what_we_dream (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
what_we_dream) wrote2010-08-05 09:38 pm
what_we_dream) wrote2010-08-05 09:38 pm
Entry tags:
Star Trek TOS: McCoy Takes Command
Title: McCoy Takes Command
Fandom: Star Trek TOS
Pairings: None
Rating: PG
Notes: This is UNFINISHED and will remain so.
Summary: The title says it all
McCoy’s a doctor. It’s a concept people seem to have trouble grasping: Jim expects him to be whatever he needs at the moment; Spock expects him to be a cold-blooded percentage-calculating computer; the crew expect him to work miracles when they need him and disappear off the face of the ship when they don’t. Considering all the people who’d be happy to tell him his job, it’s just as well that McCoy’s got a skin thicker than an Andorian desert lizard and has the strength to stick to his guns. Especially since Jim Kirk likes to give his CMO a larger role in landing parties than most starship captains would even consider. Despite that, there are plenty of missions which have no place for McCoy, and this should have been one of them. He wasn’t even informed of the major details; just that the Enterprise had been assigned to some technical work on the colony of Carina III. The fact that he hadn’t been given a brief meant no casualties were even remotely expected, a mission not expected to bring them into contact with hostiles. He’s only informed as a matter of routine when the captain beams down to the planet, along with a landing party consisting of Mr. Scott and a handful of engineers, and then again when a few Starfleet officers are beamed aboard some minutes later.
Half an hour later, with absolutely no warning, the ship is nearly blown out of space.
He’s sitting in his office cataloguing some old reports on the spread of Draconian Polio on Draconus when he’s thrown out of his chair and into the far wall. The lights go out almost immediately, emergency klaxons switching on simultaneously. There’s a sickening lilt to the floor which tells him, inexperienced as he is aboard spaceships, that something is badly wrong with the Enterprise. The ship shudders twice more, keeping him on his hands and knees, and then stabilises more or less, ground under him continuing to tremble as if with aftershocks.
The soundproofing of the Enterprise is, he has been told, unparalleled in the fleet, and consequently he can’t hear anything but the klaxon blaring. The silence from the intercoms is extremely disturbing.
It’s completely black in his office, it not being on the list for emergency power. He pulls himself up and stumbles to the door, it at least opening as he nears. McCoy’s just stepped out into the hall when there’s a hum of power being switched on, and the battery-powered emergency lights are replaced by the auxiliary lights. Communications switches back in, and there’s a mass of confused static on the intercoms for a few a few seconds before some poor officer sorts them out into something resembling order. The first order relayed is: “Dr. McCoy and medical team to bridge immediately. Urgent, repeat, urgent.” It’s Uhura, sounding terse.
McCoy steps into sickbay – the aux. lights are on there too, Chapel leaning heavily against the duty officer’s desk looking pale, Henderson hurrying in from the ward with a med pack already slung over his shoulder. McCoy grabs one for himself from the desk, turns to address Chapel. “Send up the first two orderlies who come in, prepare for heavy casualties.”
She nods, steadying herself, even as the doors open with the first of the casualties. McCoy directs them into the ward, and hurries out the door.
The lifts are operating sluggishly, and with only auxiliary lighting there’s barely enough illumination for him to be able to see Henderson’s form next to him nervously checking the contents of his pack. Not the man McCoy would have chosen; young, unconfident and barely out of the Starfleet nursing school which McCoy has no high opinion of – it provides more a wide slathering of nursing, orderly training and Fleet training, and of the three nursing isn’t given the prominence he’d like. He has no problem with men being trained to follow orders – in fact, the opposite – but he wants a nurse who knows what to do with an incised wound or a first degree burn, not how to address a blue admiral. But, judging from Uhura’s tone and message, there’s no time to wait for someone better qualified. The lift judders to a stop, and McCoy takes a deep breath as the doors slide open.
Just as well, as it turns out.
The bridge is the closest thing to Hell he can imagine off the top of his head, and that’s saying a lot for a Georgian doctor who’s cleaned up after some damn nasty bar fights in the back country. The auxiliary lights aren’t working properly up here; the bridge is lit by the emergency lighting alone, glowing a devilish red in the darkness. The air is full of smoke and the smell of burnt plastic and metal, and hot enough that he can feel himself beginning to sweat beneath his tunic.
By the poor light, McCoy can see that the bridge has been hit harder than he’s ever seen. Communications is a mess of wires and circuits spilling over the main board in a slew of plastic innards while sparks rain down from the roof over Uhura trying to marshal it into some kind of sense. Engineering’s lost its view screens, both shattered and smoking. The Science station is just gone, nothing there but a mass of twisted plastic and metal. Fires are licking merrily here and there among the chaos, those which threaten to spread onto the carpet being beaten out by whichever crewman has a free hand.
The crew, it is clear, are working in a sort of controlled panic. No one is standing idle, even the wounded – and McCoy can see burns and cuts and limbs being favoured – are working feverishly to control the situation. Navagation and Helm have had their chairs tossed over by the view screen so that Sulu and Chekov can run them standing while several men crawl beneath trying to repair whatever damage has been done.
The only exception to all this is Spock, lying face down by the captain’s chair. In the smoky red light, McCoy can see he’s lying in a pool of his own blood, unmoving. The crew’s hurry is such that not one of them has even had the time to see to him.
