Chapter Two

"Jim, a meld with Tobias would explain a lot. There's something I want you to see." McCoy ushered Kirk into his sickbay office and pulled a printout from a desk drawer. "I requested this data on Tobias from the Federation Science Board. It's a personality profile compiled by Dorian Wren. I had no idea how relevant it would turn out to be."

The mere mention of Doran Wren set Kirk's blood boiling. In a fit of professional jealousy, she had used a novel technology to duplicate Spock, and though Tobias was now dead, the repercussions of her twisted experiment seemed to be living on.

Kirk skimmed the report. Whatever else the blue-eyed, blond Tobias might have been, he was darn near identical to Spock and reflected what Spock might have been, raised apart from his rigid Vulcan culture. Compared to their own Mister Spock, his replicate sounded downright hedonistic.

"Jim, he could feel so conflicted about Tobias dying, that he's taking on his duplicate's personality."

Kirk no longer saw the doctor's worried face. He saw a decorated First Officer leaving his post; he saw a once strong shoulder shrinking fearfully from his touch, and cast about for some plausible explanation. "Alright, Spock might have been disturbed by his meld with Tobias, so he forgot to assign the conn before leaving the ship. So he went out and got drunk and picked a fight over some floozy. Does that make him nuts? And maybe now he's still a little hungover, a little confused, that's all."

McCoy sighed. "Do I have to list all the parallels in their behavior? For Pete's sake, you saw Spock respond to the name 'Tobias'."

"I'm not sure what I saw," Kirk shot back. Tossing down the report, he stalked out of sickbay as if the devil were at his heels. Sure, someone could interpret Spock's behavior to fit the doctor's theory, but he preferred waiting until all the facts were in. When every test was complete, they would sit around a table and analyze the results. And by then Spock would probably be just fine.

But later that day, Kirk's hopes were dashed when Spock became violently ill. Not liquor this time, but meat—a childish excess of the same animal flesh that Spock had carefully avoided all his life. Suddenly anything seemed possible. In a galaxy where a Vulcan could go mad, Kirk marveled that time still flowed smoothly forward. The Enterprise would arrive on schedule at Mason's Resolve in fifteen hours. As commander of the ship, he would welcome the medical delegation aboard, smiling as usual. Only instead of Spock at his side, the Vulcan would be in sickbay, under psychiatric confinement.

oooo

The bed was not uncomfortable, just strange. But that should not have mattered. Wide awake, Spock rolled over and studied the dimly lit room. An empty table, four bare walls, a screened-off commode, a single locked door. It might as well be another jail cell. Essentially, it was.

Though part of him chafed at the confinement, another part of him felt relief at being shut away. Here he was spared the unsubtle human curiosity of his shipmates. Here he was prevented from doing anything more to humiliate himself. The enclosed space, with its firm boundaries, brought a vague visceral comfort. But it did nothing to relieve his inner tension.

Tonight, that tension bore a woman's name. Christine.

The thought of Chapel's mature good looks and shapely figure set Spock's nerves on edge. Surely the stimulating images her name evoked were not real—mere phantasms related to his drunken debacle on Wrigley's Pleasure Planet. Stretching his limbs in the ritualistic Vulcan manner, he focused on that fierce hope, disallowing any other possibility. But an increasingly aggressive inner voice broke through to mock him.

You are lying to yourself. Christine knows what we did with her.

"We?" Spock protested aloud. "I could not have behaved in such a manner." And yet lately he had behaved in shameful ways, doing such harm to his own body that Doctor McCoy had ordered him confined. At least that was the reason McCoy gave, and for once Spock had not pressed him.

And why not? demanded that nagging voice. Why no questions? Were you afraid of the answers? Afraid that Chapel talked?

Spock felt like tearing into his skull to silence the contrary whisper. He had tried everything else—logic, meditation, and all manner of mental redirection.

He was tossing restlessly when the door sighed open, sending a brief shaft of light into the room. Turning, he came face to face with Doctor Chapel. The surge of physical attraction he experienced only deepened his sense of embarrassment.

"Did I wake you?" she asked, worry evident in her voice.

Spock averted his eyes. "I…was preparing for sleep." He hoped the half-truth would send her away, but instead she walked closer. This time he spoke plainly. "Doctor, I wish to be alone."

Ignoring his request, she came over to the side of his bed and spoke in an apologetic manner. "We…we need to talk."

He ventured a look at her, and the doctor's blushing face made it harder for him to deny. Had their sexual encounter in the examination room been more than a fantasy, after all?

Her eyes answered his unspoken question, brutal in their honesty, but unaccusing.

Overcome with shame, Spock turned his face to the wall. "I am sorry," he choked, even as his body ached to feel her touch again. How could she have been so willing to pleasure him, even at the risk of her Starfleet career? It seemed that all the years of Vulcan indifference had never cooled her desire completely. She would have done anything he asked. Anything. And only Doctor McCoy's impatient buzz at the locked door had prevented him from demanding still more.

A hand gently closed over his shoulder. "No, Spock. I must apologize to you." Christine's voice barely held steady. "As your doctor, I violated a professional trust. What happened…is my fault. You took me by surprise, but even when I first felt your mind working on me…"

"My mind?" Slowly Spock turned to her. "Are you saying that I…?"

"It doesn't matter," she said firmly. Bringing her hand to rest on his, she interlaced their fingers. "Please believe me. You aren't to blame…and I am not offended. If I thought it would help your recovery, I'd…"

Spock felt the coolness of her human palm against his, felt the stimulating direction of her thoughts. More than anything, he wanted what Christine could offer; here, this very moment, in this very tempting privacy. Hadn't it been so before? A woman's touch. Smooth, knowing hands bringing delight.

Tears welled in his eyes as he forced himself to draw away. "Leave me," he pleaded.

Christine sighed. "I suppose I've only made matters worse by coming here…but I wanted you to know that your confinement has nothing to do with…with us. No one knows about what happened."

There was relief, swept aside by a cold, juvenile wave of suspicion. "And now you're offering to keep quiet? For a price?"

He did not know where the insinuation had come from, but it was too late to retract his words. He felt the woman's hurt and anger like a lash.

"Spock! You can't believe I'd blackmail you."

He stared at her, bewildered, for suddenly the name "Spock" meant nothing to him. Yet somehow he knew it should, just as he knew that this woman's face was wrong. Familiar, lovely, desirable, but wrong.

A whimper rose in his throat. "I…I didn't mean…" Didn't mean what? What offense filled him with such shamed apology? The woman's eyes had grown kind, so perhaps he would not be punished, after all.

"Oh Spock," she said tenderly. "What's become of you?"

Yes, what? Suddenly the mind shadows parted, and a bright shaft of reason shone upon a pivotal memory. In quiet horror, Spock recalled, "I…was melding with my replicate…and…and felt him die."

When Christine stayed silent, he drew strength from her composure and briefly explained how his strange replicate came into existence. "But he did not live long. And for a time, standing beside his dead body, I thought I might go mad. I would have done anything to bring Tobias back." He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. "I could do no more than close his staring eyes—an empty, wasted gesture."

Drained, Spock did not resist when she pressed a gentle hand to his cheek. Now that it was said, perhaps he would be allowed some small measure of peace. But no. The inner voice was waiting.

You let me die. You wanted me to die…

oooo

It had been a restless night for Kirk, and he was already awake when the computer called to him. Rising, he quickly showered and dressed. The Enterprise was orbiting Mason's Resolve, but there would be time to consult with McCoy and eat some breakfast before the doctors beamed up. With a distracted glance at the mirror, he smoothed his uniform and left for sickbay.

A disturbing pall hung over the medical department. Instead of the friendly aroma of coffee, Kirk smelled trouble as he approached McCoy's office. The door was ajar. Entering, he found McCoy at his desk, strain etched in every line of his face. Nearby, a woman sat softly weeping. Kirk recognized Christine Chapel, and his stomach flipped. In all her years of service, he had never seen her lose control, not even at Spock's abrupt departure from Starfleet.

The question fell from lips gone cold. "What's going on? Has something happened to Spock?"

McCoy briefly glanced at Chapel. He looked old beyond his years as he grimly said, "Sometime early this morning, he escaped confinement…and beamed down to the planet's surface."

Then Spock was alright. Kirk's heart resumed beating. "There'll be a record of the transport coordinates. Why wasn't I informed immediately?"

Once again McCoy's eyes darted to his fellow doctor. "Well, the transporter crew didn't see anything extraordinary in an officer leaving the ship. News of Spock's situation hasn't exactly been advertised, not even around sickbay. I didn't realize he was missing until a few minutes ago, when Chapel told me."

Now Kirk almost wished he had not been so secretive about Spock's situation. But knowing what privacy meant to Vulcans, there had been a powerful urge to protect him any way he could. He turned his attention to Chapel, whose tears suggested that there was more to the story. "And what part do you have in all this, Doctor?"

Sniffling, she dried her reddened eyes on a tissue and sat up straight. "Admiral. I…" Her voice quavered away to nothing. "I…am responsible for losing Mister Spock."

"What?"

"It's true," she continued miserably. "Yesterday, while examining him, he…behaved in a way that I felt sure would trouble him. I…I couldn't sleep, thinking about it. So finally I went to his room to…to air the matter. I wanted him to know…" Her voice choked off.

"Know what?" Kirk was getting a peculiar feeling.

Chapel's face went crimson as she stared at the floor. "I didn't want him feeling guilty over his…his familiarity."

Kirk looked to McCoy, who seemed nearly as disconcerted.

McCoy cleared his throat and said, "While on the examination table yesterday, our dignified friend induced Christine to…to engage in activity of a sexual nature."

Kirk's jaw dropped in disbelief. Then he recalled one of Dorian Wren's comments about Tobias. Sexually uninhibited. A most telling observation. She must have carried out extensive hands-on research into the replicate's libido. And now, if Spock was taking on aspects of his replicate's personality…

"I…I tried to stop myself," Chapel said, strangling on the words. "But his mind held me. And again, early this morning. He was telling me about his encounter with a replicate named Tobias, how they were melding when Tobias died. And…and then…he got me to open the door. Somehow it seemed that I shouldn't tell anyone until morning... "

As she lapsed into silence, McCoy remarked, "A clear case of mental suggestion, but at least now we have an important clue. Spock was mentally joined to Tobias at the very moment of death. No wonder he's so troubled."

Kirk soberly agreed. But how to help him?

oooo

Spock had not worn his wrist communicator. On Kirk's orders, Mister Chekov scanned the general area of the beam-down, located Spock's life signs, and was carefully monitoring his position from the bridge. Any further actions would have to wait until Kirk and McCoy played host to the delegation arriving in the transporter room.

A slim figure with jet black hair formed in the final beam. As the light played over the pointed ears and pleasing features, Kirk sensed destiny at work in this stranger. Healer T'Sora, enjoying a sabbatical from a prestigious Vulcan school of medicine, was on her way home to attend the medical conference.

At first opportunity, Kirk drew her aside and briefly described Spock's situation as a hypothetical case. T'Sora showed immediate interest. Together with Doctor McCoy, they were soon in sickbay, poring over Spock's recent medical history and the personality file on Tobias. The healer's rare violet eyes became downright grim.

"I know this man," she said. "The only child of Ambassador Sarek by an Earth woman."

It seemed to Kirk that a subtle inflection hinted at disapproval. "Might that be a problem for you, Healer?"

"It would more likely pose a problem for Spock," she replied with unruffled calm. "At times, he must find his unique heritage challenging."

"Spock manages to get by," McCoy said very dryly.

Degree by chilly degree, the room's temperature seemed to plummet, and Kirk experienced second thoughts. Why had they invited this unsympathetic stranger to pry into the intimate details of Spock's life? Time stretched as T'Sora scanned the data displayed on McCoy's monitor.

"Well?" McCoy said at last. "Have you encountered anything like this in your practice?"

The healer turned to her human colleague. "Not precisely, Doctor. But only a trained healer or a highly skilled adept should attempt the sort of meld Spock initiated with Tobias. He should have known better."

McCoy bristled. "Perhaps some errant emotion swayed his Vulcan judgment. Death is never a pleasant thing to watch."

"That is a fact," she acknowledged, and retreated into her own thoughts.

"Well, can you help him?" Kirk finally asked.

T'Sora roused herself and nodded. "I may be the only one who can."

An incomprehensible lecture followed, yet somehow the aura of Vulcan mysticism helped bolster Kirk's confidence in the healer. It mattered little what he or McCoy or any human thought of all this. If Spock believed, perhaps she could help him.

Within minutes they were standing on a grassy hillside of Mason's Resolve. Three years earlier, Kirk, McCoy, and Spock had stood on this very hill near the stone cottage of Chess Master Hotaka. Now Mason's had gone stormy with autumn. Even T'Sora seemed to take a moment to adjust from starship decks to thunderclaps and stiff breezes. Gathering their bearings, they followed a narrow trail to the residence. Its windows were tightly shuttered, and the once lovely gardens gone to weeds. Wondering what had become of Hotaka, Kirk walked up the porch steps with his two companions.

T'Sora fingered the broken door latch and said, "He is within."

A forced lock on a vacant home was not such a remarkable thing, but Kirk did not question the certainty of her words. Even without the aid of ship's sensors, he had his own personal sense where Spock was involved. His only concern now was getting his friend promptly back to the Enterprise for treatment. Catching McCoy's eye, he moved for the door, but T'Sora neatly stepped into his path.

"Admiral," she said, "I cannot help Spock unless you commit him unconditionally into my care. In Vulcan healing there is no middle ground."

McCoy huffed. "I don't think I like the sound of that."

T'Sora's violet eyes held Kirk for a long moment, and their message was clear. Knowing what that message could mean for Spock, Kirk acted against his nature and backed down.

"Bones," he said quietly, "I don't think we have much choice."

"Like hell," McCoy protested, yet he threw up his hands in a helpless gesture, for even he was facing his professional limitations.

"If you leave me a communicator," T'Sora said, "I will contact you when we are ready to come aboard."

So they were being dismissed.

A gust sighed over the porch, stirring dead leaves trapped in unkempt corners. Kirk looked at the peeling red door, fighting a powerful urge to rush in and claim Spock. With an effort, he unfastened his wrist communicator and held it out.

"He's yours," Kirk told the healer, silently adding, And God help you if you betray my trust.

oooo

T'Sora sighed as the two humans sparkled away in transport. It was a relief to be rid of their negative emotions. Gazing over the windswept hillside, she wondered how any reasonable being could endure their turbulent company for hours, for days, for years on end. The unpleasant thought led her back to her new responsibility. To Spock.

Freeing her mind from distractions, she invoked the ancient healer's discipline, focusing on the tortured soul awaiting her inside. Once she reached the appropriate plane of awareness, she passed through the doorway into a shadowed, musty-smelling room. Her sensitive ears heard shallow respirations coming from a sofa. And there lay the dim shape of a man, curled in on himself, trembling.

For a moment T'Sora remained absolutely still, gathering a minutiae of data even as she pitied this wounded creature hiding beneath a mildewed blanket. Then moving closer, she spoke his name.

"Spock."

When there was no response, she slowly went over and knelt at the sofa's edge, not touching in body or mind. Finding his dark watchful eyes, she said, "I am T'Sora, a healer. Fear me not."

Movement rustled the blanket. A hand appeared and grabbed hold of her arm. A hoarse voice pleaded in Standard, "Don't leave me!"

Tendrils of disorderly thought licked at her shielded mind, repellant yet somehow fascinating in their passionate intensity. Danger, she warned herself. This was no ordinary patient. This was no ordinary Vulcan. This was Spock, a member of her own clan Talek-sen-deen.

Visions of the halfling rose from her memories. A little boy as inquisitive as a khree pup. A bright, poised adolescent at clan gatherings. A determined young man in defiance of his father. A handsome Starfleet officer cruelly rejected by his betrothed. And now this…

Recalling her duty, she withdrew from his grip and opened the nearest window. With fresh air blowing in, she took stock of her patient in the ancient healer's way. It was a time-tested rite of soothing chant and knowledgeable touch. As she began the Rabban Iksom, she brushed Spock's sensitive meld points, eliciting a pained reaction from his inflamed nerves. The man was on fire, but the source of this disorder lay not in any bodily organ, but somewhere in the depths of his mind. As she sensed the incredible force of will by which he was restraining himself, there was a deepening of respect.

"Do not be afraid," she repeated. "I will not harm you, my brother."

Tears brimmed in the tortured eyes, and for a moment he seemed to behold T'Sora with recognition. Then his eyes closed, and his body convulsed with some fierce internal struggle. When next he looked at her, she knew that nothing of Spock remained.

"Tobias," she said, and the halfling responded with pure panic. His arms flew out, knocking her off balance, and she landed hard on the tiled flooring. Though he was poised to escape, she expertly swept him off his feet and reached for the nerve pathway at the base of his neck. One tempered squeeze and his body went limp, while retaining a certain useless degree of consciousness.

