Title: Empathy

Author: Marcy Wilson-Cales

Series: TOS

Codes:Mc/Gem

Rating: [R]

Disclaimer: Paramount owns all. Yadda, yadda.

Summary: A sequel to the episode "The Empath". The Enterprise has dicovered Gem's people and the reasons why Lal and Thann were worried about their worthiness to be saved. Now Dr. McCoy finds himself at personal odds with the mission and must struggle to resolve his moral dilemma.

Feedback: [email protected]

Note: Part of the Doctor Fuh-q Fest.

Empathy

*click* the chrono marked another relentless minute from his life.

*click* and what did he have to look forward to?

*click* nothing more than getting *click* drunk as a skunk and *click* a stopover on Base VI, the Federation's third - *click* sleaziest source of revenue and second rate supplies. Just the *click* thought alone was enough to make him stay in his cabin while the ship docked and *click* finish up his dwindling brandy supply.

*click*

Leonard McCoy was feeling every second of this week's duty when his encroaching depression was interrupted by the presence of his Head Nurse/Surgical Assistant/Girl Friday, stalking into his office and slamming her back against the wall with a dramatic groan. Chapel waved wafers at him. "I've got to take orals in ALL of this?"

"Forensics is an ugly little branch of medicine." Leonard warned her. "If you want to get certified in that..."

"I'm sure." Christine assured him. "What if something I see could prevent a death in the future?"

"I understand those reasonings, Chris, but," Leonard held up his hand. "I'm certified too. At best, you're gonna have to put up with snarky comments about your antiquated interests, and at worst, you'll kill your faith in god." Bones fell silent. Pediatric forensics had to be the worst. "I was studying for my certification just as Joanna was born. I had nightmares for years afterwards."

Christine's warm face creased in sympathy. "I'm sorry, Leonard. That's got to be awful."

"Well." He stepped out of the memory carefully. "Just try not to empathize with what you see too much."

Christine sighed and sat down on the edge of his desk. Normally, Leonard would have made a point of enjoying the view in an exaggerated way, because if there was nothing sacred in Starfleet, it was a woman's thigh.

"Leonard," she said carefully, tapping her entrance wafers together like playing cards, "I sometimes wonder if we aren't meant to empathize with it."

Leonard frowned and she saw something flicker inside his eyes, something she couldn't read. "Let's talk about this." He said. "Lunch in the rec?"

"Which rec?" She teased, as if they ever had time to take a break elsewhere.

"The usual." He laughed. "Glad you caught me. I'm gonna be off duty for 36 hours and let me tell you, I'm plannin' on enjoyin' every bit of it."

"You'd better." Chapel warned as she slid to her feet. "Because Starbase VI isn't going to make you feel better."

"Don't remind me." He sighed.

They took their usual table against the wall and surrounded by a moat of Hikaru's weirder plants. Christine knew her boss was in a mood when he ordered paprika chili. Len went right for the spice rack when he was feeling down-you could practically use his menu as a barometer; god help you if he went Bayou Cajun.

Christine decided to go with it--today she couldn't stop feeling chilly and some heat would warm her right up. She ordered rooibos for their drink.

"Nyota really got you hooked on that stuff." He raised an eyebrow.

"It's good." She said defensively. "And good for your immune system."

"It'd be even better for you if it was real." McCoy gave his stew a sickening poke. "Can't wait to eat real meat again. This Textured Vegetable Protein is an offense to everything I stand for."

"I hope you're not trying to persuade me." Chapel joined oystershucks every chance she got, wearing her favorite, YOU SHUCK EM, WE SUCK EM T-shirt for the occasion.

"Yup. Ok." Leonard took a taste of chili and shuddered. "Ok. Now where were we?"

"Empathizing with images." Christine took a deep breath. "I've been thinking about this a lot, so...Leonard, human esper abilities are a proven fact; they are certainly unrefined compared to say, the Vulcan or Deltan species. But what if empathy is a form of higher perception? I'm not going to get into the Biblical "beasts of the field" distinction. I'm seriously wondering if our ability, or, propensity, to get emotionally involved with a photograph is more than an overactive imagination. I guess...well, look at the human people who are gifted in a little esper. They look at an image and read the people inside it."

Leonard didn't say anything for a moment, just ate some of the vile, bloody red chili. Rumor had it the very sight made Vulcans ill.

"Have you checked the Scramble Studies?" He asked finally.

Chapel blinked. "I was under the impression it was unprofessionally done."

"No, no...It was the language that confused our modern analysists. This is pre-Eugenics Wars stuff, y'know." He leaned his chin on his hand, frowning in deep thought. "Empathy's a sticky subject, Christine. It's a downplayed emotional state. To voluntarily feel what another person is feeling, well, Vulcans aren't the only ones who are tetchy about the idea." He sighed. "I know more about it than you do, I daresay, because Major Thompson funded the studies practically in the ancestral backyard. Talk about a man who needed killing."

"Didn't Colonal Green finally do just that?" Chapel frowned. The infamous Colonel had a habit of executing his most faithful followers in fits of temper. You lost track after a while, just like you lost track of the Old USA Presidents after Lincoln.

"Hell, yeah. Had him hung instead of shot like he usually did...one of my ancestors was part of the slave labor detailed to the gravedigging." McCoy shrugged. "I'm getting off the subject, Chris, but the Studies were comprised of 200 photographic images of horror: rape, murder, starvation, disease--lots of children were involved. Equally half of the images were false; faked and staged. Only a code on the back of each photograph told if it was genuine. Viewers' responses were carefully recorded. Now, some people were complete boulders--didn't react to anything. And some reacted to everything. But a significant percentage reacted mostly to the real images, and hardly to the faked ones." McCoy frowned darkly. "Twenty percent. That's enough to raise eyebrows. Those people were set aside and given different tests to see if they scored on any forms of esper. They did. But here's the frightening thing. The "boulders" were tested to see if they could manipulate--PKU tests, getting their favorite numbers on the dice rolls, that kind of thing. They did. And they were the types that wound up as the finer sort of narco-whiffing homicidal maniac in the Eugenics Guard."

"Oh, God." Chris said with feeling. "Are you saying people found it safer to dismiss these theories?"

"Yup." Bones shrugged. "The reasons were inethical in the extreme, but then, so were a lot of bad decisions."

Chapel sighed. "I need to start reading."

"Don't do it on a weekend. You'll be unfit for duty when we get back on." Leonard glanced up as people approached. "What are you two doin' here?"

Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock strolled their way to the table. Spock was typically distracted by the blooming canary vine Sulu had up on a trellis. Chapel looked patient; ever since Sargon had hidden his mind inside hers, she'd been putting up with his overdone Vulcan casualness.

"Pardon me, Bones, Nurse Chapel." Kirk nodded politely to her and leaned into the spare chair in front of them. "We just got the most...fascinating...communique from Starfleet." He spoke carefully; his expression was guarded, which meant he had no clue as to whether he had good or bad news to share.

McCoy bit down on a manufactured pinto bean. "Well, get it over with, Jim. I ain't got forever to live."

"It seems we're being asked to go to the Hestian Quad."

"What the hell for?" McCoy was understandably startled. "There's nothing there--or wasn't the last fifty or so times they ran a sweep!"

Jim pursed his lips, shaking his head. "Seems there were some intelligent life on one of the planets that we didn't know about." He looked at the pitcher and Chapel poured him a glass. "Thank you, Christine..." He sipped gratefully. "Well, truth to tell, they seem to have been...transported to Hestia from wherever they originated from."

McCoy finished his stew off, swiped the bowl clean with re-constructed sourdough bread, and leaned back. "What is it you're not saying? Who discovered them--Interstellar Geo & and Survey?"

"Correct." Spock entered the conversation for the first time. "A Vulcan ship, the SHI'KAHR."

"Then why aren't they dealing with the First Contact and Observation?" McCoy frowned.

Jim Kirk cleared his throat. "They...specifically asked for us to be there, you and I and Mr. Spock."

McCoy's body was motionless. "Uh."

"There are some unique challenges to communicating with the immigrants that the SHI'KAHR crew was unable to deal with anyway." Jim added. "For example, each and every inhabitant of the discovery settlement needed to be equipped with their own Translator Voder."

"Wha?" McCoy sat straight up. "What for? They do triple-harmonic throat singing?"

"Not exactly." That odd note was back in Jim's voice. Astonished, Christine saw a phenomenon she had never before witnessed: the hairs on Leonard's arms were standing straight up as chills walked over his skin. Prescience? She felt he already knew what Jim was going to say.

"What kind of challenges?" He asked calmly enough.

"The people," Jim said slowly, "Possess no vocal cords."

McCoy went through the motions of the rest of the day, but he was glad to be alone in his cabin at the end. The doors hissed shut and he locked them before slumping down on his bed.

He was tired; his back ached from being stuck in the unnatural microscope-hunch for two hours and he resolved to work out heavy at the gym before sleeping. Not that he was a slouch with his physical condition; you didn't survive under Jim Kirk if you weren't athletically inclined somehow and somewhere. And you never knew; someday those medals in gym, running and steeplechase might save his life. As many hostile natives they kept running into, that wasn't beyond the bounds of probability.

His mind had been wandering. Deliberately. Leonard closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them to look at the shelf of books above his head. He didn't know what he should be thinking about an Empathic planet. Usually, he did like Jim and Spock: avoided thinking about Gem and the Vians as much as possible. Simple enough: stay busy. But Life wasn't done with them yet, huh?

Hadn't been that long ago...less than a quarter...since they ran into that unholy duo. Good God...Bones remembered the horror that swept through them all to see Linke and Ozaba, dead in tubes with their pain and suffering preserved forever. It made him ill. He could still feel the desire to kill the Vians, but he kept that, and his reasons, out of his records. They had hurt Jim and Spock where they were the most vulnerable: Jim's worst nightmare was to choose between the lives of his crew--worse if they were friends he trusted. Spock's worst nightmare was twofold: insanity and being unable to take responsibility. The Vians had made them literally swim in those fears until McCoy rendered the angst moot with a hypo.

Leonard sighed to the thin air and yanked his uniform off for the shower. The sting of water and pressure couldn't erase the unclean feeling Lal and Thann had left on him. He grabbed a bar of Chris' homemade soap and scrubbed at his hair fiercely. Gem had been the worst off. She had gone through far too much for such a person. Two men dead and she had been unable to help them. And yet, she had looked upon the three of them with childlike curiosity, and wonder...and lack of fear. The fear had came later, when she touched him, trying to heal him...

Bones shivered, feeling ice in his heart. He scrubbed at his skin harder. Echoes...they had shared something when she touched him. And he couldn't describe it. There weren't words...he doubted there were complete concepts for the feeling. Or was it a feeling at all? Maybe "experience" was a more total word. But when she had touched him, he could have sworn she was talking to him inside his mind...

(It's been way too long, Leonard Horatio) McCoy leaned into the spray, eyes squeezed tight. (You have *got* to find yourself a girlfriend.)

(Nothing doing.) His uglier mental voice jumped in. (You want another disaster like Tonia? You barely got to know her before she got killed in that damn asteroid belt. Didn't even know her long enough to tell her sisters in person what had happened.)

Romance and Starfleet mixed about as well as mashed bananas and ketchup. Couldn't blame human nature for trying, but Leonard had realized he was beyond the point where he could deal with this. It was one thing to play the field for fun, but he got tired of that scenario a long time ago. Tonia had reminded him of Emony Dax, and there was nothing like the resemblance to your firstest, bestest infatuation to send you straight down an emotional wormhole. Never knew where you would end up, but the odds were against Eden.

Gem's simple touch had conjured up things he had been needing for a long time: concern and warmth, a need not to be alone...

"You're not going to find someone until you get out of the service." Leonard gritted his teeth as he said this for the umpteenth time. "You already tried it the other way, and look how that turned out."

Thoughts like this led to the inevitable: Just how much longer was he going to stay here?

Not too much longer, maybe retire as soon as this crazy mission was over, assuming he survived it! He was sick and tired of regs, admirals, conflicting interests, psychs, moderate-grade equipment, and being alone. There, he'd confessed it. He was lonely. Seriously, seriously lonely.

Dressed in fatigues, he couldn't bring himself to leave for the gym yet. He sank back down on the bed, feeling his wet hair soak into the mattress. He was going to lose his mind if he didn't get some kind of shore leave soon. As much as he hated the thought of sex with a stranger who was motivated by either money or an equal amount of non-attached ecstacy, it was better than going crazy. (Too bad we have to drag our emotions into everything.) He exhaled, knowing the problem was entirely with the human race. (Imagine how much simpler it could be if it was all just about lighting up the nerve endings. 'Thanks for the stimulus!' 'No problem!')

Without knowing it, he dropped right off to sleep. But his dreams were haunted of soft rainbow colors shimmering against smooth white skin.

