STAR TREK: TOS #2 - The Entropy Effect

by Vonda N. McIntyre

  McCoy kept listening, and finally he realized where the explanation was leading.

  “Spock,” he said, “you’re telling me that Jim wasn’t killed by the Georges Mordreaux we have in custody on the Enterprise at all—that it was some other Georges Mordreaux. One from the future!”

  “Precisely, Dr. McCoy. It is the only explanation that fits all the parameters of the incident It is what Dr. Mordreaux himself believes. Given that he had access to the information he would need to go back—come back—in time, it is also the simplest explanation.”

  “Simplest!”

  “Indeed.”

  “Simpler than an accomplice?”

  “An accomplice who appeared from nowhere, looked exactly like Dr. Mordreaux, referred to an incident that has not occurred—yet—and vanished again?”

  “Someone on the ship who had some reason to hate Jim someone who understands hologrammatic disguise ...” His voice trailed off at Spock’s look.

  “Hologrammatic disguise is easily detectable,” Spock said. “It was not such a disguise.”

  “An actor, then. Someone experienced in transformation—”

  “Who also managed to hide long enough to change back to normal and dispose of the weapon, with everyone on board searching for someone resembling Dr. Mordreaux?”

  “It’s possible,” McCoy said belligerently.

  “Indeed it is. It is also possible that the Enterprise is playing host to a shape-changer.”

  “That’s easier to believe than a time-travelling assassin!”

  “My theory possesses one unique factor, which may persuade you to help me.”

  “What?”

  “If this hypothesis is correct, then these events are a serious perturbation in the time-stream. They must be put right. Captain Kirk need not die. He must not die.”

  McCoy rubbed his eyes, sorting through Spock’s barrage of reasoning. It made a certain amount of absurd sense; at the very least it explained the pervasive feeling he, and Jim, and half the other people on the ship had had: that everything was going wrong, in some weird, implacable, uncontrollable way.

  “All right, Spock,” he said. “What do you want me to do? I’ll help you, if I can.”

  Did a flicker of relief, even of gratitude, pass over the Vulcan’s face? McCoy chose to believe so.

  “Technically, I am in command of the Enterprise until Starfleet can assess the situation and assign another captain,” Spock said.

  “Or promote you into the rank permanently.”

  “Out of the question. I would not accept it, but in any event it will not be offered. That has no relevance to our concerns. I cannot perform the duties of captain and carry out this task as well: Dr. Mordreaux and I will have to build the hardware to take me back to yesterday. It will take some time and it would be better if we were not disturbed.”

  “Why can’t we just whiplash back?”

  “For the same reason that we will not attempt to calibrate the singularity and use it to travel back: because it would result in our taking the entire ship into the past, including the captain’s body; we would be forced to confront ourselves, to try to persuade ourselves—”

  “Never mind,” McCoy said quickly. “What do you want me to do? Say I’ve taken you off duty on medical orders?”

  “Not an unreasonable suggestion,” Spock said thoughtfully. “You may do as you think best, whether you wish to dissemble or simply refuse to answer queries at all.”

  “Under normal conditions you’d have to go to sleep pretty soon,” McCoy said, for he knew the schedule Spock had put himself on. “Come to think of it—how are you going to stay awake?”

  “I can delay the compulsion.”

  McCoy frowned. “Is that wise, Mr. Spock?” Spock so often pushed himself beyond all limits, though no doubt he would deny that he tried to prove himself more than the equal of any full Vulcan.

  “It is of no account,” Spock said. “I will simply require a few minutes later on today to stabilize my metabolic state. It will not affect my work.”

  “But that’s absurd! Why don’t you just go to sleep? We’ve got plenty of time!”

  “But we do not. The effort required to change an event is proportional to the square of its distance in the past. The curve of a power function approaches infinity rather quickly.”

  “The longer you wait, the harder it will be?”

