or his family, but a burden to them all.
The loss of Scott and Chapel, on the other
hand, was
something to regret. Spock tried to decide on the
most
logical course of action as he watched Scott
desperately try to maneuver the Galileo as she
approached
the hangar. Incineration was no longer a danger--they
were already too far down in the atmosphere--but
impact would be a problem.
The solution came to Spock in a flash, but in
images,
not words, and the power of speech chose that particularly
inopportune moment to desert him once again.
He struggled agonizingly to find the words, to tell
Scott...
But the words did not come in time.
Kirk and Emma Saenz stood arguing outside
sick
bay, still barefoot and wearing their white togas.
"I don't see why you won't let me take a
look at it,"
Emma said, her hands on her hips.
"It could very well
be separated."
Kirk winced as he touched his right shoulder. He
had no doubt that it was, but was just as determined as
Emma about the proper procedure. "It could be just
a
strain. I'll be just fine if I get some rest.
There's no
need to make such a fuss, Doctor."
"I'm not making a fuss. And, if I get
to beat you up
off duty, the least you could do is call me
Emma."
"Fine, Emma. I'll just be going to my quarters
now." He turned gingerly and began moving away.
"You're really something," she flared behind him.
The sudden heat in her voice made him stop and
face
her. "Quit being so ridiculous. We both know
the
shoulder hurts like hell and it's going to keep you
up
all night. It's my fault it happened and I
refuse to let
you lose any sleep because of it."
"It's not your fault," he protested quickly;
perhaps too quickly, because her anger was replaced by a
grin,
as though he had just said something very amusing.
"Is it, . . that you don't want to go into sick
bay
11o
MINDSHADOW
because you're afraid someone might find out that I
hurt you?" The question stung, but she asked it with
such good humor that Kirk could not take offense.
He tried to shrug, forcing himself to grimace again.
"I just fell on it wrong," he said lamely, and
was at
once embarrassed at his answer. Maybe she was
right;
maybe he couldn't admit that she could hurt him.
His
expression became so sheepish that Emma laughed,
and he had to laugh, too.
"Maybe I am embarrassed... a little," he
admitted.
"Even so, I don't like making a big deal out of
such a
little--Ouch!" He shifted the shoulder
awkwardly.
Her smile vanished. "It's not a little deal,
Captain.
If a separated shoulder isn't treated, you could
lose the
use of it. Then you'd have to get the ligaments
regrown
and undergo therapy for a long time. Look, if you
won't go inside sick bay, then at least let
me look at it
in my quarters. Indulge me. I feel very
guilty."
He smiled weakly. "You win, Doctor."
"Emma. Stay right there. Don't move." She
wagged
a commanding finger at him and disappeared into sick
bay.
He waited in the corridor, feeling very
conspicuous,
until Emma reappeared two minutes later
with a medikit.
"Was anyone there?"
"Just M'Benga. Don't worry, I just said that
my
workout partner needed a little emergency
treatment.
I didn't say who." Her eyes sparkled with
amusement.
"Funny, he laughed, too. I don't understand
why
people find it so difficult to believe I can be
dangerous."
"Believe me," Kirk said, gritting his teeth,
"I no
longer find it difficult."
She led him to her cabin and, unlocking the door
with a word, gestured him inside. Kirk entered.
idly, his hand on the offended shoulder, and half-
expected to find McCoy lounging on the bed.
The outer office was the same as the other senior
officers' cabins, but when she turned the light on
in the
bedroom, Kirk blinked in surprise.
"disLike it?" Emma motioned him toward the bed.
The entire room--combare walls, ceiling,
floor, and
every piece of furniture was stark white,
reflecting
the light with such glare that Kirk squinted. In her
white toga, Emma blended perfectly
into her surroundings
as though she were an extension of them,
distinguishable only by the slash of black at the
waist,
black hair and eyes, and the one bit of color in
the
comroom--her glowing olive skin.
"Interesting, but hardly regulation," Kirk said
politely
through clenched teeth.
"disIt's really hurting now, isn't it? Sit."
He balanced carefully on the edge of the bed. I
would think you'd get tired of not seeing any
color."
