Path: newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.pas.earthlink.net!elnk-nf2-pas!newsfeed.earthlink.net!newshub.sdsu.edu!border1.nntp.dca.giganews.com!nntp.giganews.com!newsread.com!newsstand.newsread.com!POSTED.newshog.newsread.com!not-for-mail Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated Approved: ascem@earthlink.net Organization: Better Living Thru TrekSmut Sender: ascem@earthlink.net Message-ID: From: "lyrastarwatcher" MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEML@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEML-owner@yahoogroups.com Subject: NEW TOS: Apollo Physician 3/7 (K/Mc)[NC-17] Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 530 Date: Sat, 13 Nov 2004 05:55:09 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 209.198.142.218 X-Complaints-To: Abuse Role , We Care X-Trace: newshog.newsread.com 1100325309 209.198.142.218 (Sat, 13 Nov 2004 00:55:09 EST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 13 Nov 2004 00:55:09 EST Xref: news.earthlink.net alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated:85559 X-Received-Date: Fri, 12 Nov 2004 21:55:13 PST (newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net) Title: Apollo Physician [NC-17] part 3/7 Author: Lyrastar url: www.geocities.com/lyrastarwatcher/apollo for easier reading Chapter 3 --To hold him who has taught me this art as equal to my parents and to live my life in partnership with him --From the Oath of Hippocrates Back at my hovercar, things went from bad to worse. I turned the ignition switch and heard a series of ominous clicks in response. I turned it again. More clicks. And again. Now they were getting weaker. Shit. Why was Joey always right? She said that my old clunker was unreliable and beneath a doctor's image; I refused to replace it. There was something soothing about the old one, like the easy familiarity of a friend whose quirks I knew so well. I had even named him--Hoopdy. And like a true friend, it had never let me down before. Until now. Why did it have to be now? Oh, Joey, why is it always at the very worst times? I opened the drive access panel with visions of playing mechanic as my father took his last breath. It would be just like the old man to go ahead and die before I got there out of sheer orneriness. One last morsel of failure to toss on his son. Yeah, Dad would like that all right. The fact that he had let Shirley call did not bode well at all. David H. McCoy never trusted anyone else with anything that he could do himself. I'd never cared for his new wife, but I did feel a certain bond with her. Neither of us could ever do anything meet his expectations, but she didn't seem to mind. That's where we differed. I'd never learned to like Shirley, but in a way I admired the way she let the old man's crap roll off her back. And she'd been good for him, no doubt. She was the reason he was still alive and still sober. Damn! I popped my burnt finger into my mouth and realized I was fooling myself. Dad had never let me work with machines. He said a surgeon's hands were too valuable. I didn't have a clue what I was doing or a hope in hell of getting this up and running. How about Captain Courageous? Starfleet has to teach kids the way around an engine, right? I mean, what if your spaceship stalls in a black hole or something and you can't call the motor pool to get you out? I closed the panel and headed back to the hotel. He came to the door, still stark naked, with a smile of greeting, not surprise. "You're back," he said like he had been expecting it all along. I don't suppose the kid got walked out on much; I bet it was usually the other way around. News for him: neither do I. Or, did I. I hope I was a little less cocky about it though. "Car won't start." He nodded very seriously. "Mmm--let me guess. ...and you need a place to stay for the night?" "No. I was hoping you could help. The emergency is real." His demeanor changed to all business. "Give me a minute." He reached for his shorts. It didn't take anywhere close to the whole minute. Captain Courageous had some experience getting in and out of his clothes. Apparently Starfleet had taught him a few more useful things as well. He said something about a kritanoline augmentation periloid, adjusted a few things under the access panel, and Hoopdy fired right up. He closed the panel and looked for someplace to wipe his hands. "That should do it for a couple hundred kilometers, at least. How far are you going? Mississippi?" I handed him a scrub shirt out of the back seat. "Georgia. Atlanta." "I'm not sure it'll hold that long. I could show you what to do--" "I'm a doctor, not a pit-crew leader" I grumbled. "It better hold." No, old Dad wasn't going to let me off the hook that easily. If I stalled over Lake Martin and drowned on the way to his funeral, would they ever find the wreck or would it be his little, private joke? "I'll come with you." It sounded more like an order than an offer. "I suppose you'll want to pilot?" The sarcasm was lost on him. "Nope." He had already slid into the passenger side and tossed the shirt backwards back into the rest of the mess. "I have people do that for me. A captain has to be free to supervise." This arrogant little bastard was going to be in for a helluva shock one day. But beggars can't be choosers. I took the controls and lifted off. Dad, the things I do for you. Distracted, I hit an air pocket and the car jumped. My