BREATHING DEEPLY through his mouth against the almost overwhelming stench in the amphitheater proved to be almost as difficult for McCoy as breathing through his nose. The stink of decomposition was a palpable thing, lying along his tongue and the back of his throat in a way that let him taste its sweet sourness.
Quelling the desire to lose the meager remains of his last meal, McCoy twisted the mediscanner on. Its self-diagnostic beep let him know it was still functioning, unlike so much else aboard the station, but who knew when it might decide to quit on him? Stepping forward, he ran the business end of it back and forth above the nearest bodies. While one part of his mind occupied itself with interpreting the sounds emitted by the mechanism, McCoy did his own scan by eye.
McCoy wasn't interested in how they had died. The scanner would tell him that and much more by the time it was done taking its readings. What he was concerned with were clues to who these people were, how they had gotten to this place, and what they had been doing here. Was this station merely an attempt on the part of the Romulans to expand their presence in the galaxy—not unlike the motive the Human race had in building its first space stations? Or had there been a more nefarious reason for its construction?
And what about the secretive Romulans themselves? Did these people laugh at the same kinds of jokes he did? Did they even laugh at all? Did they enjoy a glass of Romulan ale after a hard day's work as much as he liked to relax with a glass of Kentucky bourbon? Did they hold their friends as dear to their hearts as he did Jim, Scotty, and (God help him) Spock?
This wasn't a game the physician was playing, though it had started out that way all those long-ago years in medical school at the Academy. Back then (and, given the common thread in medical students, it probably still went on), there was a running contest of sorts among the interns and residents to see how much they could divine about a patient merely by silent observation. Their deductions would then be corroborated or refuted by the hospital's written records. McCoy had become pretty good at it, good enough that the other students in his class took to calling him Sherlock McCoy. It was fun making those educated guesses, but during the course of that fun McCoy discovered an extraordinary thing. He began using that talent to better understand his patients, to learn where they came from, where they were going, what their fears and passions were, and how those impacted on their illness or their injury.
So many physicians couldn't be bothered to take the time to really watch and know their patients, to "be where they are looking," as a Native American professor had once appropriately phrased it. In McCoy's opinion, that sort of doctor was missing out on a rare opportunity to be something more than just a dispenser of medication. It was much easier to treat someone you were familiar with, someone you knew a little something about, even if that knowledge was garnered only through intuition. Granted, there was nothing of import he could do now for these dead Romulans, but that old training perked to life under his skin. He wanted to know a little more about these people, to make them real in his mind even if it was only for a moment or two, to make their deaths matter—if only to him.
The doctor contemplated his cadaverous patients for a moment longer, then turned and vacated the room, closing the door securely behind him. Only then, with the comparatively fresh air of the station cleansing the fetidness from his nostrils, did he realize that the rest of the party had joined him and Hallie, probably running up when they saw her turn away, sickened. She sat cross-legged on the floor, head bent over her knees, breathing deeply. Markson and Chekov knelt on either side of her. Markson's hand was on her shoulder in support, while the security chief spoke quietly in her ear. McCoy saw her nod at something Chekov said and look up. Her eyes seemed bigger than before against the pasty whiteness of her face.
Spock was watching McCoy. "Doctor?"
He jerked his head back. "It's not a pretty sight in there, Spock, but look if you want to. It's full of dead Romulans." He waited, back turned, while Spock made an extremely brief investigation. He heard the sound of a communicator being flipped open.
"Spock to Enterprise. This is Mr. Spock, contacting the Enterprise. Come in, Enterprise."
McCoy didn't expect a reply but was still disappointed when none came. He would have given almost anything to hear Jim Kirk's voice right about now, even if all Jim had to tell them was that they couldn't effect a rescue right at the moment. Just knowing he was out there would be a great help.
When the Vulcan returned to his side, McCoy was looking down at the scanner in his hand. "This is damned odd …"
"Doctor?"
He sighed irritably and returned the instrument to the pouch at his waist. "Well, according to the scanner's readings, all those people in there died of hypothermia. But I don't see how that can be possible." He breathed heavily, and his breath smoked slightly in the cool air. "It's just not that cold in here, especially on a station carrying clothing and blankets, like we've seen." He scratched his head. "I just don't get it. I don't get it at all."
Leno spoke up. "Is it possible that life support kicked off altogether and then came back on-line later?"
