Star Trek: The Original Series: The More Things Change (5 page)

“You’re quantifying getting a lucky break.”

Spock only paused a second before saying, “Yes.” He raised an eyebrow as if daring her to further critique his plan, but Chapel motioned for him to continue. “I will effect the minimum necessary repairs, then we’ll leave the system on a different course. I believe that I will be able to repair and modify the communications system sufficiently to get a message through to the
Troyval
, even if we are still being jammed, to notify them of a new rendezvous point. They should be able to compensate for the course change with minimal delay.”

Chapel nodded. “We just need to do whatever we can to get to the
Troyval
as soon as possible. If you think this is the best way to accomplish that . . .”

“I do. However, I have to point out—and I tried to raise this issue earlier, but Commissioner Dax required your assistance—that the final decision is yours.”

“What?” Chapel looked at Spock. She must have misheard him. “You’re the ranking officer.”

“Then my concern that this was not made clear in the rush to get under way was justified. This is a medical evacuation, and as the medical officer, you are in command of the mission regardless of our respective ranks. I have made a number of proactive choices under the circumstances, but you need to give full consideration to the plan I have put forth, as it is not without risks to your patient.”

Chapel slouched back in her seat. “Yes, of course.”
I can’t believe I let that slip my mind. So easy to fall back into old habits, always the one taking orders.
Now she sat up straight. She trusted Spock implicitly, and his plan made sense. “Plot a course for Rose’s Folly, Commander. You’ve got repairs to make. I’m going to check on my patient. Notify me if anything changes.”

Spock nodded, a subtle smile on his face. “I can say something only rarely spoken by me during the five-year mission: Yes, Doctor.”

Chapel chuckled as she got up and headed aft, but she quickly turned serious as she entered the cabin and again examined Dax. Although the Trill’s breathing and heart rate remained steady, her dual brainwave patterns had become increasingly asynchronous. The bond with the symbiont was clearly deteriorating. If Chapel didn’t think of a treatment option soon, Audrid Dax would slip into a coma, and perhaps die, long before the rendezvous.

Chapter 5

Doctor Christine Chapel paced around the aft cabin, repeatedly looping by Dax, past the door to the cockpit, down along the opposite bulkhead, past the drop-down ramp in the stern, then alongside her patient again: an unconscious patient for whom she had no helpful species-specific knowledge, medicine, or procedures.

“Let’s talk this through,” she said. Chapel found that sometimes talking out loud could help sort through a difficult problem because it forced her to focus on and articulate one thought at a time, getting a jumble of ideas under a semblance of control.

She kept walking and tried to ignore that the overhead lights were flickering and the shuttle’s flight was getting wobbly, as though it were a rowboat on a windy lake. Soon they would drop out of warp and she wouldn’t have to worry about a poorly configured warp field. Instead she’d have Spock’s makeshift repairs to worry about.

“Okay, not helpful. Let’s focus on Audrid.” She stopped pacing beside the bed and looked down at her patient. “She’s bonded with a symbiont. Both physically and, more important, mentally. More important, because I can see by the brainwaves that it’s the psychic link that’s fading. Their brainwaves are simply going out of sync, like when a Vulcan is winding down a mind-meld. Soon there’ll be no overlap at all, and then the bond will be broken—and both will die.

“The key is that bond, but how can I fortify a failing telepathic link? It seemed to help when I palpated her abdomen, but I need more than guesswork, I need practical knowledge of—”

She stopped talking as inspiration struck, needing to let her mind race ahead faster. Her thoughts bounced back and forth between events of the five-year mission, the dispersal of the crew afterward, and what was happening to Dax right now. Doctor Jabilo M’Benga. He’d done his internship on Vulcan, and his specialized knowledge had served Spock well on several occasions. He’d done extensive research on mind-melds throughout his career, continuing after he left the
Enterprise
. She recalled that he’d done a paper on nontelepaths treating telepathic disorders.

“That could be the solution.” She froze in place. “If I have it.” Aboard the
Enterprise
the paper would have been easily accessible from the main computer, or Chapel could have even contacted M’Benga directly. She didn’t have those options at the moment.
Here’s hoping for some luck
, Chapel thought as she activated the viewscreen above the diagnostic bed. Since the diagnostic scanners had been off limits to her, she’d had no reason to turn on the bed’s systems—until now. The unit’s computer had an extensive medical database, including research papers not yet fully integrated into standard diagnostic protocols.

As she keyed in search parameters, the overhead lights flickered and went dark. The diagnostic bed had its own power source, however, so the cabin remained lit by the screen as it filled with an index of authors and titles. Chapel tried not to think about the shuttle’s failing systems as she scrolled through the information on the screen. Finally, there it was:
M’Benga, Jabilo. “An Overview of Telepathic Challenges and Solutions for the Nontelepathic Caregiver.”
She selected the entry and glanced at the abstract, which mentioned “nonstandard treatment modalities that bridge the gap between nontelepath and telepath.” She was already sold. Pulling up the text of the full article, she delved in.

