She was not aware when McCoy left her alone. She stood Watch at the foot of Stanger’s bed until 1300 hours, and then she went back on duty.
An hour later, McCoy called a medic and had Stanger taken down to stasis. He had sincerely liked the man, in spite of the rumors he’d heard about his background, and simply wasn’t up to seeing him there in sickbay. If the medic hadn’t arrived when he did, McCoy thought grimly, he would have gone stark, raving mad.
He would have sent Chris’ body down, too—there was no point in letting the decay process take hold, and the mere presence of her body was a reproach—but he kept telling himself that he was going to make himself do the autopsy. Chris would not have wanted anyone else to do it.
Besides, there was his medical duty. They needed all the information they could get on this disease. Vaccine or not, they obviously didn’t have enough knowledge of how the virus behaved in a human host. Studying it in the test tube could tell them a lot but not enough. Had Chris known, she would have volunteered for the autopsy. It was the one last medical contribution she could make in her life, and it wasn’t fair to her to deprive her of that chance.
It took him several hours to get up the courage to go into the room where Chris’ body lay covered by a sheet. He pulled it back. Chris was still beautiful, still pink-cheeked from the recent transfusion. Amazingly, her skin had not acquired the pinched, waxy look of death. He had thought that looking at her body would help him to accept her death; instead, it only made it harder to believe. He started to sway on his feet, on the verge of sobbing again. He wanted to gather her in his arms.
Instead, he called the medic and had her body taken down to stasis.
Five hours after his last attempt, Kirk went down to his quarters and tried again to contact Waverleigh.
For the past five hours, he had waited for Quince to get in touch with him. Surely he wasn’t going to send a titillating message like that and then just let Kirk stew?
Quince had to be in big trouble. So much trouble that he didn’t dare attempt to communicate with the Enterprise again.
Jim argued with himself: was it brash of him to contact Waverleigh directly at Fleet headquarters? He might be getting him in even more trouble.
But he wanted Quince to know he got the message. And if Quince was already in trouble, it wouldn’t matter whether Jim spoke to him now or not. There had to be something he could do to bail Quince out.
Uhura relayed the channel. Instead of Quince’s broad, smiling face, a uniformed Andorian male appeared on the screen. “Admiral Zierhopf’s office.” The Enterprise had moved closer to Earth, so that the delay was now only a few seconds.
“Zierhopf? I was trying to contact Admiral Waverleigh’s office.”
“No one seems to be answering there yet.” The Andorian smiled an unusually unnatural smile, showing yellowed teeth. “When the admiral and his aide are not in their office, communications are routed through this terminal. Could I take a message?”
Kirk squinted at the insignia on the aide’s gold tunic. “No, thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll try back”
“I do know one office where he’s very likely to be this time of day. Hold on one moment.”
The screen flickered and changed. “Admiral Tsebili’s office,” the young man said. He looked the quintessential Vulcan: long, sharp nose, pointed ears, and perfectly straight, even bangs framing a high forehead. His youth did nothing to soften the severity of his features; his brows arched upward at an even sharper angle than Spock’s. He reminded Kirk of a primitive painting of Surak the Reformer he’d once seen in a museum. “My name is Sareel. May I be of assistance?”
“I’m looking for Admiral Waverleigh,” Kirk said, relieved to be in the competent hands of a Vulcan.
“This is Admiral Tsebili’s office. I will connect you with Admiral Waverleigh’s.”
"No,” Kirk said, but the Vulcan was too fast, too efficient, and had already cut him off. He stared at the gray screen and felt his frustration mount as Waverleigh’s viewer signaled its owner in vain. God, how he hated bureaucracies!
And what was he going to do if Waverleigh wasn’t there? Dear God, had Quince fallen off the face of the Earth? Or was he merely playing one of his practical jokes?
He was about to close the channel when a figure appeared on the screen. “Admiral Waverleigh’s office. Lieutenant Stein here.” The aide who answered was female, human, with a demeanor far older than she appeared to be. She was answering at Quince’s terminal, standing hunched over the desk, as if worried that by sitting in the admiral’s chair, she would commit the ultimate sacrilege.
