Crucible: McCoy

by David R. George III

Embrace her as my natural good;

  Or crush her, like a vice of blood,

  Upon the threshold of the mind?

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson,

  In Memoriam A.H.H., III

  One

  2267

  When the landing party materialized aboard the Enterprise, McCoy felt immediately unsettled. As his crewmates started forward and dismounted the transporter platform by twos—Jim and Spock, Scotty and Uhura, and a pair of security guards, Galloway and…Davis, was it?—he hung back, attempting to sort through the jumble of thoughts and memories flooding through his mind. Only moments ago, he’d been on Earth in a centuries-old city, with Jim and Spock, watching in dismay as a woman—Edith Keeler, he recalled now—lost her life in a traffic accident. But then without warning, McCoy had found himself standing with a half dozen of his crewmates amid the ruins of a dead planet.

  But not entirely dead, he thought now. There had been that strange…what? Machine? Creature? McCoy had no idea how to properly classify it. Set among sheer rock formations and derelict architectural structures, with fractured pillars littering the landscape about it, the object seemed like a forgotten remnant of a lost civilization. An irregular ring perched on edge, perhaps six or seven meters in diameter, it looked like no living being McCoy had ever seen, and yet its mottled, tawny surface possessed something of an organic appearance. It had also spoken, its asymmetrical, flowing form glowing in rhythm with its words, its voice deep and resonant.

  “Time has resumed its shape; all is as it was before,” it had said. “Many such journeys are possible. Let me be your gateway.”

  Before McCoy had even been able to consider the meaning of those pronouncements, though, the landing party had beamed back to the Enterprise, further compounding his already acute sense of dislocation. He’d stood in an ancient city on Earth one moment, on a desolate alien world the next, and then less than a minute after that, back aboard ship. His mind whirled with the rapid succession of virtually instantaneous travel from one place to another.

  Now, McCoy made his way to the front of the transporter platform. Contributing to his discomposure, he still fought the mental and physical effects of the massive amount of cordrazine inadvertently pumped into his body several days ago. Indeed, the chemical cobwebs suffusing his consciousness, which had come in waves during his recovery, had been what had propelled him out of a back room at the 21st Street Mission and into the night; he’d hoped that a walk in the crisp winter air would help revive his flagging faculties and allow him to refocus his thoughts.

  The Twenty-first Street Mission, McCoy repeated to himself. Images of the soup kitchen rose vividly in his mind, but the clarity of his memories did not translate to his emotions. His equilibrium threatened to slip again, and so he sought to stabilize his feelings by concentrating on his immediate surroundings.

  Across the room, a familiar click signaled the activation of an intercom circuit. McCoy watched Jim lean in over the back of the freestanding console, over the two-way speaker located there. “Kirk to bridge,” he said. Spock and the rest of the landing party waited behind him, and Lieutenant Berkeley, the transporter operator, looked on from the far side of the compartment.

  “Bridge, DeSalle here,” came the disembodied response of the navigator, the man fifth in line in the Enterprise’s chain of command. “Go ahead, Captain.”

  “Break orbit at once, Lieutenant,” Kirk ordered. “Lay in a course for Starbase Ten, warp factor six.” The words drew McCoy’s notice, not for their content, but because Jim had delivered them in an oddly lifeless tone. Spock too seemed to take note, peering over as the captain issued his orders.

  Jim waited for DeSalle’s acknowledgment, then signed off. “Kirk out.” He reached across the console and punched the intercom control with the fleshy side of his fist, closing the channel.

  “Captain,” Spock said, stepping up beside him. McCoy felt the impulse to go to his friend as well, but remained too unsteady to get himself moving. Instead, he simply looked on as Jim turned to the first officer.

  “Yes, what is it, Mister Spock?” he said. Again, McCoy detected an unusual flatness in the timbre of the captain’s voice, and it occurred to him that it must be because of what had happened, subjectively, just a few minutes earlier: Jim had prevented him from saving Edith Keeler’s life. McCoy had even accused him of doing so—Do you know what you just did?—and Spock had assured him that he did—He knows, Doctor; he knows. McCoy didn’t know why the captain had done what he’d done, but clearly he’d had a reason. Nevertheless, Jim displayed signs now of questioning his own actions—presumably actions he’d had to take. McCoy had seen the distant bearing before, the responsibility of commanding the Enterprise weighing down on the captain.