McCoy’s at his side in an instant, reader in his hand while he turns the Vulcan over, Henderson squatting on the other side. Bad internal damaging, massive haemorrhaging, several broken bones. His heart will be failing in minutes, maybe less. McCoy rips his shirt open and slaps a pressure bandage on the main wound, probably inflicted by the Science station blowing up in his face – Spock’s skin is reddened where it’s not singed.
Behind them, the lift doors hiss open. “That’d better be my damn orderlies,” he shouts without looking.
“Yes, sir.”
“Get over here. Henderson, give him 2ccs of Cordrazine.”
“Yes, sir.”
He can allow the sir in the orderlies, but in Henderson it pulls across his nerves like a file. He ignores it for the time being. The orderlies materialise at his side and he moves out of the way to let them lift Spock onto the stretcher they’ve brought.
“Henderson, stay here and see to any wounded.” He doesn’t have time to give any more specific orders, the man’ll have to sort it out himself. He can’t go too badly wrong.
He leaves the bridge beside Spock holding the bandage keeping the Vulcan from bleeding to death firmly with both hands, with the firm impression that he’s just seen a group of doctors struggling against an unsalvageable operation.
----------------------------------------
It takes him eight hours of surgery to save Spock’s life, or at least to pull him out of the most immediate danger. He’ll never admit it, but he’s amazed the Vulcan makes it, and can only take so much of the credit. Whatever he might say about them, the pointy-eared hobgoblins know how to hold on to life, and that’s something no doctor can disprove of.
Not all the crew are so lucky. They lose Aeline, McKinneth, Ng, Parquet and Vroks to falls, burns and, in the case of poor Ng, a whole stack of containers in the shuttle bay. And those are just the immediate deaths. There are still nearly a dozen crew on the intense care list, including Spock, and nearly a hundred non-serious injuries besides.
And, as McCoy soon learns, that’s not all. By a long shot.
It’s the call from “acting captain Jameson” that does it. Because they’ve got no Jameson on the roster.
“What?” barks McCoy, when he gets the call on his desk monitor, in the middle of reviewing Fflae’s course of treatment. There’s no picture to the audio, the ship’s still mostly running on auxiliary power and even sickbay is feeling the constraints. Fortunately whoever was in charge up on the bridge had the sense to give them the necessary power, or they would have had a quite possibly terminal run-in with an enraged CMO.
“I want a report on the wounded in half an hour,” repeats the voice, a male of indeterminate age – somewhere between 30 and 50, judging by the grit and tonal qualities – with just a slight Australian accent.
“Who the hell’re you?” demands McCoy, prepared to put in a call to security even though he doubts any one’s down there right now.
“The acting captain,” repeats the man. There’s a whispered conversation, and then he adds, “I was beamed aboard earlier today from the cutter Fly.”
McCoy has a dim recollection of someone beaming aboard, although that doesn’t clear much up. “Well, acting captain, in half an hour I’m going to be down here making sure these men pull through. So if you want a report you can damn well come down yourself!” He switches off the channel, tosses down the file he was considering, and storms back into the ICU where Fflae’s vitals are dropping.
----------------------------------------
He gets that call half an hour later when he’s just pulled the sheet over Fflae. It’s not Jameson, whoever the hell that is, but Uhura, looking ragged. Her uniform’s singed, as is her hair, and she’s got a minor burn on her cheek.
“Let me take a look at that,” he says, pulling out his protoplaser and motioning her over into a free corner of the office to sit in his chair. That she does so without much argument says more than he needs to know about the conditions on the bridge. She sits quietly until he’s finished repairing the small burn – hardly more than a singe, really – and then straightens up.
“The acting captain’s sent me for your report.”
“Oh, him,” says McCoy, putting down the protoplaser. “So he wasn’t just some maniac.”
“I’m afraid not,” she says darkly. “He’s Lieutenant Commander Jameson. We beamed him aboard from the Fly a little while before the Orion pirates hit us.”
“So that’s what it was,” says McCoy, who hasn’t had time to listen to the gossip even rife as it’s been in sickbay. Besides, with so few of the crew actually in the know, and those few sequestered on the bridge, the speculation’s been growing steadily wilder and wilder. That no one up there released a report on the situation is not a move McCoy thinks wise.
Uhura nods. “You haven’t heard?”
“Frankly, my dear, the entire crew’s in the dark. Last I heard, there was serious contemplation running concerning a pack of Romulan Birds of Prey.”
Uhura purses her lips. “Well doctor, if the acting captain hasn’t seen fit to release a report it’s not my place to say anything, so you didn’t hear it from me.” She looks up at him, searching not for reassurance of his silence but to see that he understands her feelings in the matter – disapproval.
“My lips are sealed.”
“As you know, we’re in orbit above Carina III, and right now we’re in the middle of the asteroid belt. We were just waiting –”
“Wait, what asteroid belt?”
Uhura gives him a surprised look. “What asteroid,” she shakes her head, and then sets in to explain for the poor country doctor, “In the Carina solar system there’s a dense asteroid belt extending outwards from the sun. Every year Carina III passes through it, and the asteroids do considerable damage to the planet. Since it’s such a valuable source of Cassian Thyme and Ressano, it was easily worth setting up a colony with a shield which could be activated for those few weeks every year. Over the calm period this year the shield generator broke, and they only discovered it when they went to turn it on. That’s why we were called out in such a hurry.”
“Because of Scotty,” muses McCoy.
“Partially,” agrees Uhura, “but also because the asteroid belt is a very dense one, and dangerous to most ships. Only a crack starship with strong shields and a talented helm crew would be able to cross the belt and maintain orbit through it while repairs were affected.”
