THE GETTING OR THE HAVING

Marcy < marciawc24936 @ yahoo.com >

Rating: R

Codes : K/Mc

Summary: In the Mirror-Universe Kirk finds out that his counterpart has a sexual relationship with McCoy. This makes him thinking things over.

The story is part of the KirkMcCoyFest at http://tostwins.slashcity.net/KMF.htm

Part 1

"What's more important, the getting or the having?"
--koan of nearly every serious hunter who goes through ridiculous lengths to bag their game every year.

***

Exhausted from his own anger, Kirk leaned against the wall, his energies burnt to ash.  Scott and Uhura were quietly talking in the corner, wondering what Sulu's part was in this, while McCoy, typically, was standing apart from the others, arms folded across his chest and his gaze completely shuttered down.  Kirk had known that mannerism for years, since first meeting him as a raw lieutenant, and knew McCoy was thinking as hard as he was--you couldn't get McCoy to stop thinking anymore than you could Spock, although he doubted the two men would admit to having that much common ground.

"Beats me," one of the guards was saying to the other.

"There's no way this can be our captain," the second man was muttering, voice pitched low but final.  "Our captain wouldn't act like a complete lunatic.  He wouldn't phaser down civilians."

"It's like the Klingons tried to clone him or something," his friend said uneasily.  "Do you think they could have?"

Kirk grimaced, almost forced to shut his attention off from that conversation--such an idea was that unpleasant.  But the men, strangely dressed as they were, seemed to have a better handle on reality than he did.

"Well they'd go through a lot of trouble.  I mean, clone the captain, and the other officers?  They should have cloned Mr. Spock too.  He's the only person with authority to stop the captain."

"Sulu would, if Kirk had acted like that in his presence."  Guard One, as Kirk was thinking of him, said with confidence.  "He's stood up to superior offiers before.  If you aren't doing the right thing, he'll do something about it."

Isn't that the truth, Kirk thought in black humor.

"They'd probably not cloned Mr. Spock because he was on the ship," Guard Two offered.

"They would have cloned McCoy anyway."  Guard One was warming up to his theory, and, as bizarre as it felt to think this, Kirk had to admit there was a germ of plausibility to this impossible scenario.  After a while, anything was starting to look good.

Guard Two, surprisingly, looked disgusted.  "You still listening to ship's gossip?  That'll get you killed faster than anything."

"Hey, it's not gossip.  The whole ship knows about those two.  McCoy'd know faster than anybody if something was wrong about the captain."

"He'd know it because he's the CMO," Guard Two was still using that disgusted voice.  "Not because he's involved with the captain.  And you'd better consider the source for those rumors, Henk.  Hell and no fury, you know."

"Gawd," Guard One shot back.  "McCoy or Lieutenant Vampire?  That's no choice.  One of them took an oath to Do No Harm, and it sure wasn't Kerdwi."

***

Half an hour later, the too-bright walls of the transporter room were gone and the familiar sullen red of his ship was back.  Spock's report, mechanically stated, was listened to and accepted with the same mechanical attention.  Lieutenant Moreau was there, a surprise to him, and his initial response was suspicion.

Spock's dark eyes glittered.  "Lieutenant Moreau was the first to notice you were not who you claimed to be, captain."

"Did you?"  Kirk asked her with a degree of politeness in his suspicion.  Marlena had not been supportive of late, her good moods mercurial and unexpected.

"I went to Spock."  She thrust her chin out with the familiar old anger.  "He seemed to be unchanged, and I took a chance with him."

"A good thing you did."  Kirk said simply.  His thoughts were running in different directions.  "Doctor, I suggest you look us over; that was a rough beam-up."

"Aye sir."  McCoy answered quietly.  Kirk caught, just at the edge of his vision, Spock giving the doctor a long, thoughtful look.  The Vulcan had given that particular look many a time, and always upon something small and exotic trapped under a viewing lens.  Kirk found the analogy as correct as it was disturbing.

***

McCoy was nothing more than thorough as he checked everyone over, saving himself for the jaded gaze of his AMO.  Kirk stayed behind as Uhura and Scott were dismissed.  Spock also waited, without asking.  By now Kirk was aware that the Vulcan was looking at both humans with that bug-under-glass mannerism.  Having plumbed the depths of McCoy's counterpart through the Mind Meld, Kirk had a good idea why Spock was so obviously rocked.

Lovers?

Male-male relationships (and tribads) were actually more common than not in the Empire; with heterosexual affairs reserved for marriage and children.  That was the good-old fashioned way of doing things, unchanged since the halcyon days of the Greco-Roman Alliance that led to the first roots of the Empire today.  Vulcan had its own similar martial and marital rules, which was one reason why the two warlike peoples had managed to get along so well.  As a young man, Kirk had been initiated in the old-fashioned agape by the best; the-then Captain Decker, and from there on a successive string of lovers, until Kirk's age and experience had risen him in the social ranks until he could pick and choose his own.  And he had; women in his opinion, were exotic, tempting and very tasty...but unless they were far below him in rank, more trouble than they could be worth.  Marlena was leashed mostly by her rank; her knowledge of the Tantalus Device was something he as a commander was inexcusably foolish on.  One day he would have to solve that problem, but his distaste for killing was under-rated.  There were standards of personal conduct and honor he didn't expect anyone to comprehend...and simply killing a woman because she would be a future liability went against everything he had believed in as a child.  It was enough that she was loyal to him.

At least for now.

M'Benga was saying something, shaking his head at the readings at McCoy, which made the prone man snort and shoot back something full of technobabble, that nonetheless passed for some kind of medical joke.  M'Benga snickered and let him get up, all tests clean.

Lovers?

It was true that he and McCoy spent a lot of time together, and that rumors on the ship were indeed, full of speculation that did nothing more than amuse the captain.  Let gossipers get it wrong--that was what you got for not having the courage to ask a straightforward question.

But that time spent together was always rooted in good, solid platonic reasons: work, reports, reviews, and the rare social events were never alone.  When they had their uncommon shore leave drinks together, it was always under the umbrella of a public place--and nearly always in the company of other officers, such as Spock or Scott.  Sulu and Chekov were hardly ever at those occasions, and Uhura least of all.

He would have to change that, he thought with a slightly unpleasant twist to his lips.  Start inviting his more recalitrant officers to show up in public.  Not only would that keep them busy, but they'd be mentally hopping trying to figure out his motives, and wondering if they could use this new development to their advantage.  Speaking of...

He toggled the switch at his screen and summoned all his senior officers.  It was time to cause a little trouble.

***

Sulu and Chekov faced the information fairly well, considering the man they'd tried to assassinate hadn't even been the right man.  Sulu turned a little on the pale side, and Chekov...well, Chekov's baby face would always get him in trouble, but that look of astonishment would be liable to send his executioner to death laughing.  Spock of course, had known everything, and his remote pose of standing with his arms across his chest was as good as a phalanx of supreme bodyguards.

"That was the record," Kirk told them crisply, and then snapped another button.  "For the record, I am commending both Lieutenant Sulu and Ensign Chekov for their appropriate actions."

Astonishment is often audible by its lack of sound.

Kirk mentally smirked to himself and continued.  "While I'm not fond of the idea of being a target for anyone's ambitions, the fact is I would far rather see myself dead than this ship in the hands of an enemy.  I suggest everyone consider the ramifications of my counterpart were he to gain control of the ENTERPRISE and put a halt to the Halkan Discipline."

Everyone did...and the reactions were from bemused to grim.  Failure to follow Command would have saved the Halkan government...for a short time.  Then the ship and the majority of the planet would have been laid waste by the Empire's phasers.  Everyone on the ENTERPRISE would have been executed or put in the Arena for an amusing example to uprisings.

Doing the unexpected thing could get one assassinated very quickly.  But some forms of startling behavior simply throw an opponant off-balance, and extend one's lifespan indefinitely.  It was this procedure Kirk was especially fond of.

***

"Was that wise, captain?"  Spock asked dubiously, softly, as they strolled through the corridors.  The bodyguards held back at a respectful distance.

"Do you disagree with my line of reasoning, Mr. Spock?"  Kirk asked mildly.

"Not at all.  But it is...unique."  Spock paused, and faced him clearly.  "As unique as one of your chess manoeuvres.  My compliments."  A new appraisal was in the Vulcan's eyes.  "You have secured the loyalty of two of your most open opponents for the time being.  What of the landing party that was stranded with you?"