  Spock met Jim’s impassive demeanor with his own. “I am constrained to point out,” he began, “the considerable promise for scientific advancement from further study of the Guardian.”

  The Guardian, McCoy thought, the appellation echoing in his recollection, as though he’d heard it before, perhaps in a dream. Regardless, he knew at once that Spock referred to the unusual toroidal object—or entity—down on the planet’s surface.

  “At the very least,” Spock continued, “detailed observations could yield the procurement of historical information long believed lost to time.” He clearly spoke in his role not only as the ship’s second-in-command, but as its principal science officer. “Additionally, thorough examination of such data could prove invaluable to numerous disciplines, including anthropology, archeology, genetics, cosmology—”

  “Which is why,” the captain interrupted, “I will request that Starfleet Command dispatch a dedicated science vessel here as soon as possible.” On the face of it, that sounded to McCoy like a reasonable course of action. At the same time, the mandate of the Enterprise’s five-year mission—and Jim Kirk’s personal predilection—included exploration and analysis of the unknown. It therefore seemed peculiar, and even significant, that the captain did not avail the crew of the opportunity right now.

  “Sir,” Spock persisted. He bowed his head slightly and lowered his voice, as though seeking to avoid the appearance of challenging his commanding officer. “I must also call attention to the potentially devastating consequences of permitting this planet to fall under the control of any power with interests inimical to the Federation.” McCoy recognized the indications of the Vulcan’s discomfort, signs he’d observed only on rare occasion: a certain tightening of Spock’s facial muscles, bringing his hands together behind his back, casting his words with even greater formality than usual.

  “Begging the captain’s pardon,” Scotty said, pacing over to join the two senior officers. “I have to agree with Mister Spock about this. We’re not all that far from Romulan space, and we’re even closer to the Klingon border, and Organian Peace Treaty or no, if they should—”

  “I understand the point,” Kirk snapped, cutting off the chief engineer. The captain stopped and waited a beat, clearly attempting to rein in his emotions. He looked from Scotty to Spock, then turned back toward the transporter console and again reached across and brought his closed fist down on the intercom control. “Kirk to DeSalle.”

  “DeSalle here,” the lieutenant responded at once. “Navigation is plotting a course to Starbase Ten right now, Captain.”

  “Belay my previous order,” Kirk said. “Maintain standard orbit until further notice, and begin long-range scans of surrounding space. Specifically, be alert for any vessels approaching this system.”

  “Aye, sir,” DeSalle replied.

  The captain signed off, jabbing the intercom channel closed. Looking across the console, he addressed Lieutenant Berkeley. “Secure the transporter,” he said. “No one is to beam down to the planet under any circumstances.”

  “Yes, sir,” Berkeley said. He sent his fingers marching methodically across the control panel, obviously complying with the captain’s order.

  Kirk spared a quick glance at Spock, then fa
ced the rest of the landing party. “Lieutenant Uhura, report to the bridge,” he said. “Transmit a coded message to Starfleet Command. Follow up on the log entries we’ve already sent them and recap the events down on the planet. Convey my urgent request for an immediate and possibly permanent military presence here, as well as my recommendation for a long-term scientific contingent.”

  “Right away, sir,” Uhura acknowledged, but before she could move toward the door, Spock spoke up once more.

  “Captain,” he said, “given the extraordinary nature of what the landing party encountered on the planet, I’m certain that you would want all of us to report to sickbay for medical evaluation.” McCoy’s eyebrows rose involuntarily as Spock uncharacteristically continued attempting to tell the captain his job. “In particular,” he said, peering over to where McCoy stood at the front edge of the transporter platform, “I’m sure that you would want the doctor to be examined, considering the great quantity of cordrazine recently injected into his body.”

  Jim turned his head sharply, his expression softening as he looked over at McCoy. “Yes, of course,” he agreed. He walked over to the platform and gazed upward. “How are you feeling, Bones?”

