MCCOY PAUSED in the doorway before leaving the station bridge and looked back at Spock. The Vulcan was seated at one of the consoles with the generator at his elbow, preparing to tie the separate power unit into the station's computer and attempt to contact the Enterprise. "You going to be all right on your own?"
The first officer didn't even look up, eyes intent on his work. "I fail to see how I could be other than 'all right,' Doctor. There is little ill that could happen to me while trying to access the computer banks."
If you can. McCoy thought to himself, suddenly uncomfortable with his natural role as general curmudgeon. He grunted. "Can't prove it to me by this place," he said aloud. He didn't doubt the Vulcan's prowess with computers and their ilk, though he'd rather have dropped into the sea without a life preserver than admit that in anyone's hearing, least of all Spock's. Just as he didn't want to admit to himself how worried he was that none of them would ever reach the Enterprise again.
Had the others made the same deductions as he? They couldn't raise the Enterprise on their communicators. It was safe to assume, knowing Jim Kirk as well as he did, that Uhura must have tried to reach them when they didn't check in after a reasonable length of time. With no response forthcoming from the landing party, why hadn't Jim ordered Scotty to just beam them all back immediately, as was the usual procedure? The answer to that, of course, was that even with Scotty at the controls, they either couldn't locate the landing party or didn't have the power for a return beaming. Which, in turn, meant they were having the same troubles as the space station. Either thought was enough to scare the hell out of McCoy.
He glanced over his shoulder at the wide windows circling the station bridge. Each was shielded by a heavy panel, giving the room the appearance of an enormous metal shipping crate. McCoy wished the baffles were down, even if it was only a crack. He wanted to see out, to see the Enterprise, even if she was far away and unreachable. He wanted confirmation that she and Kirk were still out there, that hope was still out there.
He suddenly realized with a start that Spock was staring at him, hands folded in his lap. How long had McCoy been standing here, lost in thought?
"Is there something else, Dr. McCoy?" the Vulcan inquired solicitously.
"No!" the doctor snapped, embarrassed at having been caught with his guard down. He started out the door, then paused. "Ah … good luck, Spock."
The first officer regarded the doctor through eyes that McCoy could read quite well at the moment. "And to you." The Vulcan's head bent back to his work, and McCoy left the room and joined the others in the hallway.
Chekov looked all business, almost stern and a little withdrawn into himself. Leno was harder to read, being that McCoy didn't know her very well. She seemed okay. He didn't know Hallie very well, either, but she wore her heart on her sleeve. The skin around her eyes was tight and shadowed with pain, but she was doing her best to keep it all together until the mission was over. She was going to be a professional if it was the last thing she did, and McCoy felt a rush of pride in the young officer.
"How can he stay in there?" Leno asked, jerking her head toward the door. "Mr. Spock, I mean. How can he just sit in there with those two dead Romulans?"
"They can't hurt him, Ensign," Chekov replied, probably more brusquely than he'd intended. "And Mr. Spock's enough of an officer to do what needs to be done, whether the circumstances are pleasurable or not."
McCoy rubbed his chilled hands together and shivered. "Okay, Lieutenant Chekov, you're the chief. What's our plan of action?"
Chekov's dark eyes regarded them all coolly, one after the other. "Ensign Hallie and Dr. McCoy, you'll take the right-hand corridor. Leno and I will explore to the left. Keep in mind that equipment is acting oddly, so don't rely on it. You'll be better off relying on your own skills and the skills of your partner. If you lose lighting, remain calm. Don't move unless you know precisely where you are in relation to the things around you." If anything, his expression grew more stern. "We don't want any more accidents." His eyes flicked toward Hallie and away. "We can't be certain the communicators will be useable, so don't get out of voice range of your partner. Under no circumstances is anyone to enter a turboshaft. Any questions?"
That was one concern Chekov didn't need to worry about, so far as McCoy was concerned. There was no way this side of anywhere that the doctor was going to let Hallie climb into a turboshaft without him, and he wasn't about to go with her. In fact, he had every intention of not getting within ten feet of a turboshaft if he saw it before it saw him.
"All right, then," Chekov concluded when he saw that no one had any questions. "We'll rendezvous back here in no more than one hour. That should give Mr. Spock plenty of time to do what he needs to if he can, and it's more than enough time for us to do a cursory check of this floor. Let's go." With a curt nod, he turned away and started down the left-hand corridor with Leno coursing at his heels like an eager hound on a freshly scented trail.
"I wish I could be like that," Hallie said quietly, watching them disappear around the corner.
McCoy followed her gaze. "How do you mean?"
