As he descended the stairs, McCoy started planning for the next day. Since he’d been in the past, he’d seen several different newspapers, including The New York Times, The World, and the one from which Keeler had just given him the classified section, The Star Dispatch. Tomorrow, he would blanket the city and purchase ads in all of them.
When he reached the street outside Keeler’s building, he felt confident that his plan would work, and that Jim and Spock would soon be able to bring him back home. “It’s just a matter of time,” he said to himself.
Nine
2267
Kirk sat back in his chair as he watched Yeoman Rand pull the silver-colored cover from atop his plate. “Egg salad with lettuce and Swiss cheese on wheat bread,” she said, confirming his lunch order. “With coleslaw and mixed fruit.” She retrieved a fork and linen napkin from the tray she’d carried from the mess and set them at the edge of the gauzy blue place mat she’d already laid out on Kirk’s desk. Rand finished by serving the glass of apple juice he’d requested, announcing it as she had the food.
“Thank you, Yeoman,” Kirk said.
“You’re welcome, sir,” Rand said. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”
“No, that’ll be all,” Kirk said. “Dismissed.”
As Rand grabbed the tray and headed for the door, the captain reached over to the far end of the desk, to where he’d pushed the data slate on which he’d been working when the yeoman had brought his lunch. He’d opted to have his midday meal in the quiet of his quarters so that he could work on the upcoming crew changes, which he needed to complete before the ship arrived at Starbase 10. He set the device down beside his lunch and began to review the lists of promotions, reassignments, and transfers when he realized that, while he’d heard his cabin door open, he hadn’t heard it close. He looked over in that direction and saw Rand hesitating in the doorway.
“Yeoman?” Kirk said.
Rand turned and reentered the cabin, and the door slid closed behind her. The tray hung down beside her leg, dangling from her fingertips. “Captain, I just wanted to thank you for approving my transfer,” she said. She seemed nervous and unsure of herself, an occurrence not entirely uncommon for her.
“You’re welcome, Yeoman,” Kirk said. Rand had actually put in for a transfer from the ship several months ago, but the captain had only recently had time to review and consider her application. Since the yeoman hadn’t served aboard the Enterprise for long—less than a year—he’d been disinclined to approve her petition when he’d first received it. But Rand had chosen to include with her request a written statement, in which she’d delineated her reasons with such candor and emotion that Kirk had been moved to change his mind. “How long will you be at Starbase Ten?”
“Three days,” Rand said. “Then I’ll be taking the transport Reykjavik to Earth.” In San Francisco, Kirk knew, Rand would attend Starfleet Academy, having reenrolled coincident with, and contingent upon, her application for transfer. The explanation she’d offered for the sudden change in her career path had included the emotionally unhealthy reason she’d gone to space in the first place—running away from an abusive and damaging childhood—and the realization that she wanted to do more than simply serve as a yeoman. She also intended to seek counseling. “I just wanted you to know that…that I’m not quitting, Captain,” she said. “I’m going to find a course of study, finish it, and return to starship duty.”
Kirk nodded, believing her claim. Based upon the serious self-examination reflected in the addenda to her transfer request, along with her aim of getting psychiatric help, he thought he understood the high level of her commitment. “Have you any idea what area you might want to go into?” he asked.
“I haven’t completely decided,” Rand said, “but I’ve been thinking about engineering, or possibly communications.”
Kirk nodded again. “Well, Yeoman, perhaps when you’ve completed your studies, you’ll think about rejoining the Enterprise crew.”
A shy smile appeared on Rand’s face, the yeoman clearly pleased by the captain’s encouragement. “Yes, sir,” she said. “Thank you, sir.” Kirk looked back down at his desk, and he again heard the cabin door whoosh open, This time, Rand departed, and the door closed after her.