"White is the presence of all colors,
Captain," she
murmured distractedly as she removed his toga with
the skilled, economical movements of an
examining
physician. She stood back to study the shoulder
and
clicked her tongue with disapproval. "Looks like
more
than just a sprain here. Since you wouldn't
cooperate
With me and let me scan you in sick bay, I'm
going to
have to diagnose by touch." She paused. "If it
is a separation, this will hurt like hell."
"I can take it," Kirk said stoically.
He did not see Emma smile behind him. She
reached
with slender, determined fingers and, upon finding the
precise spot between the tip of the shoulder blade and
the collarbone, pressed firmly.
Kirk swore explosively and almost reared up
off the
bed, but she restrained him.
MINDSHADOW
"I thought so. First degree separation. Lucky for
you, the ligaments are still in place, but we'll need
to
wrap it so the joint is immobilized. Even so,
it's going
to hurt for a couple of days." She opened the
medikit.
Kirk sat on the edge of the bed, still smarting; he
was not feeling particularly lucky at the moment.
"For
a neuropsychologist, you seem to be quite
an authority
on shoulders, Doctor."
"Emma," she corrected him again. "I had four
years of m
edical school, like every other
physician."
He still could not see her face as she stood behind
him,
but he could hear by her voice that she suddenly
smiled. "Besides, this isn't the first time I've had
to
patch together one Of my workout partners."
"I'll have to remember that the next time I work out
with you, Emma." She had reminded him three times
now to call her by her first name, but still addressed
him by his rank; it was up to Kirk to return the
favor,
but he could not seem to bring himself to. There was
not a female on board with which he was on a first
name basis; making an exception was bound to be
dangerous.
Without warning, Emma emptied a hypospray
into
his shoulder.
"What was that for?" Kirk pulled away
instinctively
as he felt a rush of warmth in his shoulder; the
room
suddenly felt rather close.
"Cortrazide for the inflammation and an
analgesic."
She began ,ffapply the aerosol bandage; it
hardened
instantly.
"Hey, I can't raise my arm very far," Kirk
complained.
"That's because I don't want you to." Emma
stood
back a bit to scrutinize her work. "Not for a
couple of
days, anyway, so it can heal properly. Within a
week, I
promise I'll be injuring other parts of your
anatomy."
Kirk smiled. The ache in the shoulder was receding
rapidly, and he was beginning to relax in spite of
himself. He looked around the room again, this time
with unfeigned interest. "I think I'm beginning
to like
it. Bold and to the point, like its
occupant."
She laughed. "So you've decided it isn't so
bad?"
That's particularly revealing of your personality."
"Are you turning psychiatrist on me again,
Doctor?
Excuse me, Emma."
"Don't forget, I'm the one responsible, so it
reveals
more about me than you."
Kirk's anxiety had evaporated like a
forgotten nightmare.
"Then we must have some traits in common. Go
ahead, I've been analyzed before."
"You can take it, eh?" She teased, and walked
around the bed to face him with a playful expression.
"It means we both like white."
"I'll bet I can guess what a psychiatrist
would say,
even if you won't tell me." Kirk assumed
a mock
clinical air. "White, hmmm... You prefer
life to be
simple, straightforward. You dislike
complications."
"Who doesn't?"
"It's too bad it can't be that way," Kirk
sighed. "What?"
"Life," he intoned dramatically. "Too many
shades
of gray, too many compromises. It'd be
simpler if
everything was black... or white."
"Things never are," she said, taking his statement
with more seriousness than he had meant it. "Sometimes,
one is forced to recruit the forces of evil in
order
to do good." There was still the hint of a smile on her
face, but something about it reminded him of
Natahia,
of his first meeting with the small, sad leader when she
had agreed to use the Federation's weapons to save
her people... "Especially in my business."
MINDSHADOW
"A doctor?" he asked, surprised. "How
does a
doctor "enlist the forces of evil"?"
She laughed at herself and stood in front of him as
though she were waiting for something; with sudden
embarrassment, Kirk realized that she
must be waiting
for him to leave. He rose unsteadily to his
feet.
"Is it just me, or is it warm in here?" The
lack of
sleep must have finally caught up to him; he felt
almost
drunken as he reeled dizzily toward the door.
Emma
caught his elbow.
