The BLTS Archive - No Man by raku (raku2u@aol.com) --- copyright @ 1997, raku Disclaimer: Paramount holds the legal rights to the characters Kirk, Kyle, Spock, McCoy, Chapel, Scott, Sulu, Uhura, Sybok, and Chekhov. I have borrowed them for frivolous, not-for-profit fun. The remaining characters are my own, and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental. This is a work of fan fiction, people. Warning: This being an original work of "slash" fiction, it contains explicit acts between consenting imaginary figures. If you are younger than eighteen years of age, stop here and read something else. "Fahrenheit 451," by Ray Bradbury, would be a very good place to start, or "Catcher in the Rye," by J.D. Salinger. Archive at will; please keep header intact. --- The Sickbay doors shot apart. In came Captain Kirk and Lieutenant Kyle, carrying a very dusty and travel-worn First Officer between them. Spock seemed unable to use one leg, and he was grimacing as his companions maneuvered him across the room. The two humans looked none too good themselves: their uniforms were tattered memories, and Kyle appeared to have lost a boot. "What on earth happened to you all?" said Dr. McCoy, looking up from his desk. Even as he spoke he was mentally conducting a triage of their visible and presumed invisible wounds. The captain replied, "You remember the landing party was trying to get a status report on the humanistic colony at Kithra. We beamed down to the coordinates they gave us but then we had to hike down the canyon to the colony. The dust storm took us by surprise, and we had to return to the Enterprise--we'll try again in a shuttlecraft. Scotty's decontaminating the equipment now--we brought back a planet's worth of dust from that enormous storm. The old computer records about the weather on Beta Cygni were an understatement." Kyle had finished helping Spock lie face down on the biobed. He wiped an arm across his forehead, leaving a smear in the dust that coated him. He took up where Kirk left off. "We managed ok on foot for a while, but Commander Spock slipped on the cliff face going down, when we had to climb blind. Looks like he gashed the hamstring. I managed to stop the bleeding, but we couldn't fix the damage to the muscle, and the metallic dust we picked up in the storm meant we couldn't transport straight to Sickbay. So here we are." The indicators on the wall panel all jumped and the room filled with the bleeping that registered Spock's heartbeat at its thrice-human pulse rate. McCoy grunted a mostly satisfied noise and was heard to mutter something about "green blood." The sound of Spock's labored breathing was surprisingly loud in their ears-- McCoy could see as he delicately probed that there was a lot of damage to the tissue underneath the pressure bandage Kyle had applied. Dr. McCoy waved off the hovering humans with a commanding hand, and he gestured toward the ensign lurking behind them with an assortment of instruments and bandages. "Well, gentlemen, thank you for the delivery, but I think it's my turn now. Ensign Rohr will patch you two up. Then you'd better double-check with Mr. Scott about the chem-filters--Spock's readings are still showing a lot of radiation and metal dust, and that won't help matters, for him or for you. You'll want to get that out of your hair and off your skins, so it's back to the transporter room for the both of you, as soon as possible." The two men sat on facing beds and endured while their abrasions were sealed and they were medicated against viruses, bacteria, and nanoprobes. Then with a cursory nod to Spock and the doctor, Kirk and his junior officer headed out of Sickbay. Meanwhile, the physician had turned to the more seriously injured patient and was again examining the damage. With an economy of motion he cut away what remained of Spock's left pantleg, and beckoned for Nurse Chapel to bring a hypo and the dermal regenerator pack. He pressed the hypo against the patient's carotid artery and at the hiss the Vulcan appeared to relax, maybe into unconsciousness, maybe into some kind of meditative state--it was so blasted hard to tell with those internalized species. One of these days he'd have to write a paper on states of mind in humanoid species, with data taken from his logs concerning the crew and the various visiting patients he'd seen. Might as well get *some* good out of the data he'd collected--like getting blood from a row of logic-chopping turnips, most days . . . Nurse and doctor looked again at the overhead registers, and saw that all indicators had now risen or fallen appropriately, and that Spock was indeed unconscious. Quickly they sliced away the remainder of Spock's destroyed uniform, stirring up a fair-sized cloud of dust that was sucked up into the protective hood they had lowered. They went to work on the muscles and ligaments in his leg with the unspoken efficiency of people used to each other's habits and motions. Instruments passed back and forth almost without a word. Graceful hands gave and received, received and gave, as if in a dance of their own. Kyle had been right: the damage was in fact fairly extensive even if confined to the area. They could regenerate the tissue itself easily enough, but Spock would need physical therapy to regain flexibility and strength. Some things still needed the old-fashioned touch, McCoy remarked to his chief nurse half under his breath. Christine smiled to herself but was careful to keep her face averted. As they transferred instruments back and forth, McCoy found himself cautiously eyeing Spock. He'd seldom had the Vulcan as a patient, and this opportunity interested him greatly, more than he dared admit. Those black clinging t-shirts and pants Star Fleet was currently requiring made it easy enough for the medical staff to gauge the physical condition of the crew--not that Headquarters had had that in mind, but the medical staff grabbed what advantages they could, in their obligation to keep the crew running at top efficiency. His own senses had always been highly tuned where Spock was concerned. He'd told himself it was because this was the non-human he knew best, and as a doctor he was interested in the physical and mental states of all species. But lately he'd had trouble convincing himself that was the reason. At a suitable distance he had watched the Vulcan's struggle to balance the two sides of his inheritance. If only he had found a way to bring them finally into equilibrium--his studied resistance to McCoy's "arguments" showed how far Spock still had to go in accepting the illogical contradictions life brought every day. So often it seemed that Spock was thrashing in some kind of private hell, failing to bring a real order to his world--fat lot of good Vulcan philosophy was. Seemed like it let its people down whenever the going got rough. Himself, he'd found the same kind of dichotomy in being a medical officer in a military organization, and he'd often longed for the chance to talk with someone. Some days Jim Kirk understood, but he couldn't afford to reflect much on the military side of the Fleet if he wanted to be an effective captain. Spock had always more likely than Jim to understand, but he just would not admit his human half deserved a voice--or that anyone else's did, either, come to think of it. . . McCoy sighed as he worked, and Christine Chapel turned an interrogative eye on her comrade. _Leonard's not himself,_ she thought. _Must be hard on him, working on Spock like this, as though none of us knows._ She bent a little more closely over the patient as they reached an important stage. After a short time it seemed that the muscle and the dermal layers were knitting correctly. Doctor and nurse finished their work, braced the muscle with a bandage, covered the patient with a thermal blanket, and left him to sleep off the anesthesia. McCoy crossed to his desk in the alcove on the far side of the room, and briefly rested his head on the table. Spock's injuries hadn't been life- threatening, but they were nonetheless severe, and it was hard to watch him suffer. A moment later he felt a warm hand on his shoulder, and Christine's voice spoke in his ear: "He'll be fine. Lieutenant Kyle did good work, and we got to him in plenty of time. The tissue degradation hadn't advanced far and the blood loss was minimal." The doctor squeezed her hand without looking up. He heard her hesitate and clear her throat, then she