  “To tell you the truth, my head’s spinning a little bit right now,” McCoy said, throwing a hand up to rub the side of his temple. He padded down the steps to the deck of the transporter room, where he faced the captain. “I’ve recovered quite a bit from the overdose,” he explained, “but I think I still have a ways to go.”

  “You’ve…been through a lot,” Jim said. He lifted his hands and took hold of McCoy’s upper arms. “Have Doctor Sanchez check you out.”

  The left side of McCoy’s mouth curled up in a lopsided grin, a reaction to the captain’s display of concern. “Yes, sir,” he said. Jim applied reassuring pressure to McCoy’s arms for a moment, then dropped his hands and turned back to the rest of the landing party.

  “All of you, report to sickbay,” he ordered the assembled crew, but then he spoke directly to Uhura. “Lieutenant, head to the bridge first and see to it that my message is sent to Starfleet. Then get checked out.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  McCoy watched as Jim started for the doors. The light blue panels parted before him, but then Spock spoke up again. “Captain,” he said, and Jim stopped and glanced back over his shoulder. “May I ask if you’ll be reporting to sickbay as well?”

  “I’ll be in my quarters,” Jim said, his severe mien returned. “And I don’t wish to be disturbed.” McCoy thought for a moment that Spock might cite regulations in order to compel the captain to submit to a medical exam, but the first officer said nothing more. Jim continued out of the transporter room, the doors sliding shut behind him.

  As if on queue, all the members of the landing party looked toward Spock, and McCoy recognized that he hadn’t been the only one to observe the captain’s detached comportment. Spock ignored the attentions of the crew, though, and instead addressed McCoy. “Do you require assistance, Doctor?” he asked.

  “No,” McCoy answered. “I can make it on my own.”

  “Very well,” Spock said. “Then let us all comply with the captain’s orders.”

  McCoy fell in with the members of the landing party as they started toward the transporter-room doors, headed for sickbay. He resolved to have a private conversation with Spock. Obviously what affected the captain so much was Edith Keeler’s death, but he wondered now if something more than that had happened down on the planet.

  Two

  1930

  Edith’s knees trembled as McCoy escorted her through the front entryway of the mission. Though she had walked here with him from the center of the street, her legs had begun to waver as soon as she’d stood up. The reality that she had almost stridden into the path of an oncoming lorry remained at the forefront of her thoughts, and she guessed that the incident had forced her body to suffer some form of shock.

  Inside, the relative darkness of the city night gave way to the amber illumination thrown down by the bare bulbs dangling from the ceiling. Edith squinted and raised a hand to shield her eyes from the increased brightness, and the movement immediately disrupted her balance. She reflexively extended her arm out to the wall left of the doors to steady herself. Her splayed fingers came to rest on the beige plaster, beneath the place where the pay telephone hung, and next to the writing shelf just beside it.

  “Easy now,” McCoy said, strengthening his already supportive hold on her other arm. “Why don’t we get you off your feet.” Edith heard and understood the words, but they sounded as though they’d been spoken to her from a distance.

  McCoy slowly guided her toward the nearest of the four long tables that filled the large main room of the mission. Atop the tables sat overturned chairs, which Edith had placed there herself after the last meal of the day, so that she’d been able to sweep the floor clean. Now she reached out, and for a moment she watched her hands quiver uncontrollably, until she pushed them palms down onto the tabletop. Pitted and scarred from years of use, the flaxen wood felt rough to her touch.

  Concentrating as best she could on that sensation, Edith leaned heavily on her hands, at least partially relieving her legs of their burden. Beside her, wood rasped against wood as McCoy pulled down one of the chairs. He set it on the floor behind her, then gently grasped her shoulders and eased her onto the seat. Edith left her hands lying flat in front of her, though, worried that she would not be able to restrain their shaking if she lifted them. Only then did she notice that the sleeves of her blouse had been rent. Dark patches of dirt covered the ragged white fabric; beneath, visible amidst the grime, crimson scratches and contusions scored her flesh, all doubtless the result of her impact with the street. Most of her wounds appeared superficial, but blood seeped from a nasty gash that reached from the top of her right wrist and up across the base of her thumb. Oddly, she felt no pain—or perhaps not so oddly, since she felt virtually nothing, her mind and body numbed by the night’s events.