  “Precisely. In addition, we are still proceeding toward the rehabilitation colony, and if we cannot complete the hardware before I am forced to relinquish Dr. Mordreaux to the authorities it may never be completed at all.”

  “Wait. I thought you believed he was wrongfully convicted. I thought you were going to try to prove him innocent.”

  “Unfortunately, that is impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “Because even if he were innocent, which technically he is not, he is not being rehabilitated for that crime. His work is perceived as such a threat that a high-level decision has been made, somewhere in the Federation, to eliminate it.”

  “That’s paranoid, Mr. Spock!”

  “Their actions, or Dr. Mordreaux’s belief that this is what is happening? I doubted the proposition myself. However, the trial records are lost from the public archives. The professor’s name has been eliminated from the news indices of Aleph Prime. And, most important, his monographs are being systematically eradicated from Federation memory banks. The Aleph Prime computer infected the computer on the Enterprise with a virus program. It seeks out and destroys Dr. Mordreaux’s work; it replicates itself and transfers itself to any computer with which it has contact. It had already done its work on the Enterprise when I discovered it, and it is only because my own computer is protected, immunized, if you will, against such infection that I retain copies of the papers.”

  McCoy slowly began to understand how frightening the implications of Mordreaux’s theories were. Anyone who could put them to use could change the time-stream: history itself. Even now they might all be changing, being changed, without their consent or even their knowledge. He shivered.

  “No argument I or anyone else could make would prevent the authorities from sending Dr. Mordreaux through rehabilitation,” Spock said.

  McCoy folded his arms across his chest. “I have no reason to feel any sympathy at all for this man, Spock, but it does sound to me like he’s being thrown to the wolves.”

  “Thrown to—? Oh ... I recall the reference. On the contrary, doctor. There are several ways to prevent his being imprisoned, but he will not accept my help. He prefers that a very small number of people appreciate the validity of his work. The alternative is for his theories to remain discredited, and that, he cannot accept.”

  “You’re going to let them ‘rehabilitate’ him?”

  “I have no choice. I have given my word not to try to undo his past actions, however self-destructive they may be.”

  “Mr. Spock—”

  “Dr. McCoy, I cannot take the time to argue with you now. I do not disagree with your position, but for now we must be satisfied with Dr. Mordreaux’s help in saving Captain Kirk. Do you wish a formal assignment of captain’s duties?”

  “Don’t see that it’s necessary,” McCoy said.

  Spock nodded and started away.

  “Spock—wait.”

  The Vulcan turned back.

  “Why the secrecy, my covering for you and all that? Let’s just announce what happened and what we plan to do, and we’ll have every member of the crew on our side.”

  “That is quite possibly the worst course of action you could imagine.”

  “You aren’t making any sense.”

  “This work is perceived as threatening, not only to the Federation but to the history of the universe itself. If we are detected using it—by, for example, Ian Braithewaite—we would undoubtedly find ourselves court-martialed and on our way to the same rehabilitation colony that awaits Dr. Mordreaux.”

  “Oh.”

  Spock addressed McCo
y gravely. “Dr. McCoy, what we are attempting to do is not without its perils, and a rehabilitation colony is not the greatest of the possible dangers. I may fail. I could conceivably make things worse. Would you prefer that I proceed without your involvement?”

  McCoy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “No, Mr. Spock, I can’t stand on the sidelines even if it means taking the chance of going down with you. I’ll help you as much as I can.”

  “That is a mixed image at best, Dr. McCoy, but I appreciate your intent.”

  Spock felt sleep creeping up over him, fogging his perceptions and distorting his vision. It was too early, too early: he should have had at least until this evening before the need grew compelling. The past twenty-four hours had put him under so much stress that he had been forced to divert attention from controlling his sleep patterns to controlling emotions that under normal circumstances were so thoroughly repressed as to be essentially nonexistent.

  He hurried toward his own quarters instead of Dr. Mordreaux’s, hoping he had not left making the changes until too late.

