Bloodthirst

by J. M. Dillard

  He was still over the bay, but it was time to start descending. He eased up on the throttle to start bringing her down.

  Still no one in pursuit.

  The skimmer descended gently, gracefully, ready for the approach. And then the throttle shivered, began to move under his hand. He stared at it stupidly, then looked up at the control panel. She was still on manual.

  The throttle was definitely moving now the skimmer shuddered and began to lose speed, and then altitude. Quince wrestled with the control, cursing the machine as the skimmer began its descent into the bay.

  There wasn’t much time to react, really. He felt a curious mixture of exhilaration and frustration instead of the fear he would have expected. Exhilaration that he had been right after all, that the danger had been real; frustration that he would not be able to warn Noguchi. There was just enough time to think two things: first, that he was glad he’d gone ahead and sent that message to Jim; and second, that there was gonna be one hell of a shake-up at Starfleet Headquarters, and he was sorry he wouldn’t be there to see it.

  Chapter Eleven

  IN THE DIM light of the isolation unit, McCoy stood over Chris Chapel’s body, trying to gather his courage to do the unthinkable. There was no shimmer from a field suit to intrude on his vision; Tjieng had made good on her promise to have the vaccine ready today, and McCoy was one of the first to receive the untested inoculation. Since his blood was now producing the correct antibodies, he’d ordered the vaccine administered to the rest of the crew.

  For Christine, it was a day too late. Her brain waves had remained flat for twenty-four hours. He tried not to notice the gentle, unbearably regular rise and fall of her chest as the life support unit breathed for her; it made her seem all too alive, and McCoy couldn’t afford to think of her that way.

  But he couldn’t bear to think of her as being dead. She looked too alive, too beautiful.

  Funny, he’d never let himself notice how really very beautiful she was. A classic, elegant beauty with her face in repose, flawless translucent skin framed by dark ash-blond hair. There was even a faint flush of color on her cheeks. The bloom still on the rose, McCoy thought painfully, knowing full well it was the result of a recent transfusion. The computer monitored her hemoglobin level, and the moment it dropped, blood was automatically delivered into Chris’ veins.

  Her body had been fooled into thinking her brain was still alive. It accepted the blood without complaint; the heart, artificially stimulated, pumped it through the veins.

  But McCoy could lie to himself no longer. Christine’s essence was gone, and he was doing her no favor by keeping the empty shell alive.

  Nor was he doing himself a favor. He’d drunk enough to feel like hell today, but it hadn’t been enough to make him sleep. He’d lain awake all night in a stupor, unable to push back anymore the realization that tomorrow he would have to let her go.

  He’d thought a lot last night. Curious thoughts, like why he’d never bothered to fall in love with her. Why he’d never let himself register how beautiful she was

  He had remembered the first and only time he’d invited her for a drink in his quarters. It was shortly after he’d come on board the Enterprise, and he’d decided it was a good way to get to know his staff. Only most of his staff hadn’t been able to make it that night, and he’d wound up, to his discomfort, alone in his quarters and drinking with an attractive woman. It suddenly occurred to him, as he sat at his desk and poured her a shot from his coveted flash of Old Weller, that she might be expecting him to make a pass at her. The thought almost paralyzed him with fear, and led him to drink far more than he would have, especially when he was trying to make a good first impression.

  Chris got a little drunk, too, probably because the exact same thought had occurred to her. He’d never even seen her drink before or after. She arrived looking tall and attractive but very cool, and, thank God, in uniform. If she’d worn anything else he probably would have dropped his glass.

  They drank the first shot much too fast, but by the time McCoy was pouring the second shot, they’d relaxed. Something about the way Chris handled herself, even tipsy, made it clear she wanted nothing more from him than friendship something in the eyes, the tone of voice, the way she sat

  By the third drink, he’d learned that she’d been engaged, but her fiancée was missing, presumed dead. She couldn’t bring herself to believe it, still held onto the hope that he would be found. McCoy felt sorry for her, but at the same time, he felt incredible relief: so they had both been bitterly hurt, and neither was looking for another entanglement. He relaxed and told her a little about his divorce from Jocelyn, about his only child Joanna and the great sense of guilt he felt about not having had more of a hand in raising her.