"I have no need to doubt their loyalties."  Kirk chuckled softly.  "They performed admirably.  You can read it in my private report."

"Yes, captain."  Spock's soft baritone was thoughtful.  It made Kirk glance at him as they continued on.

"Something on your mind, Spock?"

"Yes, captain...several things.  But I have not finished sorting them out."  Spock again faced him with that considering look.  "Perhaps there is something to human instincts after all."

Kirk didn't know how Spock was thinking of McCoy.  Perhaps it was those aforementioned instincts.  "Instincts are useful only when they can be relied on.  Too many people are trained to listen to orders, not their own minds."

"Agreed."  Spock clasped his hands behind his back--a Vulcan gesture of deep contemplation, and they continued their patrol in silence.

***

The smell of soldering metal touched Kirk's nose as he entered Sickbay.  As usual, it was mostly empty, but that scent was an unusual one, unless McCoy was working on one of his endless projects.

Hypothesis confirmed.  He found the CMO scrunched over a desk and scowling at a dismantled tricorder.

"Are you moonlighting for Mr. Scott, then?"  He asked mildly.

McCoy glanced up, distracted.  "Not hardly," he grumbled.

"What's this, then?"

"I'm not sure..."  McCoy was still frowning as he popped a plate loose from his tricorder.  Kirk recognized it as the doctor's personal machine, and McCoy was as likely to play with it as he was to start singing acapella in the Lounge.  "It's behaving oddly.  Has been since the Transfer.  I was trying to find out if there was something stuck in it or something."

"Why didn't you just run it to Scott?"  Curious, Kirk sat on one side of the desk and looked down.

"I was planning on it, but every time I send this thing to him, his first question is, "Did you shake out the dirt, bugs, grass, atmospheric vapor..."  I thought I'd bypass that step and just hand him the componants."

Kirk chuckled, easily imagining the scene.  "Looks perfectly clean."

"It should be.  It was just down on Halka, and then up in that other dimension, then back in ours.  It didn't have time to travel."

"Or at least travel in time."  Kirk sighed.  "At least we haven't run afoul of that too much."

McCoy blanched.  "I choose not to consider that."  A quirp caught his attention and if anything, he grew even more intent.  "Well, I'll be..."

"What?"

McCoy didn't answer at first, but he practically lunged across the desk to throw the blue wafer inside the computer.

The screen lit up with the medical krypta that Kirk was fairly certain was deliberately obscure and impossible for the layman to understand.  It was understandable to McCoy, however, who turned about three shades whiter at what he was seeing.

"I don't believe this," he mumbled.

"What's wrong?"

"They must've...This isn't my meditrike.  It's my counterpart's."

Kirk peered over his shoulder, but could see nothing interesting.  "Anything good?"

"I...I...I don't know."  Incredibly, a short laugh escaped the older man.  Kirk saw, for a split second, amazement over the tired face.  McCoy looked like a small child faced with a room full of toys.  "It's medical specs for the last...the last five xenospecies they'd encountered!  And there's still room on the wafer for five more!"

Kirk was impressed.  Only the Higher Ups could be allotted high-density wafers; that said more than anything what the Federation's priorities were.

"Halkans...Talki...Reese...My God, just look at it!  They must've spent days on these planets!"

"That's amazing," Kirk murmured.  His attention was fixed on the stranger in front of him, a McCoy who wasn't frowning, or grumbling, or shouting.

"God!  Denebian parasites!"  The doctor slapped his fingers over the krypta keys, highlighting and pulling the data apart from the tape.

"That's...nice."  Kirk said as neutrally as possible.  He didn't care for any memories of Deneba.

"Oh, Lord."  McCoy said so softly, Kirk knew something was wrong.  The doctor's eyes were as wide as they could go.

"What is it?"  Kirk asked, readying himself for the worst.  His guts clenched for what he knew was bad news.  The screen's graphics meant nothing to him.

"The parasites...they couldn't tolerate UV rays."  McCoy said in that same quiet voice.  He knew what the burning of the colony had cost Kirk: his brother, sister-in-law, and three nephews.

For too long a time, Kirk felt nothing.

Then:

Red.

***

Spock stroked his beard thoughtfully as the captain paced.  The energy the younger man held inside himself, like a pent-up predator, was never far from the surface, but it had been a long time since he had displayed that level of restlessness.  There was nothing to do, he realized, but to wait it out until Kirk was ready.

Kirk was a long time his voice.  "I have a proposal for you, that would be a test of your true abilities, Mr.Spock?"

The eyebrow arched.  "True?"  He repeated.

"Any soldier can follow orders, and some can follow them well.  I'm looking for a critical thinking application."  He eyed the Vulcan carefully.  "In your opinion, Mr. Spock, how important is it to know our enemies?"

"Pricelessly so, captain."

"How often is coercion of a known weakness used against our enemies."

"Whenever possible."  Spock answered cautiously.  He had no idea where this was headed.

"I want to see this ship become an information vessel.  Not just to seek out those new worlds and conquer them, Mr. Spock, but I believe the time for running roughshod is past.  We are no longer trying to recover our resources from the Mutara Invasion.  It's time to return to our old methods of conquest: through treaties and problem sharing.  And I'd like to see you list out all the inarguable reasons why we should do this."

Spock blinked.  Twice.

"For obvious reasons, I think we cannot inform High Command of our trip to the Other Dimension.  What is your impartial recommendation?"

Spock did not hesitate.  "I agree."

"Exactly."  Kirk began pacing again.  "Our counterparts made a revealing error, Mr. Spock.  Dr. McCoy's medical tricorder was returned to him in the form of his counterpart's.  With it some very interesting information, which we shall consider classified."

"Understood."  Spock's eyebrows soared as he considered the implication.

"The information must be used in your report.  Specifically, the vulnerability of the flying parasites of Deneba.  I trust you can find a way of independently discovering, via Empire means, what is on the wafer.  I want you to use it as your pivotal point: that if we had been permitted the time and resource to learn our enemies, we would not have had to phaser down the entire colony."

Kirk's eyes, his face and his gestures were all flat, practically nonexpressive.  Spock knew well why.

"I will apply myself to this matter immediately," Spock leaned sideways to his computer.  "With your permission, I will review the wafer."

"That wafer doesn't leave McCoy's possession.  You can review it in his presence."

***

The evening passed quietly among the two officers.  Neither man happened to be talkative when researching--a trait they could admit to, and respect.  In other fields they were openly antagonistic, but Spock would never think to question McCoy's abilities any more than McCoy would Spock's.

In Spock's cabin, McCoy was calmly ignoring the Vulcan with his Padd and stylus of shorthanded codes.  He was absorbed in his own research.

Two hours later:

"They haven't moved, Mr. Spock."

Spock looked up from his computer.  "What has not moved."

"My warts."  McCoy let the silence hang as before he added, while still writing, "I'm assuming you're checking them over.  You've been glancing at me rather obviously ever since I came in.  Ergo, there's something about me that's uncommonly interesting.  My warts are usually the most interesting part about me."

Spock had to think of how to best respond to this.  "I am not interested in your warts, or anyone's warts."

"That's a relief."  McCoy was still writing, still not looking up.  "But you might be able to bypass a lot of eye-maneuvering and just ask what it is about me, that bugs you today.  I can probably take it, you know.  I've been asked if there're sick people in my Sickbay.  Once somebody asks you that in all seriousness, you can handle just about anything."

"Possibly."  Spock's eyebrow went up, and McCoy had a feeling the boom was about to be lowered...or the airlock opened.  "It would appear that in the other Universe, the captain possesses an...intimate relationship with you."

McCoy looked up at that, with an expression mixed of neutrality, and deadpan astonishment.  Spock privately wished he could record it for posterity.

"You don't say," McCoy answered, still deadpan.

"You do not appear surprised."

"I am."  McCoy admitted.  "Frankly, the strength of our working relationship formed on our lack of interest with each other."

"The lack of interest the captain has towards you, you might say,"  Spock corrected.  Inferior officers, short of seduction, did not accost superior officers.  The reverse was quite true.

"Possibly," McCoy answered cautiously, "But as I'm trying to say, it's never occurred to me.  The fact that it obviously hasn't occurred to my captain merely means there's one less complication in my life I have to deal with."

Spock was, in his Vulcan way, subtly taunting.  "Being under the protection of the captain of a starship would be a complication?"

