Black Fire (2 page)

All of his years of training and control, all of his years of experience, had not prepared Scott for this scene of mayhem. Unshed tears stung his eyes as he worked along with the crew, carrying the injured and dead from the completely demolished bridge.

"Concentrate on the living!" he shouted, watching the bulge in the outer hull enlarge.

McCoy stood in the corridor below the bridge, quickly evaluating the extent and nature of injuries as each bridge crew member was carried out and put on a stretcher to be taken to sick bay. A full disaster alert was sounding; the emergency medical team was assembling quickly.

"Everybody clear?" Scott asked as the last of the injured was being brought down the stairway. He sprang against the hatch, closing and securing it tightly. The rush of displaced air and the shattering of over-stressed metal combined into an awesome roar as the entire dome of the bridge broke off with a sudden tearing wrench, sending the ship into another series of erratic dips and spins.

McCoy, now in sick bay, was too intently absorbed for his usual complaining. The entire surgery was being utilized; each surgical team was working quickly and efficiently to repair the most life-threatening injuries.

Dr. M'Benga, more qualified than McCoy to cope with Vulcan anatomy and special problems, was applying his skills and experience to Spock's critical wounds.

Thank God we stocked some T-negative blood for Spock last time we took on supplies
, McCoy thought.
At least we can meet any of his blood needs
.

But the doctor's main concern was on the severe condition of the captain; he hadn't yet assessed all of Kirk's injuries and McCoy entered surgery not knowing exactly what he would find.
At least he's alive—barely
.

It took all of McCoy's professional detachment to suppress his despair when he fully examined his patient and his friend. There were just so many organs one could transplant, just so much one could patch and mend in a human body. Kirk's wounds pressed that limit. He needed massive amounts of blood. The hard-pressed medical teams had exhausted the supply before Kirk's surgery started. A ship-wide plea for donors soon created a line in the corridor outside sick bay. Any crewman with the proper blood type was relieved of duty until the blood was drawn; yet since the ship needed her entire crew to deal with the emergency, as soon as the blood was taken they returned to their stations foregoing the normal period of recuperation.

Scott grimly and dispassionately assessed the damage to his beloved ship. The strain suffered when the bridge sheared off was too much for the
Enterprise
, and he knew the entire primary hull would have to be jettisoned or the resultant stresses would rip the ship apart. This would necessitate a complete evacuation of the primary hull—a systematic and thorough movement of personnel and supplies as rapidly as possible. But the emergency surgery could not be rushed. All but the medical team was shifted to the lower hull, and Scott was counting the minutes, then hours, anxiously hoping that the ship would hold together until all the vital surgery was completed and the patients could be safely moved.

McCoy grudgingly accepted the fact that his patients, no matter how critical their condition, would have to be moved immediately following surgery. He worked on relentlessly, hour upon hour, backed up by his proficient staff, losing all track of time as he worked to save the life of Jim Kirk.

The sophisticated medical technology of the day had made such extensive time in surgery unusual, but McCoy was essentially rebuilding a man. Another surgeon would possibly have given up, but McCoy continued diligently, repairing the body of the man he both admired and loved. Only when he had done as much as he believed he could, and his endurance would no longer sustain him, did he conclude the operation and retreat to the quarters assigned him in the cramped lower section of the ship. And then he quietly wept—for his friend, for his lack of skill—in his weariness, and with despair greater than any he had ever felt. Always before, when he thought Jim was dead, it was a quick realization that had to be accepted. The hours he had spent in rebuilding the man, the strain he had put upon himself, the acceptance of his limitations as a physician, the as-yet-unknown prognosis—all built up to this release of emotion and tension.

The buzzer to his quarters sounded and McCoy, regaining his composure, pushed the button that admitted his visitor. A young medic carrying his possessions entered. "Doctor Jonah Levine, sir." It was clear that the young man was as surprised as McCoy at being assigned bunk-mate to the head of the medical section.

"There must be an error. I haven't shared quarters in years," McCoy wearily protested.

"I wrote down the cabin assignment, sir. Seventeen B-O three."

The intercom signal interrupted them. McCoy answered promptly.