“In other words, the Enterprise. But where do Jameson and these pirates come in? What the hell happened up there?”
“Not long after the captain beamed down with the landing party, a small cutter identified itself to us as a Starfleet vessel with only a handful of crewmen aboard. Apparently she flew into the asteroid belt to avoid an Orion pirate ship she thought was chasing her.” Uhura’s tone is one of deep disgust. McCoy raises an eyebrow.
“Nothing wrong with running from pirates if you’re outgunned.”
“No, but when you fail to report it to the ship that saved you it crosses the borders from stupidity into culpable negligence at least. Especially when those pirates jump out to attack your ship without warning from behind a convenient asteroid when you’ve got your shields lowered to beam down equipment.”
McCoy blinks. “Wait. This is the man in charge of the ship?”
“Currently he’s the highest ranking officer aboard. When he heard about it, he showed up on the bridge to take command.”
“But he’s not an Enterprise officer,” protests McCoy. Uhura gives him a sympathetic look.
“It doesn’t matter, doctor. Rank is rank. His stripes outweigh ours.”
“So beam the captain back up! Jim’ll give him what for.”
“We’d like to, but we’re possibly days away from transporters. It’s taking the entire efforts of engineering to give us enough energy for shields and steering. Sulu’s nearly cracking under the strain of threading between asteroids on docking thrusters, and he’s been on duty for 12 hours straight already. Don’t even ask about navigation.”
“I wish I could say my problems were lighter,” says McCoy gruffly, looking into the dim sickbay. Uhura’s face tenses.
“What’s the report, doctor. Mr. Spock, is he –?”
“He pulled through the operation, that’s all I can tell you for now, but there’s a decent chance he’ll make it. Mind you, he’ll be in that bed for at least a week.” It’s only now that it occurs to him how unfortunate that is. The drop in Uhura’s face drives it home.
He never thought he’d see the day he actually wanted the Vulcan in command.
“As for the rest, there’s 13 dead so far and I can’t speak for another 3. Apart from that, 7 serious cases and about a hundred of other injuries ranging from broken bones to stubbed toes. You can go report that to the acting captain. And if he gives you any trouble, you just send him on down to me. I’ll give him a bellyful.”
“Thank you, doctor. I’ll make sure he understands.”
“And tell him to keep sickbay systems on priority.”
Uhura has the grace to look guilty. “There might have been a bit of miscommunication between Mr. Sulu’s orders and the Lieutenant Commander’s there.”
“In that case, don’t tell him.”
“Right.”
----------------------------------------
There’s a long lull in communications, and McCoy and the sickbay resort to living by the grapevine, which is never filling and often extremely questionable. What is not questionable is the fact that the crew is highly uneasy, have no faith in the acting captain, and are getting jittery with the lack of reports from the bridge as to their status.
There is also, he discovers early on, a high level of concern for the captain and the landing party.
M’Benga hears it from Yeller who heard it from Nlyre: apparently the beam-down which required their lowered shields and allowed the pirates to get in their near-fatal shots was to provide the landing party with the gear necessary to repair the colony’s shield generator. The general feeling is that without it, even Scotty would be unable to repair the mechanism. Which means that currently the captain, the landing party and the entire colony are sitting ducks in the middle of a meteor storm which is capable of dropping meteors ranging from the size of a pearl to a shuttlecraft on the planet below.
McCoy damn near calls Jameson up right then to ask him what the hell he’s playing at. But Uhura’s report was enough to ram home the point that the bridge doesn’t have time for doctors’ tirades at the moment. He’s also grudgingly aware that Jim allows him a pretty fair margin of leeway as far as reprimanding actions he deems ill-considered, and that that’s probably not usual among starship commanders. Even if this man apparently doesn’t have the ability to command a tin can.
It’s terrible that he’s actually pleased when Spock wakes up. He blames Jameson.
The Vulcan’s out of danger, assuming he remains in bed, which is never a certainty for officers aboard this ship. But he’s weak and tired and, McCoy considers, in a bad temper. It doesn’t get any better when he tells the Vulcan what’s been going on in his absence.
He lies in bed, cheeks an unnatural green, face overly-pale as a result of his – McCoy’s – over-treating it for burns in the dim sickbay lights. But his eyes at least shine with their usual attention and focus; whatever he may say for the First Officer, Spock’s always had amazing control of his faculties even when wounded. And what McCoy needs – what they all need – right now is that sharp mind. McCoy doesn’t agree with about 90% of Spock’s decisions, but the Vulcan does at least beat out most competitors at seeing possible options (before taking the wrong one).
“Look, there’s got to be a way to get rid of Jameson. If someone doesn’t get him off the bridge, not only are we not going to have a landing party left to save, we’ll be lucky to make it back to Starbase,” is how he puts it eventually, when less blunt prompts fail to elicit a helpful response.
Spock stares at the ceiling, unimpressed. “Short of certifying him unfit for command, which you cannot do as he is not –” the Vulcan allows just long enough for McCoy to protest; the doctor snarls but says nothing, “the only way to ‘get rid’ of the lieutenant commander would be to replace him with an officer of higher rank. Currently I am the only such officer aboard, and even if you were to release me I could not accept command in my current state.”
“That’s not very helpful, Spock.”
But the Vulcan’s now staring at the wall over McCoy’s shoulder with a thoughtful pitch to his eyebrows. “It occurs to me, doctor, that we may have been labouring under a misapprehension.”
