Kirk laughed at that. “Well, I certainly didn’t feel like some hero riding in on his white horse at the time,” he said.
“White horse?” Laspas asked.
“An allusion to a human genre of literature similar to your Kawhye tales,” Kirk explained. “I technically violated Starfleet regulations by interfering with the society on Beta III. In a real sense, I destroyed that society.”
“The way you described it,” Laspas said, “it sounded like it needed to be destroyed.”
Kirk nodded. “Yes, I know. Landru was standing in the way of any chance of advancement for the Betan civilization. But it’s far easier to tear something down than to build up something new. I forced that responsibility on a people who weren’t necessarily ready to tackle it. To this day, more than a year later, I still question whether I really did right by them.” The captain paused to take a long draw of his heenye, and then said, “I’ve never actually admitted that aloud.” Kirk wasn’t entirely sure why he was admitting it now to this alien, either. He couldn’t have told McCoy, who had been “absorbed” by Landru. And though he considered Spock his closest friend, the Vulcan was also the one who had raised the question of the Prime Directive to him in the first place.
After a moment, Laspas commented, “When you command a starvessel, you don’t have the luxury of doubting yourself, much less voicing those doubts to anyone.” Kirk nodded in agreement, and the two men exchanged a look of mutual understanding. “For instance, there was one mission of mine, aboard my prior command . . .”
* * *
“Doctor,” D’Abruzzo called out as he caught a glimpse of McCoy passing by the recovery ward doorway. “Hey, Doc!”
“Well, you’re awake,” McCoy said, sauntering into the room. “How are you feeling?”
“My arm itches like crazy,” the lieutenant answered, his right arm across his chest, grasping his left arm and trying to knead through its tough, inflexible wrap.
“That’s a good sign,” McCoy said, looking up at the bio-readings displayed over the patient’s head.
“Good for you, maybe,” D’Abruzzo said, wincing. “It feels like the itch goes all the way through to the bone.”
“I don’t doubt it,” McCoy told him. “Your body is working overtime to heal the damage done.” The readings from his electrosensor bandage showed the muscle density of his damaged arm and shoulder steadily increasing, and activity in his nerve receptors returning as well.
“Seriously, please give me something,” the man pleaded, “before I end up gouging another hole in my shoulder with my fingernails.”
McCoy gave him a long, wearied look. “How is it you security officers are so gung-ho to put yourselves in situations where you can get hurt,” he asked, “and then, when you actually do get hurt, suddenly it’s my fault you’re in pain? Nurse?”
Christine Chapel stepped through the door from the lab. “Yes, Doctor?”
“Give Lieutenant D’Abruzzo ten cc’s of hydrocortilene,” he told her, then asked the patient, “How’s your appetite?”
“I guess I’m kind of hungry,” he said, though judging from the readings on his metabolism, it would probably be more than a guess once his mind was off his pain.
“I’ll bring you lunch in just a minute,” Chapel told him as she returned to the bedside with the loaded hypospray. McCoy left D’Abruzzo to the nurse’s tender bedside manner. Leaving the ward, he ran straight into Doctor Deeshal, standing just outside the doorway. “Sorry, Doctor. Checking up, are you?”
“Weren’t you a little harsh with Joe just now?” Deeshal asked.
McCoy bristled slightly at the other man’s sharp, scolding tone, though he supposed he couldn’t fault the alien for any misinterpretation of the scene he’d just witnessed. “He knows I was kidding with him,” McCoy assured Deeshal. “The crew is used to my gruff yet lovable personality. If I were to start treating him with kid gloves, then he’d think I was covering up something that was wrong with him.”
Deeshal arched one brush-like eyebrow at McCoy. “If you say so,” he said, not fully convinced. He turned and looked into the ward as he added, “You know your people better than I do.”
McCoy started for his office again, but stopped and turned back to see Deeshal was still standing where he was, and still staring, with an unreadable look on his face. “Is there something you aren’t telling me?”