"Easy, Captain. That hypo must be relaxing you
a
little bit. It will help you to sleep tonight--you need
rest if that shoulder is to heal, and believe me,
there's
no way you'd be able to find a comfortable enough
position to sleep tonight without a sedative." She
put
an arm gently around his waist to steady him.
"I'll
help you to your quarters."
I don't need help, Kirk was going to say, quite
absurdly, until he noticed how close she
was standing
to him; he breathed in her scent, and was
overwhelmed.
Her eyes were open wide and glittered up at him
like
polished onyx. "Let me help you to your
quarters,
Captain," she repeated softly.
But he knew that he did not want to return
to his
quarters now. Buried in a different part of him,
a part
that seemed to be floating far away, was the memory
of McCoy; Kirk's rational mind knew that his
friend
loved this woman, and he tried to feel guilt for
wanting
to touch her.
But at the moment he could not give a damn about
McCoy.
"My name is Jim," he said.
"Jim," she said shyly, and loosened the arm around
his waist. He turned toward her and she reached,
hesitantly, for his face. He did not pull
away; her hand
was hot against his skin.
"Would you like to go to your quarters now, Jim?"
She was so small, so dark and delicate, he could
not
believe that she had hurt him.
"No," he whispered, "I wouldn't." He bent
down
to kiss her, and let the warm, dizzying waves
sweep
over him.
He closed his eyes and saw nothing but white--
bright,
hot white.
McCoy paced aimlessly in his quarters. He
had
keyed up the latest neurology journals, but the
dry,
cumbersome wording of the texts had nearly numbed
him to sleep, and sleep was the last thing he wanted
at
the moment.
Emma should have finished up in the gym two hours
ago.
McCoy argued vehemently with himself; he was
acting like a schoolboy--he should go and have dinner
without her. He was old, far too old
to fall into the
typical lover's trap--comspending all his time
waiting for
her, waiting for fear that she would come by his
quarters and he would be gone, and miss the
opportunity
for a moment alone with her.
He rose, but instead of heading for the door as he
had vowed to himself he would, he went to a small
cupboard recessed in the wall and poured himself a
shot of bourbon. H
e was still arguing: he was
hungry,
he'd been off duty almost two hours, he should
get himself something to eat. And if Emma missed him
--well,
too bad.
He sat down at the desk with the glass and the
bottle
and cursed himself. Acting like a kid, too old for
all
this foolishness. They were adults, for God's
sake; he
MINDSHADOW
had no right to expect her to come rushing
to him the
minute she finished her workout.
Still, he had hoped that she would.
He held up the bourbon so that it caught the
light
and shimmered golden amber in the glass. One thing
he hadn't done much lately was drink. His
features
involuntarily crinkled at the thought; there simply
hadn't been enough time for it. He and Emma had
been spending every free moment together. Most
nights she stayed in his quarters, and they always
requested the same duty schedule. About the only
time they spent apart was when she went to the gym.
Maybe that was it; they'd been spending too much
time together, and she felt smothered. He needed to let
her know that she could have more time to herself if
she wanted--even though he hoped desperately that
she did not.
He threw back his head suddenly and laughed out
loud at the absurd thought. If Emma wanted
time to
herself, she'd be the first one to mention it; tact was
definitely not on her list of virtues. She'd
be the last
person in the universe to let herself be smothered ....
And he felt anything but smothered himself. The
woman was a breath of fresh air; she made him
feel
young, so young that he'd almost forgotten the age
difference. She made it easy to love her; there was
never the undercurrent of tension that had pervaded
his marriage. If Emma ever had anything on her
mind,
she simply told him so. He was beginning
to remember
why people got married.
It was after almost an hour and the third generous
shot of bourbon that McCoy found himself calling
Emma's quarters without the memory of a conscious
decision to do so.
There was no response.
He called the gym. Sulu answered, sweating,
his
face guard pushed up, a fencing foil still in his
hand.
Yes, Sulu said, Emma had left the gym,
at least two
hours ago with the captain, who appeared to have
injured his shoulder.
There, McCoy thought, relieved and a little ashamed
at himself for checking up on her. A simple
explanation:
she was patching Jim up in sick bay.
M'Benga answered the intercom. "Why yes, she
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