"As my grandpa used to say, Ensign, anything's possible in an animated cartoon," McCoy conceded. "If I wanted to buy the premise that these people had been murdered, I could see someone taking control of life support and shutting down every area but theirs until the others were dead, then reactivating it to throw a kink in any investigation that might follow. But there are just too many loose ends for that, and I don't think that's the case. Call it a gut feeling." He glanced briefly over his shoulder and away again. "I think those people came together for warmth and it just wasn't enough to sustain them. But it should have been." He frowned, disquieted, his eyes distant. He was reminded suddenly of his remark to Jim about finding a station full of dead Romulans. "This is just too weird." Even after all his years in the medical field and the vast extent of his training, knowledge, and hands-on experience, things like this still tended to make McCoy's gut clench up like a fist. Hypothermia was a damned tragic way for someone to die.
Rubbing her arms, Ensign Hallie stood up from the floor and released a short, explosively pent breath. "At least it's not some kind of plague we could catch," she said with relief and looked around at her companions.
"Well, it wasn't hypothermia that killed that first Romulan we found," Leno replied with laconic pragmatism and jerked a thumb over her shoulder back the way they came. Hallie shot her a dirty look behind Chekov's back.
"And it wasn't plague, either," McCoy added firmly. "Unless it's a plague that can make its victims run into walls headfirst."
"Do you think there are more bodies on board?" Markson wanted to know.
The doctor shrugged. "Who knows? If there are, I don't want to find them. I've seen plenty for today."
"How long have they been dead, Doctor?" Spock asked. He stared thoughtfully at the closed doors at McCoy's back, his expression unreadable.
"The scanner estimates four to six weeks," McCoy replied tiredly. "Same as the woman down below. Due to the extent of deterioration, I'm afraid I can't do any better than that without transporting them into sickbay and performing an autopsy. Why?"
Spock nodded as though caching the information away for further pondering somewhere in that computer he called a brain. "I am merely trying to discern how long this station may have been adrift. Since the Romulans died at least four weeks ago from the effects of hypothermia, it is safe to assume the station has been adrift that long, and possibly longer. Beginning with the four-week time frame, if we can postulate the station's current trajectory and speed as having been constant and without interference from outside source or internal tampering, we should be able to deduce from where it drifted and chart its origin on a starchart."
"If you can find a computer to access that will let you do that, or manage to contact the Enterprise. Beside, I thought we decided that this station just washed in from the Romulan Empire." The doctor folded his arms. He felt unreasonably cross with the Vulcan's calm dissertation and the entire damned situation they were in. Being irritated … well, it annoyed him.
"Probable, but not certain, Doctor. Current information makes that reasoning inconclusive and only one avenue of not particularly valid speculation," Spock politely pointed out. "There are others."
"I don't think I want to hear them right now," McCoy hastened to reply. He stepped away from the amphitheater turned tomb and walked back the way they had come, drawing the others after him. He had no great desire to loiter outside the place. "Frankly, Spock, at the moment I pretty well don't give a damn where this station came from. All I care about is that we're without power and cut off from the Enterprise." He glanced at the tall figure striding along beside him. "You said something before about finding a map of the station?"
Spock nodded. "It was not extremely detailed, but it did show the location of the station's bridge. I endeavored to memorize it before the system abruptly shut down."
"Well, in that case, we'd better not lose you, had we?"
Spock let the comment slide. "Now that I know with better assurance where we are within the station, we can more accurately direct our progress. According to the map, if we take the stairs up two more levels, we can then access a corridor that will take us to a turboshaft and, hence, to the bridge."
"Wait just one damn minute," McCoy broke in brusquely and stopped dead. Spock looked at him and blinked so patiently that the doctor was reminded of one of his uncle's Jersey cows. "Taking a turbolift might have been a fine idea before all this nonsense with the power started. If you think I'm getting into a turbolift on a station with fluctuating power that might just decide at any moment to cut out altogether, you're out of your ever-loving Vulcan mind! There's no way I'm getting turned into pâté for you or anyone else."
"Your concern is legitimate, but unfounded, Dr. McCoy." Spock placated him unemotionally. "In other circumstances, I might have suggested such a course of action. However, I would not recommend making the attempt now."
"Good to hear it," McCoy said gruffly. "So why do I feel like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop?"