went on: "It might help to talk about it. He's something of a hopeless case--who knows that better than I do?" McCoy turned around and looked at her quizzically. "Am I that obvious?" "No, you're not obvious at all. I don't think anyone has guessed your secret --well, maybe the captain has, he doesn't miss much." "He's just, he's, well--" "I know, I know. Who better? I loved him a for long time, too. Still do, in many ways. But I eventually moved on--for me it was the right thing to do. Believe me, I know how hard it is, being in love with a Vulcan." A deep sigh escaped the doctor. "You have no idea. We're together all the time, on Bridge duty, in staff meetings, in landing parties. I have to talk to him but I can't speak my mind. I can't avoid him--there's no reason to. It's torture being with him, and yet I can't imagine a day without him. It's exhausting." Christine rubbed his shoulders and murmured, "Once you said to me, 'You never give up hoping, do you?' I did, but you shouldn't. Any time you want to talk, or just have a cup of coffee, let me know. Company helps." She smiled at him and went back to recalibrating the sensors on the biobed they'd been upgrading. McCoy rubbed his hands across his eyes, and turned to entering the day's medical logs. Soon he heard the whisper-shush of the blanket being drawn aside, and he looked around the corner of the divider to see Spock struggling into his Sickbay blues. The doctor hopped to his feet and began trying to soothe the patient, who appeared either to be deaf or ignoring him. About average. "Spock, you took some pretty heavy damage to your leg. You're gonna need to stay put for a few days--no strenuous work." "Doctor, I assure you I am fine. Such medical skills as Starfleet has seen fit to equip you with where Vulcans are concerned with have been sufficient for the emergency. I must resume my task on the planet's surface." "Spock, Spock, they'll do just fine without you. Jim Kirk's been in tighter places than a dust storm, and the colonists can afford to wait a couple more days to be surveyed. There's no rush." Spock was now sitting upright, wincing but clothed. He weaved side to side a little woozily, but his voice sounded as firm as ever--McCoy thought he could easily fool the captain if he relied on the communicator and kept out of sight. "I must return to the planet, Dr. McCoy. I do appreciate your ministrations, but work calls." "Dammit, Spock, I'm a doctor, not a metalsmith. You and Jim and Kyle brought in enough metallic dust to build a tricorder, and it took us nearly fifteen minutes to get it all out of your leg. You do that again and I won't answer for the neurological consequences." A doubtful eyebrow shot up, as the First Officer regarded the Chief of Medicine with what might have been annoyance, on any other face. "Very well, doctor, for now I will, as you quaintly say, 'stay put'. I will tell Captain Kirk that I am temporarily unable to return to the planet. And now, if you don't mind, I would prefer to return to my own quarters, where the ambient temperature is more suitable." Nurse Chapel had appeared and she began to put a hand under Spock's elbow. He gave her a straight look and she stepped back. He eased himself downward, and after steadying himself for a moment on the bed's edge, he began to head for the door in a fairly straight line, limping at each pace of his quasi-restored leg. Christine stepped in front of him as he reached the door, and said, "You'll need this against the pain. This is not a suggestion." Spock stopped where he stood and allowed the nurse to press the hypospray against his upper arm. The spray hissed, and a shadow seemed to pass across his face. He stood up a little straighter, nodded in the direction of Christine Chapel, and again headed for the door. The doctor called after him, "Spock, you're gonna need some physical therapy on that muscle. I *will* see you at 0900 tomorrow, in the gym, for climbing practice." Spock raised a hand to indicate he had heard, but without turning around he walked out of Sickbay. McCoy watched him go and shook his head. Probably the toughest patient on this ship--well, after maybe the Captain. A bull-headed pair, the two of them--surprising the ship hadn't been blown out of the sky, with those two in charge. Honest to God. The one convinced he'd never die, the other convinced logic called for blind obedience to duty and philosophy. They could drive a man to drink . . . --- The next morning saw Spock suited up and rigged for practice ascents and descents. He'd already done 20 minutes of walking on the treadmill, and his leg seemed in better shape than its state the day before had promised. The datapad at the door had shown that McCoy had assigned him the gentle slope for practice. He found that the rope around him took up most of the weight and allowed him to stretch the healing muscle without putting too much stress on it. The next best thing to a swimming pool, which Starfleet Command had promised for the next generation of starships. Experiments had shown that thousands of liters of water controlled by artificial gravity were a bad plan in battle, when gravity might be lost. Starfleet was not eager to repeat the experience of the USS Poseidon any time soon. McCoy watched the Vulcan bob up and down the wall, alternately putting weight on the vexed leg and stretching the length of the muscle. Slow work, and boring, but it did the job, and it was tough to substitute much of anything else given their facilities. After a while McCoy called a halt and sent Spock off to the locker room for a more searching manipulation of the limb. He stayed a bit to talk with Lieutenant Estevez, who was trying out the new all-station weight rig that some of the bored Engineering crew had devised. McCoy talked a bit with her about several of the pulleys that weren't working correctly, and then he followed Spock into the locker room. He found the Vulcan again face down, this time on the massage table-- that was the good news. At least the masseur had got him that far. But the set of Spock's back showed McCoy that he was tenser than ever--this was no way to loosen up that muscle. McCoy grinned sadly to himself--Spock'd rather limp for the rest of his life than let someone rub his skin--and he gestured for Ensign Andronikos to step aside. McCoy began kneading Spock's shoulders, figuring he'd warm up with an area not already stressed. He took a bit to locate where the ends of the trapezius muscle attached. After a few moments he sorted out the longer pull of the muscles and their more distant points of attachment--that would be part of what gives them extra strength, though McCoy--longer, more elastic muscles, with a greater span end-to-end. Bet their muscle cramps are something to behold. Now that he'd got the Vulcan's range, he moved down to work on the hamstring itself--kneading, pressing, rolling it between his palms, driving his thumbs into it. He felt Spock shudder a bit underneath his hands, at the same time that he felt the leg begin to relax. He moved from one end of the hamstring to the other, then moved outward to the adjacent muscle groups. Again he felt considerable tension, muscles knitted hard through stress, but they gave gradually to his persistent kneading, stroking, palming, pressing. Lost in thought, he began to lean into his work, to put the weight of his own upper body behind his hands. Broad hands, strong fingers, all tracing the lineaments of the alien. Such powerful muscles he had, such a well- assembled frame. Thoroughly well made, of fine design--Vulcans were admirably suited to their challenging planet. _Sleek skin, fewer sweat glands, long legs to cover wide stretches of territory, hearing more acute to compensate for thin atmosphere._ He couldn't help but study as he worked. Biceps lateralis, triceps. Deltoid, trapezius, latissimus dorsi, external oblique. Gluteus maximus, gluteus medius, gastrocnemius. He chanted the names to himself as he worked, a leftover of long-ago rote learning. He ran his hands again over the muscles and their groups--biceps, triceps, traps, delts, glutes. He'd never seen them in quite this configuration, and there were a few extra small ones he couldn't name, but they were much the same. Despite the range of experience his long career had brought him, he'd very seldom handled Vulcan physiology in quite this way. Interesting. Slightly different skin texture, seemingly less