*Nobody* was looking forward to the stopover on Base VI. Despite the attempts to standardize the supply lanes, VI was in the Rigellian system, which meant the natives had a fifty-percent chance of understanding you and a thirty percent chance of pretending otherwise. Scotty called their equipment "pre-Industrial"; the food was sub-standard by human norms and Spock's Vulcan blood was vulnerable to every wandering bug that was currently floating around. It was a dread for more than one reason.

"At least Mr. Spock will be happy." Chekov glumly summed up the situation as he and Sulu stared hopelessly around the center spiral of the station. Various cubicles made a show of selling preserved produce from Vulcan. That was almost just about it.

"As happy as Spock gets, you mean." Hikaru sighed. "Why do copper-based life forms love to snack on flavored SALT, anyway?"

"Conductivity?" McCoy had been behind them with a bag over his shoulder. As they gaped he shrugged. "Beats me. Rumor has it their superior telepathy has to do with superconductivity on their electrical synapses. Just one of those questions to keep me up at night."

"Us too." Hikaru said sourly. "Thanks a lot. Pavel here has already messed me up big time with his great ideas."

"All in the name of science." Chekov protested.

"Hooking up a lie detector to an ouija board is not my idea of science."

McCoy let them evolve their quarrel, catching up to Jim on the other side of the center. Jim was, of course, in uniform.

"Did you get in touch with Dr. Yxl?" Jim asked as he fell in step. "That didn't take long."

"Finally." McCoy huffed. "S/he was undergoing a phase of gender fluidity and quite distracted. Couldn't supply more than a wafer of data on empathic species...I feel cheated."

"Cheated on the skimpy material or cheated there's a lovely species out there that can re-create parthenogenically and doesn't need men like us?"

"Don't even get me started." McCoy was cranky. Jim knew he'd be too if he were in Bones' boots. O'otonmo phermones did that to humans.

(He needs shore leave in the worst way,) Jim decided. (Too bad this is it.) They strolled towards the string of eateries the base kept. Surely there was a token stall for iron-based life forms. "Empathic species are rare, though. Shouldn't expect much data, correct?"

"Hah." McCoy snapped. "Empathy just happens to be one of the more embarassing emotions and people don't want to discuss it. We've got the Deltans, the pre-Reform Vulcan cultures such as the Romulans and Rigellians, we've got the applicant Betazoids--although I dread the day they're fully accepted into Starfleet. Can you imagine them with Vulcans?"

Jim chuckled. "They should get along with the Deltans, at least."

They found what claimed to be a coffeeshop and settled against the bar. McCoy wordlessly pointed at a color image of a large latte and plunked down his credit voucher. The big blond Swede waiting the stall made them both stare by pulling out genuine coffee beans and pouring them into a little mill.

"Real beans?" Jim whispered.

"Looks like." McCoy whispered back. "Think we've got enough in our accounts?"

"For a good cause like *coffee*, I'd take out a loan!"

McCoy grunted and leaned his head against his hand in silence. His eyes held tired smears and he was slumping a lot. Jim thought he'd looked this way earlier, but news of Hestia seemed to have made it worse. If he was afraid of what they would find, Jim couldn't blame him a bit. He often thought of the Vians, and what if they were still around?

"Let's get to where we can watch the ship." Jim grabbed his drink in one hand, McCoy in the other. McCoy followed the path of least resistance, nursing his own latte. "You look tired, Bones."

Bones snorted. "Astute, Jim. I am." He let his head fall back for a moment. "Geoff and I've been helping Christine take her orals. Oh, God. She's destined for greatness, Jim. I'll miss her like hell when she leaves but she's too good to stay here."

"Are you sure?" Jim was chary of the subject. "We can use another doctor."

"I know, but it wouldn't be the best for her. She's a bio, Jim. A great researcher and hard-nutcracker. I'm pushing her for the DAYSPRING."

"DAYSPRING? Bones, the waiting list still has Eleanor Roosevelt! Who'd you kill? Who do you know?"

"Phillip, of course. And Mark Piper. I'd go there myself if I could." Somewhat listlessly, McCoy stirred his spoon into his drink. Jim heard the resonation in the other's voice, an odd, sad echo of a note out of tune.

"Why don't you try to go, Bones?" He murmured. He was afraid o the answer, but he needed to know.

McCoy looked up, blue eyes meeting hazel across the table, across the cups. (I'm staying here,) that look said to Jim, (Because without me you won't make it back home. Because I promised Phillip and Mark I'd watch out for you and Spock.) "I chose to be here on the ENTERPRISE, Jim. And I don't regret making that decision." Were the words that came out of his mouth. (I only regret what I'm turning into...)

Jim nodded. "I'm glad, Bones." He said quietly.

The silence was going to turn awkward. McCoy was the older, ever in the position of listener while Jim was the talker, the confessor. Neither was comfortable with hashing the boundaries between friendship and rank no matter how badly Leonard needed to confide in someone. Starfleet expected camaraderie; they did not approve of a too-close friendship among officers; as it was, Jim had to constantly defend his open closeness with his crew. Jim's active mind raced, searching for a way to deflect the heavy mood. "Look on the bright side, Bones. At least Christine isn't like Joanna."

Bones blinked. "How d'you mean?"

"Remember when she got your medical books out of your office and was using them to play Internet word puzzles with?" Jim began laughing at the memory. "How many eight-year-olds can get "corrugator supercilli" on the triple word score plus "oculi" on the O?"

When Spock found them, ten minutes later, they were still laughing.

It was a ragged, tired and weary crew that gathered to Brief two days later. In the center of the table sat a triscreen image of a jade-green continent resting inside a calm sea of violet blue.

"That's a lot of ocean compared to the land." Sulu voiced what they were all thinking. "But then, this isn't the Hestian's original world, is it?"

"No. God knows where thot is." Scott grumped.

"A high possibility that intelligent life is still evolving in the sea." Spock said. "Nearly all forms of life depend on an ocean to begin with."

"Well, sure." McCoy shrugged as he signed his RollPadd, then passed it on to Jim. "It's one of the easiest ways to create life."

"Easiest?" Jim smiled absently, scrolling down the padd before putting his initials on the bottom. "I might have missed that class."

"You, Jim? Miss a class? To laugh." McCoy grinned. "Nah. It's just living species have their origins in genetic mutation. And cosmic rays are a rich source for those mutations." He nodded to the viewer. "The main part of cosmic rays at sea level is the mu meson."

