Killing Time, page 6
"Before we begin, Doctor," Spock said, sitting gracefully on the edge of the chair, "I find it necessary to review a transmission from FleetCom."
McCoy nodded, easily detecting the tone of irritation in the deep voice. He also wondered why Spock was bothering to tell him. But he motioned generously toward the communication panel. "Help yourself, Spock," he said with a grin. "Care for a brandy?" he asked, proceeding to unlock the "medicine cabinet" and withdraw a dusty bottle.
The Vulcan's brow climbed as he thumbed the correct button on the communication panel. McCoy's nonchalant approach to any given situation never ceased to amaze him. Such complete adaptability. Within twenty-four hours, the doctor had treated at least fifteen patients—the majority for minor bruises and abrasions following the competition tae kwan do tournament in the gym; the ship was operating on minimal power due to the engineering incident; and an ensign—who now lay less than twenty feet away in a security-restricted area—had attempted to obliterate the entire vessel.
The Vulcan pondered that information, then slowly allowed the brow to resume its normal position. "Yes, thank you, Doctor," he conceded at last. "That would be appreciated."
McCoy stared at the Vulcan, then looked at the bottle in his hand. Very slowly, a wide grin manifested in the blue eyes. He hurried back to the cabinet and withdrew two fat-bellied snifters. Then, as an afterthought, he replaced the first bottle back on the shelf and grabbed another—slightly more dusty than its companion.
"When you condescend to take a drink, Spock," he explained filling the two glasses, "it's time to break out the good stuff. Vintage Antarean brandy," he boasted. "Guaranteed to put hair on your chest and raise welts on women and children!"
The Vulcan studied the doctor curiously. "Precisely why would one wish to imbibe a substance which would essentially alter the individual's entire metabolism, Doctor?" he asked, but nonetheless accepted the glass which McCoy shoved in his direction.
McCoy shrugged. "Consider it a human weakness, Mister Spock," he replied, not noticing that he'd addressed his commanding officer by a less-than-fitting title for his rank. "Now what's this transmission all about? I thought we got FleetCom transmissions on morning shift."
The Vulcan nodded agreement. "Apparently," he replied, waiting for the computer to load and replay the message, "this is of some importance." But before he could further explain, the green light on the panel signaled readiness with two flashes and a gentle beep-tone. The screen, however, remained blank as the message began.
"Admiral S't'kal to Alliance Starship ShiKahr," a very Vulcan voice intoned with almost mechanical precision. "As of this stardate, all Alliance vessels are hereby ordered to prepare for full operational battle readiness.
"After lengthy debate by Vulcan High Council and Human League of Planets, it is our joint decision to subdue any potentially dangerous invaders before hostilities arise. ShiKahr therefore ordered to continue mission at Neutral Zone, and await arrival of two sisterships. ShiKahr further instructed to stand ready as flagship for initial trespass into Romulan territory. Captain Spock, you are authorized to organize initial assault. Other Alliance captains ordered to obey your commands completely in this matter. Details of strategy and attack vessels to follow."
The voice ceased abruptly, but the small computer screen on McCoy's desk suddenly flickered to life, showing a series of graphs and grids—which, when viewed in perspective, Spock realized, represented an intricate battle plan—one which called for deliberate invasion into a territory which had been outlined by Vulcan/Romulan treaty nearly a century ago.
The graphs continued to change very quickly, and the Vulcan could partially interpret the printed scramble-code line which ran along the bottom of the screen. When broken down into its millions of individual characters, the code would contain the details Admiral S't'kal had mentioned. Details for war.
He looked up, meeting McCoy's eyes, which were suddenly wide with something bordering closely on horror.
On the bed across the room, Reichert's body seemed to be wracked with a series of spasms … but when the Vulcan looked more closely, he realized—with an uncharacteristic chill—that the spasms were actually laughter.