porous than Terran skin, certainly a different color but not an unattractive one. But the muscles--quite interesting. _Longer and leaner, greater definition. . . . Gleaming hair, angular features expressive in spite of themselves, legendary sexual prowess, if at prolonged intervals . . . _ For a moment he hesitated, noting with ironic self-knowledge how his medical manipulation of the patient's body had unwittingly turned into what must look a hell of a lot like a caress, even to a casual observer. And here was Andronikos, looking at the two of them with half surprise, half surmise. Jesus. Spock abruptly sat up and said, "Thank you, Doctor, I believe that is sufficient." McCoy noticed his patient's chest was rising and falling rather faster than usual, and his pupils were dilated--he left off the massage right where he was. Pretty clearly Spock was not used to prolonged contact with another-- an unimaginable state, for a human. Never to know the intimate touch of another, needing to wait almost a decade before being able to claim the right to personal intimacy. What a way to live, thought McCoy. Too high a price, if you ask me--so what if they no longer kill each other. Now they're killing themselves, or might as well be . . . He slapped Spock on the shoulder in what he hoped was a companionable way, and shrugged his own shoulders as if to say 'That's all for today'. To Spock he remarked, "Good thing Jim canceled the return landing party for now. You all caught just the start of that metallic dust storm, and we'll all be sitting tight until it settles a bit. No bad thing for you, eh, Mr. Spock?" He stepped away from the table and tossed a towel and the supporting bandage to the Vulcan, and added "Better keep that leg wrapped for a bit yet." Then he turned and headed out of the room toward the corridor, feeling Andronikos's eyes boring into his back. He walked rapidly down the hall and took the turbo-lift to the residential deck. Safely in his own quarters, he leaned hard on the wall just inside the door. _There it is. Of all the non-human, argumentative, green-blooded types I could fall in love with, it's gotta be this one. What would my granddaddy say. . . He doesn't need *my* help, he just needs *medical* help,_ he muttered through clenched teeth. _Remember he needed that on Vulcan, and nothing happened. He didn't need you, he didn't even want you . . . 'S true that black shirt does a lot for him . . . this has *got* to be a new page in McCoy family history. . ._ McCoy began to pace back and forth, faster and faster, trying to push away the knowledge recent events were making him face. Sure, he knew of cases where two command-level officers had had a personal relationship, but usually they were at least both the same species, if not also of different genders, and generally they served on different ships. Starfleet Command was pretty open-minded, but the mores of the planet Vulcan were another matter altogether. He knew there were firm strictures against off-world relationships and only in special circumstances were they approved; he'd never heard of one in which both were of the same gender. Oh, god. What a mess. Much better to follow his own frequent advice to Spock, and take things easy. No hurry. No reason to rush. No reason to do anything, in fact. It had to be a one- sided feeling anyway, given the object of his affections. He'd filed the original Starfleet report on *pon farr,* so he couldn't say it was news to him there was no future in their relationship. Crossing to the sink, McCoy ran some cold water and splashed it on his face with both hands. He buried himself in a towel, thinking _And I'm due to examine him again tomorrow to see how that muscle's doing. Just great. Maybe this is just a phase, but somehow I don't think so._ Trying to comfort himself, he headed back out of his quarters to start his shift. --- But luck was not on his side. At the next afternoon's staff meeting, when Captain Kirk reviewed the assignments for the re-formed landing party, McCoy found he'd been assigned to the shuttle with Spock, with Sulu as their pilot. "I need your input on the social health of the colony. We can't risk beaming down with all that dust around," Jim had tersely replied to McCoy's protests at shuttle travel. "We've got to complete the survey, and this is the fastest way. Also probably the safest, considering the hit Spock took last time we tried to beam down and walk in. Besides, Dr. McCoy," James the Inexorable had continued, "I thought you were opposed to the transporter on philosophical principles. I would have thought you'd rejoice at the alternate transportation, especially with Sulu as pilot. You know he can land anywhere, any time." McCoy sighed to himself, cursed the fates, and prepared to go down to the planet. _At least I'm not alone with him,_ he thought, _and Jim's right Sulu's the best pilot going. We'll arrive in one piece, anyhow._ --- One hour later the three met in the shuttle bay and boarded the Galileo. If Spock was thinking anything his hooded eyes were not giving it away. He took his seat next to Sulu, monitoring the sensors, while McCoy buckled himself into the passenger seat. They shot out of the shuttle bay--Sulu always liked a dramatic departure-- and headed for the planet below. Beta Cygni seemed a beautiful place: the dust in the atmosphere meant that the sunset was a spectacular one. Huge glowing bands draped across the sky, all the colors of the Terran rainbow and several others McCoy couldn't name. He heard Sulu suck in his breath when the sunset rose on their viewscreen, but Spock worked on, apparently oblivious, reciting statistics about the mineral and elemental composition of the clouds they were passing through and around. _Ah, logic,_ thought McCoy. _Well, anyhow, I'm sure he won't bring up yesterday's voyage into uncharted physiological territory._ Sulu was bringing them in over the colony in a graceful arc, taking the chance to check out the area they'd be visiting as well as offering the colony a good look at the incoming shuttle in case they were curious. They perched dead-center on the landing pad, with a gentle whoosh of retrothrusters. Spock looked up and said "Ah, we have arrived." Sulu looked at McCoy and rolled his eyes; clearly he thought Spock had missed the glory of the trip and the spectacular sunset. The two humans prepared to leave the shuttle, while the Vulcan took a few last passes through the data he had collected on the way down. Making his way toward the door, Sulu picked up a square silver box he'd brought along and then keyed open the panel in front of them. When they stepped out, they found that a delegation of colonists was waiting for them in a welcoming ring. A small woman with cropped white hair, wearing a flowing garment of indeterminate color, stepped forward, and said, "Greetings, welcome to Beta Cygni. I am Julia Vetter, the Dark Pretender. My colleagues and I--" her arm made an open arc in their direction-- "welcome you warmly. We were sorry to learn you had difficulties getting here a few days ago." Spock stepped forward and said, "Greetings. I am Spock, First Officer of the Enterprise. We have arrived without incident." Behind him McCoy winced at the abruptness of the greeting. He quickly put forward his hand and added, "Leonard McCoy, ma'am, chief physician of the Enterprise. We're delighted to meet you and visit your colony. This is our colleague and pilot Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu." Sulu stepped forward in turn, and presented the box to the woman facing them. He said, "We were interested to learn the colony's history and purpose. We've brought this small gift in honor of your work here." The Dark Pretender took the box and smiled her thanks. Spock looked at McCoy sideways and cocked an eyebrow at him, but McCoy gave no answering look. The three stepped forward, and the welcoming delegation divided into two wings between which they walked, following the small woman. As they passed across the landing pad toward the facing building, McCoy whispered to Sulu "Dark Pretender? What's *that* about?" Sulu half frowned and said, "It was in the advance information that Uhura supplied. The colony was built as a place of humanistic study in the last century's culture wars. Don't you remember when the Arts wing of Starfleet rebelled, and complained that Starfleet had set up too many colonies for agriculture, mining, and physics? This