"BONES, HOW IS HE?"
"Not good."
"Tell me."
"Vulcans have thirty-six pairs of nerves attached to the spinal cord, serving the autonomic and voluntary nervous systems. Spock has some level of damage to thirty percent of those, mostly in his lower thoracic area and lumbar plexus. No major fractures, probably because of the angle of the stuff he fell on, but there are a series of hairline fractures to the white matter of the spinal column. Add that to the impact to his muscles and tendons, a dislocated shoulder, and a fractured wrist."
"He broke his wrist?"
"The left one."
"I … didn't notice."
His own left arm throbbed now, reminding him of his own hurts and the hits he'd taken, and magnifying what Spock must be going through. Without thinking, he rubbed the sore elbow.
McCoy noticed. "Spock's shoulder is back in place and the wrist bones are fused, but he'll be sore for a while."
"Can his spinal injury be fixed with surgery?"
Folding his arms, the ship's cranky chief surgeon pursed his lips and shook his head, almost as if still deciding.
But right now he was just plain galled.
"I'm not going to operate unless I have to. I'm not a neurological specialist, Captain, and we're damned far from anybody who is, let alone a specialist on Vulcan neurophysiology. The irony is that he's lucky he hit that skirt of gravel on his spine instead of his skull, or right now we'd be wrapping him up for a real quiet voyage back to Vulcan and you'd be writing a note to his parents."
A chill shimmied down Jim Kirk's aching arms. Those awful notes—he'd spend his whole night writing them, one by one, with hands scratched and sore from today's battle. He had to do them before he slept, or he'd never sleep. He would describe the situation on Capella IV and explain its importance to the Federation so families would know their young men died for something important. He would log one posthumous commendation after another, feeding them through to Lieutenant Uhura, who would launch the sad package through subspace to the parents, wives, children of those who'd given their lives today in the line of duty.
He was glad he wouldn't have to write a note like that to Ambassador Sarek and his wife.
"We're lucky," Kirk murmured. "I'm lucky."
"Will he recover?" he asked.
Silence told him that McCoy wanted to make the prognosis sound upbeat, but the captain was the only person on board the starship who had to be deprived of bedside manner. The captain always had to be given the cold raw truth.
"I can't tell you that conclusively," McCoy said. "We'll just have to wait and see. I've got him mounted on a null-grav pad, to keep pressure off the spinal column. He can walk, but I'm not going to let him yet."
"Is there anything else you can do?"
McCoy responded with a bristle of insult. "Even with advanced medicine, there are some things the body has to do for itself. His metabolism is higher than ours and his recuperative powers are different. I'm not going to tamper unless there's an emergency. Don't second guess my judgment, Captain, and I won't second guess yours."
Kirk turned to him. "If you've got something to say, McCoy, say it."
The doctor stiffened. His eyes flared and he went off like a bow and arrow ready to spring. "Fine. I processed nineteen bodies this morning and fifty-two injuries, twelve of those serious, and two men are still listed as missing in action. That's seventy-three casualties logged up to a petty skirmish of questionable strategic value."
"It's my job to defend those settlements. Would you prefer processing the corpses of innocent families or official personnel sworn to protect them? You're the one who was stationed on that planet, you're the one who knew these people personally. Would you advocate abandonment?"
"There had to be some better way, is all I'm saying, something less savage than a ground defense."
"That's not for you to judge."
"Maybe not, but my patients are filling up four wards—"
"They're not your patients, Doctor, they're my crew. And they're Starfleet officers and they know what that means. The Klingons might have slaughtered those people. That's where we come in; we were there to stop it."
McCoy's blue eyes were bitter cold by now. "Maybe there was and you chose to ignore it, just as you chose to ignore common sense when you moved a trauma victim simply because you needed another opinion. The fact is, you're likely to get to an injured crewmen long before I am, and as such it befalls you to know what to do and what not to do, which means holstering that dash and moxie of yours long enough to give the correct first aid!"