Spock continued, unconcerned by the doctor's interruption. "However, there should be maintenance access ladders along the entire turbolift system. In all probability, we can use those to access the bridge level."
McCoy grimaced. He hated heights almost as much as he hated water. "Aren't there stairs we can take?"
"According to the map, the stair system does not reach to the bridge level."
"Now, why doesn't that surprise me?" McCoy asked wearily. He glanced at Hallie, whose color had improved. "You better learn something about landing parties right now, Ensign."
"What's that, sir?"
"Nothing ever goes right!" He looked over at Chekov. "It sounds like a long climb, Lieutenant. I hope your crew has thick callouses on their hands."
Chekov nodded grimly. "It comes with the territory, Dr. McCoy. It comes with the territory."
When the landing party emerged from the stairwell two levels higher than the station's shopping district, Spock paused, gestured with one graceful hand, and started down an adjacent hallway. "The turboshaft we seek should be at the next corridor junction."
The others hurried to follow him and were gratified to find that to, indeed, be the case. Unfortunately, the tall, black-hued turboshaft doors were securely barred against them, locked shut when station power dropped.
McCoy stared sourly at their latest obstacle, his eyes following the trapezoidal shape of the doors and the solid seam down the middle. This mission had ceased being enjoyable in any way a long time ago. "Well, do you have any recommendations, ladies and gentlemen? We seem to be at an impasse."
"We can try patching the generator into the wall controls for the turbolift," Chekov said, studying the fingerpad closely. "This looks like a pretty close match, and what isn't I can jerry-rig. That should produce enough power to get the doors partway open, at least, and gain us entrance to the ladder system."
"God willing and the creek don't rise," McCoy felt compelled to add. "It wouldn't work in that office down below."
"I don't believe we need the reminder, Dr. McCoy," Spock said. "The turboshaft system represents a more integral part of the station. In theory, it should be the main lifeline, if you will, of the station proper and may be more easily accessed, particularly given the fact that there is an appropriate conduit. In any case, we lose nothing by the attempt. Proceed, Lieutenant Chekov," Spock ordered and stepped back to give the younger man room.
"I'm surprised at you, Spock," McCoy murmured. The doctor stood with one hip sidecocked and his arms folded loosely across his chest, watching Chekov work with his typically small, precise, unwasteful movements.
"How so, Doctor?" Spock also kept his voice low so as not to distract the security chief from his task. His dark eyes kept careful watch on Chekov's progress.
McCoy fought a smile but continued to watch the Chekov, fascinated by the jerry-rig job he was performing on the turbolift conduit. "Oh, I just figured that with a Vulcan's superior strength, you'd just pry open the doors for us, like you did downstairs."
Spock's eyes never diverted from watching Chekov and his crew patch in the portable generator. Leno and Hallie held it in their arms, slung between them like a patient in a four-handed seat lift, while Chekov connected wires to appropriate circuits. "I am strong, Doctor," the first officer conceded. "However, I am not that strong."
McCoy cocked his head sideways and looked up. "Really? I'm disappointed."
Spock gave every impression of not wanting to continue with this conversation, suspecting a trap. The racial politeness of his Vulcan bloodline, however, would not let him rudely break it off, much as his human side probably wanted to. "And why is that, Doctor?"
McCoy shifted his weight to the opposite hip and shrugged a lean shoulder. "I just thought that once we all retired, I could get you a job as a circus strongman."
"Thank you, Dr. McCoy," Spock replied with a patience born of long association with the caustic, teasing physician. "I shall endeavor to keep that in mind once I have retired from duty to Starfleet. However, since the lifespan of a Vulcan is appreciably longer than that of a Human, I anticipate that I shall be enjoying service to Starfleet and the Federation long after you have—how do Humans phrase it?—been put out to pasture. At that time, you might want to consider a second career as a purveyor of snake oil. It would put your verbal skills to good use." With that remark, Spock stepped forward to watch more closely Chekov at work.
McCoy glared at the Vulcan's back. "Very funny," he groused. He glanced around, impatient to have them be on their way, though he wasn't looking forward to climbing up what promised to be several deck levels of the station in their bid for the bridge. Imagine sticking the command center of your station out at the end of nowhere. It was different from anything he'd encountered, but he could kind of see the Romulans' point, if they had done it for security reasons. It made McCoy wonder just what else they'd done aboard this station in the name of security.