“Thank God,” Kirk said fervently. “You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through trying to get here. Is Quince in?”
“No,” Stein said. Her hollow brown eyes regarded him strangely, as if she had trouble making sense out of the question.
Kirk felt another urge of irritation. What kind of rejects do they have working at Command? “Lieutenant, I need to speak to the admiral now. How can I get in touch with him? Surely someone must have some idea where he is.”
Her mouth began working, but no sound came out. She closed it. He got the impression that she was trying hard to surpress a case of the giggles.
Not the giggles something else. Suddenly, he understood. He jolted forward at the screen, knowing without believing. “Stein, what’s happened? What’s happened to Quince?”
Her entire face quivered. “There was an accident, sir. He somehow lost control of his skimmer over the bay. I just I just” Her voice trailed off and she swallowed hard. A fat tear fell from one eye and dripped neatly onto the desk without ever touching her cheek. “You’ll have to excuse me, sir. I just found out myself a few minutes ago.” She collapsed into Quince’s chair and put her head on the desk and sobbed. Her elbow struck the gold frame that generated the holo of Ke and the kids and knocked it down.
It was in the later part of the evening when M’Benga buzzed McCoy.
“Doctor? Hope I didn’t wake you. I know you sometimes turn in early.” His voice was slightly higher-pitched than normal, as if something had him totally baffled.
“It’s all right. I was up,” McCoy answered. He had been lying on his bunk, staring at the ceiling, from time to time letting a stray tear run down the side of his face and into his ear. He did not expect to sleep at all tonight.
“Look, I know this sounds crazy, but” M’Benga hesitated and gave a short, embarrassed laugh. “We seem to be a little confused up here. Did you decide to go ahead with an autopsy on Stanger?”
“No. I was going to do one on Chris today, but” McCoy trailed off. He was still in no mood to think about it. Blessedly, M’Benga did not pursue it.
There was an awkward pause, and then M’Benga said, “Well, did you order the body moved for any reason? I was going to take a tissue sample.”
McCoy was beginning to be irritated. “I had Kenzo take it down to stasis if that’s what you mean.” Wasn’t it bad enough that Stanger had died without having to go through the third degree on what he had done with the body? Why the hell couldn’t M’Benga just go down and check stasis himself, without rubbing McCoy’s nose in it?
“I knew it was supposed to be in stasis, Doctor. I asked you as you were going off duty” M’Benga stopped and suddenly changed his tone. “I’m sorry, Leonard. I’m sure you don’t remember. I know how you must feel about Chris. I miss her, too.”
It took some time for McCoy to bring himself to reply. “Maybe if you checked with Tjieng”
“I already did,” M’Benga answered emphatically. “Leonard, you’re not going to believe this, but I’ve checked with the microlab, everyone in sickbay, the medics, and stasis. Everyone insists the body has to be in stasis. You’re the last person I called. In all my years on this starship, I’ve never heard of a body being misplaced.”
McCoy frowned, for the time being ignoring his sorrow. “You went down to stasis yourself?”
“I did. The chamber with Stanger�
��s name on it was open, as if the medic had taken it down there and intended to put it in but never finished the job.”
“Did you check with Kenzo?”
“Yes. He said he put Stanger in the chamber around 1700.”
“Well, he didn’t just get up and walk out,” McCoy said tartly. “Obviously, someone in another department has taken him and forgotten to report it.”
“I can’t imagine who that would be.” M’Benga’s tone was dry. “Think we ought to let the captain in on this?”
“What’s the point? Give it till morning. If we haven’t found it by then, I’ll tell him. But there’s no point in getting someone in trouble unless we have to. Can your culture wait until tomorrow?”
“I suppose so.” M’Benga sounded dubious. “But doesn’t this strike you as rather odd?”
McCoy sighed. “Quite frankly, everything on this ship strikes me as odd these days, Geoffrey.”
