Barrows served aboard the U.S.S. Gödel for almost three years, and in all that time, she never heard from Leonard again.
McCoy watched Tonia go, his office door sliding neatly shut behind her, like a scalpel slicing away a wounded portion of his life. He felt bad in a vague, unsettled way, but knew one truth with specificity: he had hurt the woman who’d just walked out of here. Worse than that, he’d done so intentionally. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her, hadn’t tried to hurt her, but he’d known how she felt about him, so how could he have expected his behavior to do anything but hurt her?
“You’re a fool,” he muttered in the silence of his office. He believed that he’d done the right thing—for both of us, he told himself—but that he’d gone about it in the wrong way. He’d been a coward, running away from Tonia when he simply should have been candid with her. He should have—
His office door opened again, and McCoy reacted with a jolt, thinking that Tonia had returned. Instead, he saw Chapel enter, an empty Erlenmeyer flask in her hand. “Oh, Doctor McCoy,” she said. “You’re still here.”
“Where else would I be?” he said irritably. He stepped back behind his desk and took his seat.
“Well, I thought you’d be on leave with just about everybody else,” Chapel said. She leaned in beside McCoy and set the flask down on one of the shelves behind his desk. “Didn’t you tell me that one of the tavern keepers on Starbase Ten made the best mint julep this side of Atlanta?”
McCoy picked up the stylus with which he’d been working a few minutes ago. “I never said that,” McCoy claimed, fully aware that he’d told Chapel that very thing not more than a week ago. “Besides, it’s a little early in the day for alcohol, wouldn’t you say, Nurse?”
Chapel moved out from behind the desk and toward the door. “Didn’t you also tell me that it’s always happy hour somewhere?”
“No, I never said that either,” McCoy maintained, despite the truth to the contrary.
“All right,” Chapel allowed. “Well, I’m headed over to Starbse Ten now, and you should too. After the last few months, we could all use some leave.”
“Believe me, as soon as I can, I will,” he said. “I just have to finish the annual crew evaluations for Starfleet Medical.” He held up the stylus to illustrate his point.
“You’re not done with those yet?” Chapel asked reprovingly.
“No,” McCoy admitted. “With my cordrazine overdose and then the crisis on Deneva, I just haven’t had time. But I should finish today. I’ve only got a few more to do.”
“Good,” Chapel said. “Then maybe tomorrow you can get me one of those mint juleps.”
McCoy smiled as the nurse left. Chapel had given up a career in biological research in order to sign aboard a starship, with the hope of one day traveling to the far-flung planet Exo III. There, her fiancé, a brilliant expert in archeological medicine, had set up a dig, but he hadn’t been heard from in years. Months ago, the Enterprise had visited Exo III, only to discover that Dr. Korby and the rest of his research team had been killed. Afterward, Chapel had opted to remain aboard ship, which had pleased McCoy. She’d proven to be a solid head nurse, with whom he found it very easy to work. He also empathized with her: he could think of no better motivation for retreat to life aboard a starship than the bitter end of a serious romantic relationship.
McCoy leaned in over his desk and set his elbows down on either side of the data slate on which he’d been working. An image from the Enterprise’s identification files showed in the top left corner of the display, along with the name of the officer it showed: David L. Galloway, one of the ship’s security contingent. Below that, McCoy’s own physician’s scrawl crept down the screen, offering his appraisal of the lieutenant’s medical status.
McCoy quickly reread what he’d written, then glanced up at the monitor on his desk, which still exhibited the results of Galloway’s most recent physical examination. Dr. Sanchez had performed the exam immediately after the landing party had returned from the world on which they’d found the Guardian of Forever. The readings confirmed the health of the lieutenant, as well as the constancy of his physical condition; his numbers remained virtually unchanged from those of his previous medical assessment.
It took twenty minutes for McCoy to finish his write-up on Galloway. He then tapped an option on the slate display, and his script transformed into digital characters. He read over his report, corrected a couple of errors, then signed it. With a few more touches of the stylus, he filed away the Galloway evaluation, then brought up a blank form for the next member of the crew: James T. Kirk.