Chapter Five
YEOMAN S'PARVA SLAPPED the mat, rolling as she fell and gaining her feet quickly. She rose on powerful back legs, and straightened to her full height of over six feet. The gold clip which had held her ears pinned back to the long manelike growth of hair clattered across the room, landing against the bulkhead. But the Katellan hardly seemed inconvenienced. Her coalblack eyes never wavered from her adversary as her thin lips curled into a smile which could have been seductive, could have been frightening. Sharp teeth glistened into a grin.
"Had enough, Chris?" S'Parva asked, instinctively remaining crouched in the defensive stance despite her opponent's weakened condition.
Breathing hard, Christine Chapel shook her head, cautiously circling the Katellan. The nurse made a quick grab for S'Parva's left leg, but the other woman stepped aside, brown fur shimmering in the hot white lights.
"Doctor's orders, S'Parva," Chapel said, trying the same move again and meeting with the same failure. "Leonard wants you to put in at least two hours of strenuous exercise in here every day for the next month." Absently, she heard herself gasping in contrast to S'Parva's easily controlled breathing, and wondered for a moment which of them was getting the best workout. She began circling faster, using her greater speed to compensate for the Katellan's increased bulk and power. Feigning first to one side, then to the other, her wide green eyes searched for an opening—an opening which didn't come. "Two hours a day," she gasped. "Until you're completely comfortable with two g's." She took another deep breath, watching the other woman's lithe body continue to evade her grasp in the heavy gravity. "Doctor's orders," she repeated, chest heaving almost painfully.
Unexpectedly, S'Parva lunged, ducked under the nurse, and brought her to the deck with little effort. The Katellan laughed, struggling to hold her writhing opponent to the mat. For a moment, success seemed imminent; but the nurse was more cunning and powerful than many human females. She slipped away, rolled aside, and would have gained her feet had it not been for the fact that the Katellan somersaulted across the mat in a quite natural movement and kicked her legs out from under her.
Christine landed heavily, with a thud, squarely on her posterior. The Katellan laughed again, seeing the confusion and very slight embarrassment in the nurse's eyes.
"Christine," S'Parva said, climbing to her feet and extending a helping hand, "Katella is a three g planet!" The easy laughter filled the room.
For a moment, Christine merely stared at the other woman—at the powerful muscles which ran the length of her body, at the long fur which formed a collar of sorts around the neckline of the workout clothes. McCoy was definitely going to hear about this. Physically, S'Parva could defeat anyone on board the ShiKahr. The workouts, therefore, obviously weren't intended for the Katellan. The nurse shook her head, brought her hands together in the universally accepted gesture of concession, then reached out to accept the furred hand which pulled her to her feet effortlessly.
"To resurrect an old Earth cliché, S'Parva," the nurse said with a sheepish grin, "I think I've been had."
S'Parva shrugged, called an official time-out period, then slipped one arm around her gasping opponent's waist and led her to the rest bench against the wall. Then, after retrieving the dislodged barrette and fastening the long ears back into a more convenient position, she quickly adjusted the controls just inside the sealed door. Gradually, slowly, gravity returned to Earth normal.
"Feeling better, Chris?" S'Parva asked, grabbing a towel from the bench and draping it around her neck. She took another, handed it to her partner, then sat down at the human's side.
The nurse shrugged, chasing away the nagging feeling of embarrassment. If she were out of shape, it was her own fault; and she'd long ago accepted the fact that McCoy never was one for a direct approach to any problem. She shook her head in mild disbelief, then let her head rest against the bulkhead as she began to laugh.
"I suppose it could've been a lot worse," she decided aloud.
S'Parva's whiskered brow rose onto a high canine forehead. "Oh?" she wondered, absently reaching out to massage the other woman's tense neck muscles.
Christine nodded, meeting the Katellan's confused expression, enjoying the warmth of the hands which were experts in the art of massage. "Oh, yes," she conceded with a laugh. "If the good doctor had really wanted to 'get' me, he could've set up this little workout charade with Captain Spock—under the pretense of only the gods know what!"
S'Parva's head tilted curiously to one side, accentuating her canine appearance. "Would he do that, Chris?" she asked incredulously.