"They're both so cool, so calm about everything. Looking at them, you'd never know that Dan …" She sighed, and her mouth tightened bitterly.
"Let me tell you something, Ensign." McCoy started down the right-hand hallway, drawing her after him with his voice. "I can't speak for Ensign Leno, but I've known Lieutenant Chekov a long time. Don't be fooled by his outward demeanor. He feels things just as sharply as you do. But he's learned through the experience of years, as you will, that grief has its time and place, and the center of a mission isn't it." He smiled gently. "Trust me. They're hurting inside, too, probably Chekov most of all. He takes it very personally when he loses a team member. Now, come on. Let's get moving." He lengthened his stride and wasn't really surprised when Hallie sped her pace until she preceded him by a few cautionary steps. Despite her grief, this was one young woman who took her security post very seriously. She wouldn't hear any complaints out of McCoy in that regard. He was grateful for her presence. Left to his own devices, he wasn't certain he would ever have left the dubious security of the station bridge, Spock's orders notwithstanding.
The corridor they traversed was as murkily lit as the rest of the station had been, and empty. The first door they encountered stood open, admitting them into a small lounge, or some type of briefing room. McCoy barely took note of the furnishings as his eyes lit upon the two tall, narrow windows directly across from the doorway, their view not obscured by baffling as were the wide windows of the bridge. He hurried across the room and stared out at the heart-catching sight of the Enterprise, stark white and shining like Arthur's Grail against the backdrop of stars.
"She's pretty on the inside and I'm proud to be part of her like I've never been proud of anything else in my life." Hallie spoke quietly from behind him, where she stood on tiptoe to see over his shoulder. Her voice was hushed and reverent. "But she's one gorgeous lady from the outside."
"That she is, Ensign. She's the proudest ship in the fleet." McCoy's chest felt tight with longing to be aboard her once again.
Hallie's small, strong hand rested on his shoulder and squeezed briefly. "We're going to get back to her, sir. All of us." Utter faith colored her tone. "You can be sure of that."
The doctor was warmed by her conviction. "I am sure of that, Ensign," McCoy replied stoutly, sure of no such thing. It was an amazing and endearing aspect of Humanity that, no matter what the odds, you could rest assured that they would make the best effort to bolster one another's failing confidence, whether or not there was any fact upon which to base that bolstering.
Hallie's hand dropped. "We'd better get going, Dr. McCoy, if we're going to cover our end of things before our time is up. Besides, we don't want the chief to come along and catch us sightseeing."
The remark reminded McCoy poignantly of Kirk, standing cocksure and proud in the transporter room, confident in his abilities and those of his crew. Jim wouldn't have let any of this get him down, at least not for very long. He'd keep busy, keep his brain churning over the problem at hand until he found a solution, or so exhausted the problem with his attempts that it rolled over, belly-up and all four legs in the air, and surrendered. McCoy could do no less than follow his captain's excellent example.
"Right you are, Ensign Hallie. Let's finish in here and move on." He turned away from the window after a final, brief look at home, and did not dare look back for fear of never being able to tear his eyes away again.
Austere and elegant black furniture with upholstery the color of dried blood stood gathered together in various conversation nooks around the room's perimeter. There were no trappings to indicate recent occupation of the room by the station's inhabitants. Rather, the contrary was true. The room had the air of never having been used at all. The walls were devoid of decoration and, when McCoy reached out a tentative hand and ran his fingers along a panel, were cold and faintly moist to the touch, like the walls of the turboshaft. He smelled his fingertips but detected no aroma. His skin felt vaguely slick when he rubbed his fingers together, another sensation reminiscent of the turboshaft climb. With a grimace, he wiped his hand against his trouser leg.
"Something the matter, Dr. McCoy?" Hallie paused in the doorway, ready to leave, and glanced back at him. When he shook his head, hurrying to join her and resume their exploration of the corridor, she nodded. "It's creepy, isn't it? Kind of like being in one of those haunted houses people used to put up during Halloween."
McCoy chuckled. "Now that you mention it, it is sort of reminiscent of that. A big, old, empty place with echoing corridors." And dead bodies. Better not to think about that. "The only difference between a haunted house and this station is that the station doesn't have any haunts wandering down the halls toward you with their head under their arm."
"But that sort of makes it worse, don't you think?" she asked. The ruddy illumination on her face from the emergency lights cast strange shadows against the delicate structure of flesh over finely sculpted bone. She looked about seven years old and more vulnerable than she actually was. "We don't even know what it is we're up against. When you can see something, it's easier to evaluate it and determine how to deal with it."