  Later, he was surprised at himself for confiding so much to Chapel, but she never made him regret it. She was not a lover, she was something McCoy needed much more at the time: a friend, a close-mouthed confidante. There were things he could tell her that he could never talk to Jim about. And things she, in turn, told him.

  McCoy was not the type of person who opened up easily about his personal problems, and the ease with which he spoke that night to Chris amazed him. He must have somehow instinctively known that it was safe to talk to her; maybe he had recognized her need to do the same.

  At some point that evening, they got to talking about the outbreak of infectious madness from Psi 2000 that had recently affected the crew. Blushing, Chris confessed that she’d been responsible for infecting Spock. The Vulcan had stumbled into sickbay, searching for the captain

  “And I grabbed his hand and confessed my undying love for him. Isn’t it horrible?” She gave a short laugh, the corner of her mouth quirking up in that self-deprecating way she had. “Frankly, I was as surprised as he was. I’ve been too embarrassed to look at him since then. I suppose he thinks I meant it. I’m surprised he didn’t request an immediate transfer.”

  "Did you mean it?” The bourbon had warmed McCoy to the point where he dared to ask.

  Chris was swallowing a gulp of her drink. It went down the wrong way, and she started coughing. “That’s—ridiculous,” she gasped, between coughing fits. She wiped her eyes and held out her glass to McCoy. He filled it from the flask of Old Weller on the desk. “Why on earth would anyone fall in love with Spock?”

  McCoy shrugged. “I’ve heard a lot of women on board say they thought he was attractive. You would hardly be the first to nurse a passion for him.”

  Chapel groaned, a little too loudly because by that time she was definitely drunk. “‘Nurse a passion.’ I ought to push you out the airlock for that.” She screwed up her face. “I don’t think he’s particularly attractive. Certainly not anything to write home about.” She gulped more bourbon, this time managing to avoid choking on it. “Be reasonable, Leonard. Why would anyone choose such a—a cold person as the object of their affections? It’d be impossible for a human and a Vulcan”

  “Impossible?” McCoy waggled his eyebrows. “Hardly impossible. Spock’s mother is human.”

  “Well, that’s her business. Though, poor woman, I can’t see how she bears it.”

  "In vitro, actually.”

  “You’re terrible,” Chris said with disgust, but smiled in spite of herself.

  He grinned back. Why would she choose an unfeeling person like Spock as the object of her affections, indeed? He had the beginnings of a theory: falling in love with Spock was her way of remaining faithful to the lost fiancée. After all, fixating her feelings on someone who couldn’t return them protected her from getting involved with someone who could.

  Like McCoy. Was her hopeless devotion to Spock another reason the doctor had talked himself out of falling in love with her?

  But that night, he’d been wise enough to keep his theories to himself. Still, he couldn’t resist saying, “The lady doth protest too much.” He filled his own glass again without watching, listening to the sound the liquor made as it sloshed into the glass
, and stopped pouring when the pitch rose to a certain level.

  Chris made a disgusted sound, and changed the subject.

  She had protested too much. Later, his suspicions would be confirmed. Chris was good at hiding her feelings, but she wasn’t that good. There were times he caught her looking at Spock in a certain way and the time she had taken Spock soup when he’d quit eating. He’d teased her then, in front of Jim, grinning smugly at her. ("And I’ll bet you made it, too.")

  He felt sorry now for embarrassing her. He could see her flushed face, hear her stammer, “Well, Mr. Spock hasn’t been eating, Doctor.”

  McCoy waited for the memory of her clear, ringing voice to fade. As it did, he shuddered and drew in a breath, seeking strength or if not strength, at least resolution.

  He put a hand on Chapel’s arm and steeled himself to pull out the transfusion needle. As he leaned over her, a tear rolled down his cheek and splashed unceremoniously across the bridge of her nose.

