RoH 14

When You Fall, You Fly

Stardate 2260.249, 2020 hours, Deck 7, Sickbay

Five minutes later, Leonard stumbled from the transporter platform almost before he’d materialized. Gratefully, he noticed that Scotty had been true to his word: The transporter room was empty. He gripped Scotty’s arm. “For God’s sake, make sure they don’t get separated – that could kill them.”

Scotty stared at him, eyes wide with concern. “Ready when you are, Doctor.”

Leonard ignored Scotty’s alarm. “M’Benga?”

“Waiting for you in Q1.”

Leonard took a deep breath and pulled out his tricorder, ready to point it at whatever appeared on the transporter platform. “Do it.”

A fraction of a second later, the white whirlwind of transporter beams left behind two entwined, naked bodies in the middle of the platform. Without waiting for Scotty’s reaction, Leonard trained the tricorder on Jim and Spock. After a long moment of staring at the scans, ignoring the tricorder’s alarms and warning lights, he breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing had changed. At least something.

Leonard slipped the belt of the tricorder over his shoulder again and turned to Scotty. The Chief Engineer was staring at their naked friends. Blinking, he opened and closed his mouth a few times without making a sound, before he pressed out, “Holy—”

“Indeed,” Leonard snapped. “On my mark, beam them over to Q1. As uh… gently as you can. And then get Sybok back up here.”

Scotty gulped and nodded. Bones turned on his heels. As promised, M’Benga was already waiting for him in the antechamber of the quarantine room when he got there. “What happened, Doctor McCoy?” he asked, concerned. “Did something go wrong with the Bonding?”

“—the fuck should I know?” Leonard ground out and brushed past M’Benga. He stepped through the double entry into the quarantine room. An expanded hospital bed took up the center of the room. Steeling himself, Leonard tapped his comm unit. “Scotty? We’re ready. Do you have the exact coordinates of the bed?”

“Verified and locked, Doctor.”

“Then go ahead.” Leonard took a step back to stand next to M’Benga, who had followed him into the room.

White swirls condensed into two bodies. Next to Leonard, M’Benga gasped. Leonard didn’t suppress an unpleasant smirk. M’Benga couldn’t have told him anything without violating doctor-patient confidentiality, but damn it! This need not have happened. This should not have happened, whatever it was.

“Got them,” Leonard confirmed with Scotty. “Now get Sybok up here, please.”

“Working on it. Scotty out.”

M’Benga was already at the complex scanners of the quarantine unit, fingers flying over panels. Scotty appeared with Sybok before the scans were complete.

“Doctor?” Scotty asked, hesitating in the door to the quarantine room.

Leonard shook his head, a tight, jerky gesture. “No time now, Scotty. I’ll … I’ll tell you what’s going on as soon as I can.”

He turned back to the consoles. Screens lit up, scans started. Physical, neurological. Warning lights, beeps of alarm. The results were more detailed than those of the tricorder, but essentially the same.

In terms of Jim’s and Spock’s physical condition, the scans confirmed Sybok’s initial diagnosis. Although Spock was not in pon farr, the men were joined in a textbook version of the blood fever union. They were literally tied together thanks to the knot at the base of Spock’s penis. Apart from that, Jim was dehydrated after spending thirty-two hours in a desert climate without drinking. His well-intentioned preparations had left him low on fluids from the start, a fact that now acerbated his condition.

Neurologically, the best medical scanners of the Enterprise were unable to tell Jim’s and Spock’s brains apart. The scans would have made more sense if they had been looking at a single brain – a brain that was high as a kite on Spice.

At first Jim reacted positively to the lower temperatures on board of the Enterprise. But when Spock started shivering, Jim displayed the same symptoms with a delay of three minutes and forty seconds. In the end M’Benga and Leonard had to raise the room temperature to eighty-six degrees Fahrenheit before they were able to get Jim started on intravenous rehydration therapy.

When both men were resting comfortably again (or as much as that was possible without separating them), Sybok initiated another exploratory mind meld. This time, after a few moments of laying his left hand across Jim’s face, he also touched Spock’s forehead. At last he pulled away his hands and stepped back.

“Now what?” Leonard demanded, turning his back on Spock and Jim and facing M’Benga and Sybok.