"Yes."  McCoy said, clipped, tightly.  "The Empire's Oath of Hippocrites, as well as the Subordinate Oath of Amphitrite, does not acknowledge the superiority of any rank.  Even Democrites, a god I've never chosen to swear my oaths to, admits that rank is a convenient method of manipulation."  The blue eyes hardened.  "You know that.  Now do you need to hear me state any other obviousness?"

Spock almost smiled at McCoy's refusal to take bait.  "And should you ever fall under the attention of a superior officer, who accepts the limitations of your oaths, what would you do?"

"Sweat."  McCoy told him.  It was the truth.

***

The next day, and the next, passed cautiously.  McCoy was now aware of why Spock was watching him.  This had led to his being aware of why Kirk was watching him, and in his spare moments, he was watching both men when they weren't already watching him.  It was just about every kind of bizarre you could think of, unless one was trying to write a play for one of the more shameless Empire-sponsored comedies, and then McCoy was fairly sure that plot had already been exploited twenty or thirty times.

Lending credence to M'Benga's drunken theories on the subconscious telepathic abilities of the human race, McCoy's staff was now watching him.  And certain quarters, who had been violently in Kirk's camp, were suddenly easing off their political pressure. Marlena was suddenly sending a lot of personal Chemical reports to Spock, so it was only a matter of time before Kirk put the plug on her relationship.

Or just as likely, give her to Spock and wash his hands of her, McCoy thought uneasily.  He tried to concentrate on the latest casualty statistics, but all he could figure was Sulu's men were at odds again because there had been two knifings and an old-fashioned glass jaw.

This is awful, he suddenly got to his feet and threw down the stylus in disgust.  He was halfway to Mess Hall before he was aware of the desire to get the hell out Sickbay, his normal refuge.  As a rule, McCoy liked being ignored.  He liked it a lot.  It saved problems.  Now half the ship was watching him, and the other half was watching Kirk.  All because:

mu(K+M) = ru(K+M)

Or if you really wanted to translate the algorithm:

Mirror Universe relationship of Kirk Plus McCoy supposedly Equalled the relationship of Kirk and McCoy in the Real Universe.

Jesus Wept.

I never asked for this, he thought wildly, as he punched up the largest, most caffeinated cup of coffee he could get on the ship's menu.  The Hall was empty, and thank goodness for small favors.  So what if there's something going on in the Mirror universe between myself and Kirk's counterpart?  All that means is, both of us are twice as crazy over there.  Three times.  Incurable.

One never got involved with starship captains.  That was the short-term route to madness.  Starship captains became starship captains because they fit certain criteria approved of by High Command:

*  They were emotionally distant--extreme versions were sociopaths.  Kirk's case:  zipped up in the tightest Hero Suit seen in the Empire since IMPERIAL CENTURIAN had been running on the trivid channels.  It took no stretch of imagination to transpose Kirk's hard gaze with that of the hard-edged actor who drove away Imperial menaces and government corruption on a weekly basis.

*  They were able to inspire a healthy dose of fear in their crew's loyalty because they could send anyone to the Booth, and a lot of captains made a point of sending their lovers and even blood-kin to the Booth or execution just to prove they were immune to the softer feelings.  Look at Ben Finney.  He'd been a former interest in Kirk's life--Kirk hadn't even sent him in the Booth, but personally spaced him just as he'd faked his tape.

*  They followed orders without question--such as, High Command tells you to kill your brother, or spouse, or lover.  No problem, when do you want the head?  Case in point:  Deneba.  When ordered to cauterize the alien contamination, Kirk had done so.  Ship's phasers had charred the parasites to ash...as well as the very last members of his family.

*  They possessed a fearsome intelligence which gave them the ability to rationalize everything, such as sending the head of aforementioned loved one to the Praetor.  Kirk had hated his orders, but believed it was for the best to keep those things from marching deeper into the Empire's space.  Now he was faced with proof that simple UVs would have saved everybody, and what was he saying?  "It worked out for the best.  The entire colony was anti-Imperial.  They died in two seconds when they could have died in days."

*  They denied weaknesses.  McCoy could hear Kirk saying, mocking and half-serious at a party:  "I can deny my weaknesses...I just don't have any at the moment."  It had made everyone laugh, but there had been a bitter undercurrent under Kirk's smile.

McCoy realized where his thoughts were taking him (straight to hell in the handbasket), and tried to stop.  He sipped his coffee halfway down before he remembered he liked his with sugar, and went to the nearest table for the dispenser.

The idea of being serious with anyone was a joke.  His divorce just happened to be one of the bloodiest social events in the South, and many had joined the Service for half the reasons he'd had.  The level of betrayal his wife had inflicted had left him more than emotionally shattered.  He had been left virtually unsexed, burned out on the very idea of getting inside arms' length of anyone.  Even when the normal hormonal pressures began to assert themselves, force of habit reminded him in vivid detail things he had tried to forget for years.  Who needed a commitment when all you really needed was a government-funded brothel?

So there.

He added far too much sugar, and enough creamer to ensure he would have violent stomach cramps later.

He was being thoroughly unreasonable, he reminded himself.  When cornered, fall back on the old standbys--reason and deduction.  Kirk wasn't interested in a relationship with him.

And thank God.

Because if he was, McCoy knew he didn't have the stature to avoid Kirk's intentions.  People who won chess games from Vulcans and Andorians and even Deltans, wouldn't find an emotionally shattered, depressed insomniac much of a challenge.

There was no way Kirk would be interested.  One.  Less.  Complication.  In his. Life.

The doctor drank the last of the coffee and went to the wall for another round. 

Of course, if McCoy had been thinking at all possible angles, he might have encountered a truly terrifying possibility:  That beyond rhyme and reason, Kirk might for some strange, inexplicable and wholly mistaken reason consider him a challenge.

Kirk, it was well known, lived on challenges.

Any challenges.

Which was why McCoy drank his coffee and told himself he had Kirk on the brain, that it was his own paranoia trying to ruin his life.  He had no knowledge of anything like the Tantalus Device, much less that it was an excellent surveillance tool for a captain that liked to observe everybody on the ship.

Everybody.

Part 2

The next few weeks passed on the ISS ENTERPRISE. 

Excruciatingly.

Spock was still watching McCoy and Kirk.  Kirk was still watching McCoy and ignoring Spock.  McCoy was watching both of them and contemplating the ramifications of an early retirement from the Fleet.  As one didn't just "retire" from Fleet, the options were few and usually limited to a sudden disability of the brain or body.

It became obvious to the doctor, who had earned his psychology degree, that Kirk was biding his time with the watching, and calmly waiting for him to crack up or bolt.  Knowing what was going on did not necessarily make things easier.  McCoy's imagination was in good working order and he could easily consider the unpleasant possibilities the road of his life was about to fork at.

Eventually, the doctor's native contrary streak (never far away), was exhumed.  He simply decided to ignore both Kirk and Spock.  So what if he became somebody's hobby.  It wasn't like there were many birds to watch on the ship.

And it was a simple solution.  So simple, that it threw off the other two men for almost a week. 

It was five days before Spock realized what was going on, and four for Kirk.  Kirk had the advantage of understanding his own species.

Spock realized he was obsessing overmuch about shipboard affairs, although such matters fell under "political science" and could often mean the difference between life and death.  Vulcans normally ignored the affairs of humans, although their own affairs were absorbing and prone to epic scandals.  So he chose to stop watching...for a while.

Kirk was just amused.

He was a careful thinker, capable of leaping to great insights and intuitions.  Now that he had decided McCoy was a puzzle to solve, he was going to commit himself to it.  Like any true strategian, he had not yet decided what the outcome of his campaign was.  But to condense matters, Kirk prided himself on his excellent choices in life, and his taste.  If there was something hiding in the doctor, he was going to find it.

He didn't wait long.  McCoy had always been a professional, performing his duties to the limits and beyond.  That professionalism had formed the basis of their relationship years ago; Kirk never tolerated the limp in his life, and had put many a superior to the knife to prove that point.

Underneath the exterior of a cavernously depressing Sickbay, replete with official disorder and unofficial chaos, corrupt technicians and a staff that worked well in wartime and against each other in peacetime, it was still one of the tightest departments on any Starship.  Grudges could go deep and last for generations--or they might not.  One didn't have to take a survival course in environmental assessment in order to have a decent lifespan, but it did increase the odds.  Since Piper's "departure" (departure as in from the plane of the corporeal), things had been better.