The captain returned his attention to the data on his slate and saw Rand’s name listed at the top of the screen under the TRANSFERS heading, along with Ensign Barrows, Lieutenant Farrell, and Crewman Fisher. While green check marks indicated that Kirk had already approved three of the four transfers, Barrows had asked just today to be sent to another starship, an appeal that had come as a surprise. As far as the captain knew, she and Bones had been seeing each other regularly for some time now. He wondered if something had happened between them that had prompted Barrows’s request, though McCoy had said nothing about any troubles in their relationship.
Then again, Kirk thought, Bones hasn’t said much of anything at all about Barrows, at least not since they became involved. He would have to review the ensign’s transfer application, then decide whether or not he needed to speak to the doctor about the situation.
In the meantime, he examined the rest of the slate’s display. A PROMOTIONS section followed the transfers and identified nearly a dozen of the Enterprise crew that had been recommended for advancement by their department heads. A final, much longer group of names ran in columns across the bottom of the screen, beneath the banner REASSIGNMENTS.
Kirk lifted the stylus and touched its tip to the first name in the last section: Pavel Chekov. The entry blinked three times and then the display switched to a readout of the crewman’s service record. The captain set the stylus aside and picked up half of his sandwich. As he began eating, he studied the evaluations made of Chekov’s performance. Following a rotation in engineering, the young man was stationed in one of the ship’s science labs and assigned to sensor control and analysis, although he’d actually graduated the Academy with a proficiency in navigation. Spock had been impressed with the young man’s intelligence and drive, despite what the first officer described as a “strange sense of humor focused on Russia as the wellspring of virtually every positive aspect of human civilization.” Still, Spock believed Chekov deserving of a duty assignment on the bridge.
As Kirk read through the assessment offered by Chekov’s immediate superior, Lieutenant Arlene Galway, somebody activated his door signal. The captain put the half-eaten portion of his sandwich back down on the plate. “Come,” he said.
The door panel opened and Dr. McCoy entered. “Bones,” Kirk said. “I was just having some lunch. Care to join me?”
“No, thanks, I’ve already eaten,” said the doctor. He crossed the room, sat down, and looked across the desk at the captain. “I just wanted to stop by and see how you were doing.”
“Me?” Kirk said, and he felt himself stalling for a moment before answering the question. “Buried in the details of crew evaluations, but otherwise I’m all right.” He tapped a finger on the slate.
McCoy leaned back in his chair, rested one hand on the desk, and peered at the captain as though performing his own evaluation. For an instant, Kirk felt certain that the doctor would challenge his claim of being all right, but then McCoy instead asked about Peter. “How’s your nephew?”
“He seems to be handling the situation about as well as can be expected,” Kirk said, grateful for the truth of his reply. “I stopped by to check on him on my way from the bridge.” When Peter had been physically well enough to leave sickbay, the captain had moved him into the guest quarters nearest his own cabin, only a few corridors away. “He was on subspace, talking with his brothers.”
“Have Alexander and Julius reached Starbase Ten?” McCoy asked.
“Yes, a couple of days ago,” Kirk said. At the mention of the names of Sam and Aurelan’s two older sons, he felt anew the torment that had infused him when he’d had to tell them of the loss of their parents. The captain had seen death many times throughout his life, had lost
crew under his command and been responsible for informing the next of kin: parents, spouses, children. Though he’d never become entirely inured to the shared pain and the private guilt of those moments—and never wanted to—the process had grown at least somewhat easier for him over time. But he’d never before had to tell people he loved about such a loss. Kirk had watched over a subspace connection as Julius had wept uncontrollably, but Alexander, twenty-five and the older of the two by four years, had stayed strong, offering comfort not only to his younger brother, but also to his uncle.
“I think they’re all looking forward to being together on Canopus,” Kirk said, redirecting his thoughts and pushing away his pain. He focused instead on Alexander, who had decided almost at once to adopt Peter. Nearly a month had passed since then, and the young man had admirably remained steadfast in his desire to care for his brothers on the Canopus planet. Alexander had studied literature there at Tarbolde University, then had settled in the planetary capital of Lejon after graduating. Julius had followed him to school there, though to study law.