phaser slid out from under the seat and into the kid's foot. He picked it up. "You shoot?" "If I have to. Everyone in the south does. My grandmother taught me." "Really?" "Yeah." My mother's mother--Nanny Whitsen--had been three-quarters Cherokee and proud of it. She wore her hair long and straight and jet-black. On her eightieth birthday Dad had asked her why she bothered to dye it. She'd snapped, "I'll have you know that this is my natural color." Go Nanny, I'd thought at the time. It wasn't until much later, after she'd died, that I realized it hadn't been an answer at all. "Go Nanny," was still what I thought. She'd been quite a woman, afraid of nothing and nobody. On a whim she'd moved from the Boston Mountains of Eastern Oklahoma to the high desert outside of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. She'd bought a cattle ranch and ran it by herself up until the year before she died. When I was seven, I had gone to stay with her for the summer. She gave me my first phaser lessons. But what I remember most was the flowers. Georgia was always in bloom and the sparse beauty of the desert was lost on my seven-year-old eyes. When I told her I was homesick for the flowers, she said we'd plant some. She asked me what I wanted. "Impatience," I said, recalling the blossoms cascading under the windows of my school. "Impatience" was what the teacher had called them, and the name fit them perfectly--bursting out rampant in huge billows of color and life. "I can do that," Nanny said. "They're easy to grow if I plant them under the eaves, but'll take a lot of water. That takes commitment. Can you remember to water them every day?" I nodded. When she came home and planted them, I'd burst into tears. Each plant was only a decimeter high or so. "I didn't want those kind; I wanted the big bushy ones." She broke out laughing. "Lenny, they're plants; they grow." Oh. I hadn't thought of that. I wiped my nose. "Just wait and see what they turn into with the proper time and care." At first she had done the fertilizing and watering, morning and night. Over time, as they grew into the wild colors I remembered, I took over gladly. By the time I left, they had grown into a hedge that stood over a meter tall, wrapping all around the front of the house. I called Nanny one day in the fall and asked her how my flowers were. She said the New Mexico nights had killed them, but that was okay, they were annuals, that's the way it was supposed to be. They die every year. I could come back in the spring and plant more and they would grow to be just as tall and beautiful as ever. Nanny died when I was in medschool. She never got to see what I would grow into. I wonder if, like the impatience, she already knew how I would come out. If so, I wish to hell she'd told me. "Huh?" I broke away from in the past. "I said, 'I thought doctors didn't believe in firearms.' That thou shalt not take a life business." "We don't. It's for animals." "Some people are animals," Jim said. Yes, they are. My mother had given me that phaser in the eleventh grade after my classmate Tonja had gone missing. Tall, blonde and vivacious, she'd been last seen leaving a high school basketball game. She never got home. Eight months later when the gas in the rotting tissue brought her body to the surface of the Chattahoochee, she was finally found. There was still enough forensic evidence to reveal three different kinds of assault, but her attacker was never found. My mother gave me the phaser and told me not to tell my father. "Yes, they are," I said. Jim clicked the setting control. "Not a bad piece, for a civvy. Can you hit anything?" Actually, I'm pretty damn good. Nanny saw to that. There are a few hundred, snakes, squirrels, possums, rats and nutria that could testify to that. If they weren't already dead that is. "If I have to." "Hm. D'jyou ever consider Starfleet medical?" "Now why would I do that?" "You get to play with big guns, for one thing. And you'd look good in a uniform." He stroked the inside of my thigh. I blushed at the suggestions in his tone. "Ah, and to think I had this silly idea about saving lives." He smiled. "That too. It's a big universe out there. How many people are on earth? Six billion? That's just the tip of the iceberg; think of the chances to save--lives we haven't even discovered exist yet. Space is where we need to be. Exploring. Growing. Sharing--who we are and what we know." Damn, but the kid could make a speech. "I've got plans." Okay, maybe not exactly, but I sure as hell hadn't planned on spending the rest of my days space sick. "Sure." He settled back in his seat. "But think about it; there's so much more to life than this." He gestured down at West Allenton, Alabama. No arguing with that logic. Hoopdy broke down three times on the way, none of which were over water. Jim got us up and running in under five minutes each time. Say what you like about the politics, but Starfleet has its uses. Stops and all, we still made Atlanta in about an hour. Hoopdy could have done better, but transonic flight over populated areas is banned. I pulled into the Emory medical complex and parked. Jim still hadn't asked me where I was going or why. He got out. "Hey, how'll you get home?" He cocked his head. "Last week I led a stranded landing party 80 kilometers across the badlands of Hyperis VI and back to the ship. Of course, it was only a simulation in South Dakota, but still, I