Chapter Nineteen

The doctor hadn’t been himself lately, even before he’d lost his friend on that station—that early morning she’d walked in on him, for example, when he’d seemed so evasive. He’d definitely withdrawn further into himself in the days since the Omega affair, though, and while she could understand the pain of losing someone, she thought it went deeper than that. It was as though he was going through the motions of his life, doing the same things he always did but without actually doing them. She’d known him too long not to notice his unhappiness, and though she’d always felt that it was rude not to respect other people’s privacy, enough was enough.

Since she wasn’t a manipulative person by nature, she gave the approach careful thought, well aware that the doctor rarely gave anything up without a fight. With the crew physicals finally finished and correlated, only the final report left to be turned in, they had a fair amount of unoccupied time; still, she waited until they were both about to go off shift before approaching him. It would keep him from feeling trapped, she hoped, providing him with a fast escape. And when she finally spoke up, she did so with her hands on her hips, ready to drag it out of him with what tools she had.

“Dr. McCoy, you’ve hurt my feelings,” she said sternly, and was glad to see a look of genuine surprise on his face, very different from the slightly dazed look he’d been wearing lately. It was a start.

“I’m—sorry,” he fumbled. He obviously had no idea what he was apologizing for, but for as grouchy as he could get sometimes, he was also a gentleman at heart.

“I thought we were friends,” she said, hoping she sounded properly wounded.

The doctor blinked. “Ah, I thought so, too.”

“And here you’ve been walking around for days with your chin practically on the ground, and you don’t think enough of me to tell me what’s wrong,” she said.

He finally got it, and the scowl that crossed his face was as real as his surprise had been. She was glad to see that, too.

“Nurse, I don’t believe that you’re entitled to know about my personal affairs,” he said acidly. “That’s why they’re called ‘ personal.’ ”

“You don’t trust me,” she accused, crossing her arms tightly. “After all this time, all we’ve been through together, you still don’t trust me.”

She had him. He had the same look he’d worn when he’d forgotten her birthday two years before.

“Now, don’t be like that.”

“Then tell me,” she said, finally letting her real concern show through. “Tell me what’s wrong, so I can help.”

He stared down at the floor. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“Let me try.”

He looked up at her, and after a moment, he nodded. “Let’s sit down.”

He told her everything. The diagnosis and the prognosis. Remembering his friend Dr. Patterson, and asking Chekov to find her, and then what happened on the station. Christine felt tears welling up early on but managed to hold them back, knowing that if she cried he’d be sorry he told her.

When he was finished, she reached out and took his hand, holding it firmly in hers. “You have to tell the captain,” she said. “And not because he needs to know, but because he’s your friend.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I thought I might wait . . .”

Christine squeezed his hand. “I do know. You need the support of your friends right now, more than anything.”

He didn’t look convinced but she knew how important it was, knew that she had to push. “Doctor, promise me you’ll tell him.”

“Of course I’ll tell him,” he grumbled. “I don’t exactly have a choice.”

“Soon,” she said. “Promise me you’ll do it soon. You could tell him when you turn in the physical report.”

He sighed, and his sincere sarcasm was back, too. “Fine. Now, if you’re finished telling me what to do, would it be all right with you if I left?”

Christine nodded, afraid to speak, knowing her voice would break. He stood up from the chair he’d pushed next to the desk, and watching him put his cantankerous face back on like a mask, she managed a smile for him.

Dr. McCoy didn’t say anything, either, but before he left he rested his hand on her shoulder for just a few seconds, and she knew that he was thanking her as well as he could.

She waited until he was gone, buried her face in her hands, and wept.

McCoy went to his quarters. He carefully poked around the edges of how he was feeling for a little while, not quite sure what he was going to find . . . but when he realized he wasn’t going to have some sort of melodramatic breakdown, he cut straight to the point.

Karen Patterson was dead, and he was probably going to die soon, and that was a hard truth, but he wasn’t going to run from it. He didn’t think he was quite ready to embrace it, but maybe that was something a person worked up to, gradually. There were people he didn’t want to leave, who he knew would think of him and miss him, and that was more than a lot of people had.

There.

Dr. McCoy suddenly realized that he was hungry, damned near famished, in fact, and decided he’d go get himself something to eat. No point in starving himself to death.

Spock was unable to find his focus.

Usually, he would perceive his lack of concentration as a reason to pursue a deeper meditation, but there were times he recognized as more difficult than others. He opened his eyes and stood, walking to his desk where he sat again, templing his fingers.

It was the thought of his last discussion with the captain that had intruded on his meditation, for what he’d told Spock and what he’d avoided speaking about. Both disturbed him.

First, the captain’s report to Starfleet, the report extensive but the gist of it simple. The Omega molecule was too dangerous to be studied. The destructive, long-term consequences for a spacefaring civilization were too great. Two Lantaru-sector colonies had essentially been cut off from the Federation by the damage to subspace, now years away from any kind of contact with anyone, and for that they’d been most fortunate, considering what might have happened. The captain had then recommended that Starfleet Command strongly consider banning any and all future Omega research.

Spock understood the captain’s reasoning, and could not disagree with it—as he’d told the Romulan commander himself, the sanctity of life was preeminent in his tenets. But he could not support it, either, and thus an intellectual conflict he’d long struggled with had further defined itself—between his sworn duty, to serve and protect the Federation, and his personal ideology, to faithfully seek knowledge in all its forms. How could he comfortably accommodate both, in consideration of what the Omega molecule had brought to light?

He considered the Romulan commander’s understanding of his commitment to duty, reflecting on her perceptions of him when they had been joined. She’d found the disharmony over the theft of the cloaking device, and it had given her relief to know that he struggled still, duty or integrity. Her perception was that without a struggle, without some depth of internal strife, neither held meaning; that to be whole, one had to continually challenge the decisions one made. It was an interesting viewpoint, and he had not yet rejected it.

Ex Astris Scientia. From the stars, knowledge. It was the Starfleet motto, emblazoning the very flag of the Academy, and it had always appealed to him in its simplicity and truth, for the concept it represented. A concept that could very well be betrayed by the Starfleet mechanism—because although he was certain their decision would not be made lightly, Spock thought it highly probable that a prohibition would be issued against Omega research. If they chose to implement the captain’s suggestion . . . how could Spock continue to serve without question? If he couldn’t have faith that the Federation’s most basic article would not be violated, how would his commitments change?

The conflict wasn’t new. The Omega impasse simply epitomized it by its extremity, but Spock did not see a logical means to work through it, unless it was by choosing the lesser of two evils. Unfortunately, he didn’t know which it was.

What the captain had not discussed—logical conclusions from evidence that had presented itself throughout the Sphinx /Kettaract situation—indicated only that he was not yet prepared to broach the subject. It was quite clear that Jim was wrestling with a loss of certitude in the things he held dear, and although there was the possibility for most in those circumstances, that evidence would be ignored in favor of tranquility, Spock knew that he would not falter. The captain’s consistency of character required that he would always choose truth over peace of mind.

Spock himself recognized that everything changed, and that some incidental results were inevitable.