McCoy looked at the picture of the captain, at his serious and determined mien that also managed to convey a sense of easy confidence. It contrasted with Jim’s bearing this morning, when he’d stopped by sickbay before reporting to Starbase 10 and Dr. al-Saliba. McCoy couldn’t recall a time when he’d seen the captain appear quite so vulnerable. Oh, he’d been privy to Jim’s self-examinations, his penchant for questioning his own reasoning and decision making, but in those moments, the captain had always maintained his air of authority, had always somehow projected the certainty to come, the certainty with which he would ultimately issue his orders. Earlier today, though, when he’d shown up here simply to say good-bye, Jim had seemed like a different man: smaller, unsure, in pain.
Although McCoy felt terrible for his friend, for all that the captain had so recently lost, he hadn’t been displeased with what he’d seen this morning. If Jim was to deal successfully with all that he’d been through, he would have to admit to his grief and face it. From the way he’d looked on his way to the transporter room, it seemed to McCoy that he’d already begun that process.
With practiced ease, the doctor ordered the computer to present the captain’s medical records, including the results of his last two exams. McCoy had performed the most recent of those physicals just a couple of days ago, and the previous one—Jim’s annual examination—more than three months prior to that. Carefully, he started studying the newest readings, both scrutinizing them on their own merits and comparing them with the captain’s historical numbers.
Laborious but straightforward and well defined, the process had lasted almost an hour and was approaching completion when McCoy noticed the anomaly. So infinitesimal were the measurements involved, and so slight the difference between them, he’d almost overlooked the divergence. And had it not been for the crisis on Deneva, he would have missed it. Back at the colony, when normal scans hadn’t been able to detect the alien parasites within the bodies of their hosts, Dr. M’Benga had devised a means of doing so. He’d generated an algorithm that, utilizing readings already collected by standard medical tricorders, would calculate the expected energy of a subject’s nervous system and compare it to the actual energy. Inelegant and often only grossly accurate, the procedure had nevertheless worked well in identifying victims of the parasites, given the dramatic rate of growth of the alien organisms along their hosts’ nervous systems.
Included now in the Enterprise’s medical database, M’Benga’s algorithm gathered the raw input of diagnostic scans and deposited its results alongside other refined data. The captain’s numbers, while not so dissimilar as to suggest the presence of a Denevan parasite, still showed a discrepancy. Or is this even really a discrepancy? McCoy asked himself. The difference between the numbers from Jim’s last physical, and those from the physical he’d taken several months ago, fell well within the standard deviation of M’Benga’s process, and so it hadn’t even been flagged as an issue. Still, McCoy had noted the figure because it reached a higher level than any of those he’d yet seen—not just for Jim, but for anybody.
He set down the stylus, reached forward, and pressed the audio-interface toggle set below the monitor. “Computer,” he said.
“Working,” came the mechanical reply.
“Display the raw sensor readings taken during Captain Kirk’s last physical examination,” he ordered.
“Working,”
the computer said again, and then a different set of data began to fill the monitor.
McCoy studied the information, wanting not only to verify the source scans that had led to the unexpectedly high reading, but to reconfirm that the other scans fell within expected norms. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, including nothing he thought would have led to the discrepancy. “Computer,” he said, and waited for it to signal its readiness before continuing. “Transfer all source scans from Captain Kirk’s last physical examination to diagnostic pallet number two.”
Once the computer acknowledged the order, McCoy stood up and made his way to the open entryway that separated his office from the outer sickbay compartment. Striding over to the pallet, he reached up and activated the scanner in the bulkhead above it, setting it to process the computer’s automated feed. The monitor came immediately to life, white triangular arrows climbing up the vertical biofunction scales, red circular indicators blinking out pulse and respiration rates. McCoy studied each of the readings, then cycled through the rest of the available measurements, covering the breadth of quantifiable biological processes and states.
Then he did it again.