  “Now let’s take a look at you,” McCoy said, his voice still seeming to come to her from far away. He slid her periwinkle cloche onto the table, then unbuttoned her cloak, removed it, and set it down beside the hat. After hauling another chair from atop the table, he sat down next to her and delicately took hold of her hands, first one, then the other. Even in her haze, Edith could see that he examined her injuries with great care. She watched him as he did so, but as she again spied her flawed porcelain skin, pressure suddenly formed behind her eyes. She clenched her jaw in an effort to keep her tears at bay.

  “Nothing too bad,” McCoy told her, and Edith clung to the statement as she would a life preserver. “I’m going to see what you’ve got in this place that I can use to treat you,” he said, pushing back from the table and standing up. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  “All right,” Edith said absently. Even her own words rang strangely in her ears, as though they’d been uttered with her voice, but by some other person. Although aware of her surroundings, she felt disconnected from them, and her mind seemed to hold only the most tenuous link with her body.

  Edith struggled to push herself into the moment. She stared ahead at her damaged limbs while McCoy moved around her and toward the small kitchen at the far end of the room. Edith tried to listen to his footfalls as he marched away from her, but instead heard the rhythm of her own steps as she’d only moments ago crossed Twenty-first Street.

  After she’d helped clean up after the final meal tonight, Edith had donned her cloak and hat and started for home. For much of the day, she’d entertained the idea of stopping by the cinema and taking in the late feature. She loved the talkies, though she seldom enough found time to indulge herself. As she’d left the mission tonight, Edith had again considered the possibility and had decided to take in a film after all. She’d started for the theater, but then something had occurred to her—some matter she could not now recall—and she’d turned around and headed back to the soup kitchen. Whate
ver her thoughts had been, she must have been concentrating so intently on them that she’d failed to check for approaching motorcars before crossing the street.

  How could I have been so careless? she thought now. Beyond the obvious danger to herself, she’d put the mission—and therefore the well-being of many other people—at risk. The primary responsibility for running the soup kitchen rested with her; should she become incapacitated, she had no idea for how long it would endure. Edith certainly didn’t manage the place alone—a number of others worked there, including several men who’d initially arrived at the mission needing assistance themselves—but only she raised and supervised the funds required to keep the doors open. Had McCoy not bravely rescued her from harm, more than a few people would have paid the price for her recklessness.

  “Stupid,” Edith announced, but already her discontent with her blunder had begun to ebb. Despite the wisps of fog lingering in her mind, she’d contemplated her foolishness enough, and now she simply resolved to pay more attention to her environs. She shook her head vigorously from side to side, not in self-admonishment, but in an attempt to revive her diminished awareness. After a few moments, she detected in the air the dark, persistent aroma of coffee, and beneath it, the reedy hints of chicken broth. Voices reached her, and she peered across the room, past the chair legs that rose up from the tabletops like the winter-bare tree trunks of a diminutive woodland.

  Beyond the far wall of the main room sat the undersized kitchen, visible through the wide rectangular opening at which the men who came here were served their meals. To the left, a pair of olive-drab swinging doors, with circular windows at eye level, separated the two rooms. Another wooden door, also painted olive drab, stood on the far right and led to a hallway, Edith’s office, a couple of storage closets, and a stairway down to the cellar.

  In the kitchen right now, she saw, McCoy spoke with Rik. The former vagrant held a towel and a large pot in his hands, and Edith knew that he’d been busy cleaning up after the night’s last meal. No taller than she was, with a mop of long, silvering hair and a shaggy mustache, Rik had been helping out at the mission for several months, ever since he’d developed the conviction and strength to break off with the booze. Prior to that, Edith had turned him out of the soup kitchen several times, though always advising him that he would be welcome if he returned sober. Even during those uncertain times, Rik, like several of the regular visitors here, had occasionally helped out at the mission.