"Oooh, yeah." Sulu broke in. "The muon's created when an atom collides with an extra-terrestrial cosmic ray proton." The former ship's physicist apparantly hadn't forgotten his classes either. "The funny thing is, it would decay long before it reaches the sea, but time dilation in special relativity makes it possible."

"Yup." McCoy agreed. "The high velocity increases its lifetime. Sorta how you can keep the temperature of the water high by moving the molecules around."

Jim considered that Spock was charmed at the exchange. Sulu, now that he was a full helmsman, hardly ever spoke of his old profession, and McCoy was (in)famous for avoiding math on the grounds that he needed to conserve vital space in his brain. "Planetary flora is primarily carboniferous with evolving diocotes." Spock continued. "It would seem they have not progressed far from the Coal Age."

"And there's bipedal mammals down there?" Eyebrows popped up all over the room. "No competition with big green dinosaurs?"

"Hardly, doctor, nor purple ones neither." Spock was always dry and superVulcan when McCoy used the word "green." "Adequate vegetation would inspire an ecological balance of some sort."

"Adequate is the word." Pavel's voice sank in wonder. "Three hundred foot palms? Eight-foot ferns?"

"You could carve a house out of the trunk of one." Nyota commented.

"Why bother?" Sulu was getting that dreamy, I'm-in-plant-heaven look on his face again. "You could rig a permanent campsite under a fern."

"Captain, if I may," Spock said politely as he switched the view to a large jungle panorama. "The SHI'KAHR was quite adamant that we familiarize ourselves with this species." Data scrolled at the bottom of a flock of long-feathered birds in plumage that covered every color in the spectrum.

"Poisonous." McCoy mused. "Interesting. Earth only has one toxic bird, and it's a jungle critter too. But this looks SOP."

"Bright as they are, even the females have toxic feathers." Nyota was puzzled. "I wonder how they can properly nurture their young?"

"This is a planet full of questions." Jim murmured. Inside he was thinking how much Gem's clothing resembled the birds' feathers. It had to be deliberate. Gem herself had been very birdlike, small and small-boned, light and frail and yet stronger than any of them put together. The rainbow shimmer of her clothes had accentuated that frailty, the way the colors of an opal displayed itself, the weakest gemstone of all.

"The natives, when the concept was reached," Spock continued, "simply called their world, 'home.' They possess varying degrees of awareness." Spock steepled his fingers. "Despite their being unaware of space travel, they are quite skilled in the sustainable arts: weaving, metallurgy, sustainable agriculture, stonework and painting. It should be noted that they were amazed that the crew of the SHI'KAHR would wear solid colors."

"Would wearing solid colors offend them?" Nyota wondered.

"A sensitive question, Lieutenant. But they seem to be merely curious at our differences, and being empathic, understood that the landing party was not being offensive."

"What about..." Jim rubbed his jaw. "Family structure? Politics?"

"Family structure is matrilineal." McCoy filled in. "Each house is based on the founding of a mother. The groups are referred to as gens; a large, fluid community structure of members constantly entering and leaving, and renewing familial ties. Everyone is related to everyone; the political scheme is nonexistent. These people are utter matrilineal socialists. They share everything equally. Crime is purportedly nonexistent."

"Sounds pleasant." Jim said cautiously. "Did they say anything about...being transported here?"

"They said only that their people and ecosystem was moved here, and that this place is "identical" to where they used to live."

"The Vians weren't kidding about transport." McCoy muttered.

"Very well. It will be myself, Dr. McCoy and Mr. Spock for the first landing party. Mr. Sulu, you will be in command with Mr. Scott, dividing shifts..." Jim rattled on while watching his CMO; McCoy had that tired look on his face again, his long fingers toying with the wafers spread over the table. He didn't think he was looking at simple insomnia.

As custom, the senior officers remained behind as the rest left. Spock was his usual taciturn self, but the occasional flick of a glance in McCoy's direction told Jim that the doctor's unusal quiet had been noted. Jim was not completely sure which tactic to take with him; as much as they bickered, Spock might be able to reach him better. They had the equal rank status in common. "Well, Bones what do you think?"

"I'm thinking about who it is we'll meet." Leonard was obviously glum; a difference from his usual cranky self that was nothing more than a stay-away persona to combat the stress of his job. He dumped his empty cup as they filed into the turbolift. As they watched, he worried his fingernail with his teeth. "Are you sure we shouldn't carry phasers?"

This from McCoy, who would have let a gladiator open his guts on public TV not all that long ago, was nothing less than astonishing. Spock didn't even bother to try to hide his surprise.

"Bones, I need to be checked into Sickbay for auditory hallucinations. I could ahve swarn you were pushing for phasers."

Bones chuffed.

"*Empaths?*" Jim gaped.

"Jim, if bein' an Empath was all that hunkey-dory--" Neither of the others were familiar with that word, but as so often, they were able to extrapolate the gist of his meaning--"why did the Vians feel Gem's people *might not* be worthy of being saved?" As they absorbed that in silence, he pushed on. "Think about it. They knew about the Federation. Did they ask for our help to save *both* worlds? No. They conducted a bad experiment to see if Gem's was deserving of survival! And bein' an empath doesn't mean just the great things in life, Jim. Frankly, I'm scared of what we might find down there. Read my lips: S-C-A-R-E-D."

Jim looked at Spock. "Have you reviewed the wafer of empathic species?"

"Yes, captain. There is precious little evidence, due to the rarity of the condition. But I believe I understand what Dr. McCoy is saying."

"Well, I don't." Jim stopped the lift at McCoy's floor but left the door shut. "Perhaps if you enlightened me?"

"Pre-Reform Vulcan has large portions of its history missing." Spock began, the Vulcan equivalent of "once upon a time." "But empathy was a powerful tool for our species in that it helped render us less destructive."

"To a certain point." Bones grumbled. "What about the trained warriors who could resist mental overtures yet use their own minds on others?"

"You have heard of the H'e'ar?" Spock queried. "That was *not* in the data wafer."

"I have many sources, and that includes your mother. Jim, imagine the world's greatest con artist who can make you think you're doing things of your own volition. Even putting a gun to your head. But that's just the military aspect of empathy. I'm thinking of the more subtle forms, such as the brain of all sentient species being susceptible to endomorphic "highs" ...pain and misery can be a "high" with trained exposure. And of course, Munchausen's Syndrome, where a person is so dependant on being a savior, they literally damage their own children to stay in that role."

"On another level there is also the fact that a small portion of the Deltan population is considered "mentally ill" for deliberately inflicting damage to themselves in order to enjoy healing." Spock pointed out.

