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Spock spoke up. “At the current rate of fire, they will fail in ten minutes.”

“What’s your plan?” asked Scotty.

“Ensign Seven Deers is working to repair the Columbus’s phaser system, at which point we will not need to fly cover for them.”

Another boom, louder this time. The whine in the background, which his trained ears told him was coming from the shield generator, increased in intensity for about two seconds. “We need to get out of range. Let me help Seven Deers. Doc, do you not have to look after poor Rawlins?”

M’Benga said nothing, but his face spoke volumes. In a way, Scotty understood how the doctor felt. He’d feel the same way if his engines started complaining about the way he’d repaired them.

“Mister Scott, I appreciate your eagerness to be of assistance,” Spock said. “Do you have an idea?”

“Mister Spock, I’ve got two of them. Link me up to the ensign.”

Christine Chapel held her breath as Doctor McCoy glanced back and forth between Specialist Huber and the medical monitor above his bed. The surgery had gone well so far, and they were almost done. Just a few more patches of dead skin.

The doctor was working intently, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He hadn’t said a word during the past hour, apart from requests for surgical tools. It was as if he couldn’t afford even the slightest distraction. Chapel decided not to ask him what was wrong. Once the surgery was completed, she’d get it out of him.

The last of the damaged skin was gone, and artificial skin had taken its place. Chapel ran the protoplaser over the new skin on Huber’s arms, stimulating its growth. Once Huber woke up, he’d find himself healed, and in a few weeks’ time, there would be no trace of the accident whatsoever.

The doctor put away his tools, then turned off the surgical arch. “Good work, Doctor,” Chapel said, smiling encouragingly at him.

McCoy mumbled, “Thank you.” He was clearly preoccupied.

“Can you clean this up?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the life-sign monitor above Huber’s head.

“Yes, Doctor.” There was little to do besides disinfecting the medical devices. Huber was no longer in critical condition, although he would require at least a couple of days of supervision.

“Good,” McCoy said. “Good.” He disappeared into the ward to check on Bouchard, Petriello, Santos, Fraser, and Salah. Their condition had not improved, but at least it hadn’t gotten any worse. The doctor’s treatment was keeping their brains’ deterioration at bay.

What if the espers never came out of the coma? What if they remained in this state until their bodies gave up?

The doctor doesn’t know what to do. He always makes up things as he goes along, but now it’s not working. He’s rapidly reaching the end of his knowledge—maybe he’s already exceeded it. Maybe you should stop idolizing him.

That wasn’t true. She didn’t idolize him… why would she think that? And she was sure he still hadn’t tried everything he could come up with. There had to be something he could do to save these people. There had to be.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Huber’s sudden scream. She almost dropped the protoplaser. What was going on here? During surgery, he’d been calm, just like every other sedated patient. Was he regaining consciousness? He shouldn’t be, not so soon.

“Doctor!” she shouted, to be heard in the ward. “Doctor McCoy!”

By the time he arrived, Huber had started to spasm, so violently that he was in danger of falling off the biobed. Luckily, the surgical arch over his chest kept him sufficiently restrained. Chapel couldn’t imagine what the cause was.

“Just what I feared,” McCoy said, his lined face grim as he studied the biosigns. “I don’t understand this,” he said. “He shouldn’t be experiencing any pain. The readouts tell me that he isn’t. Not pain, at least. He’s clearly experiencing something, though. Readings indicate high neural activity.” He shook his head. “It’s almost as if his body doesn’t know it’s sedated.”

“Mister Scott.” Spock cast a quick glance backward at the supine engineer. “Are you ready?”

“Just a moment,” Scott