“The Bond hasn’t settled yet,” Sybok said gravely. “An interspecies Bond can take longer to become entrenched than a Bond between two Vulcan partners. As far as I can tell, their condition is stable; they are not in any mental distress. Therefore I suggest to leave them be, at least for another day or two. The influence of Spice on their mental state should wear off soon. If any effects of the drug should persist, Spock ought to have no problems controlling them, both for Jim and himself.”

“Why did you administer Spice in the first place?” M’Benga asked, clearly appalled. “That is not standard procedure. Minds should be clear of any outside influence during a Bonding.”

“That is true,” Sybok admitted with visible reluctance. “I was … taking a chance. Spice activates the psionic potential of Humans. My stepmother used it during her pregnancy to maintain a prenatal Bond with Spock. I hoped Spice would similarly enable Jim to form a stronger Bond with Spock than would normally be possible between a Human and a Vulcan. I believe I was right. From what I perceived in the meld, their nascent Bond is extremely strong. The brain scans support that impression. I did not anticipate that Spock would lose control and allow the drug to affect them in such a way. It is a most unusual reaction for a Vulcan.”

“Well, sex and drugs and rock ’n’ roll will do that to you.” Leonard scowled. “And Spock’s not Vulcan. He’s half-Human, damn you.” He turned to M’Benga. “Your verdict?”

“Bonding and pon farr are the most intimate aspects of Vulcan life, Dr. McCoy,” M’Benga replied, his dark face tense. “Thanks to my work with genetic hybridization techniques at the Vulcan Science Academy, I have been privileged to learn more about the psychological and physical consequences of Vulcan Bonding and mating than any human scientist before. But I have never seen any brain scans of the process or the condition. I do not know if any exist – or existed, now that Vulcan is gone. As I’m also not a telepath myself, I have to rely on Sybok’s conclusions. A second opinion would be helpful. However, both Kirk and Spock have logged their refusal to let Dr. Elbrun access to their minds outside a medical emergency.” He frowned and scrutinized the displays of the scanners once more. “While the scans are extremely unusual, they do not indicate any immediate danger for either brain. Their physical condition is satisfactory. Therefore I don’t believe we have sufficient reason to involve Dr. Elbrun at this point. In consequence we need to rely on Sybok’s assessment of their mental state beyond what the scans can tell us. Based on my knowledge of the Bonding process, I do believe that Sybok’s proposal is valid. Kirk and Spock are monitored closely now. We’ll be alerted to any change. At this point in time, it might be best not to interfere with the process.”

“And the rest?” Leonard made an impatient, rude gesture. “Any suggestions for how to handle their current … attachment?”

M’Benga remained calm in spite of whatever apprehension or disapproval he might harbor concerning the situation. “Spock is not in pon farr,” he stated. “Thankfully. However, the mode of intercourse is definitely that of plak’tow – the blood fever. As you can see,” he pointed at the screen of the relevant console, “Their bodies are tied together due to the knot at the base of the Vulcan penis. For heterosexual partners that mechanism ensures conception during pon farr. I didn’t expect that this particular phenomenon would also occur in a homosexual union. If this was pon farr, there’d be nothing we could do about it. Since Spock is not actually suffering from plak’tow, a mild sedative might allow us to separate them. However, I have no idea if or how that would affect the Bonding process.” M’Benga tapped the panel and brought up additional scan results. “Due to the medication Kirk received from me in preparation for the Bonding there are no immediate medical concerns. Therefore my suggestion is the same as Sybok’s in that regard. Monitor them and leave them be. Once the meds wear off and Kirk’s gastrointestinal functions normalize, we can review the situation and the option of administering a sedative in order to separate them physically.”

Leonard didn’t want to listen to them. Not to M’Benga and least of all to Sybok. He turned around and forced himself to look at Jim and Spock.

Jesus, Jim. Alien drugs and alien sex. You never do anything halfway, do you? Leonard felt a crazy urge to separate them and lock Jim up somewhere safe for the rest of his life. But of course that wasn’t possible, and it would be wrong, too. Leonard did his best to ignore the naked facts in front of him and focus on their faces. They looked so damn young, so utterly exposed, and in spite of their particular positions … strangely innocent. Happy.

M’Benga stepped next to him. “Leonard,” he said in a soft voice, “I know you’re worried; so am I. But what we’re looking at here is not just a medical condition. Our language lacks the words to express what this is. Formally, less than a marriage. But effectively, a closer union than any mere Human can hope for. We must respect that. As far as that is medically possible.”