"Now d'you see what I'm saying?" McCoy pleaded. "Lock the phasers on permanent stun, but let's not go down without 'em!"

Jim hesitated, then finally shook his head. "The SHI'KAHR made it very clear that they saw nothing but pleasant, peaceful people."

"Checking the whole time for snakes in the grass?" McCoy asked skeptically.

Jim threw up his hands. "What can I do? The language used gave me the distinct impression that there was nothing for us to fear from these people! What if the presence of weapons insults them?"

"I'd rather risk it myself, if there was a chance the Vians were around."

And it was officially out in the open.

Jim held his breath as the air froze around them. McCoy's glare was unrelenting.

"Yeah, I've said it." He growled. "I've been thinking about them as much as you have...crazy freaks."

"I don't know if we can call them that, Bones."

"You can't? Jim...if they were that evolved, and that concerned with the survival of Gem's people, why wouldn't they offer themselves up to Gem's imprintation, instead of finding lower-evolved life forms like ourselves? You recall that it wasn't their fault Linke and Ozaba died, y'know! It's always the fault of the lab rat if it starves before it gets out of the maze!"

Jim swallowed dryly. "I know..." He looked at Spock, who was looking faintly ill.

"I confess I never thought of that." Spock again laced his fingers together, a pose of detached thought. "Nor, as I consider, did they account for any variables in their experiment with us. When we forced them to change their rules, they capitulated with amazing swiftness."

"Because they were too evolved to think for the little guys." McCoy paced the confines, hands behind his back. "Typical Mengele attitude. Gem nearly lost her mind! What would have happened to the Hestians then? Ooops, we'll have to start all over? Better luck next time? Next please?'"

Jim's grip slipped on the handle; the turbo doors opened. McCoy stopped and held his hand on the bar. "I'm gonna make sure Sickbay is *good and prepped* before we go down there." He warned.

Jim and Spock were left alone.

Jim broke the silence first. "That was...intense." He said.

"But understandable." Spock had an out of character strength of gaze as he looked at his captain. "I myself was startled by my own insights when Gem instigated contact with me...the good doctor's contact was far more deep, and much more involved than mine was."

"Yes, mine too." Jim gnawed his lip, almost like McCoy had done with his fingernail. "I suppose there aren't words to describe what I felt. There was a...kind of communication flowing between us...she did more than heal my body, Spock. She healed something inside me that...that...I didn't know was broken."

"Dr. McCoy's behavior is not unlike a Vulcan's who has been forced into a healing against their will." Spock reluctantly released this minor bombshell to a stunned captain. "While the body can be healed, the mind can remain defiant. And we both know that he was defiant of the Vians upon principle."

"Yes..." Jim slowly restarted the turbolift for Officer's Quarters. "In a way, they stood for everything he was against as a doctor...and as a human being. If he had surrendered to letting Gem heal him, he would have seen it as helping her die."

"Compounded more by McCoy's own ethics." Spock pointed out. "He will not take a life, not to save his own. If my speculation is true, he will need healing or his condition will worsen." Spock spoke soberly, very quietly.

They stopped at Officer's Deck and got out. It was still early enough in the shift that no one was about. It gave the corridor an eerie, deserted feeling. "Let's go get something to eat before Bridge." Jim offered.

"I would be pleased, Captain."

"Spock," Jim began.

"Yes, Jim?"

They paused at his door; they stepped inside. "Do you think there would be anything that would drive McCoy to kill?"

Spock was silent as Jim pulled out a Christmas box of fruit. "I know that he only dissects animals that have already died. He finds the examination of a corpse to be "impractical", as a "student of life". A reasoning I must agree with."

Jim toyed with a golden slice of dried pear. "I just keep thinking of how badly he fought as a gladiator..."

"Dr. McCoy is in truth, an excellent fighter." If Spock had said, "I am a redhead," Jim could not have been more astonished. "He was aware that I possessed the skills to keep us both alive. Ergo, he did not, as you would say, "put out." But if you will recall the events of the anger-feeding entity from Beta XIIA, and you were separated from us--"

"I'm not likely to forget a Klingon as big as Kang being mad at me." Jim muttered.

"It was Dr. McCoy who led the attack to rescue you. He muttered about "dueling with steak knives" but did quite well. He has had training in a style I am unfamiliar with, but it got him past a defense of armed Klingons."

Jim absorbed that in numbstruck silence. "Well, he's just full of surprises, isn't he?" He sorted out a handful of maypops and some limes, knowing Spock liked the salty rinds. Spock wordlessly thanked him and bit down on the tart slices.

"But as to your question, could he kill, could he take a life..." Spock's eyebrows genuflected all over his forehead. "We may all kill, Jim. McCoy prefers not to reveal the reasons he would need for such an action. But I believe he would kill, to protect the defenseless."

Back in Sickbay, Christine Chapel came across her CMO at his desk, a distant expression in his eyes. He was studying an image on his viewscreen, she realized, of a gorgeous flying bird, wrapped in flowing, multicolored plumage.

..contussion...(rhisorious; platysma; levator labii superioris) broken bones (greenstick fracture/ulna;) impact upon abdominal aorta (viscreal and parietal) knee (patellofemoral joint; tibiofemoral joint; proximal tibiofibular joint) wrists--think about the muscles, the bones, the joints. Label the blood vessels, be clinical. Observe objectively. Wrists--ellipsoid joints; condyloid. A reduced ball and socket configuration. Interosseous ligament-- (Gem. Don't touch me. You'll die.) Lal and Thann. Their pathetic apology to him, absolving themselves of any guilt, telling each other as well as himself there was no other way. He had no use for that. "Get on with it!" (Like getting hit with large rocks. Internal stuff; bleeding seeping through the tissues. Damaged organs. Liver? Now *that* hurt. (Gem? What the hell are you doing??) [Hurt/pain? Stop hurt] (Gem, get away. You'll die. Too close to death.) [Negativefeelingstubborn; stophurt/hurtpain] Healing flow; cells repairing as she takes the obbscenity inside herself. The death of thy neighbor. Puzzlement. What is a T-cell? (As soon as I can I'm pushing you away--GET AWAY!)

McCoy gasped himself awake, found himself in an upright position in bed in his unlit cabin. For a moment, two wrinkled faces looked back at him in the darkness, and then they were gone.

The Vians and their sincerely-belived-in sympathy were gone.

Gem was gone.

He was alone.

McCoy pulled a deep, shuddering breath inside his ribs, feeling the floating bones shake. He was in his fatigues again. He rubbed his now-rough face, realizing he'd forgotten to shave. He'd fallen asleep before making it to the gymnasium again.