“He’s in perfect health,” McCoy concluded. All of the captain’s readings fell within established human norms for his age and gender, many of them within narrower ranges considered optimal. The doctor could identify only two blemishes on Jim’s otherwise-spotless bill of health: in his blood, he still harmlessly carried the microorganisms of Vegan choriomeningitis, and according to Dr. M’Benga’s algorithm, his nervous system produced a higher amount of energy than expected. McCoy could see no cause of the latter condition and no consequence. He had confirmed the numbers, but now supposed that the discrepancy might simply be an artifact of the methodology employed to derive those numbers.
McCoy switched off the diagnostic monitor and returned to his office, where he ended the automatic feed of the captain’s medical data. Sitting back down at his desk, he completed his report on Jim’s health. He noted the one anomalous reading, along with his judgment that the reading did not indicate any actual medical problem. Once he’d rechecked what he’d written, he signed it, filed it away for Starfleet Medical, and moved on to the next member of the crew.
McCoy had studied the results of Uhura’s last physical for ten minutes when he stopped and returned to the captain’s records. He reviewed his findings yet again and yet again he remained convinced of their veracity. Still, he couldn’t shake the most basic question he had about Jim’s abnormal reading: What the devil is causing that?
At the moment, McCoy didn’t have the slightest idea.
Twelve
1931
Edith watched as Schoolboy Joe crouched low before the icebox, his knees producing loud popping noises as he eased his bulk down toward the floor. “Oh, Joe, I can get it,” she said, feeling sheepish for having asked the large, lumbering man to carry out a task better suited to herself. She’d spoken quickly, though, requesting as soon as McCoy had left for his backroom that Joe retrieve the packet. She knew that the doctor had endured a long and tiring workday, spending most of it over in the speakeasy belt, toiling in construction on the Rockefeller endeavor. Tonight, he’d partaken of the late meal at the mission, then helped to clean up afterward. Now, she wanted to get to his room before he retired for the night.
“’T ain’t no nevermind, Sister Edith,” Joe said in his slow, southern drawl. Edith didn’t particularly like being addressed as Sister—she didn’t belong to any religious groups—but she understood the sentiment. Joe leaned into the icebox and a moment later pulled out the small white carton she’d asked him to get for her. He stood back up, his knees crackling again, and turned toward her. The white cardboard container looked insubstantial in the fleshy stubs of his fingers. A large, ungainly man, Schoolboy Joe had worked uninterrupted with Edith for a longer span than anybody else. Rik might have put in more days at the mission, but across several periods, and in any event, he’d left for parts unknown last autumn; fortunately, at least as far as Edith knew, it had been Rik’s wanderlust, and not his drinking, that had impelled him to move on from Twenty-first Street.
“Thank you, Joe,” Edith said, taking the box from him. She set it down on the counter, opened it, and removed the small chocolate cake. Then she found the small candle she’d brought from home and set it into the middle of the deep-brown icing. “Are you ready?” she asked Joe.
“Yessum,” he said, and he picked up the plates and silverware she’d earlier set aside.
“What about you, Deke?” she asked, louder, calling from the kitchen out into the main room. There, Deke looked up from settling the chairs upside down onto the tables. An older, red-haired man, he’d begun working regularly at the mission several months ago, after relying on it for food and clothing in the few months prior to that. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Deke said.
Edith found the box of kitchen matches, struck one against the counter, and lighted the candle. The she picked up the cake and carried it out of the kitchen, headed for the hallway and the back room. Joe and Deke followed behind her.
At McCoy’s door, she knocked and heard a muffled response from within. “Just a minute.” She peered around at Joe and Deke, the former wearing a sweet, wide-eyed smile. He looked as excited as when she’d performed the same ritual for him a year and a half ago.
After a few seconds, the knob turned and the door opened partway. Holding his red and black plaid shirt in one hand, clad now in his black undershirt, he’d clearly begun preparing for bed. He gazed out at Edith, then at Joe and Deke in turn, and finally down at the single candle flickering atop the cake. “What is this?” he asked, obviously perplexed.