It was very early in the morning when Tomson decided to contact Lisa Nguyen, so early that the ship’s corridors were still darkened. Still, she’d had a hunch that Nguyen would be up, and, as usual, her hunch was right. Nguyen answered the signal looking drawn and tired, but very conscious.
Tomson hated small talk, so she got right down to it. No point in asking if she’d wakened Nguyen, since she obviously hadn’t. Even if she had, it was not in her nature to apologize for her actions. “Ensign. Dr. McCoy tells me that you’re able to report for duty today.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I understand that you’re still talking about resigning. But for the time being, I am in dire need of someone to coordinate the night-shift search.” Especially with Stanger gone; but then, she had promised herself she wasn’t going to think about Stanger “ he practically died in your arms” anymore. She had spent most of the night doing just that, and fighting back a rare emotion for her: guilt.
Nguyen turned even paler than before, making the dark circles under her eyes look huge. “Sir, I couldn’t”
“It’s not a question of could or couldn’t, Ensign. It’s a question of need. I am hereby appointing you my second-in-command.”
Nguyen stared at her uncertainly, then finally swallowed whatever it was she had really wanted to say, and said: “Yes, sir.”
Tomson was going to cut the conversation off right there, but she surprised herself. “I need you, Nguyen,” she said suddenly, without changing her tone of voice. “You’re good with people. I’m not. I need a second-in-command my people feel comfortable with, one they can trust. A go between. One who can see my orders are implemented without antagonizing everyone.”
“You don’t antagonize people, sir.” Nguyen’s voice had changed, become concerned; she was thinking about Tomson instead of herself. “You’re just abrupt, that’s all. And we trust your judgment.”
“I wasn’t asking for your opinion, Ensign. I was telling you the way things are.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d like to see you in my office a few minutes early, to brief you on the search for Adams.”
Nguyen blanched visibly at the name. No matter. The best way to get her over it was to put her in charge of finding him. It was no wonder the woman couldn’t sleep, with him running around the ship. And Tomson couldn’t sleep herself. Going on the third day, and her security team still hadn’t found Adams! They should have found him within three hours, not three days, and Tomson had been going over and over in her mind how she had failed. It would never have occurred to her that she was not somehow personally to blame.
“Yes, sir,” Nguyen whispered.
“Tomson out.” She thumped the control with a fist and swiveled sideways in her chair so that she could stretch out her long legs. Fleet-issue furniture was too small and confining, but she refused to ask for anything custom-made.
It was ridiculous, feeling guilty about Stanger. How was she supposed to know the man was going to die?
You didn’t. But you broke your own rule; you listened to the rumor mill.
Maybe. But the plain fact is, the man was demoted. People don’t get demoted without cause.
No. But you had to rub it in.
Enough. The man was dead, and there was nothing more she could do. Of course, there was always a posthumous commendation.
What for?
It took a lot of nerve for him to come up to you and ask to be in charge of the night-shift search. He offered to pull a double shifter, remember?
She remembered. Before she could change her mind, she swiveled back to face her terminal, typed up the order, and verified it with a retinal scan. She had just finished when there was a buzz at the door. Esswein, perhaps, with news of Adams’ capture? “Come,” she said, and turned off the lock. The door slid open.
Jonathon Stanger stood in the doorway.
"Stanger,” she said with enormous relief, and stood up, vaguely aware that she was grinning hugely. “Stanger, they said you had died.”
Stanger stared up at her with wild, feverish eyes. His skin was as sickly gray as it had been when Tomson last saw his corpse, and his uniform was disheveled. “Please” He stepped inside. The door closed behind him, and he moved forward until he stood in front of the desk.
Tomson stared back. The reality of the situation passed through her with an ugly shudder. “You did die,” she said softly. Repulsed, she stepped away from the desk until her back was pressed against the wall.
It was then that she made out the small utility knife clutched in Stanger’s right hand. His eyes were insane with need. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said earnestly, and raised the knife.
Tomson tensed, ready to defend herself. “Damn right you don’t,” she said.