Movement tickled his peripheral vision, and he turned his head sharply. Nothing was there except the long expanse of the deserted corridor, empty and dark in the wake of their passage. Funny, he could have sworn …
He turned back to find Markson watching him closely. An eerie knowledge seemed held at bay in the ensign's dark eyes. "Did you see something, Dr. McCoy?" he inquired softly.
McCoy shrugged and rubbed his shoulder nervously. "Just had a crick in my neck, son."
Markson nodded. "Of course." His eyes sought the corridor beyond McCoy's shoulder. The doctor turned to follow his line of vision, but of course there was nothing to be seen.
"We're ready," Chekov announced. "Here goes." He depressed a button on the turbolift fingerpad. Nothing happened, and Hallie's face fell. Chekov reached to fiddle with a dial on the front of the generator and hit the button again. The double doors silently slid apart about a foot, and the first real smile McCoy had seen in some time graced the Russian's round features.
"Well done, Lieutenant," Spock praised. He stepped closer. He and Chekov stuck their heads into the narrow opening and shone their handlamps around the shaft's dark interior.
"Looks all clear," the security chief confirmed. Precariously balanced in a way that made McCoy think of Jim's propensity for climbing mountains as a form of relaxation (his, not McCoy's), Chekov reached inside and shook the metal ladder attached to the inside wall of the shaft. "Seems secure. I don't think we'll have any problem." He straightened and turned to face them. "I'll go first. Mister Spock, you'll follow me, then Markson, Hallie, Dr. McCoy, and Leno. Ensign Leno, it's going to be up to you to disconnect the generator and bring it along."
"Right, Chief," she nodded. "No problem."
"I recommend that we strap our handlamps onto our wrists," Chekov advised, suiting action to words and watching closely while the others did the same. "That way, we'll have both hands free to climb and we won't be shining the lights down into each other's face. Everyone ready? Let's go." He swung out into the shaft with all the grace and agility of a monkey and started up the ladder.
McCoy waited in line behind Hallie, but his eyes were on Markson standing ahead of her. What was going through his mind? It didn't take long to find out. Markson stopped at the edge of the shaft, presumably to get his bearings before swinging out into the darkness. When he didn't move after a few moments, Hallie gave him a nudge in the center of the back. "Come on, Dan. Let's move out." There was no response from the tall ensign, but McCoy saw the line of his shoulders tense.
"Dan?" Hallie reached out to touch him, and McCoy caught her arm, shaking his head sternly.
He moved around her to stand at Markson's side. "Ensign? Is everything okay?" He rested a gentle hand on the security guard's wrist and quickly counted pulse beats. The young man's heart was racing so quickly it was a wonder the doctor couldn't hear the drumming. "Dan? What's wrong, son?"
From inside the shaft came Spock's voice. "Is something the matter, Dr. McCoy?"
"We're fine, Spock. We'll be right with you. Just hang on." He winced at the inadvertent bad pun and was patently thankful when Spock didn't follow it up with some witty rejoinder.
Markson was muttering something, and McCoy had to lean close to hear him clearly. "What, Dan? What did you say?"
"The enra. It's just like the enra."
The Enterprise doctor was baffled by the comment. "The enra? What's the enra?" When Markson only continued to stare wide-eyed into the shaft's darkness, McCoy shook his arm slightly. "Dan, what's the enra?"
The security guard swallowed convulsively and turned toward McCoy. In the displaced light of the handlamps, his face looked leached of blood, his eyes wide and frightened. "The enra—" He licked his lips and swallowed again. "The enra are the deep pits on Vindali 5 where the dead are buried and where their spirits rise to the surface. They're just like this, just this size, and the dead are buried in layers, and their ghosts rise up to walk—" He breathed deeply, fighting to keep himself under control. "There's this sound when the dead rise, when the ghosts come. It's like a screeching howl that announces their coming—"
"Dan." McCoy's voice was stern. Hallie and Leno were silent behind him, and he knew Chekov and Spock must be listening from within the shaft. "I don't hear anything like that, do you?" His fingers tightened on the guard's forearm. "Do you?"
A quick shake of the head. "No, sir."
"That's because we aren't on Vindali 5 and this isn't an enra. There aren't any ghosts here. There aren't any—" Well, he couldn't say there weren't any dead, that's for sure. "There aren't any ghosts here," he reiterated. He leaned closer. "Did you visit the enra as a kid, Dan? Did you see something on Vindali 5?"
