Chapter Text
The situation on the ship deteriorates rapidly. Ensign Ignasi is only the first to fall ill; within the first 72 hours after his arrival in Sickbay 51 people report complaining of dizziness, vomiting, confusion. A nurse loads the numbers onto a chart for McCoy's inspection; the display shows a clear upward trend. It remains steadily consistent.
He still hasn't found any sign of infection. Which means this isn't some sort of poorly-timed disease – it must be that damned station.
He notifies Jim and tries bullying a few of Spock's division into finding answers (Medical staff are trained in examining bio-sensors, not scanning for problems outside the ship.) They respond by passive-aggressively ccing him in every damn report and note about the station, and nothing else; evidently a few people fainting, throwing up, and crying with their hands clasped around their heads in Sickbay takes second priority right now.
So McCoy spends hours sifting through the reports himself, muttering under his breath and trying to riddle out how this type of radiation or that level of gravity could, potentially, maybe, influence humans -
McCoy takes a break from this after futile hours of headache-inducing examination. Well, he considers it a break. But after he makes a short round in Sickbay, Nurse Chapel practically throws him out the door. “I know you've been taking double shifts,” she scolds. “Go sleep and get some rest. You know as well as I do there's nothing more we can do.”
That rankles. As a doctor McCoy's first guideline is that there's always something else to try. That it's never right to give up on a patient. And, sure, no one seems to be in mortal danger right now, and sure, maybe there's no 'disease' to cure, but there must be something...
“Sleep,” Chapel threatens. She closes the door in his face. Alright; McCoy knows when he's beat.
But McCoy doesn't think he'll be able to sleep yet. And if he's forced to take a break, he's not doing it alone.
Spock argues, naturally, when McCoy drags him out of the labs. It goes in one ear and out the other – Spock's protests have started to sound like background noise lately, repetitive and kind of stupid. But Chapel's point applies here, too. Scotty is prepping the pods for a direct investigation of the station, and until then, the scientists can't do much.
“I'm not going to make you eat,” McCoy says when Spock finally stops to breathe, half-pulling the Vulcan through oddly barren halls. “Though you should. Just have a drink with me and sit down a minute, will you? Working yourself to death won't help anything.”
“I do not drink.”
“Well, I do.”
“Obviously.”
Bitch, bitch, bitch. Anyone who thinks Vulcans are nice and polite has never met one.
He brings Spock to his quarters. The Vulcan sits with his arms folded, watching dubiously as McCoy pours himself a healthy double-shot of bourbon. “As a doctor I would think you'd know better than to indulge in alcoholic vices. Especially in such excess.”
“Oh, come off it, Spock. S'not like I have a problem. I only drink a few times a month.” And the occasional mouthful to help him sleep, but that doesn't count.
“But on those occasions you drink in excessive quantities,” Spock counters. “Would you consider this situation 'harmless' or 'normal' in another crewman?”
“...Most people don't have access to hangover cures. So there's no risk of me being too sick to work.”
“Self-medication is not a laudable trait either.”
Laudable. Who talks like that? McCoy downs one drink and pours another; he'll need it for this conversation. “Christ, Spock, give it a rest. Will you drink with me or not? I've got some stims to sober us up if this ship manages to get into red alert in the next three hours...”
They would pay for it in vicious withdrawal symptoms later, but they'd be sober.
“We are in an emergency situation - “
“Yeah? You think you're going to make any progress before the mission tomorrow?”
A beat.
“Very well, Doctor. I will 'drink' - “ McCoy perks up, “ - if you will agree to let me drain your remaining alcoholic beverages tomorrow.”
McCoy huffs, twisting around to eye his hard-won stash on the shelves. “Fine,” he decides, purely to see if Spock will actually do it. “Pick your poison.”
Spock, being boring as hell, accepts his lone container of vodka. He pours a finger into a tall glass, then mixes in synthesized pseudo-orange juice and an obscene amount of water. When McCoy protests Spock just says, “It is important to prevent dehydration, Doctor. Also, I refuse to believe that you drink alcoholic beverages for the 'taste.'”
“You're a heathen,” McCoy informs him. Spock appears unfazed.
They talk steadily of mundane matters – obviously trading information on the ship's problems, which is mostly fruitless. They throw back the usual barbs in-between griping about their departments (and Jim) along with Starfleet's most recent, perplexing fleet-wide announcements (and then Jim, again, for good measure.)