“I’m sure it’s important for all of them to spend this time with each other, as a family,” McCoy said. “They need to be able to share their grief and lean on one another.” He paused, and Kirk knew that he would return to his initial question. “But what about you, Jim? Are you really all right?”
Kirk did not want to have this conversation—not with McCoy, not with Spock, not with anybody. Whatever pain he felt, he did not want to share it, but to bury it. In as level a manner as possible, he said, “Bones, yes, I’m really all right.”
McCoy gazed at him across the desk in that same appraising way as when he’d first sat down. Kirk braced for the argument sure to follow, but then the doctor unexpectedly rose to his feet. “Okay,” he said. “I guess I should let you get back to your work then.” Motioning toward the slate, he added, “Don’t forget to put in a good word for your favorite CMO.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Kirk said with a chuckle.
The doctor started through the door, but as with Yeoman Rand before him, he stopped before the panel could glide shut. “Oh, by the way,” he said, his manner casual, “I’ve been meaning to tell you that I found an irregularity in my medical logs.”
“An irregularity?” Kirk repeated.
“Yes,” McCoy said. “When I injected myself with cordrazine, a landing party followed me down to that unexplored planet.”
“That’s right,” Kirk said.
“I spent a few days down there and in Earth’s past recuperating from the overdose,” McCoy continued, “but when we all finally got back to the ship, I was still in no condition to do much doctoring.”
“What’s your point, Bones?” Kirk asked. “Nobody expected you to return to duty right away.”
“No, I know that,” McCoy said. “My point is that Doctor Sanchez examined me, and then in accordance with Starfleet medical regulations, he examined the rest of the landing party…everybody except for you, Jim.”
The statement surprised Kirk. He thought back to that time and remembered that he hadn’t reported to sickbay with McCoy and Spock and the others, nor had he done so in the time since then. “Bones, that was a month and a half ago. I’m obviously healthy.”
“I’m sure you are,” McCoy said. “I’m sure you’re not a victim of some medical affliction that remains dormant in the body for weeks or months or years. But we were on a world that hadn’t even been surveyed, much less explored, and we were in close proximity to that alien…whatever it was. Plus you and Spock and I spent time on Earth in its disease-infested past.”
“Bones—” Kirk started to protest.
“Regulations, Captain,” McCoy interrupted.
“Since when are you so interested in regulations?” Kirk asked in mild aggravation.
McCoy jabbed a finger in the direction of the desk. “Since my performance is being measured by my commanding officer,” he joked. “And since the annual crew health evaluations will be due at Starfleet Medical while we’re at Starbase Ten.”
“All right,” Kirk relented, raising his hands in a gesture of capitulation. “I’ll be there when I get off duty.”
“I’ll see you then,” McCoy said, and he finally continued out into the corridor.
Kirk stared at the closed cabin door for a few seconds, then went back to his lunch and to the crew assessments. He made solid progress on both, but a couple of times, he looked back up at the door and replayed the conversation he’d had with McCoy. Though he had in his time aboard the Enterprise trusted his life to the doctor, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his friend had just somehow maneuvered him.
McCoy stood in his office and reviewed the details of the medical exam he’d administered yesterday to the captain. “Four-oh,” he said. “He’s still a noncontagious carrier of Vegan choriomeningitis, but other than that, he’s four-oh and four-oh and four-oh.” He read through the data arranged in rows and columns on the display of the slate he held, then glanced over the top of the device at Spock.
“The captain’s physical health is not at issue, Doctor,” said the first officer. He faced McCoy from the center of the room, hands behind his back, imperturbably—and infuriatingly—calm.
“Maybe not,” McCoy allowed, “but all we’ve got concerning Jim’s mental health are our opinions. We can’t even cite a single example of his grief, or the way he’s avoiding it, affecting his ability to command the Enterprise.”