“Damn it, Jabilo, don’t you think I get that?” Leonard snapped. “Do you really believe I’m that narrow-minded? Do you really think that I don’t understand how they are together?” He rubbed a shaking hand over his forehead. “That I don’t wish them happiness?”

After a long moment of silence, Leonard sighed. “I don’t like this,” he announced. “I don’t like this at all. But fine, we’ll do it your way for now. We’ll keep them here and monitor them. Sybok, you’ll have to stay on the Enterprise until this is over. You’re responsible for this mess, you help us fix it.” Leonard scowled at the older Vulcan. “I’ll set up a feed to our comm units from the monitors. I want both of you here at the first chirp of alarm.” He gestured at Jim and Spock. “Besides brain damage and infection due to prolonged anal contact we’ll have to figure out how to get Spock’s weight off Jim soon. That’s quite an awkward position they are in. It’s almost a miracle it’s not affecting Jim’s breathing yet, and we’ll have to watch out for circulation issues in his legs as well. Even if they snap out of this soon, Jim will be sore as hell for days, and not just in his ass, either.”

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.249, 1900 hours, Deck 4, McCoy’s Quarters

Jo waited until Sybok had left. Then she barged into the room. Even on a starship as big as the Enterprise, space was a rare commodity. So Jo and Thorby shared a room now, their privacy protected by flexible plastic partitions that went around their bunks. Jo went straight for Thorby’s bed. She didn’t bother knocking on the privacy wall curving around his bed, because he’d never invite her in. Instead, she just pulled it back far enough to slip inside and sit down cross-legged at the foot of his bed.

Thorby looked awful, the way he lay on his bed, so pale that the delicate tips of his ears were almost translucent. His face was yellowish. Humans went green when they felt sick. Thorby went yellow, like old alabaster. (Jo had researched alabaster for a fanfic, because Carolyn had told them that they should check their clichés so they knew what they were writing about. She’d been disgusted to discover that alabaster often wasn’t smooth and white, but rather poriferous and yellowish. Not nice.)

Thorby didn’t move or say anything. Just lay there, looking very small, staring at the ceiling. “Hey, Thorbs,” she whispered, keeping her voice as low as possible. He probably had an awful headache now. He always had. It would take a while yet for the hypo to kick in. “Any progress?”

He shook his head, black eyes huge in the sickly, pointy face. He wasn’t real big on Vulcan mind control and logic. Logic hadn’t kept his planet safe. Mind control didn’t make the awful stuff that had happened to him go away. But he still blamed himself for not being better at it, for not being Vulcan enough to retrieve the information given to him for Starfleet by his adoptive father.

“Don’t worry,” she murmured, “you’ll get there. That was only the third session with Sybok. It takes time. Back on Earth, after my mother’s death, dad made me talk to a therapist. That never helped, although I had dozens of sessions. Now I’m talking to Guinan sometimes, and you know what? She gets me. And that? Helps. And Sybok gets you, doesn’t he?” She was rambling. But Thorby didn’t seem to mind. Or at least he looked a little bit less pinched and yellow. “Now budge up so I can get in.”

Thorby shifted, and Jo snuggled against his side. Her dad had lectured her on how Vulcans didn’t like to be touched. But her dad was wrong. Vulcans might not like being touched in general and by random people. There were exceptions, though. For example, Spock liked being touched by Uncle Jim just fine. She’d noticed how his dark eyes gleamed when Uncle Jim jostled him a bit, the way Uncle Jim always did with people he liked, and also how Spock’s stern mouth kind of softened into an almost-smile when Uncle Jim put his arm around the back of Spock’s chair at dinner, which was practically touching. And Thorby, well, so far the only thing that made his nightmares stop was when she sneaked into his bed and cuddled him like a giant, pointy-eared teddy (or maybe the other way around, letting him cuddle her, as if she were his Jo-shaped comfort blankie). Jo knew all about waking from dreams screaming. Thorby couldn’t even cry. If she could help keep bad dreams away, she’d never mind getting up extra early to slip back into her own bed unnoticed. As a result she spent more nights sleeping in Thorby’s bed than not. By now they were as at home in the other’s nightmares as in their own.

“Main thing is, you’re safe, and the bad guys didn’t get the info your dad put in your head,” Jo insisted.

“But this is important,” Thorby disagreed. “People may be dying because I can’t control myself. Pop trusted me to pass on his message. It’s the last thing he asked me to do, and I can’t do it.”