Deeshal started and turned, as if he had not realized the other doctor was still there. “What?”
“You keep looking into the ward with this odd look in your eyes,” McCoy said as he moved back across the room to where Deeshal stood. “Is something wrong with D’Abruzzo? Is he not out of the woods yet?”
“Woods?” Deeshal repeated quizzically, but understanding lit behind his eyes almost as soon as he said it. “Oh, no. No, Lieutenant D’Abruzzo is recovering just as he should. It will still be some time before we know how fully his injury will heal, but for now, he seems to be doing well.”
McCoy was relieved to hear that, though Deeshal’s expression hadn’t changed. “Well, then, what is it?”
“Your Nurse Chapel . . .” he said, and then appeared to struggle for words. “She seems . . . interesting. . . .”
“Interesting.” McCoy tilted his head and folded his arms. “And what is it that interests you about her?” he asked.
Something in McCoy’s demeanor or tone finally caused Deeshal’s expression to shift. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t realize that the two of you were . . .”
“What?” McCoy nearly shouted. “Christine and me? Of course not! I am a gentleman!”
Deeshal’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Yes? And Christine is a female.”
“No,” McCoy grunted, “I mean ‘gentleman’ in the sense that I would not use my professional position as her superior in such an untoward way.”
“Ah, I see,” Deeshal said. “Then, is there another man she has a relationship with?”
“I’m not sure how comfortable I am talking about my nurse’s private life behind her back,” McCoy said, wishing he had simply continued on to his office and left the other doctor to silently moon after Christine. He could have told him about her not-so-secret crush on Spock in order to dissuade him, but that was a topic he honestly preferred never to even think about, let alone discuss at any length.
But before McCoy could say anything more, Deeshal jerked back away from the door, a stricken look on his face. “Oh, dear lord,” McCoy muttered to himself, as he realized the adult physician before him had suddenly turned into a nervous teenage boy. A second later, Chapel walked in through the doorway. “Hello, Doctor Deeshal,” she greeted him with her characteristic cheer.
“Hello, Nurse,” he answered flatly, his professional mask firmly in place. “How is the patient?”
“He seems to be coming along very well, wouldn’t you say so, Doctor McCoy?”
“Yes,” McCoy nodded, “that’s just what Deeshal and I were talking about, how good his prognosis looks.”
“I was going over the literature on muscle regeneration from the Domain medical library,” Chapel continued. Since getting under way from the Nystrom system three days earlier, both vessels had made the unclassified sections of their respective library computer banks open and accessible to the crews of the other. “There’s some really revolutionary ideas in there, particularly about polyenzyme therapies.”
“Really?” Deeshal asked. “You mean Izay’s monographs? You read those, Nurse?”
“Don’t let her job title fool you,” McCoy said, something he’d had to tell more than a few people who had made the mistake of underestimating Chapel over the years. “Christine is an accomplished bioresearcher, and has a far better understanding of how to be a healer than half the doctors I know.”
“I apologize for my shock,” Deeshal told her.
“Not necessary,” Chapel told him, her cheeks turning slightly pink in response to McCoy’s praise.
“But, why would a perso
n of such accomplishments opt to serve in this position?” Deeshal asked her.
“Oh,” Chapel said, “mostly for the experience of serving on a starship, getting out of the laboratory and seeing the universe.” Of course, that wasn’t the only reason—Chapel had abandoned her bioresearch career years earlier following the disappearance of her fiancé, Doctor Roger Korby, and had accepted the position as nurse in the Enterprise’s medical department in hopes of finding him.
Chapel revealed none of this to Deeshal, and she had shot McCoy a quick sideways glance that communicated her hope that he wouldn’t reveal any of it, either. McCoy was a bit confused by that look at first. Then he noticed that Christine was still blushing under Deeshal’s gaze, and realized that it probably had nothing to do with his own earlier flattery.