“This is for you, Doctor,” Edith said. “May we come in? I know you must be tired, so we won’t stay long.”
“All right,” McCoy said, and he backed up into the room, opening the door fully. Edith entered and placed the cake on the desk. Again, McCoy peered over at Joe and Deke—who now stood just inside the doorway—before addressing Edith. “What’s going on?” he asked with a smile. “I know it’s not my birthday.”
“Not your birthday, Doctor,” she said. “Your anniversary.”
“My anniversary?” he echoed, seemingly bemused.
“Yes,” Edith said. “It was one year ago today that you first arrived at the mission.” Although McCoy’s smile faltered only for an instant, the light vanished from his eyes like a lamp being extinguished. Despite that she hadn’t expected such a reaction, Edith thought she understood it. However much the doctor had settled in here—and his days had certainly become a matter of routine at this point—he still didn’t actually want to be here. Edith recognized that, while he gave readily of his time and effort—voluntarily serving meals, cleaning up, even providing first aid to some of the impoverished men who visited the mission—he gave sparingly of himself. He often spoke of the work he’d undertaken and of things he’d done and seen in New York City, but he revealed little else. More than anything, Edith saw a man attempting to keep distance between himself and everyone he encountered, including her. Even after all this time, she felt that she barely knew him.
“Make a wish, Doc,” Schoolboy Joe said. “Blow out the candle.” Edith and Deke offered their own encouragements.
McCoy nodded and said, “Of course,” though Edith perceived his discomfort with the entire proceeding. Still, he crossed over to the desk and bent toward the cake, evidently ready to participate in their little celebration. As Joe continued to urge the doctor to make a wish, McCoy closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and Edith wondered exactly what thoughts rose in his mind. Did he actually take this time to make a wish? Did he simply long to return home, wherever that might be, or did he contrive something more specific than that?
What is it you want right now, Doctor McCoy? she thought. Edith believed that if she knew just what he hoped for at this moment, she would likely understand him a great deal more than she had up
to now.
A year, McCoy thought as he leaned forward. How can I possibly have been here for that long?
Aware of the attention directed his way and reflexively wanting to avoid any discussion of his personal circumstances, he pursed his lips and blew out the already sputtering flame of the single candle atop the cake. Images played through his mind in a montage of memories. He saw places—the country house in Georgia that he’d last called home before deciding on a life in space; the cozy campus on Cerberus where Joanna had attended middle school; his sickbay office aboard the Enterprise—and he saw people—Jim, Spock, Tonia Barrows, his daughter. Every locale and every person seemed impossibly distant to him.
“Whatcha wish for, Doc?” Schoolboy Joe asked eagerly. Though a rotund figure, probably in his late thirties or early forties, Joe possessed a youthful face that had doubtless inspired his moniker.
“If he tells you what he wished for,” Deke observed, “then it won’t come true.”
“That’s right,” Keeler told Schoolboy Joe. “But I think I know what you wish for.” Joe’s expression drew into a question mark, until Keeler said, “A piece of cake,” and then his face brightened. He rambled over with some plates and flatware, and Keeler quickly served everybody a slice of the dessert.
As they all stood about the room eating, Joe offered that he hadn’t tasted anything better since “Sister Edith” had presented him with a cake on his birthday. McCoy used the comment as an opportunity to ask Joe about what he did outside the mission, and thereby to prevent the conversation from turning back to his own life. Once everybody had finished eating, he made a show of raising a hand to stifle a yawn, and Keeler reacted immediately to the less-than-subtle hint.
“Well, we just wanted to recognize your time at the mission, Doctor, and to express our gratitude for all you’ve done here,” she said, moving about the room to collect the plates and forks from McCoy and Deke. “But I know you’ve had a tiring day, so we’ll leave you to your sleep.” She crossed back over to Joe, adding his plate to the bottom of the stack and his fork to the top, then handed it all to him. “Would you put these in the kitchen sink for me, please?” she said. “I’ll be there in a minute to clean them.”
Crucible: McCoy Page 15