“What? Jameson isn’t completely inept? You’re not confined to your bed?”
“Jameson might not be the highest ranking officer in this ship.”
McCoy blinks, then glances up at the readings above Spock’s bed. “Knew I should have run a scan on your pointy-eared head,” he mutters, considering the blood-flow readings.
Spock gives him an utterly unimpressed look. “There is nothing amiss with my mental faculties.”
“You’re suggesting we’ve got an officer stowed aboard somewhere pretending to be an ensign?”
“I am pointing out that there are currently two lieutenant commanders aboard this ship, doctor,” says Spock, and he looks down pointedly at the braid on McCoy’s sleeve. McCoy’s eyes follow his gaze like a compass veering towards north.
“Me? You’re crazy! I can’t command this ship!”
“Normally, I would agree without pause.” McCoy scowls. “However, the reports you have related suggest that even you, doctor, could fail to do worse in the captain’s chair.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. But if we’re both the same rank, how can I replace him?”
Spock’s look becomes even less impressed, something McCoy wasn’t sure was possible. “Your lack of knowledge regarding the workings of Star Fleet will never cease to astound me, doctor. Within the same rank, order of command is determined by the date of commission, unless the officer holds a vastly superior post. Unfortunately, in this matter your position aboard the Enterprise is of little importance as this is not a medical matter.”
“Get to the point, Spock.”
“What is the date of your commission?” asks the Vulcan, directly.
McCoy blinks, face twisting into an expression of uncertainty. “Well, must’ve been, lessee… maybe 3 years back?”
Spock gives him a withering look, then makes to reach out for the computer terminal by his bed. His hand shakes badly, and McCoy hurries to reach past him and turn it on before he can exhaust himself with his damn mulish stubbornness.
“Computer,” says Spock gruffly, ignoring the aid, “tie in with Star Fleet personnel records, voice identification Spock.”
“Working… tied in with personnel records.”
“Retrieve service record for McCoy, Leonard H, currently CMO of the USS Enterprise.”
“Working… McCoy, Leonard H, lieutenant commander, currently assigned as Chief Medical Officer, USS Enterprise. Born Hazlehurst, Georgia, Stardate –”
“Stop. What is the date of McCoy’s commission?”
“Stardate 2749.2”
“Now retrieve service record for Jameson, lieutenant commander, former officer aboard the cutter Fly.”
“Working… Jameson, Paul S., born –”
Stop. What is the date of Jameson’s commission as lieutenant commander?”
“Stardate 2987.9”
Spock nods at McCoy, who switches off the computer and then turns to watch the Vulcan apprehensively. He crosses his arms, and launches into it.
“So what? I just march up to the bridge and tell him I’m taking command?”
“Broadly. You will, of course, need a reason for having delayed this long. I suggest –”
“I was busy saving your hide, among others!”
“– will do admirably. The less the lieutenant commander knows of your lack of experience in command, the better. Of course, if he is to ask you,”
“I’ll tell the pup I’ve been running sickbays in disasters he’s never even imagined,” McCoy growls.
“An admirable thought, however something more in the line of commanding men would be preferable. Your command of landing parties, for example.” Spock lies back and stares at the ceiling, voice slightly weaker.
“Yeah, for specimen pick-up.”
“That could, perhaps, be omitted.”
“Are you suggesting I lie, Spock?”
“I am sure I cannot predict what you might do in this time of extreme circumstances,” says the Vulcan, turning to stare at him flatly with dark eyes. It’s more support than he’s seen there in a long time, maybe ever.
“Spock, you do realise I’m really not qualified for this? I mean, I took the command courses for CMOs, but…”
Spock reaches out, this time thumbing on the computer terminal himself before McCoy gets there. When he speaks, his voice is ragged, dropping into a coarse gruffness when he runs out of breath. “Computer, prepare to record official statement by Spock, First Officer of the USS Enterprise.”
“Ready to record.”
He pauses, eyes closed, and then continues in a close approximation of his usual voice, “As First Officer of the USS Enterprise, I hereby introduce Dr. Leonard McCoy, CMO of the same, into the chain of command aboard this vessel, as it is appropriate for his rank.” He opens his eyes and reaches out a wavering arm to switch it off again, but McCoy beats him this time.
“How kind of you,” he says, watching the Vulcan suspiciously.
“As you are aware, doctor, under ordinary circumstances your position in the chain of command is below the bridge lieutenants. Equally, only the captain – or any captain – can change that.”
“So what did you just do?” McCoy gestures at the consol.
“In extreme circumstances, rating officers can make temporary changes, to be approved at a later date by two men of command rank or higher.” Spock breaks the tie with his eyes, turning his own slowly back to the ceiling.
“And if no captain approves them?”
“Then both you and I will be court-martialled for mutiny.” He says it in a completely flat tone, which is not surprising, but it’s infuriating all the same.
“Spock! Are you crazy!?”
“Relax, doctor. You have nothing to lose but your position in Star Fleet – even if your commission is rescinded, you will still have your medical degree.”
“And you? This is your entire career at risk!” McCoy sweeps his hands, unable to indicate the full breadth of what's at risk with his voice.
“As you pointed out before, it is potentially my life at risk now, as well as yours and every other man and woman in this ship. And, more likely,” he adds tersely, “the lives of the captain, the landing party and the colonists.”
McCoy sighs. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“You will be in command, doctor. It is you who must know what you are doing. A captain may ask for opinions, but a starship is not a democracy. You cannot do this by halves.”