[?...!]

[pain?] Gem whispered in his mind. [pain!...stop...stopTHIS/outrage]

He closed his eyes tight against the flood of images.

[dare you...hurt...]

She didn't speak in words inside his mind, but in other ways that defied description. She communicated in feelings as intricate as any language, and if pressed, he could only say that "he knew" what she was saying. And he wanted to return to that communication again, to see her, look into those deep eyes and find out what the Vians had done to her when they were done...

He could stay here and wallow in self-inflicted angst, or, he could go do something. Anything.

He glanced at his ChronoPadd out of habit; Chris was getting tutored by Geoff today, subject, "The Origins of Embryonic Mutation." Lovely. Better you than me, Geoff. Chris'll ask you why our thyroid began as gills in our embryonic stage. I bet you anything...Spock was going in at 0400 for a rhinovirus he'd contracted on Base VI (surprise!). McCoy noted that Geoff was going to do that too. Way to go, Geoff. He didn't feel like donning the warpaint and duking it out with a clogged Vulcan today. They were both low in spirits and liable to start slicing each other open. Anything else? Ohgod. A request from FedMed for a copy of his report on captured mitochondria taken from Miri's Planet. Maybe if he gave Maggie Tong a whole bottle of Godiva liquor she'd be so kind as to run it thru the compucensor and send the whole damn package to thsoe deskbound warthogs...

He dropped the Padd with a shudder and fled to the gymnasium for about 80,000,000 laps around the pool. Fled? *Fled.* As in, running like hell. He did not, could not, would not, deal with FedMed. If there was any logic to human paranoia, Destiny was pushing him to some sort of terrific confrontation with the Hestian Empaths, because he hadn't heard from FedMed for at least a quester, and it was to sit and listen to High Admiral Waabs cuss him out in her unique mixture of Anglish, Fed-Standard, Cherokee and Ojibwa for putting himself on the line to save Spock from the Vians.

"The captain and First Officer are trained soldiers!" He could hear her yelling while he sat politely in front of her desk and tried to think pleasant thoughts. "You aren't! If I *ever* hear of you pulling another stunt like that, Leonard Horatio, all the semaa in the world won't keep me from yanking you OFF THAT SHIP AND SENDING YOU TO A PEDIATRIC WARD INSIDE THE GRAND MARTIAN CANYON!"

"Gawd." McCoy breathed as he dove into the pool. For a few blissful moments, his world was nothing more than water and bubbles. Then he broke surface, caught air and waved to Jenny Elpel on the other side, teaching Annbjorg Yaga some kind of backstroke. Last week Annbjorg had been teaching Elpel the all-important skill of badminton. Leonard wished they would cut out the "tutoring" aspect of their romance and just get to their cabins. If they got drunk enough they might find the courage to advance to a new level. It would be nice to see *somebody* scoring WIN on their sex life around here.

(Who am I to talk? I've got a classic obsession with an alien mute young enough to be my daughter!)

He went under again. Cool water went over his head. Yup, that's it, Len. You are *obsessed.* You can't think of anyone or anything else but Gem. And God help you, she's an Emptah. She'll find out what you're all about inside ten minutes of beamdown. Ten minutes? Five. Maybe even two. Or instantaneously. You're hopeless. Maybe that pediatric ward on Mars wouldn't be a bad idea.

McCoy went to the bottom of the pool where depressions were carved out: concaves and convexes, training grounds for undersea maneuvers. He was determined to shut his mind out of this extremely unprofessional fixation even if he had to stay submerged for most of the night. Or at least, until he could convince himself that the Universe wasn't pushing him towards another meeting with Gem.

Unbidden, an image of Spock popped into his head. The Vulcan was sitting crosslegged in a lotus position, eyes closed and chanting, "I am Vulcan. There is no co-incidence."

On the other side of the pool, Annbjorg, who was from Mars' deserts and ignorant of water, commented to her hypothetical lover: "He's been under a long time. How long can humans hold their breath?"

Jenny Elpel didn't look up from her view of Annbjorg's wetsuit. "About three minutes." She said absently. "Honey, you need to keep breathing deep. It's good for your lungs."

An hour later, shaking and sweating (and not wanting to examine the reasons why), Leonard turned on Ship's Radio at random while he changed to dry clothes. Nyota was running DJ tonight, which meant even Spock would feel contented with the selection. He felt himself smile a little, and maybe even relax, as long, complex noted began to fill his cabin. Maybe, just maybe, he could let the music take him away from himself.

(What is it about you, Gem?) He stared upward at the ceiling, no longer frightened but there was a...deathly calm inside him now, a part that was temporarily exhausted of emotion and only the cool intellect remained behind. (I was in awe of you on Minara. I still am. I keep wondering if you're...real. Did you really adapt the way the Vians planned? Or did we hurt you so badly you never recovered? I can't stop thinking about you. I can't stop wishing I could see you again, touch your hand and read your eyes. Something about you struck me when I first saw you. Odd. It's usually Jim who falls head first over a woman. I guess you're never too old to be deranged.)

Nope. It seemed that one never got wiser with age. You'd think, that getting his heart emotionally shattered three times as well as the agony of fatherhood from a distance would be the cure. Who was it that said the human heart was the only machine that could function while split open? They were *so* right.

Jim Kirk tightened his resolve with his mental belt and rang the chime.

He stepped into a dim room, struck once again by how positively Spartan McCoy's cabin was. Even Spock was hands-down more homey--albeit with a more exotic flare, what with his firepot beast always glowing like some kind of scaley nightmare.

Music was playing at a barely audible range; Norwegian kulling blended with traditional hardangar violin. Leonard was sitting at the narrow table with a late supper before him.

"Figured you might show up." His doctor said. "Want an egg roll?"

Jim decided to ease himself into casual conversation. "I'm amazed that a determined meat eater like yourself always eats vegetarian on the ship." He leaned over and grabbed a roll off the plate. He already knew to avoid the hot and sour soup. Southerners and their radioactive palates...there were times Jim regretted Mexico's induction into the United States. Ever since, anyone below the Mason-Dixon Line considered capsicum the fifth food group.

McCoy snorted. "You call that stuff in the molecular stores "meat?" I know its supposed to copy everything properly, but the base matters are from vegetables and nuts. No, Captain, if I'm going to eat meat I'll have to kill it myself. Trust me. The first thing I do after we get back to Earth is grab my Mere Heath Longbow and hit the woods."

