Star Trek: The Original Series: The Shocks of Adversity (22 page)

“What would you like to talk about, Doctor?” Chapel asked as she took her seat at
the desk again.

“I’d like to talk about why you’ve suddenly become so aloof toward me.”

Chapel gave him an incredulous look. “Do you
really need to ask? After the way you treated that woman?”

“That woman is responsible for the deaths of over one hundred innocent people,” Deeshal
reminded her. “She should count herself lucky she’s being treated at all.”

“No thanks to you,” said Chapel. “If you had your way, she’d have been dragged out
of sickbay and thrown in a cell.”

Deeshal looked affronted by that accusation. “She would have been brought to my medical
bay, and taken care of there.”

“Yes,” Chapel said acidly, “I saw the way you would have treated her, Doctor.”

“I forgot myself for a moment there,” Deeshal said, dipping his muzzle in a fleeting
look of shame. “But,” he then continued, raising his head again, “I am also a member
of the Goeg Domain Defense Corps. I also have a responsibility to help protect our
citizens from those who would do them harm.”

Chapel stood then to meet his eyes. “Then explain why you were willing to treat Lieutenant
D’Abruzzo down on Nystrom IV, when only minutes earlier you were being fired on by
the landing party.”

“Well, that’s different,” Deeshal said. “Once we learned your people weren’t Taarpi,
I realized that the weapons exchange was just a terrible misunderstanding.”

“But they were still actually firing at you,” Chapel pressed him. “How could you be
so sure of that?”

“I wasn’t. But—”

Chapel preempted whatever qualification he was trying to make. “So you and your shipmates
could still have been at risk, but you put your duty as a physician first,” she said,
just as she heard the approaching voices of Captain Kirk and Doctor McCoy. “That is
what I’m asking of you here now.”

*   *   *

McCoy led Kirk into sickbay, and tensed as he saw the Domain physician was present.
“Doctor,” he said to the other man, attempting a degree of civility. “Was there something
you needed?”

“I came to check on Mister D’Abruzzo,” Deeshal answered. “We spoke about his arm,
and the progress of his recovery.”

McCoy felt his good manners betray him. “And who authorized . . .” he began to harangue
the alien doctor, but trailed off when he noticed Chapel putting up a placating hand
and mouthing the words,
It’s okay
. “Well,” McCoy said, still scowling, “I suppose I did put it off longer than I should’ve . . .”

“I assume, Doctor,” Kirk interrupted, stepping between the two and addressing Deeshal,
“that you also had another reason for being here?”

Deeshal nodded. “It’s been twenty-four hours. The Abesian can be questioned now.”

“Yes,” Kirk said, “and with respect, we would prefer that you not be here when we
revive her.”

“Hold on, Captain,” Deeshal objected. “Your agreement with Commander Laspas says I
have the right to be here.”

“Yes, you do,” Kirk said. The accord Kirk had reached with the Domain commander allowed
the prisoner to remain in Federation custody—
protective
custody, McCoy mentally amended—for the remainder of their joint operations. However,
it also permitted the Domain physician to attend to her and to be present during any
formal questioning. “And we’re not trying to keep any secrets from you—we’ll have
a comm link open, and you can listen from here.”

Before Deeshal could protest, McCoy told him, “Listen, what do you think’ll happen
if we wake her, and one of the first things she sees is a Goeg in a Defense Corps
uniform?”

“Yes, but . . .” Deeshal began to protest, but then stopped as his eyes flicked to
the side and he apparently caught a glimpse of Chapel giving him an entreating look.
“Very well. Perhaps it is best that the patient not be agitated any more than necessary.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Kirk said, as he activated the comm unit on the wall and set
it up to receive only.

And thank you, Christine,
McCoy mouthed to his nurse before turning to follow after the captain
into the private recovery room. The patient lay sleeping peacefully, the monitor above
her head showing all vital signs in the middle green range. As a precaution, restraining
straps had been fastened across her chest and her ankles. Her green skin was still
slightly dry, though from what McCoy had learned about the amphibianoid race, that
should reverse itself once her injuries were fully healed.

Kirk activated the comm unit by the bed, and then turned to the doctor. “Ready, Bones?”