McCoy draws himself up and gives the Vulcan his strongest stare. “Mr. Spock, I don’t intend to.”
Fandom: Star Trek TOS
Pairings: None
Rating: PG
Notes: This is UNFINISHED and will remain so.
Summary: The title says it all
McCoy’s a doctor. It’s a concept people seem to have trouble grasping: Jim expects him to be whatever he needs at the moment; Spock expects him to be a cold-blooded percentage-calculating computer; the crew expect him to work miracles when they need him and disappear off the face of the ship when they don’t. Considering all the people who’d be happy to tell him his job, it’s just as well that McCoy’s got a skin thicker than an Andorian desert lizard and has the strength to stick to his guns. Especially since Jim Kirk likes to give his CMO a larger role in landing parties than most starship captains would even consider. Despite that, there are plenty of missions which have no place for McCoy, and this should have been one of them. He wasn’t even informed of the major details; just that the Enterprise had been assigned to some technical work on the colony of Carina III. The fact that he hadn’t been given a brief meant no casualties were even remotely expected, a mission not expected to bring them into contact with hostiles. He’s only informed as a matter of routine when the captain beams down to the planet, along with a landing party consisting of Mr. Scott and a handful of engineers, and then again when a few Starfleet officers are beamed aboard some minutes later.
Half an hour later, with absolutely no warning, the ship is nearly blown out of space.
He’s sitting in his office cataloguing some old reports on the spread of Draconian Polio on Draconus when he’s thrown out of his chair and into the far wall. The lights go out almost immediately, emergency klaxons switching on simultaneously. There’s a sickening lilt to the floor which tells him, inexperienced as he is aboard spaceships, that something is badly wrong with the Enterprise. The ship shudders twice more, keeping him on his hands and knees, and then stabilises more or less, ground under him continuing to tremble as if with aftershocks.
The soundproofing of the Enterprise is, he has been told, unparalleled in the fleet, and consequently he can’t hear anything but the klaxon blaring. The silence from the intercoms is extremely disturbing.
It’s completely black in his office, it not being on the list for emergency power. He pulls himself up and stumbles to the door, it at least opening as he nears. McCoy’s just stepped out into the hall when there’s a hum of power being switched on, and the battery-powered emergency lights are replaced by the auxiliary lights. Communications switches back in, and there’s a mass of confused static on the intercoms for a few a few seconds before some poor officer sorts them out into something resembling order. The first order relayed is: “Dr. McCoy and medical team to bridge immediately. Urgent, repeat, urgent.” It’s Uhura, sounding terse.
McCoy steps into sickbay – the aux. lights are on there too, Chapel leaning heavily against the duty officer’s desk looking pale, Henderson hurrying in from the ward with a med pack already slung over his shoulder. McCoy grabs one for himself from the desk, turns to address Chapel. “Send up the first two orderlies who come in, prepare for heavy casualties.”
She nods, steadying herself, even as the doors open with the first of the casualties. McCoy directs them into the ward, and hurries out the door.
The lifts are operating sluggishly, and with only auxiliary lighting there’s barely enough illumination for him to be able to see Henderson’s form next to him nervously checking the contents of his pack. Not the man McCoy would have chosen; young, unconfident and barely out of the Starfleet nursing school which McCoy has no high opinion of – it provides more a wide slathering of nursing, orderly training and Fleet training, and of the three nursing isn’t given the prominence he’d like. He has no problem with men being trained to follow orders – in fact, the opposite – but he wants a nurse who knows what to do with an incised wound or a first degree burn, not how to address a blue admiral. But, judging from Uhura’s tone and message, there’s no time to wait for someone better qualified. The lift judders to a stop, and McCoy takes a deep breath as the doors slide open.
Just as well, as it turns out.
The bridge is the closest thing to Hell he can imagine off the top of his head, and that’s saying a lot for a Georgian doctor who’s cleaned up after some damn nasty bar fights in the back country. The auxiliary lights aren’t working properly up here; the bridge is lit by the emergency lighting alone, glowing a devilish red in the darkness. The air is full of smoke and the smell of burnt plastic and metal, and hot enough that he can feel himself beginning to sweat beneath his tunic.
By the poor light, McCoy can see that the bridge has been hit harder than he’s ever seen. Communications is a mess of wires and circuits spilling over the main board in a slew of plastic innards while sparks rain down from the roof over Uhura trying to marshal it into some kind of sense. Engineering’s lost its view screens, both shattered and smoking. The Science station is just gone, nothing there but a mass of twisted plastic and metal. Fires are licking merrily here and there among the chaos, those which threaten to spread onto the carpet being beaten out by whichever crewman has a free hand.
The crew, it is clear, are working in a sort of controlled panic. No one is standing idle, even the wounded – and McCoy can see burns and cuts and limbs being favoured – are working feverishly to control the situation. Navagation and Helm have had their chairs tossed over by the view screen so that Sulu and Chekov can run them standing while several men crawl beneath trying to repair whatever damage has been done.
The only exception to all this is Spock, lying face down by the captain’s chair. In the smoky red light, McCoy can see he’s lying in a pool of his own blood, unmoving. The crew’s hurry is such that not one of them has even had the time to see to him.
McCoy’s at his side in an instant, reader in his hand while he turns the Vulcan over, Henderson squatting on the other side. Bad internal damaging, massive haemorrhaging, several broken bones. His heart will be failing in minutes, maybe less. McCoy rips his shirt open and slaps a pressure bandage on the main wound, probably inflicted by the Science station blowing up in his face – Spock’s skin is reddened where it’s not singed.