"Doctor, you're needed in sick bay—immediately." Nurse Christine Chapel sounded extremely agitated.

"Jim?" he asked.

"No, Doctor M'Benga has to see you right away."

"Spock," he said aloud, leaving young Dr. Levine to sort out the problem of room assignments.

"You look exhausted, McCoy. I know you're beat, but I've come across a problem with Spock I don't quite know how to handle," M'Benga said tiredly.

"You're the authority on Vulcan medicine aboard this ship, M'Benga. It must be really serious if you want my input."

"It is. Spock is not entirely Vulcan, remember? There seem to be some irregularities in his recovery patterns. He shouldn't be, but he is conscious. He seems to be fighting to keep from falling into the Vulcan healing mode. He is controlling the pain—but barely. I can't get him to relax. I knock him out with a hypo, and in the minimum time he's awake again. He keeps asking for Mister Scott."

The chief medical officer nodded grimly. "I'll check on him. Maybe I can get him to relax so that he can get on with that self-mending process. I don't entirely understand what it is, but it works and we've done all we can for him medically. You take a break, M'Benga. You need the rest. I'll stay with Spock."

Gratefully, M'Benga sank down into the lounge. It had been a marathon for the medical teams, both physically and mentally. He, like McCoy, was completely exhausted.

Spock was lying stiffly on his back, his face contorted by pain. McCoy heard the barely audible murmur of the Vulcan's litany of mental control: "I am Vulcan; there is no pain."

"But there is pain, Spock. Why are you fighting the natural healing process?"

Spock was startled into alertness by McCoy's voice. "No time, no time … ," Spock said hoarsely. "Mister Scott. I must see Mister Scott." He summoned all his discipline to suppress the pain in his back as he struggled to rise. McCoy gently pushed him back down.

"You must stay flat and immobile. That piece of metal came very close to your spinal cord. There's still a small sliver embedded in your back which we can remove only when you're more fully recovered from the initial surgery. Until then, you must let your natural healing process work."

"Get Mr. Scott … ," Spock insisted, the words weakly but precisely uttered.

Seeing he would get nowhere until Spock had relaxed, McCoy relented. "Okay I'll get him. Now, rest."

"The captain … how is he?

McCoy shook his head. "Not good," he answered quietly. "Now rest until Scott gets here. I'll stay with you until he arrives."

Spock closed his eyes. The Vulcan's brow was wet with the effort. McCoy ran a dampened cloth over Spock's forehead, taking note of the Vulcan's clenched fist, and shook his head in frustration as he watched the monitor above his patient's head register the inner battle Spock was waging.

In a very few minutes Scott arrived. He was running on sheer willpower, expending his last to keep the ship operating. As far as the engineer knew, this was the first time a starship had been forced to shed its upper hull. Decisions had to be made quickly and efficiently, and he had had no time to rest.

"Well, Doctor, make it fast. I've a ship ta hold together," he blurted out as he entered the room.

"Slow down, Scotty. You can't hold it together in that state. I'd recommend at least a few hours' sleep," McCoy advised.

"Is that why ye called me ta Sick bay, Doctor? I don't ha' the time to rest now."

"No, Scotty. It's Spock. He wants to speak with you, and won't rest until he does. Try to calm him down."

Spock opened his eyes. Speaking deliberately, and with great effort, he addressed the engineer. "Mister Scott—sabotage—it had to be an act of sabotage—a bomb—nothing on the bridge could have caused an explosion of that magnitude—must be an intruder on board …"

"Aye, Mister Spock. That thought crossed my mind also. I've checked our personnel lists. There's no one on board who shouldna be. All are Starfleet cleared."

"An intruder could have slipped through Starfleet security—look further. Ship's status—tell me… ." An involuntary gasp escaped him. He closed his eyes tightly, struggling to regain his lapsed control.

Scott reported succinctly. "We came away in verra good shape, considerin'. There were five deaths on the bridge, and five seriously injured. All personnel, except those on the bridge at the time, are accounted for and uninjured. The upper hull has been jettisoned. We're cramped down here, but all is functioning and under control. Ye can relax!"

"Good," Spock whispered. "Now help me up!" He weakly raised a hand for Scott's assistance. The engineer looked to McCoy, who motioned for Scott to leave.