If the doctor hadn't been trying to whisper, he'd have been shouting.
Kirk heard it as a shout. His throat knotted and he felt his jaw go stiff, his lips tighten, the skin around his eyes crimp. He stared in challenge at McCoy, reflexes telling him to demand his rank rights to civil treatment.
But then he looked through the door toward Spock's bed.
He raised one hand and pressed his palm to the door frame.
"It was unpardonable," he said.
He felt McCoy's glare, maybe one of surprise, maybe sympathy, burrowing through the back of his head.
Evidently the doctor had gotten what he'd wanted, or perhaps he'd decided the captain was tortured enough, because he sighed, then came up beside Kirk and spoke more evenly.
"I'm controlling his pain, Jim."
"Understood," Kirk uttered, as if he did. With his tone he asked McCoy to stay behind, let him deal with this himself.
He walked into the ward.
Spock lay on what seemed to be an ordinary diagnostic bed, with all the lights and blips and graphs silently moving on the panel above, monitoring his vitals.
As he moved closer to the bed, he noted the four antigrav units locked two-each to the sides of the bed, whirring softly, keeping Spock's body hovering a millimeter off the mattress, making his organs and bones float as if he were hovering out in space. Only the pillow made any contact, and that just barely, probably because it bothered McCoy to see his patients without a pillow. A patient in antigravs didn't really need one.
Spock's graphite eyes were glazed and pinched, his face and hands still lime-pale. Sickbay's washed-out patient's tunic didn't help much, seeming to suck color out of anybody's complexion. With his sharp hearing, he'd probably heard the two of them talking out there.
"Captain," he greeted, sparing them both the awkward moment.
"Spock … I'm sorry to disturb you."
"Not at all, sir. Are you all right?"
Kirk shrugged self-consciously. "A few cuts and scratches. My uniform had to be buried at sea, though."
"Beside mine, most likely. Is General Kellen on board?"
"Yes, and without an escort, too. His flagship did a little posturing, but he backed them down. You should've seen it. Whatever this thing is that he experienced, it scared him enough that he's pocketing his dignity. Certainly got me curious."
"And the Capellan situation?"
"Capellan space is cleared. He sent the other ships home. That Klingon commander wasn't too happy. His career is pretty much wrecked."
"Yes," Spock rasped. "He is not allowed to start a war, but neither is he allowed to lose a skirmish. How long will we have to wait?"
"We didn't wait. We're at warp five. Starfleet's sending the Frigate Great Lakes and two patrol sweepers to hold ground until the treaty takes a set. I've already signed off the situation."
"And the Klingon vessels?"
"Kellen's flagship is out in front, leading the way, and the other four are tailing us. So far, so good."
He waited for a response, but there was none.
Spock's lips compressed. The pain indicator bounced at the top of the screen.
Kirk put his hand on the blanket and pressed it, as if that would help.
Second by second, the wave of pain subsided and the indicator drifted down a few degrees. Not enough, though, to make either of them feel much better.
"This is my fault," he forced out. "I wasn't thinking clearly. I should've had you beamed directly here without moving you."
Spock blinked his eyes in a motion that otherwise would've been a nod. "Being distracted by complex circumstances and failing to think clearly are not the same, Captain."
Poof. You're forgiven. Forget it.
"We'll be approaching the location of the incident Kellen described within twelve hours. I need someone at the science station. Do you have a recommendation?"
Offering an uncomplaining gaze, Spock pressed down the undertones of common sense. "I would prefer to be there myself, sir."
A half-smile bent Kirk's cheek. "And I'd like you there. But part and parcel of dangerous duty is recuperation. McCoy deserves to have his satisfactions too, once in a while, and we've given him a hell of a day. Least we can do is let him hover over you for a watch or two. Besides, all this is going to turn out to be nothing. Something spooked a combustible Klingon and now he wants attention. That's all it is."