Behind them, the lift doors hiss open. “That’d better be my damn orderlies,” he shouts without looking.
“Yes, sir.”
“Get over here. Henderson, give him 2ccs of Cordrazine.”
“Yes, sir.”
He can allow the sir in the orderlies, but in Henderson it pulls across his nerves like a file. He ignores it for the time being. The orderlies materialise at his side and he moves out of the way to let them lift Spock onto the stretcher they’ve brought.
“Henderson, stay here and see to any wounded.” He doesn’t have time to give any more specific orders, the man’ll have to sort it out himself. He can’t go too badly wrong.
He leaves the bridge beside Spock holding the bandage keeping the Vulcan from bleeding to death firmly with both hands, with the firm impression that he’s just seen a group of doctors struggling against an unsalvageable operation.
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It takes him eight hours of surgery to save Spock’s life, or at least to pull him out of the most immediate danger. He’ll never admit it, but he’s amazed the Vulcan makes it, and can only take so much of the credit. Whatever he might say about them, the pointy-eared hobgoblins know how to hold on to life, and that’s something no doctor can disprove of.
Not all the crew are so lucky. They lose Aeline, McKinneth, Ng, Parquet and Vroks to falls, burns and, in the case of poor Ng, a whole stack of containers in the shuttle bay. And those are just the immediate deaths. There are still nearly a dozen crew on the intense care list, including Spock, and nearly a hundred non-serious injuries besides.
And, as McCoy soon learns, that’s not all. By a long shot.
It’s the call from “acting captain Jameson” that does it. Because they’ve got no Jameson on the roster.
“What?” barks McCoy, when he gets the call on his desk monitor, in the middle of reviewing Fflae’s course of treatment. There’s no picture to the audio, the ship’s still mostly running on auxiliary power and even sickbay is feeling the constraints. Fortunately whoever was in charge up on the bridge had the sense to give them the necessary power, or they would have had a quite possibly terminal run-in with an enraged CMO.
“I want a report on the wounded in half an hour,” repeats the voice, a male of indeterminate age – somewhere between 30 and 50, judging by the grit and tonal qualities – with just a slight Australian accent.
“Who the hell’re you?” demands McCoy, prepared to put in a call to security even though he doubts any one’s down there right now.
“The acting captain,” repeats the man. There’s a whispered conversation, and then he adds, “I was beamed aboard earlier today from the cutter Fly.”
McCoy has a dim recollection of someone beaming aboard, although that doesn’t clear much up. “Well, acting captain, in half an hour I’m going to be down here making sure these men pull through. So if you want a report you can damn well come down yourself!” He switches off the channel, tosses down the file he was considering, and storms back into the ICU where Fflae’s vitals are dropping.
----------------------------------------
He gets that call half an hour later when he’s just pulled the sheet over Fflae. It’s not Jameson, whoever the hell that is, but Uhura, looking ragged. Her uniform’s singed, as is her hair, and she’s got a minor burn on her cheek.
“Let me take a look at that,” he says, pulling out his protoplaser and motioning her over into a free corner of the office to sit in his chair. That she does so without much argument says more than he needs to know about the conditions on the bridge. She sits quietly until he’s finished repairing the small burn – hardly more than a singe, really – and then straightens up.
“The acting captain’s sent me for your report.”
“Oh, him,” says McCoy, putting down the protoplaser. “So he wasn’t just some maniac.”
“I’m afraid not,” she says darkly. “He’s Lieutenant Commander Jameson. We beamed him aboard from the Fly a little while before the Orion pirates hit us.”
“So that’s what it was,” says McCoy, who hasn’t had time to listen to the gossip even rife as it’s been in sickbay. Besides, with so few of the crew actually in the know, and those few sequestered on the bridge, the speculation’s been growing steadily wilder and wilder. That no one up there released a report on the situation is not a move McCoy thinks wise.
Uhura nods. “You haven’t heard?”
“Frankly, my dear, the entire crew’s in the dark. Last I heard, there was serious contemplation running concerning a pack of Romulan Birds of Prey.”
Uhura purses her lips. “Well doctor, if the acting captain hasn’t seen fit to release a report it’s not my place to say anything, so you didn’t hear it from me.” She looks up at him, searching not for reassurance of his silence but to see that he understands her feelings in the matter – disapproval.
“My lips are sealed.”
“As you know, we’re in orbit above Carina III, and right now we’re in the middle of the asteroid belt. We were just waiting –”
“Wait, what asteroid belt?”
Uhura gives him a surprised look. “What asteroid,” she shakes her head, and then sets in to explain for the poor country doctor, “In the Carina solar system there’s a dense asteroid belt extending outwards from the sun. Every year Carina III passes through it, and the asteroids do considerable damage to the planet. Since it’s such a valuable source of Cassian Thyme and Ressano, it was easily worth setting up a colony with a shield which could be activated for those few weeks every year. Over the calm period this year the shield generator broke, and they only discovered it when they went to turn it on. That’s why we were called out in such a hurry.”
“Because of Scotty,” muses McCoy.
“Partially,” agrees Uhura, “but also because the asteroid belt is a very dense one, and dangerous to most ships. Only a crack starship with strong shields and a talented helm crew would be able to cross the belt and maintain orbit through it while repairs were affected.”
“In other words, the Enterprise. But where do Jameson and these pirates come in? What the hell happened up there?”