“As ready as I’ll get,” McCoy said with a shrug. He pulled a hypospray loaded with
the species-appropriate stimulant and pressed it to the patient’s shoulder.

As soon as he pulled the device away, the Abesian rocked her head to the side and
moaned softly. Her large, bulbous eyes opened slowly as she gradually came to consciousness.
She stared blankly for several seconds, only gradually coming to the realization that
she was not dreaming, and the two figures looming over her were of no species she’d
ever seen before. She tried to jump off the biobed.

“Calm down, easy,” McCoy said as the bands holding her in place were pulled taut.
“We’re not going to hurt you. You’re safe. I promise.”

The woman stopped thrashing, but was far from convinced she was safe. “Who are you?
Where am I?”

The captain took a step closer and said, “My name is James Kirk, and this is Leonard
McCoy.
You’re aboard the
Starship Enterprise
from the United Federation of Planets.”

“The . . . what?” Her head whipped back and forth from one to the other. “What are
you?”

“Our species is called human,” Kirk told her. “We’re from a planet called Earth, over
one hundred light-years from here.”

Understanding crossed her face then. “You’re from the supervessel.”

“Supervessel?” Kirk asked.

“A gigantic white superstructure, with a large disk protruding from its bow,” she
said, “joined to a Class III starvessel.”

Kirk nodded. “Yes. You’re aboard that ship now.”

McCoy noticed the woman’s heart rate and respiration start to climb. “Where are the
others with me?” she asked. “What have you done with them?”

Kirk lowered his head and told her, “I’m afraid they’re both dead.”

A look of pure hatred twisted her features. “You
pyurbs
,” she spat at them.

“I am sorry.”

The woman’s head snapped to McCoy, and he continued, “We tried, but they were very
badly injured, and we just weren’t familiar enough with the Urpires to do anything
to save either of them.”

The woman considered McCoy, her eyes wide and suspicious. “But you know they were
Urpires,” she noted. “What do you know of the Urpires?”

“Almost nothing,” McCoy admitted. “Your friends were the first we’ve ever actually
encountered.”

The woman considered McCoy a moment longer, then said, “Then I hope Erhokor forgives
you.” She then looked back to Kirk. “What do you plan to do with me, then?”

Instead of answering her, Kirk asked, “What is your name?”

The woman scowled at the evasion, but answered, “You can call me Ghalif.”

“And you are a member of the Taarpi, Ghalif?”

“You seem to know a lot for someone from a hundred light-years away,” Ghalif said,
sneering. “How many Taarpi have you encountered?”

Kirk leaned in over the top of the biobed, making sure Ghalif received the full force
of his glare as he told her, “Well, there were the ones who attacked my ship.”

“Jim,” McCoy said softly, as he noticed the woman’s vital signs spiking again.

But Ghalif showed Kirk none of the anxiety her autonomic systems said she was feeling.
“You allied yourself with the Goeg,” she said defiantly. “We’re entitled to defend
ourselves.”

“We only allied ourselves with them after your unprovoked attack on us in the Nystrom
system,” Kirk said, ignoring McCoy’s caution.

“What were you doing in that system in the first place, if not helping the Goeg hunt
our people down?” Ghalif asked.

“We’re explorers,” Kirk told her. “We were investigating the energy-absorbing crystals
filling that system, and they were used as weapons against us.”

“Explorers,” Ghalif scoffed. “Why should I believe you’re any more trustworthy than
your Goeg friends?”

“How about the fact that you’re here getting medical care, and not sitting in a Domain
holding cell right now?” Kirk asked her. “Because I’m the only thing keeping you from
facing charges for the deaths of over a hundred civilians on that transport vessel.”

“Oh, the Goeg will blame us for that, no matter what,” she said, the bravado gone
from her attitude. “If I’m not the one jailed and beaten, it’ll be someone else.”

Kirk considered the shift in the woman’s demeanor, and then lowered his face closer
to hers. “Tell me what happened,” he said. “If you weren’t directly responsible for
what your ship did to the transport, I will do whatever I can to ensure that you’re
treated—”

Ghalif started laughing. “You really are from the other end of the galaxy, if you
think that’s going to matter.”

Kirk looked to McCoy, and they exchanged confused looks. “Why do you say that?” Kirk
said, looking back to the Abesian.