“You’re not looking at it logically. Your pop had no idea when a federation starship would get to New Sydney for you to tell anyone about anything. He was no doctor or mind healer. He couldn’t plan for how weird Vulcan minds can be. You’re doing the best you can. Sybok said you’re making progress. You’re doing what you can. That’s enough.” She pulled Thorby into her arms. “Now shush,” she ordered, “and take a nap until Carolyn calls us for dinner.”

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.249, 2200 hours, Deck 4, McCoy’s Quarters

Carolyn Paul was sitting in Doctor McCoy’s living room, trying to concentrate on reading “Harry Potter” on her PADD. She had a thing for children’s books, the older and the more obscure the better. Especially in times of stress. Perhaps a strange preference, but well, everyone had a weak spot. At least hers didn’t come in a bottle or a hypo.

It had been quite a surprise that McCoy had called her to watch over Jo and Thorby when a medical emergency had come up tonight. After what had happened this morning, she had assumed he wouldn’t be talking to her again anytime soon outside ship’s business, if that. Not that she’d blame him. Even though there was no way she’d follow through on her threat. Yes, sure, she’d tried to provoke him and to get a rise out of him at the end of their argument – discussion – whatever. If she hadn’t been so horribly hung over and embarrassed and f…ing frustrated, she would never have said anything like that in the first place. But she had. She’d behaved like a jerk and made a fool of herself, and by rights McCoy should have reported her twice over. He hadn’t. In consequence, she had expected McCoy to at least ignore her from now on. That was what she would have done.

She switched off the PADD, unable to concentrate on the book anymore. Perhaps asking her to babysit was McCoy’s way of telling her that even if she was an infatuated idiot, he was capable of keeping everything strictly professional between them? To clarify that nothing had changed? In spite of the stupid shirt and his obvious attraction to her body at least? It was stupid, but she wished she could tell him how much it meant to her that she hadn’t freaked out over that. That she hadn’t panicked at his touch. That there hadn’t been any nightmares.

Carolyn sighed. It was probably just a matter of convenience that he’d called her tonight. She’d been helping out with Jo and Thorby for weeks now when McCoy was unavailable. So he’d just defaulted to her. She glanced at the monitor that Jo violently objected to and McCoy insisted on because of Jo’s recurring night terrors. But both Jo and Thorby were fast asleep. Thorby had been very tired after his session with Sybok today and gone to bed without complaint. Of course the Vulcan boy always did what he was told, and exactly what he was told. He almost never showed any hint of emotion or any sign of preference toward anything, with the exception of Jo. Thorby liked Jo; that much was clear. And for some reason, Jo was good with Thorby. Only Mr. Spock and Sybok were better at figuring Thorby out.

From day one – when Jo had appeared in sickbay for a visit with their new Vulcan passenger – Jo had told adults and other children what Thorby liked and what Thorby wanted, even though the boy rarely said a word or showed any other reaction. Upon questioning, Thorby invariably gave a reply that more or less supported Jo’s “translations”. Well, the intensity of his explanations and Jo’s translations never matched. Jo would say, “He totally loves that soup, give him another bowl already!” while Thorby might say “If that is acceptable, I would not mind consuming another bowl of soup.” Jo would push away another child, shouting, “Can’t you see that he hates it if someone’s close behind him? Stay off his back, idiot!” while Thorby, when questioned, only pressed himself against the nearest wall, eyes flat and feral, silent.

Jo had, in her way, adopted Thorby. And Thorby had let her. Carolyn and the other adults responsible for the children were at the same time relieved and concerned over the unlikely friendship. There was an element of codependency to the children’s relationship that needed to be watched. Jo meant well, but (much like her father) she could be a bit of a bully. Although Mr. Spock and Dr. Elbrun confirmed that Thorby did still have boundaries left that he would at least attempt to defend, he was extremely passive, even for a Vulcan child. Still, for the time being, everyone was grateful that Thorby had found someone he was able to trust at all – even if that someone happened to be an eleven-year-old girl.

Now that she had abandoned her book, Carolyn got up and retrieved a cup of rooibos tea from the replicator. Since Uhura had refined the code based on her private supplies of real rooibos tea, the replicated version was quite enjoyable. Carolyn wondered what kind of emergency kept McCoy down in sickbay tonight and hoped it was nothing bad. She’d heard nothing about any of the crew down on Arrakis for shore leave getting into trouble, so maybe it was just a burst appendix or something like that.