“Not long after the captain beamed down with the landing party, a small cutter identified itself to us as a Starfleet vessel with only a handful of crewmen aboard. Apparently she flew into the asteroid belt to avoid an Orion pirate ship she thought was chasing her.” Uhura’s tone is one of deep disgust. McCoy raises an eyebrow.
“Nothing wrong with running from pirates if you’re outgunned.”
“No, but when you fail to report it to the ship that saved you it crosses the borders from stupidity into culpable negligence at least. Especially when those pirates jump out to attack your ship without warning from behind a convenient asteroid when you’ve got your shields lowered to beam down equipment.”
McCoy blinks. “Wait. This is the man in charge of the ship?”
“Currently he’s the highest ranking officer aboard. When he heard about it, he showed up on the bridge to take command.”
“But he’s not an Enterprise officer,” protests McCoy. Uhura gives him a sympathetic look.
“It doesn’t matter, doctor. Rank is rank. His stripes outweigh ours.”
“So beam the captain back up! Jim’ll give him what for.”
“We’d like to, but we’re possibly days away from transporters. It’s taking the entire efforts of engineering to give us enough energy for shields and steering. Sulu’s nearly cracking under the strain of threading between asteroids on docking thrusters, and he’s been on duty for 12 hours straight already. Don’t even ask about navigation.”
“I wish I could say my problems were lighter,” says McCoy gruffly, looking into the dim sickbay. Uhura’s face tenses.
“What’s the report, doctor. Mr. Spock, is he –?”
“He pulled through the operation, that’s all I can tell you for now, but there’s a decent chance he’ll make it. Mind you, he’ll be in that bed for at least a week.” It’s only now that it occurs to him how unfortunate that is. The drop in Uhura’s face drives it home.
He never thought he’d see the day he actually wanted the Vulcan in command.
“As for the rest, there’s 13 dead so far and I can’t speak for another 3. Apart from that, 7 serious cases and about a hundred of other injuries ranging from broken bones to stubbed toes. You can go report that to the acting captain. And if he gives you any trouble, you just send him on down to me. I’ll give him a bellyful.”
“Thank you, doctor. I’ll make sure he understands.”
“And tell him to keep sickbay systems on priority.”
Uhura has the grace to look guilty. “There might have been a bit of miscommunication between Mr. Sulu’s orders and the Lieutenant Commander’s there.”
“In that case, don’t tell him.”
“Right.”
----------------------------------------
There’s a long lull in communications, and McCoy and the sickbay resort to living by the grapevine, which is never filling and often extremely questionable. What is not questionable is the fact that the crew is highly uneasy, have no faith in the acting captain, and are getting jittery with the lack of reports from the bridge as to their status.
There is also, he discovers early on, a high level of concern for the captain and the landing party.
M’Benga hears it from Yeller who heard it from Nlyre: apparently the beam-down which required their lowered shields and allowed the pirates to get in their near-fatal shots was to provide the landing party with the gear necessary to repair the colony’s shield generator. The general feeling is that without it, even Scotty would be unable to repair the mechanism. Which means that currently the captain, the landing party and the entire colony are sitting ducks in the middle of a meteor storm which is capable of dropping meteors ranging from the size of a pearl to a shuttlecraft on the planet below.
McCoy damn near calls Jameson up right then to ask him what the hell he’s playing at. But Uhura’s report was enough to ram home the point that the bridge doesn’t have time for doctors’ tirades at the moment. He’s also grudgingly aware that Jim allows him a pretty fair margin of leeway as far as reprimanding actions he deems ill-considered, and that that’s probably not usual among starship commanders. Even if this man apparently doesn’t have the ability to command a tin can.
It’s terrible that he’s actually pleased when Spock wakes up. He blames Jameson.
The Vulcan’s out of danger, assuming he remains in bed, which is never a certainty for officers aboard this ship. But he’s weak and tired and, McCoy considers, in a bad temper. It doesn’t get any better when he tells the Vulcan what’s been going on in his absence.
He lies in bed, cheeks an unnatural green, face overly-pale as a result of his – McCoy’s – over-treating it for burns in the dim sickbay lights. But his eyes at least shine with their usual attention and focus; whatever he may say for the First Officer, Spock’s always had amazing control of his faculties even when wounded. And what McCoy needs – what they all need – right now is that sharp mind. McCoy doesn’t agree with about 90% of Spock’s decisions, but the Vulcan does at least beat out most competitors at seeing possible options (before taking the wrong one).
“Look, there’s got to be a way to get rid of Jameson. If someone doesn’t get him off the bridge, not only are we not going to have a landing party left to save, we’ll be lucky to make it back to Starbase,” is how he puts it eventually, when less blunt prompts fail to elicit a helpful response.
Spock stares at the ceiling, unimpressed. “Short of certifying him unfit for command, which you cannot do as he is not –” the Vulcan allows just long enough for McCoy to protest; the doctor snarls but says nothing, “the only way to ‘get rid’ of the lieutenant commander would be to replace him with an officer of higher rank. Currently I am the only such officer aboard, and even if you were to release me I could not accept command in my current state.”
“That’s not very helpful, Spock.”
But the Vulcan’s now staring at the wall over McCoy’s shoulder with a thoughtful pitch to his eyebrows. “It occurs to me, doctor, that we may have been labouring under a misapprehension.”
“What? Jameson isn’t completely inept? You’re not confined to your bed?”
“Jameson might not be the highest ranking officer in this ship.”