"General Kellen is hardly a man given to idle combustion. And a systemwide mass falloff could be considered grounds for becoming 'spooked.' I am quite eager to examine the circumstances myself."
"Don't worry, you'll get your chance. For now, stay put. Me, well … I've got a few things to keep me busy."
He took a step back.
"Rest," the captain said. He touched the blanket again. "Get better. I'll keep you posted."
"There it is, sir. Just popped onto our long-range."
"Visual, Mr. Chekov?"
"In a few more seconds, sir. Sensors are assessing the vessel's configuration now."
"Clear for action. Go to yellow alert. Sound general quarters. Magnification one point seven-five as soon as you can. Mr. Sulu, reduce speed to warp one."
"Yellow alert, aye."
"Magnification one point seven-five, sir."
"Warp one, aye, sir."
With amber slashes of alert panels blinking on and off in his periphery, Jim Kirk paused as his orders were echoed back to him from various positions on the bridge, a long-held naval tradition borne of common sense, to make sure orders were heard and understood over the howl of wind. Protocol was a good, stout handle to grip.
Here there was no wind, but there was the constant whine and bleep of systems working, the almost physical thrum of engines deep below, and there was the undeniable tension of the bridge. Imagined in the minds of all here with a capital T, this tension existed in some form even in the most mundane of days, for this was the brain of the starship, and the starship was the security of the sector. Down not very deep, all hands here knew that.
And the tension was different, tighter, when the captain was on the bridge, even though all orders might remain the same, course unchanged, situation stable, status unremarkable, for days on end. It was different if he stood here too.
Always had been. Centuries.
Normally he was the most comfortable here, on the bridge, but today there was the added presence of General Kellen, standing on the lower deck beside the command chair as if he deserved to be here. He was obviously used to such a position and was unimpressed by his rank privilege to stand here, even on a ship full of those he considered enemies. He said nothing, and had said very little. He watched the main screen obsessively, but with the keen eyes of a soldier seeking weakness.
"Position of the other vessel?" Kirk requested.
"Two points forward of the port beam, sir," Chekov reported. "Distance, two standard astronomical units … roughly eighteen light-minutes."
"Reduce to sublight."
Sulu touched his controls. "Sublight, aye, sir."
Kirk flexed his sore hands. "Mr. Chekov, where's that visual?"
"Here now, sir." The young navigator picked at his controls, tied in to the science station—not the best, but workable for now—then looked up at the screen.
There it was.
Big. Well, they could see it, but that wasn't much help. It looked like—
"Looks like a big … pasta noodle," Chekov said. "A little overboiled, maybe …"
"It's a hunting horn, sir," Sulu offered.
Uhura swiveled to look over the heads of Sulu and Chekov. "Looks like a cornucopia to me."
Engineer Scott canted his head to one side. "I think it's a giant purple foxglove kicked on its side. Y'know, the flower part."
"Enough," Kirk droned. "You're at alert."
"Aye, sir," Uhura, Chekov, and Sulu uttered, each suddenly attentive of stations.
Satisfied, Kirk rubbed his elbow again and eyed the new ship. It did look like all those things. Like a porridge of those things. Huge collars of hull material set in a pattern, purple plates fanned out like playing cards. Maybe Scott was the most right. The structures were like flower petals, winding down to a point. Yet there was a decidedly nonfloral ferocity about it.
He could see why Kellen would be shaken. The ship was the color of Klingon blood—plum fans shimmering in the light of the nearest sun, twisting down, around and around, into shades of night orchid, etched in sharp black.
"All stop. Hold position relative to the other vessel. Communicate orders to the Klingon ships."
"All stop," Sulu said as his hands played the helm. "Compensating for drift, sir."
"Fire!"
General Kellen's big voice became a thunderbolt under the low ceiling.
Kirk spun and belted, "Security!"