  The warmth in his cabin, closer to Vulcan normal temperatures, surrounded him, and the whole texture of the light changed. He closed the door and stood for a moment, making the transition from the human world to his own.

  But he had no more time to wait. He lay down on a long, polished slab of Vulcan granite, a meditation stone, one of the very few luxuries he permitted himself. He closed his eyes, and relaxed slowly. He could not relax as completely as he would have liked: if he did he would fall immediately asleep. Yet if he remained tense he would not be able to control his body enough to give himself the few more days, the few more hours, that he needed.

  There was no help for it. He had to take the chance. The ironic thing was that the level of concentration he required was so deep that he could not pay attention to staying awake.

  Gradually he grew aware of every bone, every organ, every muscle and sinew in his body. He breathed deeply, forcing cells to degrade the molecules that were the products of fatigue. He went deep into his own mind to restrain a biological response already compressed to the danger point. He had to struggle with himself; he required every bit of determination left in him. But when he progressed back through the layers of his mind, he was rewarded by renewed clarity of intellect.

  For now, he had succeeded.

  Dr. McCoy stepped off the turbo lift onto the bridge. He was about to toss a cheery greeting toward Uhura, but one glance at the strain and grief in her beautiful, elegant face, at her eyes red-rimmed from tears, reminded him that as far as everyone else was concerned, they had lost a respected officer or a friend. Already McCoy had begun to think of Jim as just gone away for a short vacation; McCoy’s own despair had vanished. But it was essential that he conceal his hope. Spock’s assessment was no doubt accurate: if they fell under suspicion they would be stopped.

  Near Uhura, he paused. She took his outstretched hand, and he squeezed her fingers gently, comfortingly. He wanted to pull her to her feet and swing her around and hug her and tell her everything would be all right soon; he wanted to tell everyone on the bridge, on the ship, that it was all a mistake, all, practically, a joke.

  “Dr. McCoy ...”

  “Uhura ...”

  “Are you all right?”

  “So far,” he said, feeling brutal, feeling dishonest. “And you?”

  “So far.” She smiled, a little shakily.

  McCoy started toward the lower level of the bridge.

  “Dr. McCoy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Doctor, communications on the ship are ... muddled. I don’t mean the machinery.” She gestured toward her station. “I mean people talking to each other. Rumors. Suspicions. I suppose Mr. Spock can’t tell us, if we all are under suspicion. But if we’re not, just a few words from him—”

  “Suspicion! Uhura, what are you talking about?”

  “I’ve gone through tough security interviews—you know my clearance level—but I’ve never been through an interrogation anything like the one this morning.”

  McCoy frowned, very surprised. “I’d’ve thought Barry al Auriga would have more tact.” Mandala Flynn had gone through al Auriga’s files with McCoy and recommended him for promotion to her second in command soon after she came on board. One of the reasons she had chosen him over several other officers of comparable seniority was that his psychological profile, and his service record, indicated that he behaved gently and gracefully under pressure.

  “I don’t mean Barry. He’s taken my statement, of course. It’s Ian Braithewaite. Dr. McCoy, the rumor is that the prisoner couldn’t have got out of his cell by himself so there must be a conspiracy. That’s what Mr. Braithewaite’s looking for, anyway. He as much as accused Mandala of being involved. I felt like scratching his eyes out when he said that.”

  McCoy scowled. “I never heard such a load of tripe. Besides, Ian Braithewaite hasn’t got any jurisdiction on the Enterprise. Even if he did, it wouldn’t give him the right to browbeat you—or slander someone who can’t defend herself anymore.” Braithewaite was far from unique in believing that a stateless person was a security risk, almost by definition. McCoy sighed. “Uhura, page Mr. Braithewaite, would you? Hunt him up and tell him to get to the bridge, on the double.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  He slid into Jim Kirk’s seat and spent the next few minutes gazing at the viewscreen, paying little attention to the spectacular starfield. He wondered what would happen when Spock carried out his plans. Would anyone have any memory of what had really occurred, or would the events simply vanish from their perception? If so, what did that do to the beings who were here, now?