was among the first of the humanistic colonies set up in response, so it's nearly the oldest. They study contradiction in the arts and in nature. They call their democratically elected leader the 'Dark Pretender', and he or she must either be light-skinned or wear light-colored clothes, or both. Kind of unusual, if you ask me." Sulu was surprised McCoy seemed so uninformed: usually he was the guide to local cultures on such missions. He narrowed his eyes at the older man and wondered what had him so preoccupied that he'd skipped all of Uhura's wonderful report. By now their little group had reached the curved doorway of a large hall. In the middle of the room they could see nine couches, arranged three to a side around a square, with the fourth left open. A low table shaped like an ivy leaf stood in the middle. The couches had a low end away from the table, while the end toward the center rolled upward in a sensuous curve. Spotlights shot upward into the lush darkness overhead, and they could hear a gentle tinkle as if glass? metal? some kind of thin leaves? were rubbing together in a light breeze. Spock stepped forward and looked around. The soft beeping suggested he was taking measurements of the room with his tricorder. McCoy was concerned to notice he seemed to be limping a bit-- _he shouldn't be doing that if the therapy were working correctly,_ the doctor thought--but the set of his shoulders was as firm and reliable as ever. The Dark Pretender was now showing them to their couches, and members of the welcoming party were filing in behind them, McCoy realized. Altogether they made 18, and their host grouped them in pairs on each couch. She placed Sulu and McCoy together, on the middle couch of the middle group, and she seated Spock on the couch to the right, stretching out beside him. Spock commented to her, "An admirable reproduction of a Roman triclinium. Very anachronistic." The other Enterprise men followed Spock's lead and arranged themselves so that they were reclining on their side, with one elbow up on the curved couch-arm. They found they could fairly easily reach the central table and the food it bore, while the couch-arms turned out to have places for the cups. "Not too shabby," whispered Sulu in the ear of McCoy, who was in front of him. McCoy waved a hand at him behind his back, to shut him up. After they had draped themselves across the couches, they were handed warm, damp towels with which to wipe their hands and face. Spock handled the item in a rather gingerly way, but McCoy and Sulu took a childlike delight in this simple physical pleasure. As the towels were leaving, the first course came in on trays: small songbirds, it seemed, though when the trays were set on the table before them, the birds turned out to have been made of textured vegetable protein colored to resemble animals. The "birds" were delicious, and the empty trays that had carried them were quickly replaced by those with the second course. Spock at first was satisfied to note that it appeared to be Vulcan plomik soup, but he was disappointed: it emerged that this was a bean curd of some sort, designed to look like plomiks. Sulu felt he was beginning to get the hang of the meal: all contradictions--nothing was what it was supposed to be. _Just like life,_ he happily thought. The third course, ostensibly fish, proved to be a ground quadruped shaped to look like salmon. This genuinely carnivorous course Spock passed up, and his couch-mate out of courtesy did so as well. While the others were eating they fell into conversation. Julia Vetter explained that the philosophy of the colony, to the extent they had one, was the embracing of contradictions and opposites. Granted a colony so far away from the home planets of their founding cultures, they had decided to cultivate that which they had found most troubling--the vagaries of life, the peculiarities of fortune, the things that looked like a good thing but weren't, the things that looked like trouble but were a marvelous gift. The DP, as she called herself, explained that even the room in which they were dining was part of the plan--it was called the Trojan Horse, for the most famous instance of a gift that was for many a disaster, for others a deliverance. She gestured toward the source of the tinkling sounds overhead and observed, "and those are models of Andorian temple bells. Each a frame of untempered glass, created by a master glassblower; each designed to fracture at a certain pitch and injure the worshippers below with holy glass fragments. A great honor to be prostrated underneath when one falls." The Vulcan cast a curious eye upward: the untutored observer might almost have said he looked worried. The DP answered the unspoken thought: "Not to worry: we use acoustical moss to control the pitch in the room. They don't break unless we want them to: the danger doesn't lie there." McCoy overheard this remark and his medical mind began to explore where the danger did lie. He was distracted by Sulu jabbing him in the back and offering him a piece of unfamiliar fruit that was being passed around before the next course began. Spock was much interested by the philosophy that Julia Vetter laid before him, though he explained he was surprised to see they had even carried out their philosophy in their food. The DP smiled enigmatically, and offered him a sample of the fourth course, which had just arrived. The food appeared to be a cheese of some sort, but the DP explained it was in fact a kind of solidified egg--protein, to be sure, but in an altered form. Seemingly it was a staple of colony life. McCoy was relishing this rather odd texture. He had continued to eavesdrop on the conversation on the couch before him, hoping for a clue to this odd place. In fact, he had become so intent on the elegant torso in front of him that he had paid little attention to his food, and he had relied on Sulu elbowing him and poking him at appropriate moments. The fifth and final course of food was now at hand, and without information to the contrary, McCoy would have called it a custard of some sort. He could smell the alcohol in the air, and would have expected it to be some kind of flambe', but perhaps that wasn't the colonists' way. The custard did seem to have an odd taste, maybe a result of the unburned alcohol? No telling, but he dug in with enthusiasm. Sulu did likewise--it was only Spock who, after a few forkfuls, seemed to pick at it absentmindedly. He seemed somewhat restless on his couch, after this crawl through numerous courses, and McCoy could see the muscles in his neck and arm beginning to jump with strain. He hoped the leg wasn't also acting up. Finally, finally, the DP clapped her hands and rose from her couch. Briefly she addressed the assembled group, welcoming their visitors and explaining that their survey work would take a bit of everyone's time the next morning. She then saw to it that everyone had a glassful of sea-dark wine, in a curiously J-shaped handblown glass, and she toasted the assembled group. "To permanence!" she cried, and snapped the stem on her glass so that the remaining wine poured on the tiled white floor. "To permanence!" each colonist responded in turn, likewise destroying the glasses. Sulu and McCoy were rather shocked at this wanton destruction, but the DP turned to them and said, "Our salute to the contradictions of life. Beautiful glasses destroyed, a toast that celebrates its opposite. This is what we live for." She resumed her place on the couch, but turned to face the three guests and said another word to them. "One more thing we celebrate, and that is the giving of well-earned gifts. We would like to make each of you a present, but what that is is ours to choose, as is the time when it is revealed. Perhaps tonight, or tomorrow, or several weeks from now--when you know it, think of us and enjoy." After the final course had been offered and consumed, the DP swung her legs off her couch and stood up. Clapping her hands, she spoke: "Thank you all for a most delightful evening. Insuth, would you please show our guests to their rooms for the night? Sleep well, gentlemen." At her words all rose, and the three crew members followed their guide into a wing they had not seen earlier. Insuth pointed to three painted doors set in a stone wall, and said, "Here are your rooms. You should find all that you need ready for you inside, but call if anything is lacking. Breakfast