think I can figure out how to get between two major Earth cities without any trouble. I have good friends in many places. " He patted his communicator. "Oh. Well, I guess this is good-bye then." I shuffled some stuff in my bag around and looked up at the main hospital. I'd raced to get here, and now the last thing I wanted to do was go into that damn building. "You never know, Blue Eyes. It's a big universe all right, but not that big." He kissed me on the cheek before I realized it was coming. "You need anything?" "No." Damn my Irish ancestors' coloring; every blush shows. "No." "I'll see you around then. "Cadet Kirk to Starfleet transport. One to beam to coordinates being fed in." He punched a few buttons, twisted a dial, shimmered and was gone. Through the support beams of the parking complex, I looked up again. I imagined my father up on the top floor peering down at me still in judgment. Even the damned transporter had more appeal than going in that building. Parking in the visitor's lot had me disoriented. I felt odd and out of place. Out of habit, I looked to the physician's entrance in the back, but this wasn't my sandbox and that wasn't my door. I turned toward the front and followed the rest of the visitors to the main entrance. I didn't quite make it there. By coincidence, or possibly not, Shirley was out in the front courtyard. She looked thinner than ever. One hand worried at patch of graying hair; with the other she sucked fiercely on a caffeine stick as she paced. Probably trying to hide it from the old man. "Hollis." She came towards me, but sensibly stopped short of an embrace. She was my father's wife, not family. "Shirley. Why didn't you call me earlier?" "He wouldn't let me. You know how he is. Said you were a doctor now and much too busy to be called home for sick folks." That sounded like Dad, all right. Somewhere in the middle of the booze and mom's illness, he had surrendered his clinical practice and had taken a research only position. Since then he had claimed that that was what real doctors do. The big picture was what mattered. People came after the science. Clinicians were detail men, making one tiny difference at a time. Research could cure the galaxy. The irony was that I had chosen medicine because of the physician my father had been at one time. Up until high school I could hardly go anywhere in the county without hearing someone sing dad's praises. I would have given anything to inspire that kind of respect--from the community, and especially from him. He encouraged me every step of my education, he pushed me, not always so gently, to follow in his footsteps. I went willingly, for I couldn't imagine anything better than being the man that others saw in my father. By the time I entered medical school, he was already publishing groundbreaking work on prion manipulation, and regular country doctors who cared for patients were no longer good enough for him. He said that he was very proud of me, and had I ever thought of bioresearch? Even in my youngest full memory of my father, I had been a disappointment. It was at the beach. Dad was drinking, I suppose-- he always was when away from the hospital--while I played in the sand, far away from the scary waves. All of a sudden, Dad decided I was too old for that. He picked me up and tossed me over his shoulder, and carried me into the surf. I could smell the sourmash oozing through the sweat. I remember kicking and screaming, eyes closed, beating at his back with my hands, but he just laughed like it was a great big joke. "Hold on, Hollis. Here comes a big one!" I heard the roar even over my screams and felt the change of pace as Dad was dragged backwards. There was a slap of water and then the sudden silence, the turning and tumbling, floating weightless and free. The salt stung as it drowned my eyes and nose, but then there was a great sense of peace. I rolled over and over, no longer scared or trying to fight. My back scraped along the bottom. That hurt a little and I wished it would stop and I could go back to floating in the sea. And then a hand plucked me out, by the arm, pulling me into the wind and spray. I was sad to leave that place and my arm hurt at the joint. Only when I gagged and choked on my own breath did the fear return. The scrapes on my back stung and I retched while my father hauled me in disgust. He left me on the sand with my plastic toys and told me not to be such a baby or mother would whip me when she got back. I hated my toys and I hated him. But his patients swore he walked on water. "Huh?" Shirley had said something. "I said, it doesn't matter. You couldn't have done anything anyway." Of course not. I'm only his closest living relative, and a doctor. Thanks, Dad. It's nice to know that you still think as much of me as you ever did. "Do they know what it is?" I asked. She shook her head and took a long drag on the caffeine stick. "I don't know. He talks to his doctors in medical terms. But it's neurological, it's bad, and he's getting worse fast." She popped the remnants of the stick into her mouth and crunched it hard. "Okay. I know something about neuroscience. I'm going to talk to the pathologists and see what they know." I adjusted my shoulder tote, and turned for the door. "Hollis!" She extended her hand, as if to reach out to me, but of course she was too far away. "Don't you want to go see him first?" I twisted my foot, feeling the concrete walkway