  Will we vanish, too? he wondered.

  The more he thought about it, the more he became entrapped in the paradoxes and confused by them.

  The lift doors swept open and Ian Braithewaite came onto the bridge, his manic energy confined by the belligerent hunch of his shoulders. He descended the steps in one stride and faced McCoy.

  “I assume you’d like to talk to me,” McCoy said. “Since you’ve been so aggressive about talking to the rest of the crew.”

  “I’d rather talk to the new captain, but he’s avoiding me.”

  “Look here, son,” McCoy said, not feeling nearly as much the kindly old doctor as he made out, “you’re the one who vanished out of sick bay without my say-so. You’ve got a bad concussion—you ought to be in bed.”

  “Don’t try to change the subject!”

  “What exactly is the subject? From what I hear you’ve got some bees that need chasing’ out of your bonnet.”

  Braithewaite’s expression was for all the world like Spock’s when he did not comprehend some colorful human metaphor.

  “What’s a bee? For that matter, what’s a bonnet?”

  “Oh, never mind. Deliver me from people who’ve never walked on the surface of a planet. Braithewaite, what the devil do you mean harassing the crew? We’ve all gone through a hell of a lot in the last day, thanks to you and your damned prisoner. We’ve lost someone we admired very much and I won’t have you putting anyone under any more strain.”

  “I don’t see that you have anything to say about it. The crime occurred in my jurisdiction and I’m investigating it.”

  “You don’t have any jurisdiction over a Starfleet vessel.”

  “Oh, you’re an expert in system law as well as a doctor, are you? I’m impressed.”

  “Mr. Braithewaite, what’s with you? Everyone saw your prisoner murder the captain, and unless you’ve let Mordreaux loose yourself he’s safely in custody.”

  “I don’t intend to discuss what I know with you.”

  “Oh, you don’t, don’t you?” You young twerp, McCoy added, coming within a hairsbreadth of saying it aloud.

  “Where’s Mr. Spock—or should I say, ‘Captain’ Spock?”

  “I think he’d object in the strongest possible terms if you called him that to his face. He and Jim were real close fo
r a long time, and while he’d rather have his nails pulled out than admit it, Jim’s death hit him hard.”

  “Really? I suppose he’s off somewhere prostrate with grief.”

  “Look here, I don’t understand your belligerence at all. What’s the matter with you? If you have something to say, say it—don’t keep flying off the handle at everything I say to you.”

  “I want to talk to the commanding officer.”

  “I’ll have to do, then.”

  “Spock has turned over command to you?”

  “For the moment.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s—asleep,” McCoy said. The lie was badly prepared. He tried to explain about the singularity observations and the Vulcan ability to put off sleep, until he realized Braithewaite doubted every word.

  “Even though the formal hierarchy calls for Montgomery Scott to assume command, you’ve been given the position.”

  “The choice between us is up to the commanding officer,” McCoy said. Then he tried a more conciliatory tone. “Besides, Scotty’s working on the engines—he hasn’t got time to be in command, he’s too important right where he is.”

  At Braithewaite’s expression, McCoy was immediately sorry he had tried to jolly the prosecutor along.

  “I’ve got better things to do than trade clever lines with you,” Braithewaite said, and turned to leave.

  “Ian,” McCoy said, in the softest southern drawl, the tone he found himself using only in times of deepest fury.

  Braithewaite stopped, but did not turn around again.

  “Ian,” McCoy said, “whether you like it or not, I’m in command here till Mr. Spock comes back on duty. And if you keep harassing the crew—if you keep harassing my people I’ll have you confined to quarters.”

  Now Braithewaite did swing around, fists clenched. “You think you can do that, do you?”

  McCoy smiled his kindliest old country doctor smile, but his voice was still very soft, very low.

  “Try me,” he said.