“You have examined the captain in your usual professional and thorough manner, have you not?” Spock asked. McCoy thought his use of the word usual bordered on the facetious, but he chose to let it pass and stay focused on the issue at hand.
“Yes, of course,” he said. He swung his arm down and deposited the slate on the surface of his desk.
“Then as this ship’s chief medical officer,” Spock asserted, “your informed opinion of the captain’s mental state will hold sway with Starfleet Command. When coupled with yours, my view, as executive officer, will also be regarded with some note.”
McCoy felt frustration rise within him, as sometimes happened in his conversations with Spock. Despite his exacting logic and well-developed intellect, the Vulcan occasionally seemed obtuse, failing to grasp some argument or another that the doctor had put forth. That appeared to be the case right now: McCoy harbored no apprehensions about convincing the admirals of the seriousness of Jim’s situation; he worried only about convincing Jim.
“If you’re saying that we won’t have any problem persuading Starfleet Command to our point of view, you’re probably right,” he told Spock. “But that’s not what—”
The doors leading to the corridor parted, and Captain Kirk entered. “Bones, what is it now? I’ve—” He stopped speaking when he spotted another person in the office. “Mister Spock,” he said. McCoy could tell that Jim hadn’t anticipated finding the first officer here, and he wondered if the captain now suspected the reason for his visit.
An instant later, though, Jim addressed McCoy again, essentially ignoring the unexpectedness of Spock’s presence. “You wanted to see me, Bones?” he asked, and then grinning, added, “Haven’t you poked and prodded me enough with your medieval medical implements?” He reached up and wrapped his hand around his own upper arm, wincing theatrically. Now that Spock had called McCoy’s attention to Jim’s continual avoidance of the terrible losses he’d so recently suffered, the doctor saw evidence of it at every turn.
“No, you’re safe for another year,” McCoy joked, “depending on what kinds of landing parties you lead between now and then.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jim said. “So why is it you wanted me down here? Something in my test results?”
“No, no, you’re in fine fettle,” McCoy said. He sat down at his desk and picked up the slate exhibiting the captain’s medical readings. He feigned study of the information there for a moment, while in reality he steeled himself for what lay ahead. Finally, he looked up at the captain and said
, “You’re fine physically, anyway.”
Jim stared back, his features visibly tensing, and then he peered over at Spock. When the first officer said nothing, Jim looked again at McCoy. “If you have something to say, Bones, say it.”
“To be honest, I’m not really sure what to say,” McCoy admitted. “Except that I’m concerned about you.”
“But not about my physical health,” Jim said. “About my mental health then?”
McCoy held the captain’s gaze for several seconds before responding, wanting to emphasize the importance of his reply: “Yes.”
“I see,” Jim said, and then he turned toward the center of the room. “And you, Mister Spock? I take it you share this concern?”
“I do,” Spock said. He looked as though he would say more, but then an awkward silence seeped into the room, insinuating itself among the three men and keeping them apart. McCoy searched for the right way to continue, for the approach most likely to help Jim understand his own troubled situation. He’d thought about it a great deal since yesterday, since his medical examination of the captain had allowed McCoy to probe Jim’s state of mind. Concurring with Spock’s conclusion that the captain had not dealt with his grief, he’d tried to figure out how to talk with Jim about it in a way that would not alienate him, or worse, compound the problem. Having settled on no particular method, he now decided simply to speak to the heart of the matter.
“Jim, Spock and I know the terrible losses you’ve endured recently,” McCoy said quietly. “Your brother and his wife, and—”
“I know that Sam and Aurelan are dead,” Jim interrupted, though his voice remained calm. “And I know that you know that too, Bones. I would have known it anyway, but your attempts yesterday to…to draw me out…” He paused and then raised his open hands before him, as though trying to demonstrate that he had nothing to hide. “I appreciate your concern,” he said, including Spock with a glance, “but I’m fine, really.”
Crucible: McCoy Page 12