At 2300 hours, McCoy showed up, looking like hell warmed over. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Can you stay the night? That emergency, I … I think it would be better if I stayed in sickbay.”

Shit, she thought, then it’s bad. Real bad.

“The kids are sleeping,” Carolyn said when he sat down, too exhausted to even launch into his usual interrogation about everything Jo had said and done. “There’ve been no problems. Jo’s worried, though. It would be good if you can talk to her tomorrow. How about some tea? Have you eaten anything at all?”

He nodded automatically, leaving it up to her to decide which question he had meant to answer. Another indicator for how serious the situation was. Like most medics he was awful about taking care of his own health. He routinely worked abnormal hours, ate whatever whenever he had the time, slept in snatches. She’d had heard rumors that his secret stash of whiskey was rivaled only by Scotty’s still. If he was shattered enough to accept tea …

She pondered what to get him. For her dad, she’d order a pint of lager and bangers and mash in a blink. But what was the equivalent in terms of traditional Southern comfort food? After a hard stare at the menu, she chose sweet iced tea and cheese grits with sausage. She hoped the replicator wouldn’t mess up. She hadn’t tried getting that particular type of ethnic cuisine out of it before and wasn’t really familiar with it. Thankfully, the combination seemed to be pretty standard because the replicator blinked green lights at her after no more than two minutes.

“Here you go,” she said and put grits and tea in front of McCoy. When he just stared at the plate, she reminded him gently, “You’re supposed to eat that, you know.”

Mechanically, he picked up fork and knife and dug in without a word. He didn’t notice what he was eating. She kept him company with another cup of rooibos tea. Only when he was done and she’d cleared the table, she dared to ask what was going on.

“How bad is it?” Carolyn asked, worried. “Can you tell me?”

McCoy sighed and rubbed his temples wearily. “Nothing to talk about yet. And nothing I could tell you even if there was.”

“I’m sorry I asked. I didn’t mean to pry, and I’m aware of—”

He rolled his eyes. “I know you are. Thanks for the food and for babysitting. And for …” He frowned. “… caring. It’s a shitty thing to ask of you right now, but I’m afraid I won’t be around much during the next days and …” Again he rubbed his temples. “See, that’s why I didn’t want to take Jo with me. I should be here, taking care of her, but I’m the damn CMO, and even if that makes me the worst dad of all times—”

Carolyn shook her head, silencing him. “It’s not a crime to have a job or to love that job. Even if it’s a difficult job that comes with awkward hours and tons of stress. Jo knows there are times when she can’t come first on board. She doesn’t mind.”

“Damn,” he muttered. “That’s not how it’s supposed to be.”

“What in life is?” Carolyn asked with a bitter shrug. “Doctor—”

“Leonard,” he interrupted her. “The name’s Leonard.”

She blinked at him in astonishment. That was about the last thing she’d expected after their argument this morning, and certainly not in the middle of whatever emergency he was caught up in at the moment. Men, really. She forced herself to go on as if there was nothing to it. “Leonard, Jo doesn’t mind your job. She minds if you don’t talk to her. See that you make time for that, tell her what you can. I’ll take care of the kids until this is over, whatever it is. Don’t worry about them. Just remember that even a CMO needs food and sleep sometimes. You’re not an Augment, okay?”

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.250, 0100 hours, Deck 7, Quarantine Room One, Antechamber

Leonard stood in front of the glass window that separated the antechamber from the quarantine room, a little light-headed from the hypo that had eliminated his tension headache. Inside the room the lights were dimmed, but it was more than bright enough to see the naked bodies on the bed. Hours after they had been beamed on board, more than a day after their Bonding, Jim and Spock remained unaware of their surroundings. Their physical condition was stable now. Their mental state was still bizarre. The worst Spice high Leonard had ever seen and Vulcan voodoo he didn’t even have a medical term for kept them deep in trance. They stayed oblivious of what was happening to them, of what they were doing to each other.

Leonard realized he should leave when they started to move. The scanners were calibrated to alert him the second their condition changed for the worse in any way. In consequence it was wrong to stay here, watching, when that was not the case. There was no reason for him to be here, and every reason not to be. Even as patients they had a right to their privacy, their intimacy. But he didn’t move. He remained where he was, frozen, staring …

… as Spock moved his other hand to Jim’s face, as Spock cradled Jim’s head tenderly, because nothing in the entire damn universe was more precious than Jim … as Jim reached in turn for Spock’s face with an expression of infinite joy, because the universe contained Spock … as they began to move in unison, as they began to fuck in earnest, without opening their eyes, without saying a word, utterly lost in each other, mind and body.