"Nothing doing, Spock. You can't get up. I just explained why you can't move. Christine." McCoy motioned to the nurse, who was standing ready with a hypo-spray. She quickly administered the strong sedation.

"Make sure you keep him down," McCoy ordered, leaving the room to check on Kirk.

The medi-scanner showed all life functions at very low levels. McCoy examined Kirk's unconscious form and double-checked the instruments in the auxiliary sick bay. He was not entirely comfortable with the secondary facilities even though they were regularly checked and kept ready for such an emergency. It wasn't
his
sick bay. The three medics who had continually hovered near Kirk since McCoy had gone to his quarters waited for further orders.

"Get some rest. I'll stay with him—couldn't sleep anyway. Someone bring me some coffee." A young nurse he had never noticed before brought him a steaming hot cup.

"Where have you been hiding, young lady?" the doctor asked, more as a means of distraction from his growing fatigue than anything else.

"In the clinic, Doctor. I'm new on board. Cathy White. I'm one of the cadets from the Academy assigned for the training session."

"Ah, yes. I almost forgot about that. Not a very standard training session, is it? It's not always this bad."

"Will he be all right, sir?" She looked at the captain lying motionless on the bed.

"I don't know yet. His condition is marginal. I really can't tell at this point. All we can do now is wait." He sat down on a chair beside the bed, cupping the hot coffee in his hand, staring at his friend, and feeling completely helpless.

Christine Chapel's shouts interrupted the quiet of sick bay. "Mister Spock, you can't get up! Please lie down! Please!"

McCoy hastened to the other room, followed by the young trainee, to find Spock standing shakily, using the bed for support with one hand and using the other to brace his injured back. Either he wasn't trying to mask the pain or he wasn't succeeding in his attempt, McCoy wasn't sure which. Christine turned to him as he entered.

"I really tried to keep him flat, as you ordered, but he won't listen!"

"I'll handle this, Christine. Just leave us alone, please."

"Yes, sir," Christine responded, grabbing Cathy White and heading for the door.

Cathy was not prepared for such dire emergencies as were taking place one after the other aboard the
Enterprise
. "Is it always this difficult, Christine? I've had no experience with non-Terran patients at all."

"Mister Spock is a most unusual man. We all admire him very much. I'm sure that Doctor McCoy can settle him down. You might hear some shouting though—just ignore it."

As if cued by Christine's warning, McCoy's raised voice could be heard as he lashed out at Spock. "What are you trying to do? Kill yourself? Do you think we put you back together to have you destroy yourself? Get back on that bed! That's an order!"

"I have no intention of lying here while the ship is in jeopardy, Doctor. I will ask you to not interfere."

"Well, I am. And you don't have the strength to stop me."

"Just don't force me to… ." Spock raised his supporting hand from the bed and faltered a step.

"Look! You can't even stand up unsupported. Listen to reason, Spock. Now is no time for your Vulcan stubbornness."

Having sublimated the pain as much as he was able, Spock was feeling stronger. He slowly straightened up and took a tentative step. "I'm fine, Doctor. The discomfort is completely under control now." His voice reached its normal tenor. "You can set aside your bigotry."

"Bigotry? Why, you overgrown walking string bean, I have no time for … Wait a minute, Spock. I'm not about to start one of our verbal fencing matches." McCoy's anger subsided. "Listen to me, Spock, to McCoy, the physician. I know you respect that part of me even though you won't admit it. This is a medical judgment, not an arbitrary personal assessment. In this
I
am the authority. Now, please listen to me."

Spock leaned wearily against the bed, gathering the strength he knew he would need.

"I told you about your injury. Every movement you make jeopardizes your life. If that sliver moves, it could kill you, or leave you paralyzed. That's a fact. You can't just sublimate it or wish it away. You may be able to control the pain, but that fragment is inside of you. Pain is your friend now, Spock. Feel it! It indicates a real physical danger. You can suppress it, but you're fooling yourself. This time it's a signal, a signal warning you, trying to prevent you from further injury. If I can't convince you, let yourself feel that pain. Don't fight it. The severity of it will tell you that I'm right about this."