McCoy blinks, then glances up at the readings above Spock’s bed. “Knew I should have run a scan on your pointy-eared head,” he mutters, considering the blood-flow readings.
Spock gives him an utterly unimpressed look. “There is nothing amiss with my mental faculties.”
“You’re suggesting we’ve got an officer stowed aboard somewhere pretending to be an ensign?”
“I am pointing out that there are currently two lieutenant commanders aboard this ship, doctor,” says Spock, and he looks down pointedly at the braid on McCoy’s sleeve. McCoy’s eyes follow his gaze like a compass veering towards north.
“Me? You’re crazy! I can’t command this ship!”
“Normally, I would agree without pause.” McCoy scowls. “However, the reports you have related suggest that even you, doctor, could fail to do worse in the captain’s chair.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. But if we’re both the same rank, how can I replace him?”
Spock’s look becomes even less impressed, something McCoy wasn’t sure was possible. “Your lack of knowledge regarding the workings of Star Fleet will never cease to astound me, doctor. Within the same rank, order of command is determined by the date of commission, unless the officer holds a vastly superior post. Unfortunately, in this matter your position aboard the Enterprise is of little importance as this is not a medical matter.”
“Get to the point, Spock.”
“What is the date of your commission?” asks the Vulcan, directly.
McCoy blinks, face twisting into an expression of uncertainty. “Well, must’ve been, lessee… maybe 3 years back?”
Spock gives him a withering look, then makes to reach out for the computer terminal by his bed. His hand shakes badly, and McCoy hurries to reach past him and turn it on before he can exhaust himself with his damn mulish stubbornness.
“Computer,” says Spock gruffly, ignoring the aid, “tie in with Star Fleet personnel records, voice identification Spock.”
“Working… tied in with personnel records.”
“Retrieve service record for McCoy, Leonard H, currently CMO of the USS Enterprise.”
“Working… McCoy, Leonard H, lieutenant commander, currently assigned as Chief Medical Officer, USS Enterprise. Born Hazlehurst, Georgia, Stardate –”
“Stop. What is the date of McCoy’s commission?”
“Stardate 2749.2”
“Now retrieve service record for Jameson, lieutenant commander, former officer aboard the cutter Fly.”
“Working… Jameson, Paul S., born –”
Stop. What is the date of Jameson’s commission as lieutenant commander?”
“Stardate 2987.9”
Spock nods at McCoy, who switches off the computer and then turns to watch the Vulcan apprehensively. He crosses his arms, and launches into it.
“So what? I just march up to the bridge and tell him I’m taking command?”
“Broadly. You will, of course, need a reason for having delayed this long. I suggest –”
“I was busy saving your hide, among others!”
“– will do admirably. The less the lieutenant commander knows of your lack of experience in command, the better. Of course, if he is to ask you,”
“I’ll tell the pup I’ve been running sickbays in disasters he’s never even imagined,” McCoy growls.
“An admirable thought, however something more in the line of commanding men would be preferable. Your command of landing parties, for example.” Spock lies back and stares at the ceiling, voice slightly weaker.
“Yeah, for specimen pick-up.”
“That could, perhaps, be omitted.”
“Are you suggesting I lie, Spock?”
“I am sure I cannot predict what you might do in this time of extreme circumstances,” says the Vulcan, turning to stare at him flatly with dark eyes. It’s more support than he’s seen there in a long time, maybe ever.
“Spock, you do realise I’m really not qualified for this? I mean, I took the command courses for CMOs, but…”
Spock reaches out, this time thumbing on the computer terminal himself before McCoy gets there. When he speaks, his voice is ragged, dropping into a coarse gruffness when he runs out of breath. “Computer, prepare to record official statement by Spock, First Officer of the USS Enterprise.”
“Ready to record.”
He pauses, eyes closed, and then continues in a close approximation of his usual voice, “As First Officer of the USS Enterprise, I hereby introduce Dr. Leonard McCoy, CMO of the same, into the chain of command aboard this vessel, as it is appropriate for his rank.” He opens his eyes and reaches out a wavering arm to switch it off again, but McCoy beats him this time.
“How kind of you,” he says, watching the Vulcan suspiciously.
“As you are aware, doctor, under ordinary circumstances your position in the chain of command is below the bridge lieutenants. Equally, only the captain – or any captain – can change that.”
“So what did you just do?” McCoy gestures at the consol.
“In extreme circumstances, rating officers can make temporary changes, to be approved at a later date by two men of command rank or higher.” Spock breaks the tie with his eyes, turning his own slowly back to the ceiling.
“And if no captain approves them?”
“Then both you and I will be court-martialled for mutiny.” He says it in a completely flat tone, which is not surprising, but it’s infuriating all the same.
“Spock! Are you crazy!?”
“Relax, doctor. You have nothing to lose but your position in Star Fleet – even if your commission is rescinded, you will still have your medical degree.”
“And you? This is your entire career at risk!” McCoy sweeps his hands, unable to indicate the full breadth of what's at risk with his voice.
“As you pointed out before, it is potentially my life at risk now, as well as yours and every other man and woman in this ship. And, more likely,” he adds tersely, “the lives of the captain, the landing party and the colonists.”
McCoy sighs. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“You will be in command, doctor. It is you who must know what you are doing. A captain may ask for opinions, but a starship is not a democracy. You cannot do this by halves.”
McCoy draws himself up and gives the Vulcan his strongest stare. “Mr. Spock, I don’t intend to.”