"Sort of like what shaman have said about knowing the true name of something." When Hallie blinked confusedly at him, McCoy explained. "Some cultures believe that everything in the world has two names, the name you know it by—like you knowing me as Dr. Leonard McCoy—and its real name. The everyday name is nothing, it's powerless. But the real name—" He paused ponderously, waggling a finger in the air, and she smiled. "That's something else again. When you know a person's or thing's real name, you have power over it. You can control it." He shrugged. "At least that's what they say."
"I think I understand what you mean." Hallie's nod was a sharp, birdlike gesture. Her eyes never rested on any one thing but moved continuously, alert for danger. "When you don't have the assurance of knowing something's real name—or knowing for certain if something's really there, waiting in the dark—you have no power over it or your situation. Your imagination can take over and sometimes make things worse than they really are."
"You can pretty much guarantee it'll make things worse than they really are," McCoy amended. "It's the nature of the human beast. If a person isn't careful, their imagination can really run away with them. It's an interesting trait. A lot of different species have it, even some of the so-called 'lower' species. It's not really a sense, in the strict definition of the term, but it can affect all your senses and make you experience any number of things. All that seems to matter is whether or not you believe, and how strongly you hold that belief."
Hallie stopped abruptly and turned toward him, her expression serious. "Do you think that's what happened to Dan? Did his imagination get too big for him, become too real? Is that why he died?"
He thought this might be where this whole conversation had been heading. No amount of medical or psychological training really prepared a person to try and answer these kinds of questions, and Leonard McCoy had both in spades. Unfortunately, he still hadn't satisfied his own mind as to how much of Markson's death was pure accident and how much was a result of his fear. But Hallie wanted some kind of answer, and it had to be an honest one. She'd know in a moment if he wasn't being up front with her.
He kept walking, his eyes tracking sideways where she strode along beside him. Her expression was grave, her dark eyes unwaveringly on McCoy's features. "I don't know anything for certain, Suzanna. I know that's not much of an answer, and I apologize for that, but only Dan knew what was going on in his head. Only he knew the depth of his feelings, be they fear or something else. I think your guess is as intelligent a deduction as any, particularly since you knew Dan as a person, as a friend. I wish I could say I had, but I just can't know every single person who ships aboard the Enterprise. I didn't know Dan Markson except as a name tag on a medical record." The admission made McCoy sorry, even as he understood the futility of that sorrow. "For all I know, maybe he thought the sounds coming out of the shaft when the turbolift engaged were the sounds of the dead in the enra, and his childhood fears just took over. I think the situation and his past came together in just the wrong way for him, Suzanna, and he suffered a horrible, tragic accident." McCoy knew Hallie would eventually make up her own mind about Markson's death. All McCoy could do was offer suggestions.
Hallie scratched her chin, quietly pondering his words. "Then you don't believe in ghosts?"
"I don't believe in Commander Scott's ship-burning, blood-covered haunts, no."
"That doesn't precisely answer my question, Dr. McCoy," she said archly.
He grinned. "No, Ensign, I don't suppose it does." He paused to peek inside an open doorway. Another small office. Nothing remarkable. "I've watched a lot of people die, Hallie, some of them very close to me." His eyes grew momentarily distant, thinking about his father. "Some died tragically, some fearfully, some with the greatest dignity you can imagine."
"But have you ever seen a ghost?" She seemed to want real assurances in this regard. What did she think, that Daniel Markson was going to reappear protoplasmically?
"You want my personal opinion on the matter of ghosts?"
"Please." She nodded eagerly.
"Okay," McCoy said seriously. "Despite Commander Scott's seemingly bottomless wealth of stories about phantoms of all shapes, sizes, and dispositions, I swear to you by my oath as a doctor of medicine that in all my years as a practicing physician, I have never seen anything to make me even remotely believe in ghosts, goblins, spooks, gremlins, or haunts that didn't have a rational explanation. I work very closely with the ephemeral, Ensign. I've brought babies into the world and ushered out friends and strangers alike, and I've certainly been in a position to have had a visitation if one was forthcoming. Hell!" he expounded. "It's practically due me!"
"Belief is the weirdest thing," she said with exasperation. "It's so hard to understand how two groups of people can believe in such radically different concepts."
"That's what makes us who we are, Ensign. Talk to Mr. Spock about the IDIC sometime, if you really want to give your brain a workout," McCoy chuckled. "Belief is a weird thing, yes. It's also a very cultural, very personal thing. Just like the imagination. Which brings us full circle."
Hallie smiled. "I guess so. Thanks, Dr. McCoy."
"For whatever little I've done, you're welcome."
A few yards on, the corridor split into a T. McCoy stopped and looked in either direction. "What do you say, Ensign?"