McCoy's chaos, Kirk realized, was his chaos.  He could understand it, and best of all, nobody else could.  His system of filing made no logic anyone else could comprehend, but it worked for him--and it made it all the harder for someone to crack into his files.  Kirk was fully confronted with this situation when he tried to find a wafer under Canopian Marriage Customs, and finally found it under "Crises Impending."

"If M'Benga ever gets the initiative to kill you," Kirk told him in full exasperation, "We'll have to spend a month re-indexing your files."

"And that might be what keeps me alive."  McCoy answered, unconcerned as long as he was eating his lunch.  Fresh rations didn't come every day, and a recent battle with psychotic Orions had given them an unexpected dilithium mines' worth of vegetables and grain.  "Besides, M'Benga knows I'm the only CMO crazy enough to give him his own laboratory."

"That lab is the size of a shoebox."  Kirk pointed out.

"He managed to get his Masters in pH water samples of Class K planets out of that lab,"  McCoy reminded him.  "M'Benga doesn't want a level of responsibility that will detract from his publishing career.  I had to armwrestle him to get him here in the first place."

"What was the clincher?"  Kirk wondered.

"Full credit for his discoveries."

"He'd get that anyway."  Kirk scoffed.

"Nuh-uh."  McCoy shook his head.  Kirk stared at him.  "It's quite legal for a superior officer in the medical field, and related fields of secondary military significance inside the military discipline and authority, to take the credit for all underlings' research and work."

"If that's the case, why isn't the murder rate higher?"  Kirk wanted to know.

McCoy turned thoughtful.  He stopped chewing for a moment, eyes drifting to the ceiling as he thought.

"Beats me," He said at last with a shrug.  "Maybe it is higher and we don't know about it.  If anybody can cover their trail, it'd be a halfway decent med-tech with a desire to live."

***

Physical aspect, well, McCoy wasn't bad.  He had a natural grace that caught the eye, and could make a Vulcan look clumsy.  But he consistently supressed his talents, making sure that if you glimpsed him at his best it was surely a mistake.  He was lean but hardly a rack of bones--the nickname applied to his livelihood.  His hair was still dark with plenty of color.  He was a lot stronger than he wanted one to think; his files were firm on that.  In battle, his strongest point was his unpredictability.  While McCoy might know what he was all about in a fight, chances were nobody else knew.  A trait Kirk recognized from his own Irish ancestors, and respected.

When he smiled, which was so rare you could count the times on a hand, he became a different person.  When something new and wondrous hit his life, equally rare, that new person came back.  When he was standing at the brink of accomplishment, a blend of the two emerged.  Wonder and awe would shine in his eyes, soaking in a memory to brighten his life for the dark days ahead.

The two different personalities intrigued Kirk.  They were night and day, almost like working with two incompatible brains in one body, and neither personality seemed to like the other.  One emerged under fatigue; the other in moments of strength.  One was thoughtful, pensive, capable of surprising insights.  The aggressive personality could be brash, and startling.  But the aggressive McCoy was the one most seen.  Kirk began to wonder about that submerged McCoy, the one he took such pains to hide.

And, being captain, he had access to a limitless database.  McCoy really didn't have a chance.

McCoy had an instinctive awareness of what was happening.  He couldn't avoid it.  His level of skill in the medical field was largely dependant on his ability to garner accurate impressions.

But it wasn't the first time he'd been faced with the attention of a superior officer.  Everyone had several times in their life.  It was a game--a game with high stakes and high risks.  The phrase "interdepartmental politics" didn't begin to cover the complexity of clever and determined adults pitted against each other.  As far as McCoy was concerned, Kirk was just the latest, unwelcome event in a life of head-on interaction.  Some people enjoyed the rise in fame.  Some managed to use it to their advantage.  Some just stuck it out and put up with it.  Some did very stupid things to prevent the inevitable.

McCoy's problem was he really didn't know which tactic would be the best.  It all depended on Kirk himself.  If Kirk pushed hard, McCoy planned on doing something stupid, something that would ruin his career but get him out of the problem.  He did have his self-respect, and that did not include being a captain's mome.

If Kirk planned on nudging him gently along, McCoy could delay Kirk's goal indefinitely.  Between the two tactics rested an extremely ugly type of cat-and-mouse, such as what Sulu was playing with Uhura.  It said something about the efficiency of both officers that they could perform their duties in a way that hadn't gotten the other sliced to ribbons...yet.

If Kirk decided to use the unimaginable tactic of subtlety...well.  McCoy was sunk, and he knew it.  He had no idea of what Kirk was like when he was being subtle.  He doubted anybody knew.

He did know this:  Kirk disliked moving on the chessboard without having one or two pieces to back him up to crush the opponant who dared take that piece.  If that was Kirk's idea of subtle, then he'd better start investigating a medical mishap for himself right now.

***

"Chekov's report on the Canopian System."  Kirk dropped the hard copy on the triangular desk and rubbed his forehead in irritation.  "Only one decently habitible planet in a field of 20.  The gravity patterns are beyond belief.  It's no wonder the commets and asteriods are considered "officially untrackable."

McCoy shook his head at the thought.  The fresh rations had died down, and he was back to getting all his enjoyment out of his cup of coffee.  "I'm surprised he submitted that ahead of schedule."

"Oh?  Why?"

McCoy finished swallowing his drink before replying:  "Sulu."

"What about Sulu?  Those two couldn't possibly be a couple."

"They aren't."  McCoy shivered at the thought.  "Chekov would do anything for Sulu if he asked him to, though.  Our helmsman is the only person in that man's life who has ever treated him decently.  I wouldn't call it hero worship, but if Sulu ever got his own ship, Chekov would be right there to give his orders."

Kirk thought about it, frowning slightly.  "Here I thought Chekov just had a schoolboy's crush on him.  And that's what the majority of the ship thinks."

Again, McCoy shook his head.  The blue eyes locked into the hazel, delivering a message.  "Regard is one of the easiest states to misread."  He said softly.  "And admiration is often confused for love and lust."

Kirk held McCoy's gaze, and was mildly surprised when the doctor refused to back down from it.

"An emergency call from the colony, captain."  Uhura's steady voice alerted Kirk out of the fragile silence.

***

Ten minutes later, the Bridge was a very uncomforatble place to be in.

"Great."  McCoy rubbed his forehead.  Now that he knew why Kirk had summoned him Up Top, he was wishing he were M'Benga and M'Benga was himself.  "An Ambassador's daughter about to give birth, and she's Canopian.  They won't let any military get close to them."

"That's why I wanted that wafer on marriage customs."  Kirk drummed his fingers on his thigh.  "They'd rather let a strange male approach them, than a female twin sister with a war record."

"Some kind of religious thing I've never understood."  McCoy told him.

"I've never understood that tradition," Kirk said in distaste.

"I believe it was the caste system."  Spock offered politely.  "The Civilian caste is carefully married to the military caste.  Casual contact is not permitted for fear of disruption to the marriage brokers."

"Business."  McCoy laughed shortly.  "I thought that went out with lancing wounds and spinu bifida."

"We cannot offer the aid the Canopians need."  Spock said soberly.  "We all fall under military authority."

"But you don't."  Kirk suddenly turned to a startled McCoy.  "You swore an Oath to Hippocrites, who fell under the jurisdiction of Mars the Healer.  That technically makes you a Priest."

McCoy visibly hesitated.  "An Office I never actually took."

"But you were trained, were you not."

The doctor nodded without a word.

"They'll respect that.  Do you carry robes of office?"

"Pragmatic Office."  McCoy lifted up his hand.  "The codes of my home suffice."

"I thought it would be something like that."  Kirk folded his arms at rest.  "Go on down.  Dress civilian.  The ship will inform them of your arrival."

McCoy didn't protest.  After all, what was the point?  He just nodded, taking his leave.

The next forty hours passed in great exasperation.  No one on ship had heard of a labor lasting longer than fifteen minutes--half an hour seemed to be the record--modern medicine was capable of casual miracles and easy births.  Of course, that did depend on things the Canopians frowned of.

It was just plain bad luck that the labor was turning out difficult.  The family had religious strictures against what they considered invasive means, so the mother-to-be was being put under an abnormal amount of stress and physical strain.  Not to mention the labor attendant, McCoy added darkly.