Chapter Thirteen
MCCOY GOT TO sickbay just as M’Benga finished sealing the cut on Tomson’s hand with synthetic. M’Benga had not explained the crisis, had only promised that it was urgent, though Tomson seemed in fair shape. She’d obviously been in some sort of struggle; besides the cut, there was a rip in the shoulder of her red tunic that revealed skin so translucent, McCoy could see the blue-green blood vessels pulsing beneath.
“Don’t worry,” M’Benga was saying to her. “The hand’ll be good as new in a couple of days.”
“That’s a pretty deep cut.” McCoy peered at Tomson’s wound. The lieutenant held her injured hand out in front of her and gazed at it critically, as if inspecting a fresh manicure.
M’Benga looked up from his work. “Doctor. Sorry to bother you twice, but it’s been some night.”
“No problem.” McCoy had lain awake, just as he’d expected, running over in his mind what he might have/ could have/should have done differently for Chapel and Stanger. “It’s almost time for my shift anyway.” Which was a gross exaggeration.
M’Benga glanced meaningfully at Tomson. “The lieutenant here has quite a story to tell. It explains that little problem we discussed earlier.”
Stanger’s body. “My God.” McCoy was sickened. “Adams stole it? Then Chris”
“Relax.” M’Benga put a gentle hand on his arm. McCoy thought he spied a quirk tugging at one corner of M’Benga’s mouth, as if the man were trying not to smile. “Adams didn’t steal anything. And I’ve got stasis locked up tighter than a drum. Chris is safe.”
Chris is safe. Something about the way he said it” Chris, not Chris’ body ’caused an irrational hope to surface in McCoy.
“Tell him.” M’Benga turned to Tomson.
She focused small, humorless eyes on the doctor. “You’re not going to believe this.”
“For God’s sake, just tell me what happened,” McCoy snapped, desperate to know.
“Ensign Stanger attacked me.” She said it soberly, with total and irrevocable certainty; so that no one could have doubted that it was the truth. “He’s alive, Doctor. I am not insane, I have not been drinking or taking any type of drug. He seemed—desperate. As if he felt compelled to hurt me but, at the same time, didn’t want to. I tried to restrain him, but he had a knif
e and managed to get away.” Anyone else would have simply been glad to have survived. Tomson, of course, felt she had to explain why she had not personally delivered the prisoner to the brig. “My people are looking for him now.”
Speechless, McCoy gaped at her. It didn’t make any sense. Didn’t make any sense at all. Stanger was dead. McCoy had watched each life function indicator on the man’s monitor plummet to zero. Just as he had for Chris
M’Benga was quite obviously fighting back a grin. “Know what I think we should take a look at? The waste products in Chapel and Stanger’s blood. I bet we’d find some mighty interesting ones like maybe some high serum magnesium levels.”
“My God, McCoy cried, jubilant. Of course! Tjieng had said tests indicated it was a smart virus. It could be—He grabbed the now-smiling M’Benga by the shoulders, afraid to have hope and at the same time reveling in it. “My God, Geoffrey; I should have run a blood chemistry”
“How were any of us supposed to know? That’s not done on a corpse until the autopsy.”
“My God!” McCoy repeated, holding his reeling head. “I’ve got to see Chris!”
“I was thinking you might say that.” M’Benga cackled and gave him a joyful thump on the back. “Why don’t you go down to stasis? I’ll give you the code to get in. You’ve got a whole hour before your shift, and I can easily stay over if you need.”
But McCoy was out the door before he finished talking.
“Excitable, isn’t he?” Tomson observed.
He had to go back for a tricorder and medikit and the code, of course. By the time he got down to stasis, he was trembling.
What if I’m wrong? Dear God, what if nothing happens? Don’t think about. Do what you have to do, and just don’t think.
He coded the door to stasis open. Imagine, locking the doors to stasis!
To keep people out, or in?
Inside, two of the units had recently been put to use. One of them, the one marked STANGER, JONATHON, ENSIGN , had been opened. It was dark and empty. Next to it, Christine Chapel’s unit glowed faintly.
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