grind beneath my feet. "I'll be up in a little bit." The big doors closed behind me. ******** Chapter 4 ---...to teach them this art - if they desire to learn it - without fee and covenant; ...to pupils who have signed the covenant and have taken an oath according to the medical law, but no one else. Funny how some kinds of places are all set up the same, spaceports and hospitals for instance. You seen one, you seen 'em all. I took a lift to the basement and wandered around until I found the big double doors with the sign, "Keep Out." I went in. On the walls of the hallway, pictures of teachers and residents lined the wall. Krista Paulssen, third year resident. We'd had an elective together in the Martian refugee station. Several of the names were familiar from publications, but that was the only one I knew personally. "Help you?" a trim little Brekkian asked. He wore civvies. Probably a clerk. "I'm Doctor McCoy. I'm looking for Doctor Paulssen." "She's not here this month. On a rotation on Andor Prime, I think." "Well, maybe someone else can help me with a case. A neuropath mystery." "Ah, you want Doctor Landry, then. You're in luck. She's working late again. Let me comm her for you." Shortly, a heavy-set woman with dancing eyes chugged in, her rumpled lab coat sagging below her knees. "Someone commed?" "Doctor Landry, this doctor needs to speak with you about a case." "Of course, happy to." She pumped my hand several times. "I don't get to meet with the living much. Come into my office, Doctor--" "Leonard McCoy," I said, as I followed her in the door. "And which case do you want to discuss?" "David Hollis McCoy." She stopped. "And you are--?" "His son." "I see. Are you really a doctor?" Right now, I wonder that myself, dear. "A few times over. I'm on my third residency now--in microsurgery--but you're right. I'm not assigned to this case. I'm asking personally." She looked me over critically, as if balancing something in her mind. "Third residency. Didn't find what you liked in the first two?" "Just the opposite, in fact. Found too much I liked. And too much I wanted to know. I got hooked. "So, will you let me in on the case, or not?" Whatever it was apparently settled to her satisfaction, she nodded. She called up some specimens on her computer. "The old joke is that pathologists have all the answers, only too late. In this case, I don't know. I don't have the answers yet. There's massive demyelination of the neurons, almost like ascending paralysis, but there's no immunologic response at all. And it's progressing into the motor centers of the central nervous system as well." "ALS?" ALS--Lou Gehrig's--disease wasn't likely. That was an easy diagnosis to make. She shook her head. "It has some features, but there's no sclerosis in the anterior horn cells." She cued up a slide to demonstrate, "only massive axonal demyelination." "Do you have a tissue sample you can spare?" She gave me a questioning look. "I've done some research in neuropathology and treatment. I'd like to run it by some of the docs at home, maybe run some assays myself." Bristled would be too strong a word, but I could see her defenses shoot up before my eyes. " I have a legion of techs and computers working on it 'round the clock. I promise you, we're doing everything we can." There were a couple of options here. I chose honesty. "I know that. It's just that I'm his son, and I'm supposed to be a healer, and I'd like to feel that I'm doing everything that I can." She nodded. "I can understand that; I'll have one of the dieners get it for you. And I'll give you a 'chip with what we've found so far." "Thank you," I said, letting the very real gratitude seep into my voice. She called up the pertinent files and reached to insert a portable datachip. "Have you seen him yet?" she asked, her voice not quite casual. "No. I wanted to find out more about it first." Politely, she chose not to mention it how absurd that must have sounded. "Then--there's something else atypical that you should know about the process. It involves the sensory system as well." My heart thumped. "How so?" "According to the clinical information submitted, there's pain. Intense pain, mostly of central origin and not responsive to anything other than general anesthesia. It has something to do with the demyelination in the basal ganglia and depolarization of the periaqueductal gray matter. The whole system is supersensitized and unresponsive to any pain relievers. Whenever he's awake, he's in great pain." "My god." No, the other way. That would be a pretty fair version of hell. We all die, but not like that. "You have a theory?" I asked. She handed me the chip. " It could be a variant of ALS, I suppose, with central nervous system involvement as well. Or, it could be a toxic effect. He's been working with bisantrium 374. There's a lot we don't know about it. So far he's not been willing to disclose the extent of his experiments, even to his doctors. Perhaps you could convince him?" "I doubt it. My father and I haven't been close." She called up a graph that scooped upward and off the screen and pointed to it. "You might want to change that. Looking at the rate of myelin sheath loss, he doesn't have much time left." ~end part 3/7 ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ASCEM messages are copied to a mailing list. Most recent messages can be found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEML. NewMessage: