Chapter Text
Rayna Kapec: What is loneliness?
Flint: 'Tis thirst. 'Tis a flower dying in the desert.
- Star Trek: Requiem for Methuselah
Science Officer Henry Morgan, personal log, stardate 5843.2
A wise man once said the only thing to fear is fear itself.
Easier said than done, of course, especially when bombs are falling, when disease cripples a loved one, or when the world as you know it changes unrecognizably. And yet, history is filled with tales of men and women who have persevered in the face of such fears.
In my lifetime, humanity has made remarkable achievements in medicine, science and philosophy. But for all our collective progress, and regardless of all our technological advancements, there are still problems that cannot be fixed. Diseases that cannot be cured. Loneliness that cannot be assuaged.
As I have good cause to know, there is no known antidote to fear. According to Commander Spock, it is an unavoidable part of the human condition.
And it is fear, even more than the epidemic, that is crippling the Enterprise. I, who should be immune to both by now, find myself struggling against blind panic. If I die out here, where might I resurface? What would the survivors report to Starfleet? Worst of all, what if there are no survivors? No others, that is. If I survive while all my crewmates perish... how long would we drift, the empty Enterprise and I, before I succumbed to madness?
When I set my course for the stars, I thought I had overcome my fear of space. Of oblivion.
Now, at the worst time possible, I find I was wrong.
We haven't much time left. There has been no ship-wide announcement, but I know the signs as well as Dr. McCoy. Perhaps even better, now that I think about it; Rigelian fever is remarkably similar to bubonic plague. The third major pandemic of the plague began in Yunnan province of then-China, which until that point was a lovely place to live. In 1855, however -- oh, curse it, why am I lecturing to a bloody machine? Computer, delete last. Er, can you do that? Good. Where was I?
No, computer, that was a rhetorical question. I do not require an answer.
Ahem. Suffice it to say that Rigelian fever is every bit as contagious and deadly as the Black Death itself. Only a few crewman have been quarantined so far, but soon the fever will sweep the decks... No doctor can stop it, not even McCoy. Not even I.
I, of course, am merely a science officer, here and now. But I know this much: there is only one cure. Ryetalyn is an elusive mineral, but it is the crew's only hope.
And mine as well.
U.S.S. Enterprise, stardate 5843.2
Perhaps it was only natural that Henry found himself in sickbay.
The young ensign (they were all so young, he thought bleakly) whom he'd found in the corridor now lay moaning on a bed. Nurse Chapel, Doctor McCoy, the medics and orderlies were all busy, harried – and the boy was so young – and after all these years, it was still second nature to take his pulse, soothe his brow, use the hypospray someone had placed in his hand. The injection mechanism may have changed over the centuries, but the motions were the same.
"Just lie back," he murmured, expertly holding the writhing ensign down until he quieted. "That's it. The pain will lessen shortly. Concentrate on breathing… slow, even breaths. Very good."
"That's quite the bedside manner you have, Lieutenant." The voice startled Henry. Before he could formulate a reply, McCoy retrieved the hypospray and continued, "Ever think of becoming a doctor?"
"Frequently," answered Henry honestly.
"What's stopping you?"
The question startled Henry, and old habits took over. "Nothing, really… I suppose it's just a matter of time."
The flippant comment made McCoy raise an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. Are you on assignment now?"
Disconcerted, Henry hesitated. "Well, I…"
"Never mind. Tell your superior officer – is it Spock? Well, tell that old busybody I need you here." Without giving Henry time to protest, McCoy thrust the empty hypospray at Henry like a relay baton. "Now, prepare 20 hypos of sedative for the next wave of patients and roll up your sleeves, Lieutenant. We're about to get busy."
Hours later, Henry's feet sent jolts of pain up his legs, his back ached and his eyes were gritty. He hadn't felt so useful since the end of the last war.
The Captain's announcement over the ship-wide comm broke his reverie.
"... on our way to the Omega system, to a planet with abundant sources of pure ryetalyn. When we arrive, a landing party will beam down to the surface..."
"Three dead," he heard McCoy mutter. The Captain's voice continued in the background, hopeful tones laced with determination, pitched to inspire.
"And twenty-three fallen ill, but still alive." Henry placed a fatherly hand on the young doctor's shoulder. "Still alive," he repeated, "thanks to you and your team. Hold onto that knowledge."
McCoy grunted in acknowledgement, perhaps in gratitude. That was all the comfort McCoy was prepared to receive, Henry knew, so he stepped back respectfully and left the younger man to his solitude.
But when Henry turned away, McCoy's eyes followed.
"Report." Captain Kirk strode into sickbay, with Spock at his shoulder as always.
Henry grimaced at his tricorder, wondering whether to expect a reprimand. Spock had not sounded irritated when Henry first reported that McCoy had commandeered his services, but one could never really be certain with Spock. For Henry, whose facial expressions had always been too open, too easy to interpret, the legendary Vulcan control was both admirable and enviable.
For McCoy, it was clearly a bone of contention. Or an outright challenge.
"Doesn't anything get through that thick Vulcan skin of yours? Our crew is dying!"
"Bones," said Kirk, a placating hand raised between the doctor and the science officer. "Please. Just report?"
After a gusty sigh and a pointed look at Spock, McCoy proceeded. "It's a matter of hours until the epidemic is irreversible, Jim. By the time we get to the planet and get the ryetalyn, it'll take split-second timing for us to process the stuff into useable form."
Henry cleared his throat. "If I may," he interjected.