T'Sora rose to her knees and observed the disabled halfling. Though she was not sure who was now controlling Spock's body, of one thing she was absolutely certain. He could not endure much more of this devastating strife. Treatment must begin at once, while there still remained a reasonable chance for recovery. Considering her personal circumstances, it was a perilous business. Any Vulcan nearing his or her seventh year risked mental contagion from an unbalanced patient. T'Sora knew her time well, and joining with Spock's mind was apt to trigger pon farr. Since she no longer had a bondmate, it would put her in grave danger. The problem consumed her as she arranged the covers back over Spock's shivering form.

"Well," she said, as much to herself as to him. "What then shall I do with thee?"

Desperation flared in his eyes. "Slay me," he urged. "Mercifully…as your father once ended I-Chaya's suffering."

So Spock was back. T'Sora experienced a wave of deep sentiment. That determined boy and his injured pet sehlat. How difficult a decision it had been for young Spock, yet he had chosen as reasonably as a healer. Using a corner of the blanket, she wiped a tear from his face, then reapplied just enough pressure at his neck to keep her patient immobile, yet capable of communicating.

"But Spock, you are not an animal. I cannot take your life, even mercifully. Given time, I might help, for you see…it is a matter of the katra."

His comprehension slowly dawned, with a regret that was bitter to behold. "The katra…?"

Her lips stirred into the suggestion of a smile. "Yes, my unfortunate one. That is how you came to be in such a state, and by the foolhardy act of your own hand. Healing is best left to those who understand it, particularly as death approaches."

Spock shook so that his teeth chattered. "I had not thought…"

"You do not yet know how to think," T'Sora admonished him. "I can teach you more about the living spirit than you ever learned in the shadow of Gol. Healer's knowledge." Gently she arranged her fingertips on his burning face. "But first…"

Spock locked his mind against the powerful consciousness skimming his surface thoughts, but in his weakened, chaotic state he could not hold out for long. Soon the healer would sink deep into his hidden places and lay them bare. With all his remaining strength, he resisted, but there was no way to escape her skillful probing.

Spare yourself, urged T'Sora. Do not oppose me. With firm intent, she pressed through the wounded layers of panic and outrage, deeper and deeper into the tangled mindscape.

oooo

Outside, the sky had cleared. Sunlight streamed through a window, dappling Spock's blanket. Thunder rumbled in the distance as T'Sora gazed at the dark head cradled in her lap. Lightly she touched his brow, careful not to rouse him yet. It had almost happened. A few moments longer in the halfling's mind, and they might have deeply bonded. Even so, she felt warmed, changed. The turbulent union had awakened a solicitude that she had not experienced since the death of her mate. She could not abandon the halfling now. By some means she must save him, and perhaps even save herself in the process.

For every healing there was a price.

Reaching into a pocket of her robe, she drew out a pleej corn from the store of herbs she carried. Its spicy, seductive fragrance called to mind an ancient warning. "One taste saves, but the second enslaves." The quaint words exaggerated the drug's potency, but out of wise habit she shielded her nose with a sleeve as she crushed the wrinkled kernel to powder between her fingers. Even in his sleep, Spock scented the pungent release and turned toward it, nostrils flaring. Inhalation would not be sufficient in this case. T'Sora forced the precious dust between his lips, then carefully wiped away every trace as the halfling began to stir. Soon they would be ready to meet Admiral Kirk.

oooo

The conference was not turning out as Kirk had envisioned: calm, rational beings seated around a table, reviewing Spock's medical test results. The healer's unexpected request made him feel anything but calm. Stunned, he glanced from one person to the next; at Doctor Chapel's stony face; at Doctor McCoy, angrily clutching a folder of printouts; at regal T'Sora, radiating a sublime confidence that Kirk found galling.

But we are civilized beings, Kirk forcibly reminded himself. We will hear everything she has to say and consider her words on their own merit, rather than gut-level emotion. Now, more than ever, Spock needed them as steady as Vulcans, for judging by his appearance, he could no longer reason for himself.

Kirk turned to his sick friend. Spock looked as if he belonged in bed, but the healer had insisted that he be present at this meeting, so there he sat, vacantly staring at his palsied hands—a mute but eloquent exhibit for the healer's case.

Kirk's eyes came to rest once again on T'Sora. "You say it's imperative that Spock accompany you to Vulcan for a lengthy course of treatment."

"Yes," she patiently reiterated. "Unless you commit Spock into my care, he will never recover."

"You're that sure of your diagnosis?" McCoy pressed.

T'Sora faced Spock, and the violet fire in her eyes seemed to command a response from him. For the first time, he looked up.