For a moment, Christine found herself wondering … almost imagining. "No …" she said at last, experiencing a sense of melancholy she hadn't felt in years. A very faint, wistful smile replaced the reckless laughter of a moment before. At least it didn't hurt anymore. If she'd once felt something for the Vulcan which she'd labeled as love, that misplaced emotion had been replaced with respect—and the knowledge that whatever fantasies she had once entertained were not only illogical, but also impossible.
"No," she repeated unconsciously stretching her neck to one side as S'Parva's fingers probed deep into aching muscles. After the prolonged exposure to two g's, the now-normal gravity felt almost unreal, ethereal, and she allowed herself to drift. "There was a time, S'Parva," she relinquished, "that … well … a time when I didn't understand a lot of things about our illustrious pirate-captain."
S'Parva's hands continued massaging as a smile appeared on the thin face. "I think I know what you mean," she said quietly. "I've never met Captain Spock personally, but …" Her voice drifted into an almost embarrassed silence.
Christine looked up. "But … what?" she asked curiously, letting S'Parva's mischievous expression take shape on her own features. She felt her mind open to the Katellan in an easy and natural way, felt the gentle and curious telepathic aura which emanated from S'Parva.
"You … cared for him … didn't you, Chris?" S'Parva asked in a voice which was a tender contrast to the sheer bulk of the woman.
Christine looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. Despite the fact that her feelings for the captain had never been an easy secret, she wondered just how much S'Parva could psychically sense.
"That was a long time ago," she explained presently. "When I first came on board the ShiKahr, I thought … well … I thought I sensed a loneliness in Spock." She laughed wistfully. "And maybe I was naïve enough to believe I was the cure." She shrugged, not looking at the other woman. "But when I finally understood what it means to be a Vulcan … that's when I understood that Spock can't allow himself to become too close to anyone."
But she wondered if that was really the answer. There had been moments when the Vulcan had been tender, even warm with her. But she consigned those times back into the past as the barely readable smile returned. At one time, she recalled, she'd finally opened up to McCoy about it—had told the doctor of her feelings, had even suggested that perhaps transferring to another ship in another galaxy would be the best thing for everyone involved. Fortunately, McCoy had talked her out of it, had even helped her lay her desperate feelings for the Vulcan to a more comfortable rest.
"I don't know what—or who—he's looking for out here, S'Parva," she continued after a long silence which reflected only the gentle and faraway hum of the engines. "But I hope he'll find it one day." She smiled, and finally allowed herself to meet S'Parva's eyes once again. In them, she read tenderness … and a definite sense of understanding. But as she continued gazing into the intense black eyes, she felt herself start to slip. She gasped, unconsciously grasping onto the sides of the plastiform rest bench.
For a moment, S'Parva merely looked at the other woman, then pulled her hands away, deep eyes going wide as an echoing gasp escaped her own throat.
"What's wrong, Chris?" she asked. But then the images came. "Don't tell me you've got it, too!" Telepathic overload.
Chapel shook her head, instinctively denying something which had plagued her twice earlier in the day. She managed a smile, took a deep breath, and forced the dizziness away. "It's … it's nothing, S'Parva." Yet she knew the Katellan could read her all too easily.
S'Parva shook her head violently, long ears trembling furiously. "Don't you see, Chris? When I was massaging your back. I've—we've both felt the same thing. And I think I know what it is!" But she bit her lower lip in frustration. "Well, maybe not what it is, but …"
"It's nothing!" Chris repeated, surprised at the anger reflected in her tone. She felt red heat climb her neck, into her face, and chastised herself for not remembering sooner that S'Parva was a touch telepath as well as a directional sensitive.