"How much longer can it possibly be?"  Kirk asked, numb.

"It should have been done hours ago!"  McCoy rubbed his forehead.  The mainscreen showed little of the room, just a dark cloth around his throat, some sort of white tunic and a black vest.  "I'm no magician, but I may have to learn how to be one, real quick, to make sure the baby is alive and healthy."

"Is it in danger now?"

McCoy clearly hesitated.  "Not now.  But there's been some bad moments."  His head shot to the side, just as a sharp wail floated up.  "I'll contact you as soon as I can."

Kirk motioned for Uhura to sign off, and sighed.

Spock voiced what they were all thinking.  "A political birth.  The planet's politics takes for granted this heir will be alive and healthy."

"And if it isn't, there will be a board of inquiry that will include everyone on the ISS ENTERPRISE and carefully exclude the ridiculous, hidebound conservative view of the family who has these absurd customs."  Kirk commented dryly.  "Not to sound prejudiced, Mr. Spock, but many of us in the Empire happen to owe our lives to the methods the Canopians scorn."

"I would consider myself in your category,"  Spock commented.

***

McCoy moved off the platform with that smooth grace that belied a man much younger than his years.  His dark clothes were stark against the gauzy finery of the Ambassadorial party.  Kirk thought he did indeed, resemble a preacher.  That impression was not dispelled when he took in the finer details: the doctor looked remarkably like an old riverboat gambler from the ancient history books, but his left sleeve had two thin, dark blue-violet stripes across the cuff almost like a military rank.  Kirk made a mental note to find out about that; civilian ranks were a mystery to the military-bred like himself.

The baby in his arms stirred and made a soft wail.  A young woman, possibly the mother but who could tell under the layers of gauze, moved close.  McCoy passed it over with a faint smile and watched her vanish into the throng of Canopians.

"Why is it," Kirk muttered to Spock, "We're good enough to be their transport to the Third Colony?"

Spock only shrugged.

***

"Here's the report."  McCoy was so tired his voice was hoarse.  He pushed the blue square of plastic forward on the small desk.  "All the basics, and some of the not-so-basic procedures."

Kirk stared.  "How'd you manage a vaginal birth if the baby was stuck?"

"I didn't."  Very slowly, as if moving underwater, the doctor pulled off one lowtopped boot after another, and put them back in his closet.  Kirk made a note that the closet had exactly two suits of civilian clothes and nothing else.

"You didn't?"

"No.  I just told the mother that if that baby wasn't going to come out by the time I counted three minutes, she was going to have invasive surgery."  McCoy's expression was almost amused.  "She practically stood on the balls of her feet, told me that would happen over her dead body, and bingo, an emotionaly induced normal labor.  But that poor kid is going to look a fright until its head settles down to its natural shape.  She looks like somebody stuck her upside down in a funnel."

Kirk winced; similar thoughts had occurred to him upon taking in the infant's cone-headed red skull.  "Well, all's well that end's well.  Consider yourself off duty for the next 24 hours.  You look like you need it."

"No arguments."  McCoy was reaching for his neatly-folded military tunic off the desk chair.

Halfway down the hall Kirk remembered he hadn't picked up the wafer.  He spun and, giving the bodyguards time to catch up, returned to the doctor's cabin.

McCoy didn't react when he stepped through the door.  Kirk's first thought was surprise tht he could fall asleep that quickly, but a second analysis disputed that.  Sleeping people rarely stretched out, fully dressed in uniform, with their hands folded across their midsection.  Boots and all, McCoy looked ready for duty, but he was colder than a vacuum-chilled mackerel.

Kirk shook his shoulder, and got no reaction.  A more violent shake meant nothing.  McCoy was limp as a doll, and just as useful.

What'd he do, give himself a sedative?  He likes those things about as well as I do, which means he doesn't.  Half-exasperated, Kirk straightened, hands on hips.  For the first time his eye fell upon a small object lying on the rest behind the doctor's head.  A hypospray.  An empty one.

...hmnnn...

Kirk picked up the tool gingerly.  Air-injection took most fluid out of the chamber, but there was the faintest suggestion of vapor inside.  Red vapor, which was the red liquid that suspended the medium of nearly all the serums in the Empire's pharmacology.

A good military strategist investigates all possibilities.  Kirk silently slipped the empty chamber in his sash.  Three minutes to get to his cabin, two to stick the chamber in his personal computer, and three more to return the hypochamber to McCoy's hypo.

There was a very good chance it was just a simple sedative to knock the doctor out, who was overtired and stressed from a long, hard case.

But Kirk was going to check anyway.

Part 3

Some vague instinct told McCoy danger was in the air--or at least, there was some kind of indefined threat.  Searching his memory brought him to no conclusions; he had waited until Kirk was long gone before taking the Lexorin, and finally got to enjoy the first conflict-free sleep in over a month.

He'd really pushed it this time.

The doctor rested at the edge of the bed, shoulders sloped as he ran over the same, tired facts that was his particular lot in life.

What he'd done was not illegal.  Now, taking certain drugs was very illegal for a physician, and not the least because doctors make terrible patients and there's the threat of an overblown sense of immunity that leads the way to addictions as bad as anything seen in the slums.

Lexorin was an ordinary, tabletop medication for Vulcans.  It was also used by Rigellians, and if Rigellians could take it, the chances were high humans could to.  But humans didn't normally need to take the stuff, which was the biggest reason why it was legal.

He did hate the circumstances that made the drug so vital to his personal pyramid of health.

Slowly, he got to his feet and checked the calendar.  He'd be back on duty by late tomorrow, which was just fine with him.  He planned to stay in his cabin and put his feet up as much as possible.  There was no telling when there would be another chance to get the rest.

But it was worth it, he reminded himself.  Every day on some level, he fought with this decision but he wouldn't--couldn't change it.  The successful birth--hard-earned--and the unabashed joy from the family when that tiny, angry infant was declared safe, normal, and willful, was something he would treasure.

He worried briefly, as he always did, on the future of the small life.  Would she survive, would she thrive?

But such matters were out of his power.  Freedom was a difficult thing, and it often hurt.  But everyone had to find their own paths for themselves.

He thought of the indignant face as the infant protested, and smiled slightly.  No, he doubted the baby would grow up to be a pawn in anyone's life.

***

Kirk smiled as Marlena came in with the wafer.  "Well you're home early," he said mildly.  "What's the good news?"

Marlena looked dubious indeed as she set the plastic down.  "That chemical was Lexorin."  She told him.

"I'm afraid that means nothing to me."  Kirk smiled at his most charming.  "Enlighten me."

Marlena sat down at the small table--really a one-person table--and took the glass he offered her.  Her expression was troubled as she studied the oily-looking liquor swirling inside the crystal.  "Lexorin is a Vulcan drug."

"A Vulcan drug?"  Kirk repeated.  He hadn't expected that.  Just about anything but that.  A history of carefully scathing observations from the CMO had not nurtured a reputation of Vulcan's particular usefulness in his life.

Scathing observations that might have begun about ten minutes after Spock had begun his particular scathing observations about civilians who joined military ships, but at least the two men could work together.  Otherwise, Kirk would be tempted to toss both out of a four-inch-wide airlock.

"Common enough on Vulcan," Marlena shrugged.  "It must be Mr. Spock's, or one of his bodyguards.  Where did you find it?"

The lie came easily.  "I didn't.  It was brought to me, from a source I'd prefer to disprove or prove--hence my asking for your help."  Again, that smile.

Feeling more comfortable, Marlena leaned back and took a sip.  "Lexorin is a mind-drug.  Many Vulcans have used it at least once in their life.  Nearly always, its used when they hit the cusp of adolescence and adulthood."

"It's used to...what?  Help their hormones stabilize?"  This was sounding really bizarre.

"No, not at all."  Marlena corrected quickly.  "Their minds."

"It's a mind drug?"

"Lexorin disrupts certain neural synapses for a short amount of time.  This helps a Vulcan who is under the strain of an uncontrollable mental environment, to take a much-needed rest."

Kirk caught on.  "You're saying, its taken as a form of psychic painkiller."

"Exactly."

Kirk rose and began to pace, slowly.  His hands locked behind his back, which meant he was really thinking.  Marlena wondered what it was about.  Since their return from that other place, he'd been oddly calmer, more in control of himself.  She'd fretted that he would kill her over whatever betrayals his imagination could conjure, but...