will be served tomorrow at sunrise, on the terrace you passed as you came in from the landing pad. Pleasant dreams." The three said goodnight to their guide, and each chose a room. The two humans were quickly asleep on extremely comfortable pads of anonymous vegetable matter, while Spock remained awake. First he took up a meditative position on the terrace that fanned out from the sliding door on the far side of his room. He sat for some time, fingers bridged, head cast downward. After not many minutes he rose, seeming dissatisfied, and began to pace. Abruptly he turned into the bath cubicle and started a blazing hot shower: when it seemed that his skin must burn or the pipes must melt, he switched the water to icy cold. Briefly he gasped, then leaned his head under the stream until he was chilled all over. He switched off the water, stepped out and dried himself off, and took up the soft robe one of the colonists had provided. Seemingly at last at peace, he lay down on the bed and composed himself for sleep. A telepathic observer in the room that night would have been surprised, however, for while Spock's body lay apparently at rest on the bed, his mind was an uneasy swirl of images--shifting colors, creatures of different sorts, images of Vulcans he had known long ago. A far cry from the restful night his companions were experiencing. --- Uncharacteristically, Spock overslept, and when he rose he found McCoy deep in conversation with the DP over a sketchy breakfast. "My apologies," he said to the two of them. "Sulu's already gotten busy on his downloading and uploading, Mr. Spock," said the doctor in a seemingly jovial tone. "Then I will join him, Doctor," replied the other, strangely feeling no need for food this morning. --- In only a few hours, Sulu had accomplished the task his captain had set him, though he was surprised how obstructive his Vulcan senior officer was being. Nonetheless, he'd found the files he wanted, and uploaded the recent regulations and news from Starfleet. Set to go, he touched Spock on the shoulder and gestured toward the door. Spock leapt at the touch, and resumed his seat breathing heavily. Sulu stood for a moment, watching, and then went on ahead to collect the doctor and head for the ship. Whatever was eating Spock, no doubt he'd want to be left alone. Two of them waving a final goodbye to the curious colonists, all three took their seats and made appropriate preparations for takeoff. Sulu scanned his instruments and McCoy said a short nondenominational prayer, but Spock seemed inexplicably lost in thought and he was turning one hand over inside the other in a circular motion. Seated behind him, McCoy couldn't see exactly what he was doing, but he could hear the repetitive *rasp* *rasp* *rasp* as the Vulcan's hands moved. He contented himself with studying the set of the head on the neck, the sweep of the ears upward, the fit of the jacket on the angular shoulders as if it had been custom-fitted. _Enough there to keep me busy for a while,_ thought the doctor morosely to himself. Sighing, McCoy put aside the mental images of Spock and turned on the tricorder Sulu had handed him. Absentmindedly he began reading through Sulu's account of the colony, noting occasional additions or corrections from what the DP had told him that morning. What a curious colony. . . . Spock, meanwhile, was looking out the forward port at the crowd of colonists visible before them. Just before Sulu hit the thrusters, Spock thought he saw a familiar face, waving and grinning at him, and gesturing enthusiastically. _Sybok,_ whispered Spock to himself. _No, it is not possible._ Sulu had now completed his pass over the colony and pursued the course he had set for the orbiting Enterprise. He felt a glow of contentment as the stars again came into view ahead of them. The starglow always made him feel at home. Planets were a nice change, especially the day/night business, but the stars were home and he knew it in the depths of his soul. A pilot born. He cheerfully picked out various landmarks: a binary star he'd noted a few weeks before, a supernova in the far distance, a pattern of stars that reminded him of a swirling pin Uhura was fond of. All in all, home. But what was this? Next to him, Spock was positively twitching. He restlessly checked readings in front of him, punching buttons, flipping switches. Sulu looked at him out of the corner of his eyes and whistled quietly to himself. He'd never seen Spock like that in all their missions together. Wow, what had got under *his* skin? After a few moments, Spock jumped from his seat and went aft, brushing hard against McCoy's knees as he moved. At the contact he winced, and seemed to the doctor to clench his fists. Without saying anything, however, he flipped open a hatch and began checking the contents against a list pasted to the wall. Suits, masks, dehydrated food, wrench set, interstellar beacon, spare tricorder. As he worked Sulu cast a look over his shoulder at Dr. McCoy, who met it with a raised eyebrow. Neither knew what was eating Spock, but it seemed unusual to say the least. McCoy moved up to take the seat Spock had vacated, and Sulu said quietly "At least this is a short trip. Maybe you'd better take a look at him when we get back." McCoy nodded assent, and continued working through Sulu's records on the tricorder in his hand. --- At the staff debriefing, McCoy and Sulu found they alone were offering accounts of the colony visit. Spock was missing, and the captain said without comment, "Mr. Spock is indisposed. He has filed his report on the planet, and we can access it if we need anything. He indicated he thought the reports from the two of you were likely to be more complete." This time it was McCoy who turned to Sulu with a raised eyebrow: Spock's absence at a staff meeting was nearly without precedent, but the notion that anyone else's summary would be more complete than that of the Vulcan was nigh heretical. McCoy replied, "Guess I'll check in on him after all. That doesn't sound like our Mr. Spock." The balance of the debriefing churned through the new customs, scientific discoveries, and future goals of the colony, and James Kirk set a time the next morning for a further meeting that would include his First Officer's report. Then routine business took over the conference. A short while later, work accomplished, the meeting broke up and McCoy headed for Sickbay. In his office he buzzed Spock's quarters but got no answer. Puzzled, he tried the captain, thinking Spock might have chosen to report in person after all, but no luck. Now almost worrying, he grabbed a portable medical pack and headed for Spock's deck. Reaching the Vulcan's door, he buzzed again. "Please leave me alone," a muffled voice inside responded. "Spock, it's me, McCoy," replied the other. "Please let me in. I need to check your condition--I think you're ill." Silence, then the click of the lock being released. The doors sprang apart, and McCoy could see Spock standing at the far end of the room, wearing his meditation robe. The doctor took a few steps inside, and the dry heat smote his face and hands. The doors clamped shut behind him. "Whew, Spock, all you need is some water on those burning rocks and you'd have a first-class sauna in here." "I do not need . . . a sauna," replied the other. His hood obscured his face, but McCoy could feel the intensity of his gaze. He found it difficult to be in this room, of all rooms, the room he longed to share with this unique being. He had very seldom been here and had pointedly avoided querying the computer as to the personal specifications Spock had requested for the voyage. His hands shook a bit as he assembled his equipment, but years of experience took over, and he was able to turn and face the Vulcan with a straight look devoid of personal undertones. He was quite surprised, however, to find Spock had moved just behind him, and had cast back his hood. McCoy found the other's dark eyes boring into his own, and he could hear the other's labored breathing. More shocking still was Spock's first gesture--he put his hand behind McCoy's neck, leaned forward, and kissed him. Not a casual kiss, not a kiss suggesting he was new at this, but a kiss that smote McCoy with the heat of the other's home planet. Spock moved yet closer, and wrapped his free arm around McCoy's back, effectively pinning him in place. Spock's mouth moved against his, tracing his lips, the