Kellen plunged for the helm console, his wide hand aimed specifically at the phaser controls. Another inch—
Sulu pressed upward out of his helm chair, driving his knobby shoulder into Kellen's chest and almost disappearing under the bulk. Ensign Chekov lunged sideways from the navigator's position and pushed his own skinny shoulders over Sulu's head and under Kellen's chin, while Kirk himself made a grab and caught a handful of hair and silver tunic with his weakened left hand. With the other hand he clutched the arm of his command chair and hauled away.
The chair swiveled, then caught and gave him purchase. He drew back hard. It took all three of them to hold Kellen away from that critical inch.
An instant later the two Security guards made it down from the turbolift vestibule and grappled Kellen by his arms, muscling him back from the helm and plunging him against the bright red rail until his great bulk arched and his face screwed up in anger. Not too soon, though, for Kirk's mind flashed over and over that Kellen's hand had been halted directly over the phaser control. No guesses. Kellen knew exactly where those firing controls were, though there were no markings.
Once the Security men hit the lower deck, the crisis ended, but Kellen strained against them and bellowed, "Shoot while you have the chance!" He pivoted toward Kirk. "Fire on them!"
"I don't know them!" Kirk pelted back, squaring off before him.
The big Klingon's face bronzed with excitement. "But I have seen what they are!"
Angry now and reminded of it by the screaming muscles and throbbing bones in his left arm and both knees, Kirk said sharply, "You've described a Klingon legend. I told you before, legends don't use conventional power ratios. Barbarians don't drive around in ships like that."
The general stopped hauling against the red-faced guards. He seemed to accept Kirk's charge of the moment, and fell again into that disarming, nearly bovine self-control which had garnered him a reputation even in Starfleet circles.
"What are your intents?" he asked.
As the passive bright lights flickered in Kellen's spectacles, Kirk said, "I intend to hail them."
"You will give us away."
"I've already done that by entering the sector, General. We neither explore nor protect by stealth. Will I have to call more guards?"
The general squinted at him as if in challenge, but let his arms go slack in the guards' grips and acknowledged with his posture that this was not his bridge. The power of such a concept rang and rang. Command. One per ship, one only.
"Bring us into short-range communications distance," Kirk said, without taking his eyes from the general's.
"Aye, sir," Sulu responded, and beneath them the ship hummed its own answer.
"Shields up, Mr. Chekov. Keep weapons on-line."
"Phaser battery on standby, sir. Shields up."
"Captain," Communications Officer Uhura spoke in that crystal-clear teacher's English, "Mr. Spock is calling from sickbay. He requests to speak to you."
Kirk allowed himself a smile, but didn't allow Kellen to see it. "Somehow I'm not surprised. On visual."
Spock's angular face appeared on the darkened monitor on the upper bridge, just above the library computer access panel. Kirk stepped up to meet it as if his first officer were there, at his post, as usual.
"Captain," Spock greeted. "Permission to monitor the encounter with the unidentified vessel."
Kirk eyed the face on the screen. "And just how did you know we were approaching the unidentified ship at all, if I may ask?"
But he already knew, and glanced at Chekov, hunkering down there at his navigation console and scouting Kirk in his periphery.
"Collusion, sir," Spock admitted.
"I see. And once you've monitored?"
"I shall analyze the information and make recommendations."
"As usual. I see again. You intend to do all this from sickbay?"
"As necessary."
"How?"
"If Lieutenant Uhura will give you a wide view …"
Without waiting, Uhura skimmed one hand over her board, and Spock's monitor clicked to a wide side view of the Vulcan laid out on his diagnostic couch, with the antigravs working silently at his sides, but with a new development. Above him was mounted a small monitor.
"And who did that?" Kirk asked, as if asking which of the kids put the soccer ball through the bedroom window. "Scotty."
Burying a wince, he turned and glanced up at the port aft station, main engineering, where Chief Engineer Scott tucked his chin guiltily and peered out from under the squabble of black hair.
"Wouldn't want him to get bored, sir," the stocky engineer excused, letting his Aberdeen accent make him sound quaint, "lyin' there, an' all."