Markson laughed. It was a weak and sickly sound, but it was still a laugh and it eased McCoy's concern just a trifle. "There are always things to see on Vindali 5, Dr. McCoy. Ghost walks, spirit dances, parades for the dead …" His eyes finally found the doctor's and settled there. A small smile touched the security guard's pale lips. "I'm okay, Dr. McCoy. Thank you."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, sir. It was just a shock, that's all, seeing something like this after four years away …" He waved a hand toward the shaft. "I'm okay," he repeated.
"All right, son." McCoy patted his arm. "I'll take your word for it. You get nervous again, you just let me know."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
Chekov's voice sounded from the depths of the shaft, his tone concerned. "Is everything okay back there?"
At a final nod from Markson, McCoy called out, "We're fine, Lieutenant. We're coming along behind you right now." He gave Markson another squeeze on the arm and returned to his place in line.
Moving with infinite care and making sure to never look down, Markson disappeared into the shaft. A moment later, Hallie sprang after him like a small ape, swinging effortlessly onto the metal rungs. She smiled over her shoulder at McCoy as she ascended the ladder behind the others. "Come on, Doctor," she encouraged. "There's nothing to it."
"Easy for you to say." He stopped at the edge of the shaft and unwisely peered down. His light illuminated a good distance before being swallowed by encroaching shadows. There was nothing of note to see, no gaping mouth ready to swallow him whole, no spectral vision complete with scythe and lantern, and none of Vindali 5's walking dead. There was nothing to worry about. So why the hesitation?
"It's not a good idea to look down, Dr. McCoy." Leno's mellow voice was soft in his ear. She already had the generator secured around her strong, broad shoulders by its carry strap and was ready to follow him into the shaft as soon as she unhooked the leads.
"You're telling me." He brought his head up and trained his eyes on the ladder, promising himself not to look down again. Taking a deep breath and swallowing hard, he reached for the nearest rung, gingerly stepped out into the spotlit darkness of the shaft, and began climbing. He kept his eyes fastened on his hands, curled about the rungs before him, and only glanced up occasionally to make sure he didn't get too close to Hallie, or to reassure himself that the others were still there, their handlamps bobbing in the darkness above. Behind him, he heard the snap of disconnecting wires and Leno's easy leap to the ladder as the turboshaft doors closed behind her. Now they were locked away in the heart of the station. McCoy sternly ordered himself not to think about being buried alive.
The air in the shaft smelled stale, almost mildewy, as it had throughout the station, and was still tainted with the scent of rotting peaches, which was a whole sight better than that of rotting flesh. The odor of mildew was a familiar one to McCoy, having grown up in the more humid climes of the southeastern United States, but it was one he'd never encountered in space. The airtight environment of a space vessel usually precluded the development of mildew, and yet here was the pervasive scent of it or something very like it. He wanted to ask Spock about it, but there was no way he was going to attempt to engage the Vulcan in conversation right now and risk losing his concentration on the slender metal rungs passing beneath his hands.
Noting that his hands felt strange, McCoy paused and freed one, rubbing the chilled fingers together. The ladder felt somewhat slick, though there didn't appear to be any residue on his fingers. Carefully, he reached out and touched the cool wall. It felt the same as the ladder, as though something was there—but not there. He shook his head. Don't lose your grip, Leonard, he thought, and made another face.
"Problem, Dr. McCoy?" Leno's voice wafted up to him softly from below.
He wiped his hand on his pant leg. "No, I'm fine." He shivered, not completely from the cold air, and continued to climb.
They ascended in silence, the only sounds the scuff of their boots on the rungs and the sounds of their labored breathing. Their lights dipped and weaved along the shaft walls like drunken fireflies. They paused for breath periodically, and during those breaks, Chekov and Spock spoke briefly, comparing their count of levels and how many more they expected to have to climb before reaching the appropriate deck. McCoy was grateful that life support functioned, if only minimally. That meant it would never get cold enough in here to threaten their lives … except somehow, against all sense, those Romulans below had died from hypothermia. How was that possible when it wasn't cold enough to threaten a person's internal body temperature? His mind worried over the question like a dog with a bone.