"But it is, Christine," S'Parva corrected. "I've felt exactly the same thing—three times. Like I was … I dunno …" She shivered despite the heat of the room. "Like I was … slipping away from myself." Her voice lowered. "Like I was … losing any thread of sanity I ever had!" Impulsively, she rose from the bench, grabbing the other woman's arm and attempting to drag her toward the door. "Come with me down to the psyche lab," she pleaded. "I know there are images in there—but they pass by too quickly for the mind to record. If we can get some of them recorded on the vid-screen, maybe we can find an answer!"
Christine seemed dubious, then finally turned away. The vid-screen, for all its practical and medical uses, was still a humiliating experience. And despite the fact that S'Parva was right, the thought of four medical department heads—and the captain—psychoanalyzing her subconscious images caused her skin to crawl. Nothing incriminating, she thought. Just damned embarrassing! Images, yes. But … of what? First Officer Spock? She shivered. Easily enough explained—at least in her own case. Straight out of the textbooks. Knock him down in rank a few points. Make him easier to attain. The red heat crawled higher into her cheeks. No point dredging up restless—and unreachable—spirits. And the dizziness came again, refusing to leave her alone. She smiled to herself. It would be her secret … no matter what.
"Don't you see, Chris?" S'Parva interrupted. "It could be something important."
Christine smiled very gently, shook her head, and grasped the Katellan's warm hand. "And it could be nothing," she countered. But she hesitated—wavering between S'Parva's obvious concern and her own need to protect herself emotionally. Something warned that she should agree to the tests … but another part of herself rebelled. "Just … give me a couple days to think it over," she said at last. "And if it's still happening then …"
Very slowly, S'Parva nodded, somehow understanding the nurse's unique situation without questioning it. She reached out, tentatively placing one supportive hand on the other woman's shoulder. "Yeah, sure, Chris," she agreed with a tender smile. "But … can we agree to … well … compare notes over those days? I'll tell you any images I get and you do the same for me?"
Christine nodded, knowing it was a promise she wouldn't keep. Working in the psyche lab as she did, S'Parva was dangerous. And if the Katellan wanted the Vulcan for herself … Anger flared, but she concealed it well as she rose to her feet. "Same time tomorrow?" she asked.
"Same time," S'Parva agreed—and suddenly found herself sprawling through the air to land on the practice mat in a disorderly heap of disheveled fur. Her eyes widened in surprise and disbelief.
Laughing, Christine lunged, legs wrapped tightly around the Katellan's thick torso. "In case you'd forgotten," she reminded her opponent, "we've still got another fifteen minutes to go in order to fill this prescription." She pushed her shoulder into the heavy chest, struggling to hold the Katellan down. Vertigo came, spiraled, then retreated. She tasted the anger again, felt the encroachment of a rival. For a single brief instant, she chastised herself for the unbidden emotions. Surely, she thought, she'd dealt with her feelings for Spock years ago. Yet now they returned with a vengeance … and a whispered promise inside her own mind. Someone who did not exist told her in a voice only she could hear that she would have the Vulcan … if only she did not tell.
"Well, Spock?" McCoy demanded, open palm slapping the top of the desk as he stared at the Vulcan. The captain had not moved from the chair all night, running computer program after program. Even Reichert had finally drifted into a fitful sleep.
At last, Spock looked up. "The transmission is indeed genuine, Doctor," he replied with what might have been a sigh. "The voice pattern is a precise match to samples of Admiral S't'kal's voice which are already on file in the central computer." He leaned back, meeting McCoy's angry, questioning eyes.
For a long time, McCoy just stood there, expression hard and cold. An eerie feeling had taken up residence in the pit of his stomach—a feeling which he recognized as fear. "What about confirmation?" he ventured hopelessly. "Nobody in their right mind would issue an order like that!"
He stomped restlessly over to the other side of the small room, trying to imagine how Spock could remain so utterly calm. "It's got to be a hoax, dammit, Spock! There's no other explanation."
Presently, the Vulcan rose, straightening the uniform tunic once again. But the gold sash remained in the chair from where he'd removed it the night before. Absently, he picked it up, tying it around his waist as he thought. But suddenly, an eyebrow climbed and he walked over to stand at McCoy's shoulder.