Although the increasingly rough flight of the
Copernicus
was distracting, it didn’t take long for Chapel to find the data she needed to support her working theories and point the way toward a course of treatment. There were examples of telepathic species that maintained constant mental links, and they provided her with insights thanks to M’Benga’s meticulous and wide-ranging scholarship, which even included surprisingly in-depth information on the Tholians. However, the most relevant information related to Vulcans and other touch telepaths.

Jabilo wrote that “the nontelepath often has much of the same physical structure of the touch telepath, but only uses those conduits of the nervous system for their intended purpose. The touch telepath has, in effect, upgraded the nervous system for dual-purpose use. The nervous system of a touch telepath functions as the communication relay between brain and body, but it can also facilitate a communication link with the nervous systems of other beings, thereby allowing the touch telepath to tap into those beings’ thoughts. . . . Under appropriate conditions, a nontelepath’s nervous system can augment an ailing telepath with therapeutic results.”

It seemed clear that when she had palpated Dax’s abdomen, stimulating the symbiont, her own nervous system had provided a boost to the failing bond. If she were to act as a human shunt, Audrid and Dax should be able to stabilize, even shore up, their bond until the
Copernicus
reached the
Troyval
.

Before she could start the treatment, Spock paged her over the intercom.
I guess
that
still works
, she thought as she joined him in the cockpit after checking Dax’s vitals. Both the Trill woman and symbiont should be fine while Chapel spoke briefly with Spock, but she was anxious to return to her patient.

Spock looked grim. “As you may have noticed,” he said, with a gesture toward the darkened overhead lights, “we are having some technical problems. In order to ensure our safe arrival at Rose’s Folly, I need to stabilize some systems immediately. If you could assist me by once again monitoring the systems from the copilot’s station, I will get started.”

She responded with a grim look of her own. “Spock, I need to start treating Commissioner Dax or we’ll lose her.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Doctor, I am obligated to remind you that Trill cultural mores do not allow that.”

Somehow his formality made the statement less imposing. Chapel shrugged. “Commissioner Dax and I reached an understanding of sorts. Even if we hadn’t, I wouldn’t just watch her die.”

Spock tilted his head. “Under the circumstances, I will focus on the former statement and avoid the ethical debate implied by the latter. Nevertheless, the situation puts us at cross-purposes.” He thought for a moment. “I should be able to attend to these repairs on my own, but I would appreciate the safety net provided by your supervision. Would it be possible for you to monitor my progress and your patient’s condition simultaneously? I could route the data to your diagnostic display.”

Chapel shook her head. “I really don’t like dividing my attention, but I don’t see that I have much choice. Let’s do it.”

He gave her a crisp nod. “If all goes well, you will not have to do anything. But if any subsystems start red-lining, please make sure I am aware of the situation.”

“Of course.” Chapel realized that while she was serving as Spock’s backup, she had no backup herself. With a sigh, she turned toward the aft cabin, but Spock called her back.

“I could use your help pulling up this deck plate.”

They lifted up an access panel that stretched from between the cockpit seats back to the door into the aft cabin. Chapel took a moment to peek into the tight crawlspace as Spock gathered the necessary tools and materials for the repair work. She could see charred conduits and areas covered in emergency self-sealing foam. He had his work cut out for him.

“Good luck,” she said as he lay down on the deck and started wriggling into the crawlspace.

He craned his neck to look back up at her. “As reluctant as I am to admit it, that may be what we both need right now.”

With a nod, the doctor stepped into the aft cabin and went to Dax’s side. The monitor above the bed was now a split screen, displaying key energy readouts and subsystem relays on one half and Dax’s vital signs on the other. This was no way to treat a patient, but, as Dax had said,
It is what it is
.

Once again, Chapel rolled down the covers and lifted Dax’s shirt. “Well, here we go,” she said, and she placed both palms on Dax’s stomach. She applied some pressure and slowly moved her hands around. The symbiont didn’t respond as quickly as the first time.
Beginner’s luck, I guess
, Chapel thought. She continued, moving her hands in small circles, then looked up at Spock’s progress on the monitor. As she watched, she saw subsystems going off-line then coming back on again, sometimes repeatedly. He was obviously taking slow, careful steps and testing his repairs as he went. Erratic energy signatures smoothed out, and some flat-lined systems began powering up for the first time since the attack.

“At least one of us is making progress.” Even as she said that, Chapel felt the stirrings of the symbiont. Her downward pressure met with resistance as the symbiont arched its wormlike body. The sensation didn’t surprise her as much this time, and she made an effort to replace her original thoughts of parasites with the idea of a fetus moving within its mother’s womb. She continued her gentle massage and was soon rewarded with the strange electricity of the undulating being tickling her palms.