"Your name," the healer demanded. "Speak your name."

Spock's mouth opened, and for an instant his expression showed a little of his former intelligence. Then the encouraging glimmer died away, leaving a vacant-eyed stranger.

"He cannot answer at present," T'Sora explained. "He does not know how to respond. The treatment I administered has brought the two life currents within him to a truce, but only temporarily."

"Two life currents?" Chapel questioned. "So you're telling us that Tobias has actually entered into Spock? Years ago, I experienced a union of that sort with him. We shared consciousness for a few minutes when his body had been taken over by an alien. But that wasn't at all unpleasant."

The healer nodded. "Then at least you, Doctor, have some basis for understanding. What has happened to Spock is similar, but as you have seen, most unpleasant due to the undisciplined nature of his replicate. The vestigial link joining him to Spock from the moment of replication made the death transfer a natural part of the survival instinct. In the midst of their meld, Tobias felt himself dying and fled into Spock."

Kirk remembered the incident Chapel had mentioned. That long ago day, he had almost lost Spock to the scheming alien, Henoch. He knew that it was possible for some highly evolved life forms to effect such transfers at will. But Spock and Tobias were Vulcan-human halflings. Suspicion made its way into his voice as he said, "I've never heard of this kind of life force transfer among Vulcans."

"It is a private matter," T'Sora coolly explained, "one virtually unknown to outworlders. I can say nothing more on the subject. If you want Spock to recover, you must entrust him to me."

oooo

Trust that cold-hearted woman? Like hell, Kirk thought as he prowled the night-dimmed corridors. It was late aboard ship, and lonely. He had not felt so alone since the day Spock left for Gol. Nothing would relieve the empty ache; not company, not food, not even the good warm bite of Saurian brandy. Tonight he had tried them all.

Walking aimlessly along, he became aware that he had almost reached sickbay again. He stopped so suddenly that a passing crewman gave him a curious stare.

"Good evening, sir," said the young man.

Kirk offered a curt nod, and then turned a corner into sickbay. McCoy and Chapel were holed up in McCoy's office, each clinging glumly to a lukewarm mug of coffee. Kirk studied a wall monitor that had been linked into Spock's isolation room. The screen showed him sleeping peacefully in bed. Seated close by, T'Sora seemed to be lost in some kind of meditative trance. Perhaps the scene should have reassured Kirk, but it made him want to rush into Spock's room and yank the healer away. Was it a jealous urge? A stranger, not Jim Kirk, had succeeded in helping Spock. She was the one Spock needed now.

"Look at that," McCoy said. "I have to admit it. She's done more good for him in two days than we did in two weeks."

Kirk looked. There was nothing else to do but look.

Chapel reported, "Admiral, the information I requested on T'Sora arrived a few minutes ago. Her credentials are quite impressive. Would you like to see her file?"

Kirk took over her seat and studied the desktop screen. Somehow he was not surprised at the glowing account of T'Sora's background and medical career. If anything, the healer seemed overqualified to bother with the case. Maybe that was part of what troubled him—her deep, consuming interest in Spock. He had always assumed that Vulcan healers kept aloof from their patients.

"Look," McCoy said, pointing to the wall monitor.

T'Sora had risen. Bending over Spock, she positioned her graceful fingertips along the side of Spock's face. The touch was brief, yet Kirk sensed that an intimate exchange had taken place. Now T'Sora straightened and gazed intently at her patient.

"Well Jim," McCoy asked softly, "what's your opinion?"

Glaring at the healer's image, Kirk said, "This is solely a medical decision." He faced his CMO to add, "And something tells me you've already made it."

McCoy's eyes went bleak with apology. "I have to do what's best for Spock. So he goes."

Though Kirk swore under his breath, he knew that McCoy was right. They had no idea of how to treat Spock's disorder, so T'Sora was the only option. Mumbling something conciliatory, he left the office. There would be plenty of time to say goodbye to Spock tomorrow, and maybe Spock would even be fit enough to understand.

Out in the shadowy corridor, he paused for a deep breath, badly wanting another shot of brandy. But no. Nothing was going to stop the pain, so he might as well let it tear at him, full force, and begin to wear itself down. He would survive. He always did.

Hell, he thought, what's wrong with me? Nothing bad will happen to Spock. That woman will make him well again. After all, everyone knows you can trust a Vulcan. Can't you?

oooOOooo