  He thought of a story he’d been told as a child, of a princess brought back from the dead by the touch of a loved one’s tears.

  McCoy glanced hopefully at the monitor, but Chris’ brain waves stayed flat. He reached out and gently wiped the tear from her face. At least he could touch her now; he could not have stood it if he’d had to do this by computer, on the other side of the glass wall. Her skin was warm and incredibly soft.

  He set his jaw and drew the needles from her arm. Tears were streaming down his face now. A blur moved on the other side of the glass. Suddenly, angrily, he realized that someone was watching them.

  He looked up, furious that someone would dare violate the intimacy of this moment.

  Spock stood at the glass wall of the chamber, watching.

  McCoy wiped his eyes carelessly with the back of his hand. “What do you want?” There was far more grief in his voice than he had intended the Vulcan to hear.

  Spock was silent for a moment. He gazed beyond McCoy at Chapel’s body, his expression carefully somber. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I did not mean to intrude.” There was an uncustomary softness in his tone that made McCoy think the Vulcan understood what was happening here. Spock lingered for a moment, as if the gravity of the situation were too great for him to simply turn and walk away.

  And then he moved to leave.

  “Wait,” McCoy said raggedly. His fury at being interrupted had suddenly vanished; he felt he could not bear what he had to do alone.

  A glimmer of surprise crossed Spock’s face, tilting one eyebrow upward. “My question can certainly wait, Doctor.” He glanced pointedly at Christine.

  “Spock” McCoy stepped hopefully toward the glass, hanging on to Spock’s presence as if it were a lifeline offering escape from the encroaching blackness. “Spock, you knew how Christine felt about you?” He let the intonation rise to a question. He would not betray Chris’ trust by letting on she had told him about the Psi 2000 incident.

  “Yes,” Spock answered, composed but guarded.

  There was no point in explaining to Spock what was going on here; he had already indicated that he had seen and understood. “You’re immune,” McCoy told him. “I got your test results today. The virus doesn’t care for Vulcan blood.” He paused. “Would you come inside? Just stay for a minute, while I do this?” The back of his throat tightened painfully. He had to swallow hard to keep the tears from coming. “Christine Chris would have liked that.”

  Spock looked intently at him for a moment, and then he said, “Certainly, Dr. McCoy. Nurse Chapel has done the same for me on more than one occasion.”

  McCoy coded the doors open, glad that the second’s pause while Spock entered the chamber gave him a chance to wipe his streaming eyes. Damn that Vulcan McCoy would have been able to keep from weeping if Spock had typically said something aggravatingly logical.

  Spock entered the chamber and stood next to the doctor in an elegant posture of restraint, hands clasped behind his back. With surprise at his own steadiness, McCoy removed the connections that kept Christine’s heart beating.

  Chris’ heart should have kept on pumping for a while, but instead it gave three irregular beats and then stopped altogether, as if it had no will to continue on its own. The clinical part of McCoy’s mind made note of this as odd, but for now the agony of what he had to do kept him from mentioning it to Spock.

  He turned off the respirator. Chris’ lungs caught a final breath and deflated with a gentle sigh. Her chest did not rise again. Together, Spock and McCoy watched the monitor as each of her life signs stabilized at zero.

  They stood for several moments in silence, McCoy no longer ashamed of the tears that coursed down his cheeks. The Vulcan finally spoke.

  “She was a highly competent officer.”

  He said it reverently, but still McCoy turned on him in fury. Competent! Was that all he had to say? That this beautiful, intelligent woman whose only failing was to love him was competent? McCoy choked, trying to speak, but one look at the compassion on Spock’s face stopped him. He stared, dumbstruck.

  And then he understood. Spock was only trying to give Chris the highest form of praise he knew. “Yes,” McCoy whispered. “She was that, and more.”

  “I grieve with you, Doctor,” Spock said quietly, and walked away to leave McCoy alone with his sorrow.

  That same morning, Tomson called while Kirk was still in his quarters, getting dressed. He pulled on his shirt before he snapped on the viewscreen.