She had stopped laughing, and simply shook her head instead. “If the Urpires were
alive, maybe I’d be believed . . . but probably not.”

“What are we supposed to believe?” Kirk asked.

Ghalif lifted her head and looked directly at Kirk. “It wasn’t the Taarpi who destroyed
that vessel; it was the Goeg. They murdered their own people, to discredit us.”

*   *   *

McCoy entered sickbay deep in the night shift. Unable to sleep, he had decided to
check on Ghalif and get a head start on some reports he’d been putting off. As he
headed into his office, McCoy raised the lighting control to half-power. Caught in
the shadows of his converted lab, someone was standing over his patient’s bed. Not
daring to call for security, McCoy grabbed the skull that stood on his shelf and headed
to the lab where the Abesian woman was sleeping.

“Doctor, if you are trying to sneak up behind me, I suggest that you practice the
skill,” came the Vulcan’s even tone.

“You and those damn ears,” McCoy whispered, outraged. “Spock, what the hell are you
doing in here?”

“Studying a Taarpi.”

“You know, even for you, this is unusual.” McCoy checked the readings; assured that
his patient was progressing, the doctor turned and headed back into his office.

“Out with it,” McCoy ordered.

“Doctor?” the Vulcan asked as he stepped into McCoy’s office.

“You’re here in the middle of the night, checking on a patient. Something that you
could have done from your quarters.”

McCoy sat in his desk chair and waited. With any other member of the crew, he would
have placed his arm around the person, offering whatever comfort he could to get the
troubled soul to open up. But McCoy knew that Vulcans did not like being touched.
Spock prided himself on his self-reliance. No matter how much he wanted to speak,
McCoy had to bite his tongue and wait. Proving how anxious he was, the Vulcan paced
in front of the desk. Spock must have noticed McCoy’s patient silence and realized
what he was doing; the pacing stopped.

“I have served as Captain Kirk’s first officer since he took command of the
Enterprise
. In those years, I have come to understand what you humans call his ‘command style.’
I have been able to anticipate his needs. This has not been”—for a moment Spock regarded
McCoy—“easy.” When the doctor did not rise to the bait, Spock continued. “But now
I find his actions uncharacteristically subdued.”

“He’s not himself,” McCoy offered.

Spock raised an eyebrow and considered the doctor’s evaluation. “No, he is not.”

“Spock, I haven’t seen it.”

“Doctor, I have.” The Vulcan again regarded McCoy.

“Are you saying that he’s unfit for command?”

“No,” the Vulcan quickly countered. “I am concerned about his emotional well-being.”

McCoy whistled low. “Damn. You’re asking for my help.”

“No, Doctor. I am asking you to help the captain.” Spock headed out of the office,
adding just before the doors closed on him, “Because I cannot help him.”

*   *   *

Two hours before he would have reported to the bridge, the buzzer sounded outside
Captain Kirk’s quarters. Wondering what new calamity awaited him, he threw a uniform
shirt on and unlocked the cabin door.

“ ’Bout time.” McCoy stepped into his quarters. He was carrying a food tray with a
covered dish, an urn, and two cups. Not standing on ceremony, the doctor shoved several
books to the side of the desk, put the tray down, and ordered, “Eat.”

Stunned, Kirk looked at the doctor, who had sat down in the guest chair and was pouring
himself a cup of coffee out of the carafe. There were days when he wondered what he
had been thinking when he offered this irascible Georgian, who had little respect
for the dignity of the ship’s captain, the
position of chief medical officer. The coffee smelled good, better than the usual
out of the mess. Knowing he was defeated, Kirk sat down. Taking the cover off the
plate, he was surprised to see a stack of pancakes and sausages.

McCoy reached over and filled the second cup with coffee. “Kona. I’ve been hoarding
them. Ground them myself. I’ve been checking your diet reports. You haven’t been eating.
Found that aside from throwing his captain, Lieutenant D’Abruzzo knows how to make
buckwheat flapjacks.”

“Bones.”

“I can make it an order.”

Not wanting to waste the extraordinary coffee, Kirk sipped some. “You know that the
only thing I hate more than Spock managing me is when you try it.”

“Me? I’m making sure that the captain is fit for command. You have to eat—just doing
my duty as the
Enterprise
’s chief medical officer.”