bones of his chin and jaw, his cheekbones. Spock turned McCoy's head sideways and then traced the outline of his ear with his tongue. Huskily he whispered, "So sensual . . . so rounded . . . so inadequate for hearing . . . yet compelling, enticing . . ." Again the Vulcan began to kiss him, licking McCoy's lips, using his tongue gently to open the other's mouth, to probe, to explore, to caress with devastating thoroughness. Instinctively McCoy responded, his body's great desire utterly betraying his sense that this was somehow trespassing. In turn he grasped the back of Spock's robe with both hands, and pulled him as close as he could humanly get. He wedged a leg between Spock's, pressed a hip against Spock's pelvis, not daring to think where this was going. All of a sudden McCoy broke free, panting, and he looked at Spock as if he were mad. "What the *hell* is going on here, Spock?" he said, his own breath now coming in gasps. "Where is this, I mean, *what* is this all about? You, of all people--of all species." Speaking between harsh breaths, Spock replied, "Dinner--the dinner last night. Sybok. Extract of silphium . . . in the food." "Silphium?" replied the puzzled and now truly worried McCoy. "On Vulcan. Used to induce pon farr. . . Irregular, but sometimes . . . needed . . . when an heir is required." Understanding flashed through McCoy, followed by a waterfall of hope. Spock, in pon farr, four years too early . . . He'd die if not helped, he wasn't bonded to anyone after T'Pring . . . It was his medical duty to help . . . Do no harm . . . "Spock, let me help. This isn't you, let me do what I can to counteract it. Let me get you some plomik soup. That should help, for starters . . ." "No," rasped the other. "You . . . don't understand. I choose you. You. I want . . . you. Silphium was . . . an accident. I . . . would . . . still choose you." As he labored to get out the words, he felt the plaktow descending, sweeping him up, wiping his conscience. A fleeting thought passed that McCoy would understand in time, and accept the situation without regret. Indeed, the doctor seemed to reach a decision. He put down the hypospray he had half-prepared, and reached again for the robe of the other. "Spock," he said softly. "I choose you also. I will do you no harm, as physician or man." To the Vulcan's immense relief, he returned the kiss, moving his hands in a half-comforting, half-erotic way across his back and down. He pulled the other's hips close against his own, and returned the kiss as good as he'd got: with warmth and passion, reveling in the warm, elastic skin, the thin yet expressive lips. His sensitive physician's hands traced the rise of the other's eyebrows, the set of the ears on his head, the half-comical, half-frightening points to those too-efficient ears. He kissed Spock as if he were dying, as if this were his last night on earth. Spock was working at the strap of the tricorder McCoy had brought along, and finally tossed it aside. It hit the desk with a thump and a beep. Spock tried to find the closure for the other's medical smock and couldn't: he simply tore it in two, right down the front. McCoy meanwhile had found the fastening to Spock's robe, on the shoulder among the red Vulcan symbols that stood out against the black velvet. He folded it back, and found Spock was stark naked underneath. At the sight of that elegant physique McCoy couldn't help himself--without a thought he said "Spock, you're gorgeous. Let me make love to you." Through clenched teeth, Spock replied "I must have you, or die." Fearing the truth of Spock's statement he feverishly began to caress the Vulcan everywhere he could reach--an erotic, rushed version of the massage he'd given Spock just--yesterday? the day before? Didn't seem possible. Spock had by means more and less violent removed all McCoy's clothes as well, and they fell to the floor on the sand-colored rug in front of the glowing fire pot. Spock's style of lovemaking seemed a cross between judo and yoga, and McCoy found himself thinking he'd be needing painkillers later. Spock fell on him at full length, and set to work like a starving man at a banquet. What McCoy recalled later was that there was almost none of what humans would call foreplay. Seemingly Vulcans were ready from the get-go when in this condition, and they needed no further stimulation. Fortunately for him, he'd been so obsessed with Spock that the absence of any kind of preparation made little difference. He was as eager to take and be taken by Spock as he was for sleep at the end of a double shift, and the desire seemed just as natural. It felt like just a minute or two since he'd walked in the door before Spock had hurled them to the floor and was rubbing himself against McCoy like a cat on catnip. He caressed the human, stroked his hands across McCoy's belly, traced the other's hipbones, ran his hands up McCoy's chest and out along his arms. He pressed himself against McCoy's lips again, lying on him full length, and holding his hands against McCoy's cheekbones. The doctor was surprised that the gesture didn't feel like the start of a mindmeld, but perhaps that function was overridden at this moment in Vulcan physical reactions? Too much going on at once? In any case the logical thing to do was to lie back and enjoy it--this was a unique experience certainly in his life, and probably in that of nearly all humans as well, McCoy thought with satisfaction. In the fraction of a second he had for this idea, he felt Spock lifting his knees and spreading them sideways, and just a fraction after that he felt the hardness he had longed to know driving against him, making a path for itself through the inexorable power that Spock had become. McCoy felt moved to his soul at the prospect of joining this being so intimately. He breathed out to relax all his muscles, and tilted his hips the better to take Spock's thrusts, which were coming now with an urgency born of instinct rather than the desire for sexual gratification. Spock was breathing in his ear, speaking halting words in a language he couldn't understand but took to be Vulcan. McCoy found a furniture leg he could grip, and he hung on for dear life as Spock heaved and thrust above him. Once, twice, then a great shudder seized the other, and McCoy felt him stiffen all over. Then a sense that consciousness had fled. McCoy lightly stroked the hot, sweated back of the other, marvelling at the smooth skin and fine muscle tone. Spock was lean but still no featherweight, and he was compressing McCoy's lungs. The doctor began to roll them both over sideways, so that he could breathe a bit more but still see Spock, could still caress him back to consciousness. --- Perhaps half an hour later, Spock began to stir. McCoy had finally given him up for a sleeper, and had begun to move around the room, putting things back in what appeared to be their proper places. His own clothes being in tatters, he'd put on Spock's dark robe and gloried in its smooth warmth on his skin. He'd heated some water in the fire pot--hoping he wasn't breaking some obscure Vulcan protocol-- and made tea. He covered Spock, still lying on the floor, with the spare blanket from the end of his bed, and gingerly sat to drink. The utter lack of foreplay had taken its toll on his body: fortunately he could doctor his own wounds and the medical records would be none the wiser. Mentally he had calculated numerous abrasions and tears in tissue throughout his body, and a miscellany of bruises. What he had at first taken to be a compression fracture of two ribs turned out to be just bad bruising, but oh, the alteration of his body and spirit that went with it. The thought that Spock had chosen him, had wanted *him*--no words for that. _Damn good thing that tricorder doesn't catalogue changes in emotions,_ Leonard thought to himself. _I'd overload its sensors . . . _ But Spock--what the *hell* was up with Spock? What would it do to him, being drugged like this, out of sequence? And what state would he be in when he woke? Heaven knew what the "norm" was for this situation. McCoy concentrated on his tea. Might be the case that his physician's skills would be needed by more than one participant in this menage. After a bit the Vulcan began to stir. First McCoy heard a low groan, then he saw Spock pull a hand across his face. He got up from the bed and knelt at the other's head, smoothing the hair in place. "Spock," he