Leonard couldn’t look away. Couldn’t look away as his best friend arched upward in his lust, as he pressed his flushed, erect penis against Spock’s stomach to increase the friction. Couldn’t look away as Jim gave himself up to his lover all over again. Couldn’t look away from Spock’s tear-streaked face, from his slender body thrusting into Jim’s anus – out of control, helpless in his need. So fucking beautiful.

When their climax registered on the scanners, Leonard stumbled from the quarantine room. He had no idea how he found his way back to his office, even though it was just around the corner. It was pure dumb luck that he managed not to come on the spot. He fell into one of the visitor’s chairs in his office. The impact jarred his lumbar vertebrae, but he didn’t care. He dug his nails into the arm rests to keep from touching himself, from jerking off.

I’m a doctor, Leonard reminded himself sternly. Not a fucking peeping tom, damn it.

But not even a strict lecture seemed to have an effect on his stubborn erection. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Damn it all to hell, he thought. That’s not my kink. Scopophilia does nothing for me. Only obviously it just had. He pressed down on his arousal with the heel of his hand, as if that would make it go away, and the feeling of shame that accompanied it. An erection is an autonomic response, he told himself, caused by a variety of stimuli. It’s not completely under conscious control. This is a normal, natural reaction to seeing something so … so … He wanted to downplay what he’d seen and the effect it had on him with dirty slang and more cussing, but he couldn’t.

“Fucking beautiful,” he muttered belligerently. And happy. So happy. My best friend. And the damn green-blooded hobgoblin. Who’d become a friend, too, at some point during the turmoils of the past two years. And I have no idea if I’ll get them back with their minds intact.

Apparently that was what it took to make his erection to wilt. Fear. And dread. With a dash of despair.

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.250, 1500 hours, Deck 7, Sickbay

“Okay,” Carolyn told Thorby. “Let’s go. Sybok’s waiting for us in sickbay.”

Thorby stood, looking a little jaundiced around the edges. The melds with Sybok were physically uncomfortable. They’d managed to get Thorby to admit that, at least. With Sybok’s help, Leonard had concocted a hypo that helped with the headache and nausea. But no hypo would help with the emotional fallout. Thorby was unable to fulfill his adoptive father’s last wish, and his failure was hurting him. Sybok and Mr. Spock did their best to assure the young Vulcan that it wasn’t his fault, but that didn’t help.

Carolyn wanted so much to hug the little boy, stubborn glare, pointy ears and all, but she knew better. What Thorby needed most was respect for what was left of his limits. Jo, however, wasn’t big on boundaries. She marched up to Thorby and hugged him close. Carolyn was ready to intervene with a sharp reprimand when she caught how Thorby closed his eyes for a second and inclined his head just a fraction, almost as if he wanted to rest his head against Jo’s protective shoulder – the girl was more than a head taller than he was.

“Go kick ass, Thorbs,” Jo ordered and stepped back.

Thorby nodded solemnly.

“Next time, you ask Thorby if he wants a hug,” Carolyn told Jo. “When we’re back, your homework is done. And I mean homework, not that fanfic you’re working on.”

“Yessir,” Jo replied with a salute. She winked at Thorby.

Shaking her head, Carolyn left the room with Thorby following close behind.

In one of the private consultation rooms in sickbay, Sybok and Leonard were already waiting for them. Leonard looked even worse than the previous evening, feverish and pale, as if his entire energy was borrowed from emergency stimulants by now. To her surprise, Mr. Spock wasn’t there. Carolyn frowned. Wasn’t he supposed to have returned from shore leave with the captain the previous day? It wasn’t like Spock to miss an appointment. Now that she thought about it, she realized that she couldn’t remember an announcement that Kirk was back and had taken the conn again. She shivered. Goose on my grave, she thought. If something bad has happened to the captain and the first officer, surely I’d have heard something by now? But then she remembered what Leonard had said the night before, and worse, his expression as he’d told her that there was nothing to tell yet and that he wouldn’t be able to in any case. Please, no. We’re so far from home already. We can’t lose them both. What even happened? Then she gave herself a mental shake. Don’t be an idiot, Carolyn. You have no idea what happened. If anything happened at all.