The three men turned to study him. Henry cleared his throat again, his throat suddenly dry in the face of their combined regard. Ridiculous, he thought to himself, I'm older than all of them combined.
"I've devised a refined processing method that should give us a little time to spare," Henry reported. "We should be able to make the antitoxin in two hours. As long as the mineral is not contaminated by sarpesium, silixia or irrilium, that is."
Kirk nodded his thanks and turned back to McCoy. "I want you and Spock to beam down with me."
"I'm needed here!" protested McCoy.
Privately, Henry agreed. He was about to volunteer to go in the doctor's place when Spock interceded. "Lieutenant Morgan seems a competent liaison between our science and medical staffs, Doctor. And I am certain Nurse Chapel has things well in hand."
"Well, I suppose so, but–"
Kirk clapped his hands. "Then let's go, gentlemen, and not waste any more time."
They left Henry standing in the doorway, brooding over the Captain's choice of words. Time. The one thing I have in abundance and yet cannot share.
It was a new variation on a very old theme.
New York, 2036
"What happened this time, Henry?" Hanson's tone was offhand, but worry lines creased his forehead. He proffered a towel and looked deliberately up at the sky as if studying the stars.
Or looking for news drones, Henry supposed. He kept forgetting about those pesky things. He should really move out of the city, where they were less prevalent, but... The last move had been so hard on Abe, giving up his beloved store in exchange for a flat with no stairs, a walk-in tub, and a home health monitor. His son was over ninety now, and getting almost as crotchety as Henry.
"Abe called you?" Henry asked, prolonging the inevitable humiliation. He slipped on the tracksuit Hanson had brought. Unlike his old friend, who had thickened in the middle over the years, Henry always stayed the same size, making him the lucky recipient of Hanson's hand-me-downs.
"Yup," Hanson responded. "Said one minute you were cursing in German, and the next – poof." Hanson raised an eyebrow. "So? What's the scoop, doc?"
Sheepishly, Henry finished drying his hair and folded his towel. "I tripped on the rumba robot and fell down the stairs."
"The what?" Hanson burst out laughing. "The Roomba? God, Henry, those things have been around for decades. Haven't you learned to watch where you step yet?"
"Apparently not." A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. "Abe says I'm a slow learner."
Hanson shook his head. "I don't know how Jo puts up with you."
"Me neither, but I'm grateful for it every day," Henry answered honestly.
"Me too. When she gets back from the conference, she can fish your technophobe ass out of the river."
"Thank you, Mike."
Hanson clapped Henry on the back. "Forget it, pal. Just... try to get with the times, huh? Let Lucas program the house to keep the robots out of your way. Better yet, let his kid do it; Lucas'd probably program the doors to creak theatrically and things to go bump in the night."
"I've already got that one covered," joked Henry ruefully.
Hanson was right, though. Technology was changing so fast... especially in the field of medicine. If he didn't make more of an effort to integrate it into his life, he'd be left behind.
How was it that time, his one inexhaustible resource, always seemed in short supply?
U.S.S. Enterprise, stardate 5843.7
With time so short, it seemed almost criminal that Henry had nothing to do. He fiddled with the instrumentation, tweaked the ryetalyn processing parameters, fussed over an unconscious patient (earning a suspicious look from Nurse Chapel in the process).
It was a relief when McCoy called from the planet's surface.
"You're where?" At the sound of Chapel's raised voice, Henry stopped what he was doing and drifted closer to where she stood, communicator in hand.
He mimed a question, and she frowned in answer. "There's a person down there," Chapel whispered.
"I thought the planet was uninhabited?"
The nurse shrugged. "Nearly. I guess it's some old man and his robot."
"The robot is getting the ryetalyn." McCoy's voice over the speaker was tinny, but his skepticism was clearly audible. "The thing almost fried us when we arrived, and now it's out prospecting for us."
"I've never much trusted robots," Henry muttered. He didn't mean for anyone to hear, but Chapel muffled a laugh.
McCoy, thankfully, seemed not to notice. "You should see it down here. This place is like a palace, and the books – you've never seen such books! First editions, most of them. Shakespeare folios, a Gutenberg Bible, lithographs from Centauri Seven… damned good brandy, too. Tastes almost as old as everything else here. Even Spock had some."
Henry and Chapel looked at each other in surprise.
"Spock was raving about the art," McCoy continued. "Undiscovered works by da Vinci, the great masters… If I didn't know better, I'd say our friend's green blood was getting even greener with envy."
Henry's own pulse had quickened at the thought of the works of art, practically relics in this day and age. "Such treasure," he marveled aloud, "tucked away on an otherwise lifeless planet…" Abe would have been over the moon, he thought wistfully, and then laughed at himself for the archaic turn of phrase. "Your host, who is he?"
"We're working on that," Kirk's voice cut in. "His name is Flint, and at this point we're not entirely sure that he's… human. Spock is going to run a scan to see – hold it. Flint is coming back."
Communication cut off abruptly, leaving Chapel and Henry staring at each other, heads uncomfortably close together from leaning over the communicator.
To Henry's surprise, Chapel didn't immediately move away. "Quite the mystery," she said, smiling.
Henry's mouth quirked. "I've always rather enjoyed mysteries, Miss Chapel." Before he could follow up on the particularly intriguing puzzle that had just presented itself in the form of Christine Chapel, the communicator crackled again.
"Lieutenant Morgan," Spock's voice came over the speaker, "I suggest you join us on the planet. It may prove to be most… illuminating."