She was certain this was the mental energy of the symbiont. Chapel didn’t expect any actual communication with it; the creature was so alien to her that she suspected a deeper bonding would be necessary for that. But communication wasn’t the goal, only the facilitation of the link between symbiont and host. Still feeling the static bursts on her hands, Chapel lifted one hand slowly from Dax’s abdomen. Chapel concentrated on her palms, envisioning the path between them, up the nerves of one arm, into the spinal cord, and back down to the palm she was moving toward Dax’s forehead.

She hesitated, her left hand hovering over Dax’s face, a subtle tingling still playing across the palm, an echo of the strong sensation in her right hand resting above the squirming symbiont. Chapel glanced at the monitor. Dax’s vital signs were stable. The various feeds from Spock’s repair work also appeared under control.
Everything’s fine
, she told herself. Chapel looked back down at her patient—patients—and placed her left hand firmly upon Dax’s forehead.

Instantly there was a burst of static along her left palm. Chapel felt as if there were a magnetic pull between her hand and Dax’s forehead. Dax twitched once, her body jerking slightly as if startled, then relaxed. Chapel felt an odd sensation moving up one arm and down the other, similar to getting IV fluids and feeling the cool liquid move through your bloodstream. But this was the neural energy of Trill and symbiont linking through her own nervous system, their natural reaching toward each other facilitated along an external pathway.

For a disturbing moment, Chapel lost all sensation in her arms. The numbness began spreading down her spine, but Chapel reasserted herself by moving her arms—without breaking contact with Dax’s body—and again envisioning the pathway from palm to palm, as if emphasizing the course of the detour to her patients. Feeling returned to her arms, and the tingling sensation of the Trill neural energy stayed confined to the appropriate route—at least mostly. Although she kept picturing the route as moving straight from one arm to the other through her spinal cord, wisps of neural energy strayed upward toward her brain, causing a sensation of whispers she couldn’t quite hear. She forgot to blink, almost forgot to breathe. Her perception of time stretched, melted, evaporated. Chapel knew she should check on Spock. Spock needed her. She was his backup. He was counting on her, as she had counted on him innumerable times over the years. But these thoughts were hazy, glimpsed through a fog, and insubstantial themselves, ghosts she couldn’t grasp, stirred into chaotic patterns as her fingers passed through them, she was lost in a desert, trying to scoop up the water of a mirage, her hands coming up dry, sand spilling from her palms . . .

Chapel wrenched herself away from Dax and staggered away from the bed. She inhaled deeply, gasping, as if surfacing after having held her breath far too long. The monitor displayed Dax’s brainwaves largely resynchronized, at least for now. Chapel stared at the waves arcing up and down across the screen, drawn to them, but slowly her senses expanded. Shifting her gaze to the engineering feeds on the other half of the monitor, Chapel saw graphs, various colored lines zigzagging, numbers flashing, red and green bars. Nothing made sense; her mind was unfocused, like it was elsewhere, like she was a reflection in a mirror with no substance of her own. Somewhere deep in this fog of jumbled sensations, there was something else, something solid, insistent, grounding. Her impression of this coalesced into a single word, a plea for help from out of the darkness:
Christine
 . . .

Reality rushed into hard-edged focus around her. She staggered as if dropped onto the deck from meters in the air. Alarms jangled, slicing through the cabin, setting her teeth on edge.

“Spock!” She rushed to the cockpit door, which didn’t open. Chapel banged on the manual controls mindlessly, then stopped to actually look at the display. Cabin pressure was decreasing slowly in the forward compartment. Luckily it wasn’t serious enough to block the override command she entered.

She dashed into the cockpit. Spock was facedown deep in the crawlspace—she could only see his legs, which lay there limp, lifeless.
No, this is not happening!
Chapel grabbed him by the ankles and pulled.
He’s only unconscious. I know he’s still alive. I’d feel it if . . . if he were gone.
His body slid out until she could see the small of his back, then came to a sudden halt. Another tug brought no progress. She crawled over him, lying on top of his body, so she could peer into the dark crawlspace beneath the deck. As her eyes adjusted, she could see that the left sleeve of his uniform was caught on a ruptured conduit. Chapel reached up alongside him and got her hand on his sleeve. She could feel a bunch of fabric gathered along the tip of the conduit, the threads of a hole torn through the uniform, the damp warmth of blood where her efforts to pull him out had caused the conduit to slice into his triceps.

“Dammit!” She focused her anger into one ferocious tug on the sleeve, which tore away from the conduit. After pushing his arm closer to his body, she moved down to his feet again and pulled him the rest of the way out more slowly. It was an accomplishment, but there was no time for celebrating yet. Grabbing Spock under his arms, she half lifted, half rolled him up onto the deck. She had made a mess of his neatly arranged supplies beside the access panel, but she found a couple of emergency sealing packets and tossed them into the crawlspace. She dragged him farther out of the way, near the starboard hatch, then wrestled the access panel back into place by herself.