judgment, he is medically unfit. Officers so relieved under this regulation need only prove they are fully recovered before resuming duty. I, on the other, may only relieve the captain under Regulation 619, Section B, which requires proof that the captain has acted in violation of a Starfleet regulation, or of a direct and legal order from a superior, and is a much more serious offense.”
“And what exactly is this error in judgment that Jim is about to make?”
“While performing long-range sensor scans in the area of PPM 37283, we detected a small fabricated object of unknown origin. The captain wishes to take it on board, determine its purpose, and if appropriate, return it to its original location. This will require anywhere from 6 to 12 hours, resulting in a significant delay in our mission.”
“I’m presuming Jim has a good reason for wanting to do this?”
“He referred to it as a ‘hunch,’” Spock said, with an air of bafflement McCoy didn’t buy for a minute. He grinned with relief.
“Well, you know he has pretty good hunches. I’ll check him out, read him the riot act if you want. But from what you’ve told me, there’s no reason to relieve him of command. It’s the captain doing what the captain does.”
Spock frowned, considering. “In general, I do not dispute your observation. But in this case, I believe the captain is being closely monitored by Admiral Subramanya. Given the tenor of the admiral’s critique of the crew’s performance, I believe she would welcome the opportunity to find fault with him.”
“So why isn’t she countermanding the order?”
“She made it clear at the outset that she would not interfere. It is from that that I conclude her true intention is to evaluate the captain’s performance, not achieve the mission objective, which is dubious at best. This mission is operational in nature, what the captain calls ‘paint-by-numbers.’ Once all the planning steps are complete, the task is simply to execute to the best of the crew’s ability. Barring unusual circumstances, there is no justification for deviating from that plan.”
“Exactly the kind of mission that Jim hates.”
“Indeed. And usually one that he would not feel the need to personally supervise, except that-“
“Except that he’s got an admiral up his ass. I understand. You know, you may have a point.” He held out a hand toward the door. “What are we waiting for?"
+++++
McCoy could never step onto the bridge without remembering his first high school football game, which was also his last. The lights, twice as bright as anywhere else on the ship, left no shadows; it was shiny and perfect and hyper real. Kirk was not sitting in the captain’s chair but leaning over Spock’s station, with a science officer McCoy didn’t recognize peering over one shoulder and Uhura peering around the other one. The other two peeled away at McCoy’s approach, but Kirk didn’t look up. McCoy tapped him on the shoulder and got a startle reaction worth at least two lines in a medical report.
“Captain, I'm sorry to interrupt,” he said, as Kirk surprise settled into annoyance. “Could I have a word with you for a moment? In private?"
Kirk frowned. “Something wrong?”
“Maybe.” Kirk hesitated, the whatever-it-was on the monitor pulling him back like a lodestone. To counterbalance it, McCoy jerked his head toward the turbolift, feeling like he was leading a dog away from a particularly odiferous patch of grass.
The ready room had clearly been an afterthought in the design, carved out of a service area as the result of some commission report or study. There was a small, utilitarian desk and two chairs, and a low beam requiring anyone over Uhura's height to duck. With a captain more prone to sulking, McCoy could see that this little nest might be a temptation, but Kirk’s rear was more or less permanently welded to the captain’s chair, so he came in there rarely.
“What’s up?” Kirk said, turning bloodshot eyes on him, his body language heavy with can we get this over with?
“Captain, it’s come to my attention that you’ve been awake for 54 hours, a fact I should have been aware of, except it never occurred to me that a man of your age needed constant supervision to-“
“Spock,” Kirk huffed. “So that’s where he went. Running off to mommy because daddy wouldn’t give him the answer he wanted. Oh, sure, go ahead,” he said as McCoy waved the medical tricorder at him. “This isn’t a medical issue. This is Spock trying to avoid a direct order by using his dog whistle to get you up to the bridge. Seriously,” he said, staying McCoy’s scan with a hand on his wrist, “don’t go along with this. It’s well-intentioned, but it’s wrong.”
“Are you sure about the well-intentioned part? He was talking about Regulation 619.”