...it was as if that matter was not important to him.  Was he focused elsewhere?  Marlena was always on the sharp lookout for another woman in his life--and so far there was nothing to cause alarm.  If there was, she'd certainly take care of the matter, and she wouldn't need the Tantalus Device to do it.

As to the rumors about the way he was studying McCoy, well, starships ran on gossip as much as dilithium.  Kirk had paid attention to many a man in his life--Gary Mitchell being one of the worst such examples, but Ben Finney hadn't been all that sterling either.  If Kirk's history with women was colorful, patched and uneven, his relationships with men were as different as a valley and a gaping chasm.

Men pursued each other in different ways, for different reasons than they pursued women.  That was how the Universe ran.

"I don't want to just assume a Vulcan had this," Kirk said slowly.  "What other species would benefit from Lexorin?"

"Well, Rigellians, naturally.  And possibly humans."

"Humans aren't strongly psychic," Kirk protested--sharply, Marlena thought, then his face closed up tight and Marlena knew Gary Mitchell had suddenly flitted across his eyes.

"Most of us aren't," Marlena told him.  "There is a significant percentage of us who are.  I don't count myself in that, but..."  She lifted her shoulders, "Ca va."

"Ca va."  Jim echoed quietly.

***

"Thank you for agreeing to this appointment," Marlena sat down before the desk.

"It is of no matter."  Spock said politely.  "Does the captain know we are having this meeting?"

"Of course.  I need your testimony for an independant insight into this mystery."

Spock steepled his fingers.  "The presence of Lexorin does not guarantee it was used by a Vulcan.  Or even a Half Vulcan."

"Yes, Commander."

"And if it were, it would be considered a matter of privacy, and no real importance."  Spock told her.

"I have no idea why he wants to know this," Marlena confessed.  "I assured him I would find out what I could.  And while he never said anything outright, his questions were guiding me into "other-than-Vulcan" possibilities.  So, while he says the hypo was given to him by a source he wants to investigate, for some reason he doesn't think it was from a Vulcan."

"That would be more important," Spock admitted.  "A few races are forbidden Lexorin--Deltans, for example, and Andorians, but we have none currently onboard.  There is a possibility it was left by one, during one of our many missions."

"Can Canopians use it?"

Spock's eyebrows rose.  "An excellent question, for one I have no answer.  Perhaps we should investigate that angle."

"Why wouldn't he be asking McCoy on this?"  Marlena wondered, then answered herself.  "Oh; he's still offduty.  Yes, that's Jim.  He won't wait ten minutes for an answer.  I bet he's got M'Benga on it."

"I would not take that bet."  Spock told her soberly.  Kirk's impatience was the stuff of proverbs.

"Can you tell me anything useful?"  Marlena wondered.

Spock tapped his long fingers on the desk.  "Lexorin is more common among humans than one might think; Vulcan achieves considerable revenue from its exportation."

"Really."  Marlena was interested.  "Well, I don't want to be caught inadequate with information.  What conditions would meet that among a human?"

"Empathy is a difficult ability when mixed with telepathy," Spock mused.  "An Empath is often vulnerable to the whims of the psychic atmosphere.  Under a severe barrage of emotion, an empath may not be able to maintain their shields for long.  If at all.  They will react, slowly but surely, to the strength of the psychic emanations.  On another angle, in a staid, placid environment, they may be lethargic and difficult to rouse, even to perform ordinary duties.  A skilled empath is well shielded to some extent, but they must isolate themselves from others for a certain period or their mental barriers will degrade."

"You mean like going to one of those old-fashioned sanitariums?"  Marlena puzzled.

"Sanitariums are commonplace on Vulcan."  Spock told her placidly.  "And in the absence of sanitariums, which is not a normal portion of a Starship, Lexorin would be an adequate solution."

"I see."  Marlena stroked her lip.  "What if this...sanitarium...can never be gotten to?  Can Lexorin always substitute?"

"Nothing is truly an adequate substitute for the genuine article."

There was a short silence.

"Is Kirk still probing McCoy for flaws?"  Spock wondered, with just the right touch of dry deadpan tones.

Marlena laughed shortly.  "I don't know how he got Jim's attention, but I feel sorry for him.  Jim's never had a stable man in his relationships; he'll throw him away as soon as he wins him."  A sudden thought crossed her mind.  "Or maybe not.  As I said, he's never had a stable man in his relationships."  She shook that off.  "It's a completely one-sided affair, and I thought better of him."

"Better of who?"

"Jim.  McCoy's not much of a challenge--unless he's taking an entirely novel tactic.  McCoy's Hippocritic Oath is of the Old School.  He's not permitted to do anything.  But that doesn't mean somebody can't do it to him."

"I do not understand."

Marlena explained patiently.  "The Old Oath states specifically, as a physician one cannot divulge the confidence of anyone who tells him anything, even if it means his own safety.  That's restrictive enough, but he's also not permitted, let's see, "every voluntary act of mischief and corruption; and further, from the seduction of females or males, of freemen and slaves."  She scowled.  "Rules like that are why I left the option of nursing and went into Macrochemistry."

Spock pondered that.  The Oath sounded more like an induction into a severe priesthood; he would have to investigate into the full vow.  But suddenly, certain annoying aspects of the doctor's behavior was clear.

"You are saying that this sounds like the captain is stalking quarry with no defenses."

"Well, almost.  I'm a hunter myself."  She smiled.  "Some of the most dangerous animals are plant-eaters."

"They usually have certain factors on their side, Lieutenant.  Such as tusks, venom, armor and considerable size."

"Even a small animal can be dangerous.  No hunter believes in a totally harmless quarry.  But Jim wouldn't shoot turtles in the water.  He'd be going for them in a way that evened the odds.  And as to how he'll do this, I don't know.  I may be the Captain's Woman, but I'm not the Captain's Mindreader.  Frankly, I like it that way."

"If you were, Lexorin would always be an option."  Spock told her.

Marlena's jaw dropped.  She was almost positive Spock had just made a joke.

***

Marlena left a short message at Jim's cabin, summarizing what Spock had told her.  She found herself sitting on the small bunk in her room, thinking in the evening-dimmed lumen.

She could sense change was coming, but she couldn't say exactly what it was.  It did have something to do with McCoy.  But at the same time, she could sense change in the direction of Spock, and Jim, and even herself.

Marlena was jealous of anyone who could get Jim's attention, but most of all from other women.  That wasn't the case here, but McCoy was dangerous somehow.  How a pacifist could be, she didn't know.

The young woman sat with a glass in her lap, and pondered her options most soberly.  Change from outside environments needed one to change too--shutting the door didn't stop the ship from blowing up, after all.

She liked her position as a captain's woman, but Jim had not been a likeable man of late.  The visit to the Other Place had changed him, even though she would have preferred his counterpart to stay behind.  THAT had been a Jim Kirk she would have enjoyed.

So much like Jim used to be...young and not bitter, hard but not easily reactive.  She had thought the Tantalus Device would make things simpler with them.  It would smooth their way through power, and solve the problems of all their enemies and opponants...

Only there never seemed to be any lacking in enemies.  Make them disappear, and more came out of nowhere.  That was one illusion shattered.

And things had not gotten easier.  Jim could dispatch his foes with the press of a button, but he no longer even used it, other than to watch crewmen.  And contrary to what one commonly understood of voyeurism, Jim's use of the Device was getting fewer and fewer.  She didn't comprehend his thoughts in that field.  It was an ugly thing, but enemies had to be watched.

Slowly, Marlena's thoughts managed to get to a startling conclusion.

Jim was losing his edge.

Was that why he was interested in McCoy?  He might be telling himself it was just the usual cat and mouse, but what if McCoy's pacifist streak was compelling the captain in some way?

Marlena did not like this line of thought.  They might as well toss themselves out of that proverbial airlock.  Captains who hesitated to kill weren't captains for long.

She shuddered slightly, and picked up her glass.  There was always the possibility she was wrong--this wasn't the best theory she could come up with, but it was too compelling to dispense.

Part 4

What is this stuff?"

McCoy peered over his AMO's shoulder to see what the other man was talking about. "I have no idea," he confessed. "Did you draw those?"

"Not me." M'Benga lifted the transparent, glassine tubes of straw-colored liquid. "It's somebody's blood sample, but it sure isn't mine."