said softly. "How are you? How do you feel?" Slowly he seemed to get the doctor in focus, though McCoy could not read the emotion--if it could be called that--on his face. McCoy slipped an arm under his shoulders and helped him sit up, causing the blanket to fall away in the process. The doctor was interested and impressed to see that Spock's body was ready for more, though his heart and mind might be taking longer. Spock looked up at him without saying a word, but accepted his help. "At least we can get you off the floor and into something more comfortable," said McCoy in his best bedside manner. _Look out you don't cut yourself,_ he whispered to himself. McCoy began deftly to sponge him down with some warm water left from making tea, drawing only a small part of his body at a time from the comforting blanket cocoon. Spock raised an eyebrow at this, but McCoy said, "An old technique I learned on a remote nursing station," and kept on working. Gradually, awareness was returning to the other. McCoy now busied himself around the room, since he couldn't bear to look at that face as it rejected him. "Sorry about seizin' your bathrobe," he said, "but there weren't tons of choices. I'll get it cleaned and return it to you." He began rattling on about Sulu's findings and the meeting Spock had missed when he heard a low murmur behind him. He turned, and found that Spock was gesturing toward the unoccupied half of the bed. McCoy's heart turned over within him, and he moved with alacrity to Spock's side. Spock slid into his arms, and McCoy said, "I know I'll hate m'self for asking this, but what *is* this all about?" Silence for a moment, then the Vulcan replied, "I choose you. I have chosen you." "Ah, choose for what? Advanced technical training in judo? You gotta watch that weak leg, y'know," he said, trying for a laugh to ease the pain he knew was coming. "Leonard, I think time is short, I must speak quickly. The food the colonists provided us was drugged. Maybe accidentally, maybe not. . . It has brought on pon farr much too early and too hard. I do not know what the consequences will be. Probably this will pass in a matter of hours, instead of days . . . This is important. I want you to know that even though this was an accident, I still choose you. I would choose you." McCoy said, "Maybe you shouldn't talk so much." Spock ignored him and continued, "I have always admired your ability to entertain mutually contradictory notions at the same time, and keep on functioning. Like being a medical officer in a military organization." "Ah, I think I know what you mean. Like being part human in Vulcan society, and vice-versa?" "Precisely. Often I have wished to discuss this with you, but I could not admit it was a logical conundrum." "It's ok, Spock, we all struggle with problems like that. That's life." "But it is not acceptable for a Vulcan to fail to resolve problems using logical means." "Spock, ah, Spock. Logic is the *beginning* of all wisdom, not the end. You have to understand that. Logic gives us a lot--coming to know Vulcans in the Federation has shown us 'primitive' races that. But there's so much more than logic in life." He traced Spock's dark forearm with an exploratory finger. His physician's mind noted that Spock's thumb joined the side of his palm fractionally lower than a human's would. Probably that helped account for his fierce grip. McCoy tipped Spock's shoulders toward him and kissed Spock of his own accord. "If time's short, then, let's talk less. My turn." He tossed off the blanket and knelt astride Spock, who was watching him through slitted eyes. "Here's the massage I *wanted* to give you," he said in an urgent whisper. "Roll over." Spock complied, and McCoy was interested to see that his work on the hamstring appeared to have held up in the violence of the last hour. He grabbed the anti-burn ointment from his medical pack, and began massaging the larger muscle groups in Spock's legs, as before, concentrating on the parts he could most easily reach. This time, however, he allowed himself the luxury of caressing the groin muscles as well. The result was deeply gratifying to both of them, the watcher and the watched. He slid a bit farther up the bed so he was astride Spock's waist. Now he could reach the shoulders, those wonderfully powerful shoulders, as well as the enlarged muscles of arm and back. He kneaded, pressed, molded, tried to learn every inch of this body he might never see again, at least not like this. The hedonistic delight he was taking in this very different massage was communicated to Spock, who began to stir under his hands, softly groaning, clenching the pillow with his deceptively slender fingers, rocking his hips against the unresponsive bed. McCoy was deeply moved to see Spock come alive like this, and he increased his speed and range. He ran delicate fingers along Spock's ribs, and watched him shudder. He slipped his fingers around Spock's waist, and tried without luck to control the pitching of his hips. He traced the trapezius muscles, rising like corded ropes, and was rewarded with a throated whisper of "More." "What kind of 'more'?" said the physician, teasingly. "You know," replied the other. McCoy's stomach turned to water at the request. He lubricated himself with more of the ointment, and knelt between Spock's legs. He pulled down a pillow and tucked it under the stomach of the somewhat surprised Vulcan. "Trust me, you'll feel better later." Spock signed his understanding, and McCoy softly whispered in his direction, "I think you better know that humans tend to start more slowly." Spock didn't move, and McCoy wasn't sure Spock had heard him, inside whatever hell the drug had created. He kept going, but it occurred to him that perhaps he'd better go a bit more roughly than he would with a human lover. God knows, Starfleet medical training had not prepared him for *this.* Arcane goddamn drugs, administered in *who* knew what dosage. Irresponsible goddamn hospitality if you ask me. Hospitality. Wait. Guest- friendship: *this* was the colonists' gift to him. Julia Vetter had sensed what he felt . . . McCoy bowed his head for a moment, humbled that his great need and desire had been guessed and satisfied. Well, if this was her special gift to him, by god he was going to enjoy it. But what a price Spock was paying . . . He leaned over and kissed Spock's calf, tracing his tongue upward along the tendons and into the hollow behind his knee. With searching, deft fingers he massaged the other's muscles, as far as he could reach in any direction. Spock's legs, his ass, the tough muscles of that powerful back. Spock again was twisting under this handling, writhing against the touch, avoiding it? no, seeking it, pushing himself against the perceptive hands, trained over decades to sense another's feelings, pain, needs. McCoy was caught between his own desire, his wish to experience this never-again act in excruciating detail, and Spock's personal and medical need for pretty immediate gratification. McCoy picked up the pace a bit, and knelt up against Spock's raised backside. He was already hard again himself only twenty minutes later, an unusual event if this hadn't been the most unusual experience he'd ever had. Gently he pressed himself against Spock, finding it difficult to hold back. The notion of entering this most private of men was almost more than he could stand--the sexual intensity and frustration were nearly killing him. Bit by bit the muscle let him in--McCoy could feel it expand in teasing increments, with tormenting slowness. At last he could make his way, and all at once he slid forward, in one act making the only claim he thought possible. At his dominating entry, Spock visibly tensed and pulled his head backward. McCoy had never seen that expression on the other's face, nor on the faces of any of his many lovers--sheer animalistic lust, an elemental expression of joy and desire. _No wonder they hide their emotions,_ thought the physician. That was his last thought for many moments, as he gave himself over completely to the physical. He drove Spock as if their lives depended on it--he leaned into stroke after stroke, feeling his own orgasm beginning to take wing, to soar upward, and still Spock showed no sign of climax. Abruptly McCoy withdrew completely, causing Spock to groan and open his eyes. "What?" he somewhat incoherently groaned. "Turn over," replied McCoy shortly. Spock