Spock accuses him at one point of understating the severity of the current situation. “Oh, please,” McCoy says in turn. “Aren't you desensitized by now? If we aren't in mortal peril twice a month I'd wonder if we'd fallen into an alternate universe... again.”
He pours another glass.
Spock asks McCoy what he usually does when he drinks alone. “Depends,” says McCoy. Last time he drank a few shots he ended up looking through old pictures of his dad, his daughter, and spent the night numbly half-dozing in his chair to the tune of morose country music. He thinks. “When I was younger I used to like watching old medical documentaries. The methods they used to use were barbaric, but sometimes stuff like that just seems hilarious when you're drunk. I don't know.”
Spock's dubious. McCoy manages to push another shot onto him and loads up an old vid – the kind of black and white, over-exaggerated things they showed when TV was a miraculous piece of technology. The video starts talking about the merits of trephination, segueing easily into an encouraging ad for lobotomies, to Spock's profound disgust.
McCoy mostly entertains himself watching Spock react to the ungainly pseudo-scientific arguments, which seem almost designed to offend Vulcan sensibilities. “They have not mentioned any properly scientific study into this belief,” Spock protests aloud when the video displays an interview of a supposed 'expert.' “Surely people would have insisted on proof.”
“I'm pretty sure people were still conducting exorcisms that year,” McCoy says, enjoying the Vulcan's eyebrow twitch.
Spock doesn't drink half as much as McCoy, but maybe he's a lightweight – he gets more verbose as the night progresses, sometimes stuttering his words just slightly or repeating himself. A little more relaxed, maybe. That's probably the best McCoy could hope for.
When the documentary ends McCoy takes another shot. He feels pleasantly numb, and also cheerful, which he realizes is actually quite strange. He likes the tingling heaviness that accompanies alcohol, but it occurs to him that he hasn't felt happy drinking in quite awhile.
Well, this ship is pretty damn stressful, after all. Maybe that's not so odd.
Across from him Spock takes another cautious sip. The alcohol is definitely affecting him, because his noise wrinkles with disgust at the taste. McCoy snickers.
Then he thinks, at least there's a good number of calories in alcohol, and he feels almost guilty.
“I don't get it,” he says aloud.
Spock takes a long drink of water from another cup – mostly to rid himself of the previous taste, McCoy suspects. “You must clarify, Leonard.”
“I don't get you.” Realizing this could refer to a great many things about his odd friend, McCoy clarifies, “The food thing. I don't get it.”
Spock sets down his glass. “That is unsurprising.”
“It's just...” he can't marshal his thoughts, “You don't have to do it.”
“I am aware.”
“You should have told us. If you were struggling - “
“It was never something worth mentioning.”
“Are you trying to hurt yourself?” McCoy asks, quieter than he intends. He slumps back in his chair, heavy with drink and barely able to look straight at Spock through suddenly-blurry vision. This has been his greatest fear, the question weighing on him ever since he saw those measurements in Sickbay. “Is this, what – are you depressed?”
“Of course not. I am Vulcan.”
“That's not an answer.”
A moment's silence. McCoy desperately wants another drink – even if he's definitely too drunk to walk a straight line – but he wants more than anything for Spock to explain. Wants to know what could make a man hurt and hurt and hurt and keep letting it happen, not asking for help, not...
“I am Vulcan,” Spock repeats, not quite meeting his eyes. “And that is the only answer, Doctor.”
McCoy wakes the next morning with a pounding headache – which is not, unfortunately, unusual. Blindly he scrabbles one-handed at his bedside table, eventually locating a hypo. It brings the aching pain to a dull prickle almost immediately, and he sighs. Doesn't do a thing for the taste in his mouth, of course.
Then he remembers the previous night.
When he looks around Spock is nowhere to be seen. Obviously; it's not like there's a place for him to crash. But McCoy feels obscurely disappointed.
He also notices that his desk has been wiped spotless, knick-knacks and files carefully cleared; the spare uniform on the other side of the room lies neatly-folded. Weirdo. McCoy spends a solid minute trying to figure out if Vulcans might consider it good, logical social etiquette to clean other people's rooms.
Then he sits up straighter. Swears.
Spock, it seems, has kept his word; his bottles of bourbon line the opposing wall in a neat, empty line. Looks like his moonshine has been poured out too.
Pointy-eared bastard. At least Spock didn't find the Romulan ale.
McCoy notes the time and drags himself to the bathroom. Within thirty minutes he has (grudgingly) prepared for his next shift. Coming off delta, M'Benga pulls him aside to quietly discuss the ship's situation.
Ten more patients since McCoy was last down here. That, in itself, isn't shocking. Ensign Dell's heart attack is more concerning. And the fact that poor Yeoman Moore has been put on ventilators, apparently having a hard time breathing. No one is critical at least – they would have called him for that.
They go over patient details, but honestly at this point the best they can do is treat symptoms, not the cause. It's just a waiting game – dragging the patients along until the ship breaks free of whatever the hell is going on.
Before he leaves M'Benga also spares a moment to tell him that Spock missed their latest scheduled session. Which barely qualifies as news.
“Idiot,” McCoy says. “How is that logical?”
“Oh, I've found Vulcans can justify all sorts of things with logic,” says M'Benga wryly. “I don't suppose you've seen him? I can't imagine he's eating well during this crisis either.”
“Convinced him to have a few drinks last night. But no, I don't think he's eaten anything. I'll hunt him down for lunch.”
“You convinced him to - “ M'Benga stops, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Leonard. I told you just a week or two ago that Vulcans have problems with addictive habits. That the main reason you don't see Vulcan drug-addicts is only because they never start taking drugs, in the first place - but they have a very high rate of repetition once they begin. Are you trying to add alcoholism to his problems?”
- Ah. Oops.
“I'm sure Spock wouldn't do that.”
“Right. And there's probably four-hundred people on the Enterprise who would find the idea of a Vulcan with an eating disorder completely crazy.”
Which is a damn good point.
“Alright, alright, I won't ask him to drink again.”
“Good.” Geoffrey squints at him. “I'm glad you weren't drinking alone, though.”
“Yeah, whatever,” says McCoy, and flees to his office like the coward he is.
Another security officer comes down, shivering and stumbling after a bad series of heart-palpitations. Mr. Vallire collapses halfway through shift, half-carried into Sickbay by his fellows; and the lieutenant covering Engineering to let Scotty take a rare break suddenly bursts into hysterics, crying in a heap and wailing about how they're all doomed.
McCoy calls up to the bridge twice, demanding answers. An increasingly-frazzled Jim tells him they're doing 'everything they can, Bones.'
The whole ship is on edge, and even the people who might be termed 'healthy' are soon dealing with inexplicable fatigue, headaches, minor dizziness. When he takes lunch McCoy doesn't even call out to the lieutenant he sees bracing himself himself for balance against the wall as he heads to the commissary; McCoy's feeling a bit light-headed himself, along with half the ship.
He does try to find Spock, but apparently he's occupied with genuine work in the shuttle-bay, so McCoy leaves him to it.
Uhura waves him over when he grabs a sandwich. “Doctor,” she says, “One of the ensigns in my department - “
“If it's serious, we can only keep them under observation,” says McCoy wearily. “For headaches and whatnot, our usual medication ain't helping.”
“That explains the captain's temper,” says Uhura dryly. “But that's not what I wanted to talk about.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
Uhura waves this away. “I've suspected one of my ensigns is hurting herself... And now I'm sure of it; she's new, and I don't think she's dealing with this mess well. I've never dealt with something like this...”
McCoy sighs, taking a seat across from her and picking at his food. Thinks. “We don't have a proper psychologist onboard,” he says. It's been a concern for awhile, and Spock's situation just highlighted the problem. “Why do you think she's hurting herself?”
Uhura purses her lips. “Because I saw the scars,” she says.
Ah. Well.
“Once this mess is over, I'll schedule a meeting,” McCoy says. “She can meet with me or M'Benga for regular counseling, and we'll... go from there.”
“That's it?”
“Probably best not to stress her out more in the middle of a crisis. And, yeah. This ain't something we can cure with a hypo.”
“I know, but...” Uhura sighs “I should have done something sooner.”
“You've done plenty. Honestly, not much can be done. We can offer help, but she's gotta do the work herself, in the end.”
McCoy goes back to his quarters.
There are still sick people streaming into Sickbay, he knows. It's been practically constant. But there's also nothing he can do to help those people, as far as he can tell; Geoff doesn't need him hovering through Delta.
Leonard McCoy doesn't like being helpless. He clutches his chest, thumb rubbing as his heart beats out of sync. Usually he'd be concerned, but this is par for the course with this latest anomaly, and he doesn't even bother sitting up.
Lying there, McCoy feels a familiar craving itching at his skull. God, what he wouldn't do for a drink. Hair of the dog and all, he justifies. Scotty probably has something; McCoy could slip away, go wheedle a bit of moonshine from him. Might help him sleep, take a bit of this edge off...
But then McCoy thinks about what M'Benga said. Are you trying to add alcoholism to his problems?
Spock isn't even here. But the memory makes his stomach clench anyway.
So maybe he'll just forgo the drinks for awhile. You know.
- For Spock.
-
Spock
Spock has never experienced a hangover before. He decides he never wants to repeat the experience.
Usually he'd never risk compromising himself – especially in a crisis – but Spock clearly misjudged his tolerance. He doesn't have any regrets; pouring out McCoy's collection of alcohol was well worth the headache, although Spock is less sanguine about the fatigue, or the half-nauseous, half-ravenous pain radiating from his stomach. Spock ignores all these symptoms and continues to his shift without pausing to eat. If he is experiencing increased appetite due to alcohol, it is his own fault, and should not be indulged.
But he really can't understand how McCoy could find this discomfort a worthwhile price for multiple, liver-damaging nights of slight numbness. It's a little concerning. Does the doctor have that much trouble regulating unpleasant emotions? To the extent that he is willing to endure this for a night's relief? Spock would offer to help him learn meditation if he didn't know exactly how much McCoy would laugh at the idea.
But McCoy's troubling habits will have to be addressed later. The doctor has survived this long; the ship, on the other hand, is in a more dire predicament.
No less than 17 members of Spock's department have been removed from duty. The ship as a whole is down 68 crewmen, and Spock strongly suspects the number should be higher, and soon will be as struggling officers are forced to relent to their biology.
Something about the unknown alien satellite is clearly causing this epidemic. Spock's best estimation so far is that it's related to the unusual magnetic fields in the area. Well-documented cases of magnetism-induced illnesses exist – but not to this extent, and magnetism is a murky field at the best of times.
Still, it would fit. Electromagnetic fields can cause fatigue, dizziness, nausea, heart palpitations, digestive issues, difficulty concentrating, emotional instability... and the ship's humans clearly become more and more affected as they are drawn, inexorably, toward the distant station.
But these medical symptoms are not Spock's area of expertise. He is more interested in the cause – and even more importantly, the gravitational field pulling them alarmingly closer to the silent station, as well as the overlapping pull of a nearby star.
Within three days the station's pull will be impossible to escape – and eventually the Enterprise's trajectory will tug them into the gravity-well of an O-class star. The station itself is in orbit just outside the danger-zone, but the Enterprise will soon have no recourse. Which is why the captain has finally, reluctantly, agreed to send Spock and three engineers to the station via shuttle, as these still seem to be functioning. The problem is that it will be a one-way trip; the shuttle's power will certainly not be sufficient to escape the station's pull once entered. They will need to be beamed back, which presupposes the ability to enter the alien station and disable its shields – a difficult task, even if the construct really is abandoned as it appears.
Spock has volunteered for many missions with lower chances of survival. He's not concerned.
He spends the morning refitting shuttles in preparation for their departure. He checks which systems have been minimized to account for the power drain of resisting the gravitational pull, triple-checks the navigation systems. Captain Kirk comes down to review the process several hours prior to departure; he claps Spock on the shoulders. “Make sure to rest and eat before you go,” he says. “No telling how long this will take.”
It's a fair point. So two hours before departure Spock sits alone in his quarters, spoon in hand, assessing the bowl of stew before him.
It's logical to eat. Spock feels tired, nauseous. He has a headache. He's on-duty and will soon be in the unknown environment of the alien station, where any number of things might happen. Eating is logical.
But he hasn't solved the ship's problem yet. He's not supposed to eat until -
It's not, he knows, that M'Benga or McCoy are correct. Certainly he has... some odd rules about eating. But that's not strange in humans. Spock's own mother always insisted on eating her greens before grains, always drank water directly after a meal, ate from a plate by consuming one type of food at a time. That is also not logical – there is no true reason for it – but it's the most harmless type of illogic. Tolerable, harmless.