She followed his lead, staring first one way, and then the other. "Well, going to the left probably leads back toward Leno and the chief." She flashed her handlamp in that direction to get a clearer view, but there was nothing noteworthy to see. She trained the light in the other direction. "We've still got time on the clock, Dr. McCoy. Might as well make the most of it, don't you think?"
McCoy wasn't certain he should tell her what he really thought. "I would get saddled with the one who wants to see everything in the universe," he groused good-naturedly.
"You don't want the chief and Ensign Leno to grab all the glory, do you, Dr. McCoy? Think of what we might find."
"I am thinking about it, Ensign." He sighed and straightened his shoulders. "Why do I think I'm going to be sorry I didn't tell you ghosts are real?"
Her light laughter drew him down the hallway after her, their footfalls sounding a twinned cadence on the metal decking. There were more doors along this section of hallway, but most were securely locked or jammed. The ones that stood open seemed to be sparse living quarters. Beyond those they found a small botanical garden full of withered and dead plants and, still farther on, a mess hall.
"At least we'll know where to get food if we want it," McCoy commented from the doorway. Several foodpacks lay strewn across the floor as though dropped in someone's hurry. It was kind of sad, really. Had those poor souls in the amphitheater tried to stay alive no matter what, hoping rescue would come, only to succumb to something they could not avoid? McCoy shook his head. "I never thought I'd see the day when I'd be trying to jimmy a Romulan cafeteria, but weirder things have happened to me since I joined Starfleet. Let's go."
They turned away and continued down the corridor, unsuccessfully trying doors as they progressed its length. McCoy glanced over at Hallie and caught her shivering. "Are you all right?"
She nodded and chafed her hands together. "Just a little cold, I guess. Doesn't it feel colder in here to you?" She flipped up the collar of her field jacket, framing her face in white.
He thought about it. No, it didn't feel any colder. But he felt colder, deep down inside, like he used to feel as a kid when he was coming down with the flu. It was a cold that, unchecked, could go all the way to the marrow.
Something very much like a fist grabbed McCoy's guts and knotted them with a quick twist. Knowing it was useless, knowing it was stupid and having to do it anyway just to make certain, he pulled out his mediscanner. "Hold still."
"Why? What's the mat—?"
"Just hold still!" he ordered, voice gruffer than he'd intended. He ran the scanner the length of Hallie's slender frame, then turned it on himself. The results made him very grim.
Hallie saw it immediately. "What's the matter, Dr. McCoy?"
He shook his head in perplexity. "Our internal body temperatures have dropped."
"What's causing it?" She wrapped her arms around herself.
"I don't know. It shouldn't be happening at all. It's not cold enough in here to warrant it." He ran the scanners over both of them again, to reaffirm his findings. They were the same. Both he and Hallie were down by about four degrees. He could only assume the same was true for Chekov and Leno. And probably Spock. "Look, let's finish up here and get back to the bridge. I need to check on the others and—"
The sudden force of Hallie's arm across his chest slammed him up against the wall hard enough to make McCoy cry out in surprise. He stared at her. "Do you have a personal vendetta against me, Ensign, or—"
"Shush!" Her head was turned away from him, her eyes on the corridor.
"What is it?" McCoy whispered.
She shook her head in a sharp, angry gesture to quell anything else he might feel compelled to say. Her eyes searched the corridor ahead where it turned a corner. "I don't know." Her voice was so faint, McCoy read her lips more than heard the actual words. "I saw something. I know I saw something move, and this time it wasn't our lights along the bulkhead, because our lights aren't on. I'm going to take a closer look. Stay here."
"But—" Her fierce grip tightened and cut him off.
"Security's orders, Doctor, for your own safety. Stay here and wait for me. I'll be back before you know it." Before he could even attempt to voice an argument, she slid away from him as smoothly and silently as oil on water. Phaser ready in one hand, she held her handlamp against her chest with the other, readying it to flash into the intruder's eyes and give her the advantage of the opponent's momentary blindness. Hugging the wall like a shadow thrown by lamplight, she catfooted along the corridor toward her objective.
At the corner, she glanced back for a moment. "Be careful," McCoy whispered unnecessarily. She couldn't have heard, but she gave him a brief nod nonetheless before turning away. The rise of her narrow shoulders gave clue to the deep breath she inhaled before rounding the juncture and entering the other corridor, disappearing from McCoy's view.
A scream to rend vocal cords and leave them bloody echoed through the corridor and drove a spike of fear into the doctor's heart. He jumped to his feet and started forward. "HALLIE!" At that instant, the emergency lights died without a cluing flicker, dropping the doctor into a darkness more absolute than the bottom of a mine shaft and freezing him where he stood.