complied, drawing a leg up and over the other's head. McCoy sucked in his breath at the sight of Spock's rock-hard erection. Without comment or explanation, he took Spock in his mouth, licking, tasting, trying to memorize the other's scent. Spock seemed surprised by this most intimate gesture, but he didn't stop McCoy--on the contrary, he shifted a bit so as to make it easier for him. McCoy reveled in the softness of the skin, and its contrast with the hardness underneath. He felt the veins pulse under his tongue, and touched by that statement of the Vulcan's vigorous life-force, he took the other's hands in his own. Always before a relatively heterosexual man, he still felt this gesture, this position of submission, was a special, heartfelt sign of what the Vulcan meant to him. He could think of no more intimate, personal connection, one that would provide as much pleasure and enjoyment for his beloved. And judging from the motions of the other, Spock was finding this as delightful as McCoy always had. Still, after a few delicious minutes, Spock said in a low tortured voice, "Please . . . inside." McCoy worried a bit at the apparent effort it took Spock to produce two words, but he willingly acquiesced. He retrieved the pillow that had wandered, and again propped it under Spock's hips. As before, he took his entrance slowly, until he could restrain himself no longer and felt he had to join Spock *now,* *now,* *now,* *now*--at his final massive thrust both of them strained together, feeling the ship shift beneath them, feeling the vortex of sensation snatch them and whirl them up and up into a galaxy of light and feeling. Some moments passed, and McCoy carefully disengaged himself and stretched out next to the again-sleeping Spock. _Must have been a real disadvantage in their hunting-gathering days,_ McCoy thought to himself. After some reflection, he eased out of bed and over to his medical pack. He retrieved his scanner, and ran it briefly up and down Spock. Encouragingly, the damaged leg was doing well, and apparently the levels of hormones and electrolytes so deranged by the silphium were settling, too. So. That was it. Two rolls in the hay, and the patient was cured, but the doctor had a terminal illness. Maybe it should be revised to Do no harm to others *or yourself,* McCoy thought bitterly. Deciding to seize the little time remaining, he snugged himself against the Vulcan's lean form, and tried to store in his memory the look and feel of Spock. He lay quietly for some time, tracing the other's body with his eyes, drawing in his scent, looking at the furnishings of the room lit dimly by the fire pot and a couple of spots on the other side of the divider. Home, to him, and yet never his. Never meant to be. Never, never. Wrong species, wrong gender, wrong age, wrong rank. Never again. After a bit McCoy felt his companion begin to stir, and he realized he had been asleep himself. Dread filled him, knowing that this must mean their time together was ending. And indeed, when Spock's eyes flicked open, they were filled with a knowing recognition, a clear knowledge of the situation that was passing. He reached over and lifted a lock of hair into place on McCoy's forehead. Taking that as a cue, McCoy stood up and began reaching for his clothes. Surprisingly, the chronometer on the desk showed it was early the next morning. Rising to his full elegant length, Spock said, "You will need replacements for those." He turned to his dresser and produced a regulation uniform, though somewhat too long in places. McCoy dressed without saying a word, while Spock again took up his meditation robe. When they were dressed, Spock gestured for McCoy to sit on the ledge near the fire pot. "McCoy," said Spock softly, tracing his cheek with a finger. _Not even my first name, now._ "McCoy. You are a physician, you know the limits of Vulcan physiology. You know this, now, was against the laws . . . the timing . . . of our nature . . . it is highly disruptive of the cycle." "Spock, I could, if there are drugs, we . . ." The Vulcan gave a sad half-smile. "I know, it wouldn't be logical. But dammit, Spock, if it's not logical to be with the one you love, then I don't know what is." "It is not a matter of logic. I couldn't withstand the chemicals. The effect is too strong, too immediate. And besides . . ." "Besides what?" "I don't think you could withstand it, either . . . I would like to apologize. . ." McCoy's turn to smile: "No need to apologize, Spock. I wouldn't have missed it for all the tea in China." Spock sat for a time, absentmindedly stroking McCoy--a finger along his arm, a hand cupping his knee. McCoy felt his grief fade somewhat under the comforting touch--who knew Vulcans had *that* in them? Eventually Spock said, "I want you to know this. It is not possible to . . . continue . . . in this fashion. It is not the right time, or the right way. I do not have it in me to sustain the kind of relationship, the kind of comfort, that is your right. . . The fish may think he wants to live on land, but he is only a fish, after all." McCoy knew every word was costing Spock Vulcan blood--he had never heard him speak in these terms, and could hardly credit his ears now. The Vulcan continued: "But if the day came, if the chance came, to claim a mate, I would pick you. You are a fine and decent man, you are valued by your patients and colleagues, and you would make a worthy mate. Perhaps, someday, that day will come for you . . . for me." McCoy found that something interested him greatly on the other side of the room. Swiftly he packed up his medical gear, picked up the tricorder, and walked toward the door. Not looking back, with head held high, he said in a steady voice, "Spock, I will look forward to that day." He pressed the bar to open the doors and stepped through, back into just another day on the Enterprise. Closing down his mind to avoid thinking of what he'd lost--or gained?--he stopped quickly in his quarters. Rapidly he changed into his own clothes, pushing Spock's into the recycler with an agitated shove. He then dropped the tricorder off for Sulu, who turned out to be down in the gym practicing. Then he made his way to Sickbay, seeking out the stability of the day's stream of activities. --- Sulu meanwhile was working up a sweat with his foil, lunging, parrying, scoring points on each of the fencers who reluctantly agreed to take him on. When he finally called a halt to the exercise, he said to Chekhov, who had been watching the show, "I can't explain it, but since we came back from Beta Cygni my performance level has been off the charts. It's like I was reborn as D'Artagnan." Chekhov laughed and said, "I don't think so, Sulu, you have alvays been that vay." With Sulu shaking his head in puzzlement, the men adjourned to the locker room. Returning to his quarters, Sulu found the tricorder McCoy had left. Thinking that the doctor had added his comments to his own report on the colony, Sulu palmed the recording chip and slotted it in his terminal. At first he was puzzled by what sounded like tearing cloth, but then, incredibly, the voices of two senior officers filled the room: "Spock, you're gorgeous. Let me make love to you." "I must have you, or die." Blindly Sulu slammed his palm on the Stop button, and sat back hard against his chair. Suddenly many things about Spock's behavior, their return trip, the colony fell into place. He knew what the gifts had been, to each of them, if gifts they could be called. From what he had seen as backup science officer to Spock, however, he was deeply skeptical of any happy outcome. He felt a deep compassion for their doctor, stretched on the rack of love. Without hesitating, he ejected the chip and made for Sickbay. The doors shushed apart, and he stepped just inside, where he could see Leonard McCoy at his desk, staring blindly ahead past the records spread in front of him. Lightly he moved to the man's side, and slid the chip onto the desk where he could see it. "I think you left your notes on this," he said gently. McCoy registered the bright chip at his elbow, looked up, and said in a dead voice, "Thank you, Hikaru." The pilot turned to leave. If he had had any doubt about the meaning of the few words he had heard on the chip, the stony face and rigid posture of the man before him spoke volumes. As he walked away, Sulu heard the other say softly, "Space, the final frontier. What a joke . . ." --- The End