  “Kirk here.”

  “Tomson here, Captain.” Tomson’s voice was a shade flatter than usual, and her ice-blue eyes were bloodshot, the only bright spot in an otherwise colorless face. Kirk decided that she had not slept the night before. “I called to update you on the search, as you requested.”

  “I take it there’s been no progress.”

  Tomson actually sighed. “I’m afraid you’re right, sir.

  However, we did get a report last night that Adams was spotted on D deck, near the junior officers’ quarters.”

  “Oh?” He reached at a small thread of hope.

  “It turned out to be a false lead.” Tomson seemed too tired to hide her disappointment. “I promise you, sir, that if he’s here, we’ll find him.”

  “Any chance that he might not be on the ship?”

  She shook her head wearily. “Very doubtful, Captain. The transporter and the shuttlecraft have not been used. There’s no other way he could get off the Enterprise.”

  “He’s got to be found, Lieutenant.” It was a ridiculous thing to say; as Spock would put it, he was stating the obvious. But he was too frustrated and angry to care at the moment. “One crewman is dead, another almost killed.”

  Tomson’s small eyes widened; if possible, she turned one shade paler. “Someone died, Captain?”

  “Possibly.” Damn. Here he was, adding grist to the rumor mill. He didn’t feel like explaining about Christine Chapel right at the moment, so he changed the subject. “When did you last get some rest, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir?” She blinked at him, surprised.

  “When did you last get some rest?”

  He could see on her face that she first considered lying to him, but honesty won out. “Two days ago, sir.”

  “All the officers on board this ship are competent. Why don’t you turn the night shift over to someone else?”

  “Sir” She sighed again. “My choice for second-in-command is Ensign Nguyen. Nguyen was injured, you recall. Dr. McCoy has ordered her to take another day of rest.”

  While he sympathized with her devotion and fear of screwing up, if she didn’t hurry up and delegate soon, she’d become worthless. “I see. Well, what about your choice for third-in-command?”

  Her thin lips twisted wryly. “Sir it isn’t much of a choice right now.”

  Kirk ran through Security’s hierarchy in his mind. “Stanger’s a good choice. He has experience." And, he thought silently, now is as good a time as any to see if he deserves a break.

  “Sir.” She
seemed shocked. “Stanger would be my last choice.”

  “He’s got more command experience than the rest of Security put together,” Kirk answered, and at the frown on her face, added: “Present company excluded.”

  “He’s got a reputation”

  He looked at her slyly. “You don’t listen to rumors, do you, Tomson?”

  She crimsoned, the color starting at her neck and spreading rapidly to her scalp. Mildly fascinated, Kirk watched it rise. “No, sir.”

  “Then give Stanger command of the night shift, Lieutenant. And get some rest. Part of the art of command is knowing when to delegate.”

  “I take it that’s an order,” she said stiffly. He could see he had made her angry, but at the moment he had better things to worry about.

  “Take it any way you like, Lieutenant,” he said, and closed the channel.

  He had started for the door when the intercom whistled again. Damn. If this kept up, he’d never make it to the bridge. He punched the control. “Crisis Center.”

  McCoy’s image materialized on the screen. The doctor’s weather-beaten face was composed in a bland expression. He seemed peaceful, resigned, unlike the bitterly angry man Kirk had spoken to the day before but McCoy’s red-rimmed eyes glistened with unshed tears.

  “Good morning, Captain.” His voice was calm and lifeless.

  “Good morning.” Kirk said it with a sense of dread, knowing full well what the doctor was about to tell him.

  “I called to let you know that three-quarters of the crew have been vaccinated. We’re finishing up with the rest this morning. Hopefully, no one else will become infected.” He paused to catch his breath, as if what he had just said had exhausted him.

  “You called to tell me about Christine, didn’t you?” Jim asked softly. He hoped like hell he was wrong, and knew just as certainly that he wasn’t. He had half shared McCoy’s stubborn delusion that Chapel would miraculously come back to life .

  McCoy let go a long, shaky sigh. He nodded.