Star Trek_ A Choice of Catastrophes - Michael Schuster [43]
“Ready, Captain?” asked Seven Deers.
“Ready?” asked Kirk. “Ensign, I’m looking forward to it.”
Seven Deers pulled the lever, and they began their descent into the darkness.
McCoy’s self-preoccupation was momentarily dispelled when he returned to sickbay and saw Nurse Chapel still moving about when she should be off duty. Nobody knew how long the quiet would last—she should be making the most of it.
“Christine,” McCoy said, watching her inspect the settings on a patient’s biobed.
“Doctor?” Chapel looked up, startled.
“How long have you been working without a break?” Part of it was his fault, he knew. He’d been the one who’d gone off to the rec room, retreated to his office, and visited the bridge. She’d been down here, working the entire time.
At least someone is pulling their weight here today. She can actually take care of problems, unlike you.
His attempt to suppress the thought didn’t work very well. The voice in his head seemed to grow more distinct with each passing moment.
“Not since I came on shift,” she said, blushing just enough for him to notice it.
“That’s eight hours!” McCoy exclaimed. “Have you even eaten?”
“I grabbed a salad from the food slots a few hours ago,” she said. “Have you?”
“Yes—” he began, but stopped himself. He hadn’t, he suddenly realized. He’d never made it to that sandwich on his trip to the rec room. But he didn’t even feel hungry. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “You need to sit down. I’ll take over here.”
You’re just trying to avoid a problem you know is too difficult. You’re in your element when you’re doing these small, manageable tasks. It lets you feel accomplished. But if you take a look at the espers, you’ll never get anywhere, and you know it.
Damn it! He hated it when the voice was actually right. Chapel shook her head at his suggestion. “I can handle this.”
“Maybe. But you do need a break, Christine,” he said.
“Any thoughts on our coma patients?” Chapel asked. Like him, she was good at changing the subject when it became uncomfortable. “It could be weeks before we make it to a starbase.”
“No, not yet,” he said, pulling a face. “I’ll get back to it.”
He retreated to his office, nodding at Brent as the med tech passed him. The lieutenant looked a bit the worse for wear, but at least he was back on his feet again and able to do his job, which was the important thing right now.
Once he’d seated himself at his desk, McCoy quickly called up the medical records for all five espers: Bouchard, Petriello, Santos, Fraser, Salah.
Can you even do this? Do you have the expertise to save these people?
Of course he did. He’d seen and overcome stranger diseases and ailments. Hell, he was the man who’d cured the Gamma Hydran hyperaging syndrome!
That wasn’t science, that was a lucky break. If Chekov’s adrenaline rush hadn’t happened to protect him at the moment of infection, you wouldn’t have known a thing about what was going on. And you know even less about espers.
That was true, he realized with painful clarity.
You always like to call yourself “a good old-fashioned country doctor,” and that’s what you are. But that’s not what this situation needs. This situation needs someone who trained to go into space, not someone who did it because they were running away.
Well, that might have been true to begin with, but he’d risen above that, hadn’t he? He’d embraced all aspects of being a starship surgeon. There were few things he liked more than going to a new world and surveying a whole new biology, or spending time with physicians from a new civilization and learning their medical practices.
Well, sure, you like it. That doesn’t actually translate into being good at it.
That wasn’t even remotely true. Right? He pushed the thoughts aside by calling up a comparative analysis of all five espers’ brain patterns. The fact that they’d been affected in roughly the order of decreasing extrasensory ability pointed to a strong link between the unknown phenomenon and their