"Maybe Chapel's using the machine again," McCoy said, but doubtfully. Chapel--everybody--knew the rules: take care of what you do, or the CMO will toss it out the airlock, and maybe you with it. Biological contamination was the seventh-leading cause of death on science vessels.

"I'll run it through," M'Benga put the straw in the analyzer. "At least then we'd know who it is." The two men waited quietly, but were not wholly shocked when the readings came up as 100% alien.

"What the devil..." McCoy muttered, and suddenly bent for a closer look. As M'Benga watched, his face turned a dark red. "Why that son of a..." He shot upright, taut with anger. "M'Benga, you're in charge of Sickbay until I get back. IF I get back!" He had stamped out the door before M'Benga could gather the nerve to ask what he meant by the "if."

***

"What's your particular, logic-inspired excuse of using my equipment for your research?" McCoy wanted to know barely before the doors to Spock's quarters had shut.

"Logic-inspired excuse?" Spock repeated coolly.

"You have your own laboratory! You had no cause to put that liquidated chunk of flying parasite in my lab, where god knows who could have come along and contaminated it!"

"The sample was sterile," Spock informed him loftily.

"I'll remember that, the next time you preach to me about being a bad example to my staff." McCoy's voice could have dropped Eridani 40 into a new Arctic Zone.

Spock held the silence for a moment. "It was the best way to arrange this meeting with you." He told the angry human.

"Meeting?" McCoy repeated, then rolled his eyes upward. Under Spock's sardonically amused glance he folded up into the nearest chair. "Fine, you threw the bait, I took it, now I've been reeled in. You could have just ordered me in."

"Perhaps," Spock admitted, "But Mr. Sulu tends to notice when the two of us are combined on any matter. It is not unusual for us to fight."

McCoy promptly bashed his chin into his fist. "As I said, I'm listening. Are you going to let me know, or try to kill me with the suspense?"

"The ENTERPRISE is being considered as a research vessel for the Empire."

McCoy lifted his head up. Looked at Spock. He was completely without words, but Spock seemed to be waiting for him to say something.

"A research vessel for the Empire. A warship? A fully-equipped chunk of durasteel designed for mayhem?"

"I believe the favored word is, "disciplinary." Spock told him evenly.

"Beg pardon. And how does the captain react to this news?"

"He has been pushing for this matter." Spock told him. "I am surprised you did not know."

"Which just goes to show, I must not be sleeping with him." McCoy added with proper scathing heat.

Spock tilted his head to one side, his fingers neatly stacked up together on the desk. "Or you are an uncommonly reticent partner."

McCoy's eyes narrowed. "Thanks for assuming I'd even rank as a partner with a starship captain. I'd be flattered if I wasn't so appalled."

Spock's lips twitched. "As no psychologist can earn their sash by assassination, I presume you know something of human nature. If the captain's attention is abhorrant to you, I would suggest--"

"The last thing I need is advice on how to behave as a human, from someone who denies their own mother." McCoy snarled. the temperature in the room once again dropped. Spock's nostrils flared, but McCoy hadn't backed down from his face-off with James kirk, and he wasn't about to back off with Spock. "Your logic," he whispered, "is currently not designed for this kind of probing. It will work on those little officers, but may I remind you that I am not impressed by my own rank, nor should I be at yours. If you want to know something, it would save time if you just came out with it. I might even give you a straight answer."

Spock grudgingly respected this new and until-now, hidden doctor. Like a sandwal, McCoy appeared to be annoyingly ignorant of taunting until a certain line was crossed, then the tusks were exposed under the trunk.

Something, he realized, was perilously close to striking the doctor's buried defenses.  He steepled his fingers together and slipped his eyes half-shut in a show of calm; Vulcan manners were good at defusing situations at a subconscious level.  On a private level, this was getting very interesting and he intended to pursue his research in this matter.

"Surely you realize that if the ENTERPRISE is to become a science vessel, things will change for everyone.  If we have even one dissenting voice in our ranks, the project will fail."

McCoy frowned, letting his arms fall to his sides.  "We're not giving up our military capacity, surely."

"Surely not.  But even a partially peaceful reputation will mean the ship will face more challenges."

McCoy rolled his eyes.  "You're probably right.  You usually are about depressing things."  He folded his arms across his chest.  "I'm not about to be a dissenting voice, vote or opinion if it means we do less killing."

"Even if it means we are more likely to be killed?"

McCoy's answer was astonishing:  "I'm not that smart, Spock.  I don't ask myself those kinds of questions.  You might as well ask a blade of grass why its not an oak tree."

Spock's eyebrows shot upwards and nearly struck his hairline.  "An interesting point of view."

"I just do my job.  Even a partially peaceful warship, and I'm holding my opinion as to how possible that it--is closer to the mandates of my Oath than what's going on now."

Spock grunted softly.  "Understood.  Your view, unorthodox as it is, may be required soon."

"Let's hope not."  McCoy said fervently.

***

Rumor of course, hit the ship with the force of an ion storm.  There was an obvious tension in Sulu's faction--outright belligerance and horror to be exact.  Most civilians believed the military attitude was purely dog-eat-dog.  This was not true.  If a commander made an error that involved the entire ship, then every ranking officer tended to be executed with him.  Sulu's reaction was only sensible.  Kirk was not being predictable, and unpredictable captains tended to become "examples."  And the subordinate officers of the "examples" tended to become "examples" with the captains.

"If I pull one more dagger out of one more tech, I'm going to scream."  McCoy muttered in the hallway.  Kirk of course, gave a maddening chuckle.  His bodyguards were paid to be clever but not to question.  They were about the only calm and unreactive crewmen on the ship.

"You can take a break from it all soon enough."  The captain assured him.  "Mr. Scott is about to beam into the Auxillary Deck for repairs.  There's been radiation leakage, so that makes it unsuitable for Memory Alpha's confidential core storage.  And that means a qualified physician has to attend."

"Sounds lovely."  McCoy was perfectly serious.

"Are you joking?"

"No.  Slapping UV-shield and weighing rads sounds like a picnic compared to repairing aggressive assaults.  Have you seen my reports?  I sent you two full wafers of casualties and deaths."

"Two?  I thought there was just one.  I only got one."  Kirk scowled.  "Who couriered for you?"

"Tech Randall--oh, no."  McCoy stopped, putting his hand over his eyes with a grimace.

"Oh what?"

"Randall's one of my serious casualties.  The last wafer must not have gotten to you; he was carried into Sickbay less than ten minutes after I sent him out!"  McCoy put his fist into the wall as he walked; a casual display of temper.  Kirk smiled slightly as the durasteel rattled.  That had been an outwardly rash action, but the fist had been focused and skilled.  McCoy, consummate surgeon, would never do anything with his hands without deliberation.

"Do you have a copy?"

"Yeah, just a moment..."  McCoy detoured to the nearest wall-comm and paged Sickbay.  His request was in Medical jargon, which might as well be a foreign language as far as Kirk was concerned.  M'Benga answered in the same gabblespeak, and McCoy signed off in relief.

"The copy's on my desk.  I'll go get it myself."

"I'll get it," Kirk told him firmly.  "Scott's almost ready to go into Aux.  You know you don't want to keep that man waiting."

McCoy rolled his eyes in agreement.  The stereotypical Irish temper couldn't hold a candle to Highlander outrage and righteous indignation.  "I'll get my kit."

They walked together to Sickbay.  McCoy couldn't stand it; he asked the burning question:  "Why does Memory Alpha want us to be their messenger boy anyway?  They usually pick the smallest, lightest and damnall fastest ships to send core-memory to High Command."

"Sensitive nature of the materials I suppose."  Kirk lifted his shoulders.  "A starship is a lot harder to waylay than a corsair-class lightship.  And we have a lot better plating, three times the shields, and a heavy arsenal."

"All this for grain crop specs,"  McCoy muttered.  "Some people are taking this program to feed all the Empire's citizens and end all famine within a Standard Year, to extremes."

"From what I hear, the Empire's worst enemies aren't the Klingons or Romulans, but large-scale agriplanets."

"Let me guess; heavy supply will lower the prices."

"I thought you were a doctor, not an idealist."

"May I respectfully remind the captain that I was raised in swamps where the tomatoes have to be grown upside-down and hanging in the air to make room for other crops?"

"You may."  Kirk said placidly.  He was chuckling to himself at the sally.