The stew is getting cold, noodles and vegetables slowly settling deeper in the thick mixture. Spock makes no move to eat.
Spock will soon be on the alien satellite. He needs strength. Food brings strength. Pretending otherwise is – illogical.
But Spock just prods at the unappetizing meal. Really, he thinks, it is more important to remain alert; depriving himself of food often accomplishes that. Furthermore, hunger could be a good incentive to return quickly. Additionally...
In the end Spock rises, recycles his still-full tray, and departs.
Spock takes 3 crewmen in the Galileo. Mr. Scott, of course, accompanies him as the ship's foremost expert in xenoengineering. One of his underlings, a woman who specializes in magnetism, sits in the back of the shuttle looking extremely alarmed and worried about her sudden importance. The last crewman is a security junior-lieutenant who almost vibrates in his anticipation of fighting unknown beings. He spends the entire ride making comments to the woman, who grows increasingly pale as he enthuses about 'finally getting to use his phaser.'
“If there is anyone on this station, Mr. Kayode, please remember not to engage unless we are threatened,” says Spock pointedly.
Mr. Kayode sulks.
` The shuttle becomes increasingly unstable as they draw near. Shudders and groans warp the metal hull, and the whole structure starts trembling as they draw near. The two less experienced crewmen huddle behind Spock's chair as he calmly assesses the distance to the station.
“We are within range for manual entrance,” he concludes. “Please check your suits again. Mr. Scott, are you prepared to force entrance?”
“Aye, Sir. Scans show the nearest hull has a thin area – should only take, eh, eighteen minutes to cut through.”
So, probably more like eight minutes; Mr. Scott enjoys exaggeration.
It actually takes 9.6 minutes. As soon as there's a sufficient opening the four-person team drifts inside. Spock activates the lights on his helmet, and the others do the same.
The interior is strange and alien at a glance, all bright greens that almost blind him, colors fading together different instruments. But all mechanics tend to share some commonalities of design; Mr. Scott drifts around, inspecting the hull, the exposed mechanics they can see.
“Sir,” he calls. Spock joins him.
What he's point at seems to be a map. One tiny pinprick of greenish light – barely discernible from the rest – pulses in a way that clearly caught the engineer's attention.
“Do you believe you can find that area, Mr. Scott?”
Scotty inspects the screen. “Aye, Sir. Let's go.”
They proceed through the quiet unlit halls.
Spock doesn't know what manner of species created or inhabited this station. But they see signs; bony chitin lying almost carelessly here or there, bare bones long fractured and splintered by the coldness of space. He snaps pictures and takes scans as they move, and Ms. Ngaire keeps her head bent low over her own scanner, clearly unnerved.
Mr. Kayode, of course, is just disappointed.
They eventually come upon the highlighted area of the map. Scott directs Spock to try interpreting the computer programming while he inspects the hardware.
This is long, tedious work. Ms. Ngaire continues her scans; Mr. Kayode paces the room, anxiously fidgeting with his phaser and jumping every time the computers, functioning on emergency power, shift their lights and cast the room in new shadow.
“I think this ship was abandoned at least a decade back,” Mr. Scott says at least. “Miracle there's any power at all.”
“I concur. And I believe this phenomenon is the cause – it seems to have been just as harmful to the crew as to us.”
“Can't be a simple malfunction, then.”
“Negative. Sabotage, I believe.”
Why this ship was sabotaged, they will probably never know. Spock downloads what he can of the computer logs, of course. But it's unknown whether those will be of use.
As best he can tell, this was probably a targeted attack. He is uncertain whether the crew succumbed to similar effects as those on the Enterprise, or if the differences in physiology makes a difference; it doesn't really matter. The Enterprise is their priority right now.
“Got it,” Scotty says after a moment. “Two decks down, I think. It looks like the source is...”
Spock nods, blinking through the sudden fog in his vision. It occurs to him that many members of the crew have been succumbing to fatigue, faintness. Why wasn't the landing party checked in Sickbay before setting out?”
“...so it should just be a matter of... Commander?”
Spock opens his mouth to answer. But the words come out in a slur, and then he's tipping to the side, heavy even in the weightless void of space.