A faint sound wafted up from below, freezing them all in mid-motion. McCoy strained to listen and thought he heard something, but couldn't be certain. "Spock?" he whispered. "Wha—" His voice died in his throat as their lights once again extinguished, dropping them into blackness. McCoy's hands clenched tighter around the ladder rung, spasming in fear and chafing painfully against the metal. Vertigo assailed him, and his senses swam in the cloying, all-encompassing blackness surrounding them. Knowledge of the drop beneath his feet made his heart thunder in his chest loud enough that he thought the others could hear. He pressed his face against the ladder and swallowed hard.
"Everyone remain still," Spock said, and McCoy was grateful for the Vulcan's calm tones. Markson made soft noises over the doctor's head, but McCoy couldn't tell if the security guard was praying or crying. His heart went out to the younger man. Markson had worked so hard to get where he was, only to be undermined by baggage from his past he probably hadn't even know he still carried.
"Are you all right, Dan?" he heard Hallie ask quietly. There was no clear response, only the muttered litany of Markson's voice. McCoy didn't like the edge on the guard's tone and wanted nothing more than to get out of the shaft and into some kind of light.
The noise from below came again. This time McCoy's ears caught it as familiar. So familiar that he really didn't want to speculate, for fear of being right. Spock saved him from having to. "I want everyone to slide around the edge of the ladder—"
"What?" McCoy squeaked, breathless at the thought of moving with that unseen drop beneath him.
"—and squeeze into the space between the ladder and the shaft wall." Spock ignored McCoy's inadvertent interruption and spoke quickly. "Ensign Leno, you should be able to accomplish this if you let the generator hang by its strap from your arm. Can you manage the weight or would you prefer to quickly pass it up to me?"
Below McCoy, the young woman snorted in the darkness. "No offense, Mr. Spock, but you must be joking. I didn't get these biceps by knitting baby booties."
"My apologies, Ensign."
"Mr. Spock?" Given their situation, Hallie sounded extraordinarily calm. "What's happening?"
"The turbolift is coming up the shaft," he replied simply.
McCoy closed his eyes with dread and hastily swung around to the inside of the ladder. No wonder the sounds had been so familiar. "Isn't there space enough to clear us, Spock?"
"There should be, Doctor," came the Vulcan's voice out of the darkness overhead, "but I do not believe we are in a position to trust such speculation as certainty without light by which to see. These ladders are for use when the turbolift is inoperative. Even if there is adequate space, I do not want to risk one of us being sucked out into the shaft should the turbolift pass us at maximum acceleration."
"So who's arguing?"
McCoy felt the enormous presence of the turbolift car as it ascended the shaft. A breeze moved past his face, caressing the sweat-slickened skin and fluttering his hair. The car approached slowly, ponderously, like an elephant silently passing in the darkness and leaving you with only an impression of its size and might. He sensed distance between his narrow hiding place and its passage, and breathed deeply with relief. Even if they'd stayed on the outside of the ladder, no one would have been injured.
"If that blocks our access to the bridge—" Leno began.
"Then we shall find another way to enter, Ensign," Spock finished for her, voice firm and inarguable. Now was evidently not the time to bring up such arguments.
"Aye, sir."
From high above came the loud sound of metal against metal, and Markson let out a startled cry. Only later would McCoy speculate that the brakes, or whatever it was that held the turbolift car in place, had withdrawn or failed. (He didn't know the particulars but supposed Scotty could tell him all about it if he cared to ask … which he didn't.) Whatever caused the weird energy fluctuations they'd been experiencing had something to do with it, for their handlamps blazed on just as the turbolift descended, screaming with speed and out of control.
"Hang on!" Spock ordered loudly.
Eyes blinking painfully in the sudden light, McCoy had only the merest instant to realize that, for reasons known only to Markson, the young security guard had either not secreted himself safely in the tiny space behind the ladder or had emerged before an all-clear was given. Before McCoy could cry a warning, the turbolift car was upon them and past in a rush of screaming wind that plastered his clothing against his skin, sucked the breath out of his lungs … and sucked Markson out into the shaft behind it. The security guard fell, his screaming wail shredding their ears like claws. A few seconds later, from far below in the darkness their lights could not penetrate, came the crash of the turbolift hitting the shaft bottom, and Markson's cry was abruptly cut off.