***

Scott was hurridly giving his tool belt one last check as McCoy stepped down the hallway.  McCoy knew damn well Scott had been compulsively checking his equpiment ever since he picked it up.  'Compulsive' was one of the best ways of describing the Engineer.  "Och, there ye are," he burred.  "Ready then?"

"As much as I'll ever be,"  McCoy tapped his own belt.  The jumpsuits were a relief from the confines of the usual uniform.  More room in the shoulders, and wasn't that a blessing.  "Who'll be the Backup?"

"Barthlolemew.  I alredda sent him; he should be settin' everything up for us."

McCoy nodded and squared his shoulders.  He turned on his tricorder and satisfied himself the rad-settings were proper.

"Come on, then."  Scott bounced to the top of the transporter platform.  McCoy, who was determined that he would die before anyone knew of his fear of that form of transportation, mentally gritted his teeth as he moved to the nearest disk.  Lt. Kyle nodded respectfully, and gave the protocol-salture off his chest.

***

Up on Bridge, Lt. Sulu flinched at a shower of lithium sparks off his console.  The ship's antigrav shuddered, sending most who were on their feet to clutch at the rails.  The Security Alert dimmed, then swelled to full color and sound.

"Status Report!"  Kirk snarled.  His fingers dug into the rests of his chair.

"Energy fluctuation, captain.  Attempting to discern location."  Sulu answered shakily.

"Mr. Spock, lock on to Mr. Sulu's console; discern nature of fluctuation."

"Agreed, captain."  Spock said as calmly as if he had not already done so.

"Auxillary Department, sir."  Sulu sucked his breath through his teeth and winced; a burn smoked at his shoulder.

"Captain, Lt. Kyle is reporting," Uhura snapped.  "His console recorded a surge of radiation before the transporter's Carrier Wave could shut down."

"Obviously the cause of the fluctuation," Spock commented.  "The radiation carried over the Wave and contaminated the console, and through it, our instruments."  His eyebrows went up.  "The beam was to transport Scott and McCoy and Bartholemew to the Auxillary."

***

"Hold still,"  McCoy wearily tipped Scott's head up by the chin and delicately stitched the gash shut before it could resume bleeding.  Scott blinked heavily, the scorch sending a new wave of tears across his eyes.  "Can you see now?"  He waited, muscles trembling from tension, while the Engineer attempted to see.  It took a moment but felt like forever, then the man finally nodded, sighing with relief.

"What's thot smell?"  He asked.

McCoy had been dreading that question.  "Ensign Bartholomew."  He told him quietly.  Scott cringed, lips drawn tight over his teeth.

"How bad is it?"  He wondered.

"I don't think you should look."  McCoy advised.

Scott had seen just about every travesty known to the human body that involved engineering--from long-term effects of radiation, to broken machinary slicing sensitive flesh into ribbons.  If McCoy said no, he wasn't going to contest it.  He shut his eyes.

"Keep your head down; I'm going to clean up."  McCoy waited until after the Scot had lain back down on the metal floor, and went to the prone corpse.  A faint wisp of smoke still wafted up from the head, hands and thighs.  The doctor knelt and put his arms around the body.  The charcoaled-crust of uniform and skin and meat broke under the pressure; McCoy moved quickly, struggling to transport the dead man away from the room before he could literally fall apart.  Rigid chunks of charred meat slid like tectonic plates and a section of leg fell to the floor.  A new odor emerged; Scott clapped his hand over his mouth.

"It's almost over," McCoy misunderstood Scott's reaction.  "Mph...there."  He let go, and the ensign tumbled into the back closet.  Sighing, the doctor found the antiseptics and cleaned up the floor and walls as best as he could.  There was no point in exposing them to any more germs than neccessary.

"Ah don't think I'll be eatin' meat for a while."  Scott finally said.  He did it because not saying anything seemed to be vaguely disrespectful; like denying the boy had died trying to save their lives.

"Sure you will."  McCoy assured him.

"How ken ye even contemplate such?"  Scott wondered.

McCoy rubbed his face, leaving a clean smear across one cheek.  "Scotty, I don't have much reaction to the dead.  It's the living that gets me.  If he'd lived, well, he wouldn't have lived long at all, and he'd a been screaming the whole time.  I would have had to put him out of his misery."

Scott wearily opened one eye again.  "Ye would?"  He looked uneasy at the thought.

"Oh, there's plenty of doctors who are too good to kill, or too good to end suffering.  I don't think I'm that good."  That last was said sardonically, directed at some inner audience Scott was not aware of.  "What the blazes happened, anyway?"

"As far as I can figger," Scotty said slowly--very slowly--when we beamed doon, we activated some sort o' trigger."

"Bomb?"

"Aye."

"Isn't that lovely!"  McCoy saw another Bartholomew-smear and wearily wiped it up.  He felt sick and dizzy.  "Well, as the medical observant on duty, I must tell you there's too many rads in the room.  We'd better hope the rescue party comes within the next fifteen minutes, or we'll be convalescing on some godforsaken planet while our assistant officers plot a mutiny for our return."

"Yer a real ray o'sunshine," Scott decided, but didn't exactly argue with the depressing commentary.  After a long pause he said, "Ah think it was triggered when ah beamed Bartholomew intae' the room...Whoever it twas, decided we would all three beam in together."

"A Carrier Wave trigger doesn't matter if its incoming or outcoming?"

"Nae.  They must've decided...whoever they are...tae set the trigger for when we beamed out.  Thot way, a goodly portion o'the ship would be contaminated instead o' just auxillery and mebbe a small area here an' there."

"You mean that when we beamed in, we cooked Bartholomew alive."  McCoy blinked and threw the antiseptic wipes into the wall-container.

"Not the best method o'killing," Scott said flatly.

"Oh, I agree with you there...guess we should have expected it though.  As tense as things are with our turning into a so-called pacifist vessel..."

"Do ye really think that'll happen?"

"God I don't know.  I doubt it.  I never believed in the tooth fairy either."  McCoy sighed and slumped his back against the wall.  "All this for grain crop specs..."

"Mebbe we should start growin' our food on ship," Scott offered.  Obviously, the painkillers were kicking in.

"Great idea.  Allot two cubic feet of space per crewman."  McCoy decided to go with it.  "I'll grow coffee trees."

"Ye wouldna have room for more than one, and 'twould yield only a pound of beans per year.  Not practical."

"Sure it would; I'd start a program to improve production while I was at it..."

Talking about this ridiculous subject kept Scott conscious until the rescue party came.

***

"Beam down directly into the compound," Spock ordered crisply.  "Mr. Scott, your convalescence will be in the Keel.  I trust you will enjoy the company of your peers while you recover."

Scott openly brightened.  The Keel was where the really skilled technicians were; it was also where a certain Mira Romaine was stationed.

"Aye, sair."

McCoy smiled thinly, feeling his muscles twitch with fatigue.  Good for Scotty.

"Doctor, you will help the captain prepare a report for Memory Alpha."  Spock countered Scott's great news with McCoy's dismal; he tilted his head to one side, analytically.  "Of course, you and Mr. Scott and the captain will all be immeasurably detained as the Council of Memory Alpha deliberates on when to accept the said report."

The doctor's shoulders drooped.  "Agreed," He said tonelessly.

***

"Have a drink,"  Kirk sighed and plunked a heavy glass down on the table.  Well, it was a table now.  It had begun its existence as a very large glassine memory-chip.  Memory Alpha scientists never threw anything away.  "You really need a shower."

"I need an overhaul," McCoy told him.

"One thing at a time."  Kirk rested his eyes in his palms.  He was tired and didn't care if the doctor knew it.

The doctor stepped inside the fresher and keyed the temperature to the top of the human tolerance.  Steam filled the cubicle.  He sighed as he undressed and stepped under the flowing water.  Whoever was in charge of the captain's filtration system really had it good; this was distilled water, not the toxin-laden, chlorine-sterilized junk that made you sick and put cysts on your skin.  He scrubbed everything available, until the worst memories of Bartholemew faded out of his mind.

Kirk was nursing the same glass when he came out, soaking wet and wrapped in the loose cotton slacks and jacket of the civilian style.  The captain was frowning, by the set of his shoulders, at the play of the glittering artificial city below.

Kirk would not remind him he was offered that drink, but he would remember if McCoy didn't take it.  The doctor picked it up and punched for something to eat with his free hand.  He was actually sore from the impact of hot water, but it felt good.  It felt alive.