"And which of the ship's heads did you lock McCoy into while you were doing this?"
Scott held his breath. "Don't recall mentioning it to him, sir."
"Nor do I," Spock confirmed.
"They both forgot to mention it to me."
McCoy sauntered out of the turbolift when Kirk looked toward the voice, and came to join the captain on the starboard deck.
"Flummoxed," the doctor said. "Right in my own sickbay. That's what you get when you try to hold down a pointed-eared bunco artist." He cast a glower at Scott. "Or his sidekick, Jock the Jolly Tinker."
Scott actually blushed, and Kirk crushed back a grin.
"I should be able to assist effectively," Spock said, and there was unmistakable hope behind his reserve. He managed not to frame a question with anything but his eyes, gazing across the silent circuits at his captain.
McCoy didn't approve, according to his expression, but he said nothing, and Kirk felt the decision go thunk into his hands from the chief surgeon's.
"I'd go stir-crazy myself," he allowed. "Glad to have you on duty, Mr. Spock. I'll leave it to your better judgment not to overburden yourself."
"Oh, he won't be overburdening himself," McCoy said. "He's scheduled for a sedative."
"When?"
"The minute I decide he's overburdening himself."
"Oh, of course. You heard it, Mr. Spock. You're on duty, but you're also on medical probation."
"Thank you, sir."
Kirk nodded to Uhura. "Keep Mr. Spock's channel open, Lieutenant." While cannily watching Kellen press his hair back into place, Kirk left McCoy's side, swiveled toward Uhura's communications station, and spoke very quietly to her exotic, expectant face. "Note to Starfleet Command, scramble. Klingons have intimate knowledge of our bridge control configuration. Suggest necessary changes in color code and location with next design upgrades. Kirk, commanding, Enterprise, stardate … so on. And while you're at it, give them our location."
She turned her eyes up to him. "Right away, sir."
"Captain," Sulu interrupted, "coming into short-range comm, sir. Thirty seconds."
"Open channels. Let's see if they'll talk."
"Talk," Kellen snapped. Cranking his thick arm around his own body, he dug between the silver tunic and the protective molded vest that Klingons had started using only lately and only in battle, and yanked out his personal communicator.
"Stop him!" Kirk shouted, but the Security men weren't fast enough in snatching the communicator from the big fist.
Snapping it to his lips Kellen spat, "Aragor! HIgh! Tugh!"
The guard grabbed the communicator and Kellen's hand and cranked hard. Kellen's face twisted into a grimace, but he knew he'd gotten his message through and gave up the communicator before arms were broken—a toss-up just whose arms.
"Captain, the Klingon ships are moving around us!" Chekov gulped. "Attack formation!"
"On screens!"
The main screen and four subsystems monitors changed to show the five Klingon ships swinging freely around the Enterprise as if swung on strings. In open space, the starship could easily have outmaneuvered them, but in these tight circumstances the lighter-weight Klingon ships were like hornets buzzing around a swan, racing away toward the unidentified vessel at full impulse, and they got the best of the bigger ship on short notice.
"General, order them back!" Kirk demanded.
"They have their orders," Kellen answered, strangely calm now. He watched the screen as a man watches a house burning down.
Kirk grabbed for his command chair's shipwide announcement control. "Red alert!"
Bright poppy-red slashes lit the bulkheads in place of the amber ones as the alert klaxons rang through the lower decks, announcing to the crew that the ship was coming into action. On the main screen, the Klingon ships shot into the distance and closed on the unidentified ship and opened fire the second they were within range, pelting heedless and relentless lancets of phaser energy onto the wide purple fans of hull material.
Sparks flew and bright energy wash pumped down the fans, but was quickly drained away. There might've been some spray of debris, but it was difficult to see from this distance, moving at this speed.
Spinning full-front to the main screen, Kirk cast his order back to Uhura.
"Warn those ships off!"