Jim chuckled, sitting down on the other side of the table. "I just might go with you. I'll grab my grandfather's sinew-backed self bow and we'll see how it matches up."

"You, captain, need to be eating more lean meat anyway." McCoy snapped. "Those molecular starches are what's expanding your waistline. Or have you not noticed when you get some of your mother's buffalo roasts you stop gaining?" He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "But no. Some Lakota you are."

Jim pretended to throw his egg roll at him. "This from the man whose ancestors were civilized just as forcefully. At least my people don't feel the need to put a cayenne pod in our milk."

"You shouldn't be drinking milk anyway. Bad for your Lakota-influenced DNA. For shame. And for your information, there's nothing like a cayenne pod in your morning milk to wake you up in the morning, dose y'with folic acid,, and kill all unfriendly intestinal flora."

"So you say. But someday when we make a truce with the Romulans, I'm going to see how your heat tolerance levels add up. I hear they spread harissa sauce on their morning pancakes."

"Fine. I'll bring my mother's habanero cookies."

Jim gagged. "Ah, well...How long is Spock going to be out for the count?"

"It's just the Rigellian common cold--something the Vulcanoid colonists brought over with 'em with their Pre-Reform philosophy. I'd say he'll be fine tomorrow. You know Vulcans--they'll do anything to recover if their eyes are watering too bad to read." Jim choked and McCoy grinned. "What's on your mind, Jim?"

"What makes you think anything's on my mind?"

"You're here, aren't you? When you just want to kill time, you do it with Spock."

Jim blushed, about to protest, but Leonard's eyes stopped him. It was true; the deeper Jim's kinship with Spock grew, the less he seemed to be with his older friend.

"If you think I'm upset about that, think again." McCoy said gruffly. "God knows, someone as maladjusted as Spock needs a friend, and he can't really be someone's friend without layin' claim to 'em." The doctor's face was dead serious. "A lot of people can't handle that. It's a lot like having a prodigy around...I'd hate to think of what he'd be if it weren't for you and Captain Pike. Phillip told me plenty."

Jim sighed. "All right. I'll confess. This planet has me worried. Every time we take a scan on its surface, something new and bizarre comes up."

"How come we haven't had an update meeting?"

"Because we haven't finished collating data yet...and I'm starting to wonder how much stranger this place is going to be..!"

"Hmn." Bones pushed his empty bowl aside and reached for the wasabi.

"God, Bones, how can you do that?"

"It's easy. If I wanted hospital food I'd be there. Now what's going on?"

"Bones..." Jim glanced down at his hands. He hoped he wasn't too transparent with McCoy. The man could see right through any concern if it was directed at him. And yet, Jim *was* worried. Spock had opened a can of worms over his concern. And Jim found it extremely difficult to imagine the emotional McCoy on medical leave, sent to Gol for treatment. Damn. He was toying with his food. He hadn't done that in decades. "I've been thinking of Gem down there." He confessed. "And of what you said about being careful. The soldier in me knows you're right; it's always good to be careful. But part of me remebers being healed by Gem, and that part doesn't want to believe that she could be...associated with anything dangerous. And then I start thinking about how unpredictable her *planet* is...it's all confused and chaotic."

Nyota switched to another track of music, still on the northern side of the world. McCoy was silent; Jim wasn't through talking yet.

"This planet..." Jim was frowning now, impatience coloring his voice. "We know that it's been terraformed; there was *no* life the last time G&S went by. So the Vians did that. But they must have copied everything about the previous planet...It's on the left side of odd, Bones. It's hard enough to get good, solid scans of the surface between the constant chain reaction of storms. So far jungle growth and heat dispersion has kept us from finding any more settlements and every time we find a new animal in our sensors, they're poisonous!"

"No predators?" McCoy frowned.

"None. Can you believe that? There has to be something that preys on the smaller members of the food chain. But so far, there's nothing bigger than a fat, single-tusked herbivore somewhat the size of your desk. Are the humanoids the supreme predator?"

"Ummmmm, that doesn't make sense. You need some kind of supreme predator to give us the incentive to develop intelligence."

"Exactly." Jim agreed. "What are we missing about this planet?"

"What about those birds? Environmental defense against a predator that no longer exists?" McCoy hazarded. "If Lal and Thann forgot to stick the Hestian version of lions on their little ark, so much the better for the people."

Jim paused. "Good point." He nerved himself into another confession. "Bones, also, I can't stop thinking about what happened between you and Gem..?"

"Hell if I know." McCoy said bluntly. "I'm still trying to figure it out."

"You resisted the healing...I'd do the same. But I can still see her face..." Jim stopped. McCoy's face was one blank wall. "Maybe I'd feel better if I knew the end to the story. What did they do to her when we left?"

"I...couldn't even begin to imagine, Jim." McCoy looked at his hands. "I take it there was no sign of them at all."

"No. Not that we know what to look for...but we've seen nothing suspicious that would indicate an interferring cultural lifeform." Jim slumped back in his chair, a bad sign for his normally erect body.

McCoy's eyes were deep and troubled. "Bein' that close to death," he began, "It's not like that's the first time that happened..." He sighed and got up, practically stalking to the cabinet. Jim wasn't surprised when he started inspecting bottles. "S'funny how we all had to deal with our worst nightmares down there. I could almost be grateful to 'em for that, you know. For me."

Jim was startled. "What were *you* afraid of?"

McCoy didn't glance up from pouring drinks. "A slow death." He said frankly. "It's always scared the bejesus out of me. Dyin' ain't all that impressive in itself; God, Jim, I once sat down and counted the number of times I'd woken up in Sickbay knowing it was a close call. I think I got it to around six or seven..."

Jim took his drink gratefully. "Where were you--Nova Patrol?"

"Hah. Nah, I drowned twice when I was a kid--not fun, let me tell you, and three times before ENTERPRISE...mishaps from my ship patrolling hostile borders. I was on the WILD HERITAGE before ENTERPRISE, remember? Big science and research vessel. Orions kept trying to grab our goods and they weren't exactly subtle. Let's see...once I got hit by a Capellan powercat--that's *just* like getting hit by lightning. Impressed the hell out of the Natives when I woke up from my own funeral." He grinned suddenly. "That was one time I woke up without intervention. All those other times I would have died otherwise. But..." He shrugged. "My family's always had the attitude that a quick death is the *only* death. Dying slow...they were horrified." McCoy set drinks down with a click, and swirled his own. "When my father died slowly, I had to agree. I was...pretty frightened of the idea." Another swirl. "But at the same time, I was tired of being afraid, do you know what I mean?"