Someone was shaking uncontrollably, and it took McCoy a moment to realize it was he. The shaft was dark again, but it was the doctor's own personal darkness. He didn't remember having closed his eyes. He wanted to say something, anything, but couldn't work up the saliva or the knowledge of what there was to say. He hung frenziedly on the ladder between Hallie and Leno, his mind a blank on what to do next.
From above, someone cleared their throat. "Sound off." Chekov sounded hoarse, but his voice brought a sense of reality back to the situation. "Chekov."
"Spock."
A pause. "Hallie." She sounded terrible, her throat clogged with tears.
McCoy knew how she felt. "McCoy."
"Leno. Damn."
"Is everyone else all right?" the security chief asked. McCoy looked up and wondered if he was as pasty-faced as the Russian. Did his eyes look as huge as Hallie's? Even Spock appeared off-color.
They all answered in the affirmative, for they were all right … at least physically. There would be time later to assess any other damage.
"Okay." Chekov took a deep breath. "Let's keep climbing."
"But, Dan—!" Hallie protested.
McCoy reached overhead and found her ankle. She jumped at his touch and he cursed himself for not warning her. They didn't need another fall. "Hang on a second, Chekov. She's right. I need to check this out."
"Doctor, you don't really think he survived that fall?"
"People have survived worse, Lieutenant. This will only take a minute." Prying one hand off the rungs, although letting go was the last thing he wanted to do, he reached into his medipouch for his small tricorder. Holding it toward the shaft bottom, he flicked it on. His eyes hunted the readout for a few moments, then he put the mechanism away and sighed quietly. "Let's keep climbing," he said simply.
"But—" Hallie started to protest, her voice thick with emotion.
Chekov's voice cut in, strength overlying deep feeling. "Later, Hallie. Come on people, let's go. By my count, we have only four levels to go."
It may as well have been four light-years to McCoy's way of thinking. He clutched the rung so tightly that for a moment he wasn't certain he could convince his hands to relinquish it. Only a poke from Leno in an exercise-wearied calf started him moving again, his eyes fixed on Hallie's heels as she ascended ahead of him.
The climb seemed interminable to the doctor's numbed mind. His leg muscles begged him to stop, to rest, but he followed the siren call of Hallie's boots above him until he almost stubbed his nose against her heel where she'd stopped below Spock.
"Are we there?" Leno called.
"Made it," Chekov reported. "Send up the generator."
"My pleasure, Chief," she grunted. She dipped her head, pulling the carry strap free, and hefted the piece of equipment toward McCoy. He took it grimly, the muscles of his hand and arm protesting the weight, and held it up toward Hallie. She stooped to relieve him of it with a strength belied by her tiny appearance. He flinched at the pain come to roost in her eyes. She gifted him with a small, unhappy smile and passed the generator on to Spock, and Spock handed it to Chekov.
The security chief snugged one leg around the ladder like an acrobat and maneuvered the ungainly equipment with a smooth, professional dexterity. In a moment, he'd made the connections to the inside conduit and the door slid open.
"You'll all have to climb over me," the Russian advised. "I'll try to give you as much room as possible."
"Don't worry about us," McCoy stressed. "You just hang on." It didn't seem the right thing to say, considering, and the doctor wished he'd kept his mouth shut when silence greeted his unnecessary advice.
He followed Hallie's feet again, silently promising his aching muscles that it would soon be all over and they could rest, at least for a little while. Spock reached down a long arm to help Hallie into the room, and she helped him swing McCoy, then Leno, and, lastly, Chekov in after her.
They were in a vestibule of some sort, corridors going off in either direction, and with only one door in the opposite wall. "If the map I read was accurate," Spock said, "behind those doors is the bridge of the station."
"Hallelujah," McCoy said unenthusiastically. "Let's hope the damn generator will open this door, too."
"Here's hoping," Chekov agreed and set to work. It didn't take long. With the experience of the turboshaft behind him, the Russian made short work of the connections, and the door eased open.
The smell wasn't as bad here as it had been below, but still awful enough to goad a noise from Leno. Sighing heavily, McCoy nudged her aside and stepped forward for his first look at the space station's central hub. He came around a central console in the big room and stopped just short of stepping onto the outflung hand of one of the two dead Romulans sprawled on the deck. Suddenly, all the doctor's strength fled. He sat down fast and hard, bruising his tailbone on the cold floor, and stared straight ahead, numb to the core.