“Well,” McCoy said, suddenly quite uncomfortable. “Um . . . did you give D’Abruzzo his lunch, Miss Chapel?”
“Yes, Doctor, I did,” she answered.
“Good. So then, um, why don’t the two of you go get some as well?” he told them.
“The two of us?” Deeshal asked.
“Well, why not?” McCoy asked, covering his discomfort with irascibility. “The Goeg eat; I’ve learned that much about you over the past few days. Go on!”
Looking confused but not displeased, Chapel looked back to Deeshal and asked, “Shall we?” The Domain doctor shrugged by way of agreement, and followed as Chapel headed out of sickbay.
Once they had both disappeared behind the doors to the corridor, McCoy brought a hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well,” he muttered to himself, “it can’t be any worse than her and Spock.”
* * *
Whatever else he may have thought about the Domain and the way they ran their ship, Sulu had to hand one thing to them: they knew how to eat.
He and Chekov shared a table in the officers’ mess aboard the 814. They had just come off duty, which for the next week and a half would be aboard the Domain starvessel, serving as liaisons during the first duty shift. Rather than returning directly to the Enterprise, they had opted to try their luck and take their meal here. Like the rest of the ship, the mess was utterly spartan, with long rows of gray metal tables and low matching stools bolted to the deck. In contrast, the tray Sulu had set before him was filled with a colorful mix of chopped vegetables and noodles, in a slightly sweet sauce.
Across the table, his back to the bulkhead, Chekov took a look around the hall as he chewed a mouthful of his own food, a reddish-brown stew-like dish, then swallowed and said, “Do you think we should be sitting alone like this?”
Sulu froze, his utensil poised halfway to his open mouth. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“I mean apart from everyone else,” Chekov explained. The mess was less than half full, and they had taken the open seats closest to the end of the serving line. The next closest diner was a large, intimidating-looking Rokean seated alone reading from a data slate. “The captain did say we were acting ambassadors.”
That’s true, Sulu reflected as he looked around the hall, and decided that they likely did seem a bit too standoffish to the Domain officers. “You’re right,” he told Chekov, standing up and picking up his tray. Chekov followed suit, and the two moved across the hall, past the bison-faced Rokean who, Sulu decided, looked very much like he wanted to be left alone with his reading. Instead, they approached a pair of Liruq engaged in casual conversation as they ate. “Hi,” Sulu said to them, “mind if we join you?”
The two looked up at them, surprised. “No,” said the one closest to Sulu.
“But, why?” asked the other one nervously.
“Just to be friendly,” Chekov said, moving around the table and placing his tray down. “I’m Pavel,” the ensign said as he sat, and stuck out his right hand. The Liruq looked from it to Chekov’s face, having no idea why it, or he, was there.
“And I’m Hikaru,” Sulu said as he took the stool opposite Chekov. “And you are . . . ?”
The man next to Sulu pulled himself up straight in his seat. “Rizil, Third Lieutenant, Environmental Control.”
“Migor, Third Lieutenant, Environmental Control,” the other Liruq announced in the same fashion.
“At ease, at ease,” Sulu told them. “Like Chekov said, we’re just trying to be friendly. We’ve been assigned as liaisons to this ship, and we just want to learn as much as we can about the Domain and the Defense Corps.”
Sulu’s attempt to ease the lieutenants’ apprehension had the opposite effect. Rizil’s eyes shot all around the room, as if worried who was watching, while Migor suddenly became fascinated by the tray of food in front of him. “Or answer any questions you might have about the Federation, if you prefer,” Chekov added quickly, trying to save the encounter.
“What is this about?”
All four men at the table jumped at the sound of Second Commander Satrav’s voice cutting across the mess hall. The older Goeg stalked down the row of tables and stopped at Sulu’s side. “Why are you interrogating my officers?” he demanded.
Sulu craned his neck back to look up at the senior officer, agog. “It’s not an interrogation, Commander.”