“Really?” Kirk cocked an eyebrow. “He’s getting good at pushing your buttons, isn’t he? I promise you, it’s all a bluff. He’s afraid that if I blow this mission, it’ll give the admiral ammunition against me. If I’m removed from command, Subramanya, as a flag officer, takes over and it becomes her de facto responsibility. Pretty clever, but entirely unnecessary, since we’re not going to fail.”
“Jim, your faith in Spock is touching, but-“
“Not possible.” He seemed genuinely amused.
“Even if he thought it was-“
“No. Just…no.”
“How can you be sure?” The question hung suspended for a moment, like a lightly tossed ball.
“Bones,” Kirk said, abruptly serious, “Spock and I know each other’s minds.”
“Know’ in what sense?”
“’Know’ as in, our thoughts have become one and I know that I can trust him.”
“Y’know, that last part sounded awfully Vulcan to me.” McCoy pinched the bridge of his nose. “You let Spock perform a mind meld, didn’t you? You let an alien consciousness merge with your own, and it’s something you forget to mention to your doctor? Have you finally gone completely insane?”
“It’s not an ‘alien consciousness,’ it’s Spock,” Kirk said, having the nerve to look affronted.
“Spock is a god-damned alien! I know you’re fond of him, Jim, but it was reckless at best, on both your parts.”
“Vulcans do it all the time. It’s like a normal conversation.”
“Yes, Vulcans do it all the time. But there are no studies on its effect on humans because no Vulcan in history has allowed those studies to be conducted.”
“Spock wouldn’t hurt me,” Kirk said flatly. “Now will you render your verdict and let me get back to work? If we’re in here alone together much longer, tongues will wag.”
McCoy heaved a sigh, past exasperation. “Look, you’ve just given me about a dozen reasons to declare you medically unfit if I wanted to. Your stress hormone levels are high, your brain activity is out of whack, and for all I know you’re under the influence of an alien intelligence. But instinct is telling me that you've got a better handle on the situation than Spock, so I’m going to forget this conversation for now. I’m going to give you a shot of dalaphaline and make you promise me on your life that as soon as you’re done with that sensor thing you’ll head straight to quarters. I know the admiral's got everybody dialed up but it's not worth risking your health over.”
“You have my word: once this is over, I’ll sleep for a week.” He tapped his comm. badge. “Mr. Spock, will you join us in my ready room?” He turned back to McCoy. “Now tongues will really wag.”
The door slid closed again and McCoy found himself under a penetrating black gaze. “Mr. Spock,” Kirk began, “Dr. McCoy has examined me for physical symptoms of fatigue that would impede my ability to perform.Your findings, doctor?”
“The captain is very tired but isn't manifesting any signs of exhaustion that would lead to impaired judgment. He’s under the allowable limits for humanoids in non-combat situations. He’s fine, Spock.”
Spock cocked an eyebrow and his eyes, unreadable, slid toward Kirk. McCoy thought uncomfortably that he would never be able to see their eyes meet again without wondering what had-or was-passing between them.
“How about it Spock?” Kirk said, crossing his arms. “Is that enough to put an end to this back-channel mutiny, or are you going to throw some more regulations at me?”
“I would be more inclined to accept Dr. McCoy ‘s opinion,” Spock said, “if I thought it were purely professional in nature and not unduly influenced by his personal relationship with you.”
“Oh!” McCoy said, throwing up his hands. “There it is! I’m surprised it even took 24 hours. My personal relationship? Really? This from the man who-“
“Gentlemen!” Kirk put up a warning hand. “I’m seeing my life flash in front of my eyes. Take me to the brig,” he said looking at Spock, “or to Sickbay,” looking at McCoy, “or let me get back to my business.”
Spock and McCoy were silent. “Good. Spock,” he said clapping him on the shoulder, “Scotty should have that device on board by the time we get to Engineering. Let’s go have a look. Bones, order up some horse tranquilizers for me for later. Hell, for the whole crew,” he said, calling behind him as the turbolift doors slid closed. “We’ll make it a party.”
Part 3 >>