Thorby hopped up on the biobed without prompting and lay back. Carolyn noticed how tense he was, how he had to force his hands to relax at his sides. She marveled at the boy’s willpower, how he managed that.

Sybok sat down on a medic’s stool next to the biobed. His strangely expressive face was schooled into a mask of quiet control for once. “If you agree, Thorbehrak, I will meld with you. When I know your thoughts, I shall attempt to shift the blocks of pain and trauma in your mind that prevent you from accessing the information Colonel Baslim wanted you to pass on. I will do only that, and nothing else. I will not take away your pain or in any way interfere with your feelings beyond that. You can tell me to stop at any point, and I will.”

“Yes, sir,” Thorby replied. He closed his eyes and seemed to shrink, withdrawing into himself.

In an unguarded moment, Carolyn saw Sybok’s mask slip. Compassion flared in his eyes, a deep and painful sympathy. Sybok also looked tired. Not quite as exhausted as Leonard, but he definitely had the look of someone who was burning the candle at both ends. Yet when he turned to Thorby, he was completely calm again, collected, and incredibly gentle.

He rested the fingers of his right hand on Thorby’s meld points very lightly, barely touching him and making sure to keep as much distance between his body and the boy as possible. Sybok closed his eyes. His features grew rigid in a mask of intense concentration. Thorby groaned. At his sides, his hands twitched helplessly, balling into fists. Beneath closed lids his eyes wildly rolled back and forth in his head. Minutes passed that way until he relaxed with a harsh sigh. Carolyn glimpsed four tiny green crescents on the inside of one of his palms – bleeding nail marks – before he moved his hands closer to his body.

After a long moment Sybok sighed. “Ahh… Here we go.”

He opened his eyes and swayed. “That was … most unpleasant.” Sybok swallowed hard. The agony, the bleakness in his eyes scared Carolyn. She very much wanted to say something, about how you could come back from what Thorby had experienced. But she knew that not everyone could find a way out of this kind of darkness. Some days, many nights, she wasn’t sure about herself. And she was human, used to emotional upheaval, and an adult, with a father to help her, and a goal in her life. (To catch those bastards. To put them on trial. To make them rot in prison.) Thorby had no one left. His planet was gone, his family dead, his adoptive father murdered.

Leonard pressed a glass of water into Sybok’s hand, an action that obviously amused the Vulcan. But he still drank the water. At last Sybok inhaled deeply. “I will now initiate a superficial meld that equates a light trance. Upon input of the correct code, Thorbehrak should be able to deliver whatever message Colonel Baslim has implanted for Starfleet to receive. You may want to record the information. Though now that I have been able to remove the block, Thorbehrak should be able to replay everything on demand as often as necessary.”

Carolyn readied a PADD that Mr. Spock had prepared for that purpose. The captain himself had assured her that the encryptions the first officer used were the safest he’d ever seen. Gaila had agreed.

Sybok placed his hand on Thorby’s face again. This time, he whispered the traditional words: “My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts.” Then he nodded at Carolyn. “The code, please.”

All of a sudden, Carolyn was shaking. Her heart was pounding, and her vision was fraying at the edges. Not now, she thought desperately. Can’t have a panic attack when Thorby’s so brave. And we need the data. I need to be alert now, not panicking.

A moment later, she winced at the painful prick of a hypo. Leonard put an arm around her. “Exhale,” he ordered. “Don’t think about inhaling. Let your body take care of that on its own. Again. All that breath you’re holding. Good. Now give Thorby his code.”

Leonard took the PADD from her hand, his index finger ready to press the symbol that would start the recording.

“PATS 1863 S31 …” she started and then reeled off the lengthy activation code. When she was done, she concentrated on her breathing again, on exhaling instead of hyperventilating. Whatever medication Leonard had given her made her hyperaware of her surroundings and strangely calm at the same time. She also realized that he was still holding her. Before she could process that fact, Thorby started speaking. His voice was high and boyish, but perfectly Vulcan – utterly calm and expressionless.

“Code confirmed. Part one, New Sydney spaceport registry, stardate 2250 to 2260. Part two, bookkeeping files of the United Pergium Mining Consortiums, stardate 2255 to 2260. Part three, the transportation logs of New Sydney authorities, stardate 2257 to 2260 …”

♦♦♦

“Sometimes you wake up. Sometimes the fall kills you. And sometimes, when you fall, you fly.”
– Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Vol. 6: Fables and Reflections