“We were only trying to have a conversation, sir,” Chekov chipped in, “and be goodwill ambassadors.”
Satrav scowled at the human, and then addressed his officers. “Third Lieutenants, were you aware that the captain of the Starfleet vessel has issued invitations to all Domain crew members to visit and make use of their recreational facilities during their off-duty time, at any time throughout our joint mission?”
“Yes, sir,” the two Liruq answered in near unison.
“And it was your preference to remain aboard this vessel, rather than mixing with the outsiders?”
“Yes, sir,” they repeated. A quick glance around the mess told Sulu that they were probably in the minority in that regard.
Satrav nodded approvingly. “Code 10,” he told them mildly, and both Rizil and Migor grabbed their trays and moved to the far end of the dining hall. Satrav then turned his glare back to the two humans. “I understand that your intentions are innocent, Lieutenant Sulu, Ensign Chekov. But you are aboard this vessel only because you need to be, in order to facilitate the joint operation with NCC-1701. While I appreciate your desire to create goodwill, that is not your function while you are here.”
The Goeg turned away, heading for the food service line. Sulu looked across the table to Chekov, who looked back silently for a moment, then shrugged and picked up his eating utensil again. “So much for making friends,” he said before shoveling another bite into his mouth.
* * *
Spock stood off to the edge of the Enterprise’s Deck 6 recreation deck, passively observing the behavior of the large gathering. A significant majority of the 814’s off-duty crew had congregated here, as had been the case over the previous nine shifts. They had been generally well-behaved guests, save for a single unfortunate incident two days earlier. One of the Liruq technicians had decided to try a cup of coffee from the food dispenser, unaware of the beverage’s high levels of caffeine, a substance classified as a dangerous psychotropic drug in Liruq pharmacology. Though the technician’s reaction was not life threatening, it did spark a minor panic, and necessitated additional protocols being programmed into the food synthesizers.
At the moment, though, there were no indications of any similar episodes in the offing. The first officer also noted that, whereas the Domain crew members had initially tended to keep to their own small cliques, they were increasingly interacting with members of the Enterprise crew. At present, he noted Lieutenants Uhura and M’Ress sharing a meal with a pair of Abesian officers, and Christine Chapel deep in conversation with Doctor Deeshal. Spock considered that particular pairing with an arched eyebrow. While it should not have been surprising that the two medical professionals would gravitate to one another, something struck him as odd about the quality of their social behavioral cues. . . .
“Mister Sp
ock.”
Spock turned toward the sound of his name, and saw that Chief N’Mi had just entered through the door behind him. “Chief,” he greeted her with a dip of his head.
“I am surprised to find you here,” she said. “I hope the first officer’s presence doesn’t indicate any more troubles being caused by our crew,” she said.
“No, you need not be concerned on that point,” Spock told her, “though I am curious as to why my presence surprises you.”
“You don’t strike me as the type to engage in such frivolities,” N’Mi answered, with a contemptuous gesture. “I assume that someone who has achieved as much as you would spend most, if not all, of his spare time and energies working toward advancing those achievements.”
The Vulcan nodded slowly. “I will admit, your characterization of me is generally correct.” From an early age, he had been determined to excel—a determination born of the need to earn Sarek’s approval, and to exceed his expectations. “However, I would challenge your blanket characterization of all activities being undertaken here as frivolous.” He gestured to a three-dimensional chess set, left with its pieces arranged in a checkmated game. “For instance, strategy games serve to improve the player’s logical facilities.” He sat behind the board, and began to reset it for the start of a new game. “There is a school of thought which posits that the more advanced a species and the more complex its mind, the greater the need for recreational play.”
N’Mi looked skeptical as she took the seat opposite him. “Do you subscribe to this school of thought?”
“Not entirely,” Spock allowed. “Although I have found, serving with humans for as long as I have, it does apply to them.”
Star Trek: The Original Series: The Shocks of Adversity Page 9