"Absolutely." Jim agreed fervently. "It takes a lot out of me to be afraid. I hate it."

"Yeah...but when I was dying and knowing that Gem might or might not heal me, I was thinkin' that no death lasts forever. Eventually the process would stop."

"I'm just glad she saved you." Jim said without embarassment. "I don't know what we would have done without you."

"Hauled Phillip back from retirement, kicking and screaming. He was the only doctor crazy enough to put up with you *and* Spock--you damn near gave Mark Piper a nervous breakdown!" McCoy sobered. "Anyway, I'm saying that it was the worst way I could imagine dying...and it wasn't all that bad." They clicked their glasses together; fluid rippled down their throats and caught fire. "Anyway, let's give credit where it's due. It was Lal and Thann that finished healing me when you forced 'em to."

The words had run out for them. Liquor was sipped slowly, the silence compatible between old friends. Nyota's choice of music continued on, gently, just outside the easy range of their hearing but loud enough to keep the atmosphere smooth.

"Old friends can have very deep thoughts." Jim murmured. "I remember than from a Tuvan song she was playing last night."

Bones chuckled softly. "Maybe a little too deep."

[Good morning Bones!]

Not for the first time, the nocturnal medical officer thought about killing his morning-bird captain. No one should sound that cheerful before noon. [You going to be here for the Briefing?]

McCoy stifled the urge to tell Kirk that being trapped in a small, claustrophobic space with a daylark for a captain and a walking Rigellian rhinovirus First Officer would inspire him to slit his wrists first. "Sorry, Jim." He grumbled. "I got a ton of stuff to clear off my desk. I'll be there through the intercom, ok?"

[Sure, Bones. It's just me n' Spock having breakfast right now.] Slurp, Jim swallowed more of his coal-tar coffee. [Briefing starts in twenty; don't forget to sign on so we can put your name on the rollpadd.]

"I wouldn't dream of missing out." McCoy said, straight-faced.

Relaxed after a deep night of sleep, he zipped through the usual morning data, signed one of the non-medical personnel permission to access reference files for an upcoming report, and filed his own request to see some of Spock's stuff on Green Sun ecosystems. As weird as Jim said Hestia was...no sense taking chances. Ridiculous that he even had to ask but ever since Ben Finney's escapade with the computer, security had extended to bizarre areas (your taxes at work).

Second cup of coffee for the morning was nearly choked on as Bones caught a news blurb out of the figurative blue: Sulu was requesting counseling on an ursus marriage. How about that.. Romance was in the air if it'd caught Hikaru. Bones sighed, decided to advise against a one-year marriage contract. Better to aim for the real thing, and not to make the move unless you were sure. And how sure could they be if they were wanting to commit for only a year?

"Len--!" Christine stuck a pink, puffy, teary face in his alcove. "Can you *please* help me with my computer again?? I was in the middle of Geoff's worksheet and it went out on me again!"

"God and rockets, I'm sorry, Chris." Leonard shambled to his feet, brushing crumbs of breakfast bar off his shirt. "Here, use mine. I'll see what I can do."

"I wish Janice was still here." Chris mourned. "She could make these things do anything."

"Yeah. Didn't it make Spock mad, too!" Leonard snickered. "We need to send her a tape soon." He pulled his seat back. "I'll holler when you get your junkheap online."

"As opposed to your usual hollaring?"

"Cute."

He slung up his toolpad and crossed into Chris' small alcove. Nothing frivolous here, but McCoy frowned puzzledly at a lilac cactus on the desk before sitting down on the floor and popping the underbelly of the plate open.

(I hate, hate, hate Starfleet.) He thought again as he stared at more doodads than common sense approved of. It wasn't difficult to FIX a computer. Anybody with a few memory bars and a cube of synthesynapses could hopscotch their way through half a system. But, Starfleet's paranoia about security led to all these system safeties and blocks and walls that took up tons of memory and slowed capability. It was like stocking the castle moat with alligaotrs and then letting the drawbridge rust shut. Medical was permanently at war with Security believing (rightly) that it infringed upon the medical oath; sure they'd protect a patient's privacy, but hoarding healing technology was flat out wrong and he resisted that order at every chance. As CMO he had free run of Sickbay's systems...but that meant he was one of the people invariably called when the "drawbridge" rusted up.

(This would never happen in Alpha Centauri. Sure those techs were crazy and they made Jim's computer fall in love with him, but those Amazons knew what they--) McCoy yanked out a board he didn't remember installing, and realized with galloping horror that Spock had "improved" the system again. (Oh, that pointy eared Puck! That cruel and unusal dangling participle! That--that--PROVERBIAL THORN!) McCoy rapped his head against the underside of Chris' desk from sheer frustration. (OWWW! When is he gonna learn Vulcan efficiency is NOT compatible with human efficiency??)

This thought reminded him with a start the meeting was about to come to order. He fumbled blindly for the switch and was rewarded with a screen of snow and frying bacon. "Hello, Briefing!" He snarled. The tint of hellfire colored his mental horizons as his day continued to slide downhill. He hammered on the switch to more electric blizzard. "Larrupin! Consarned gob-faced woodscolted, poltroon--" He swore in every back-country mangrove dialect he could think of and hit the Vulcan-infected machine. The static vanished. Jim and Spock were talking. Alone. The meeting hadn't started yet. GOOD. "God-dammit, McCoy here and *really* mad about it!" He roared. "Spock, you pea-green fiend, the next time you--"

"--to the surface." Spock was finishing. McCoy realized his portion of the comm wasn't accessing. Damn it to Thomas Alva Edison, they didn't know he was there; he'd have to dig deep in this thing's guts to--

"Yes, I know." Jim laced his fingers into a solid net of flesh and clasped it white. "We need to keep an eye on him while we're down there. I'm worried about his involvement with Gem."

"There is a possibility we are being overly concerned." McCoy's hand froze over the OFF switch. Spock never expressed worry of HIM to his hearing.

Jim shook his head. "You said yourself he's displaying characteristics of a person who was healed against their will."

"A Vulcan healed against their will, Jim. McCoy is hardly a Vulcan."

McCoy grimly slumped into Chris' chair, eyes cold as a fjord. (And you have no idea how happy I am for that.) He drummed his fingers on the desk crisply. If they were going to talk about him like this, he had no guilt about evasdropping. And it wasn't his fault Spock had bollixed the machine up.

The doctor sighed. He was going to be very glad when their business with Hestia ended...and it hadn't even started.