Crucible: McCoy

by David R. George III

  “Where ya comin from?” the large man wanted to know, taking a heavy step forward. McCoy’s eyes had readjusted to the faint light, and he saw that the man stood close to two meters tall, with a strapping frame and enormous hands. He wore a faded jacket—either brown or gray, McCoy could not tell which—and frayed dungarees.

  “I got on at Richmond,” McCoy said, truthfully identifying where he’d climbed into the boxcar. In the days prior to that, he’d ridden an empty gondola car out of Philadelphia with half a dozen other itinerants, then waited in a Baltimore freight yard overnight, until he’d found a suitable southbound train. He’d shared the rear platform of a grainer all the way to Washington with a character who called himself “Tote ’Em Pole” and then had stayed on alone to Richmond. There, it had taken two chilly nights before he’d come across the empty boxcar on a train headed directly for Atlanta. “Where’d you get on?” McCoy asked, stalling for time as he considered his options should the large man become belligerent.

  “Charlotte,” he said, and he plodded forward another step.

  McCoy resisted the impulse to shrink off to the side, not wanting to provoke the man. Instead, he pointed back toward the corner where his duffel bag still lay, though he did not take his gaze from his potential adversary. “I’ve got some food back here,” McCoy said. “Can I get you something to eat?”

  “You got food?” the man said, unashamedly interested.

  “A little,” McCoy said. He had few possessions—the clothes he wore; the clothing, toiletries, and food in his duffel bag; and the few dollars stuffed into his sock—but he had no qualms about sharing—or surrendering—any or all of it. Given the opportunity, though, he would seek to retain the carryall filled with his garments, suspecting that it might soon prove to be of greater use than expected.

  McCoy started toward the corner where he’d left the duffel bag, but then another voice stopped him. “What kinda food you got?” a second man asked, from out of the far shadows where the first had emerged. McCoy peered past the large man to see another figure stride forward. Closer to his own height and build, the second man wore a wide-brimmed hat. Unlike his companion, he did not sound inebriated.

  “Uh, I’ve got a few things,” McCoy said. Without turning away from the strangers, he continued on toward the corner he’d occupied. “Some dried meats,” he said, and then recalling the contemporary term, added, “Jerky.” As McCoy’s foot struck his duffel, he saw the second man advance to the middle of the car, until he stood beside the first. “I’ve also got some fruit,” he said, quickly bending toward the duffel bag and taking hold of the end with the opening. “Some apples and pears and other things.” He dragged the bag upright and then forward, toward the two men.

  As McCoy neared the center of the car, he spied something that essentially confirmed his concerns about the intentions of the two drifters: a rod or a bar of some sort, straight and inflexible, half a meter or more long, hanging down from the hand of the second man. McCoy also saw now that heavy growth darkened the smaller man’s face, as though he hadn’t shaved in a week. Thinking of his own bare face, McCoy suddenly remembered the straight razor in his bag. If necessary, and if he could get to it, he supposed that he could use it as a weapon, though it had been a long time since he’d utilized any of his Starfleet hand-to-hand combat training, and an even longer time since the training itself.

  McCoy pulled open the maw of the duffel bag, loosening the drawstring that held it closed. At the top of his belongings sat two wrinkled paper bags, and he lifted one of them out. “Here we go,” he said, extracting an apple from within and holding it up for the men to see. He offered it to the larger man, who grabbed it, studied it for a moment, then bit noisily into it. While he ate the piece of fruit, McCoy reached back into the paper bag and withdrew another apple. “For you?” he said to the second man, holding it out to him.

  “Sure,” the smaller man said, but he made no move to take the red orb. McCoy recognized the tactic, intended to draw him in for an attack. He obliged, but not without his own plan. He stepped forward, and the instant he saw the second man bringing the rod up, he tossed the apple and the bag of fruit toward his face. The smaller man instinctively raised his hands to ward off the improvised projectiles. As he did, McCoy leveled a kick at the knee of the larger man, who cried out in pain as he collapsed to the floor.

  As quickly as he could, McCoy bent and reached for his duffel bag, gripping the fabric as tightly as he could in his fingers. He intended to head for the partially open door, but saw the second man recovering and swinging the rod back up. McCoy launched himself at the man, leading high with the duffel. He heard the unnerving whisper of something speed past his ear, then felt the impact of the rod on the bag. McCoy hammered his feet against the floor and drove himself forward, pushing the second man from his feet. The rod flew from the man’s hand and clattered into the darkness.

  Still moving as swiftly as possible, McCoy scrambled back to his feet, hauling the duffel bag up with him. He ran to the door he’d stood at just a few minutes ago, and with one hand, pushed it back open. Outside, the landscape moved past, the dense undergrowth on the hill below appearing far softer and more inviting than it no doubt would be. McCoy brought the duffel bag up in front of him and, without hesitating, jumped.

  He cleared the ends of the railroad ties and the ballast in which they sat, but still landed hard. Though he tried to use the duffel to pad his fall, his legs struck first, coming down on the solid ground just below the tracks. McCoy allowed his legs to give way, and he toppled forward. He managed to get the bag down before him, but then he rolled. His back struck something hard, and something else tore across the back of his hand. The duffel bag flew from his grasp as he continued to spin out of control, side over side. Leaves whipped past his face, twigs and branches snapped beneath him. He slammed his eyes shut as he plunged down the hill, gaining speed. Without thinking, he pulled his arms up before his face, covering his head as best he could.

  He fell for what seemed like a long time. Sensation mercifully abandoned him as he waited to reach flat ground. His thoughts tumbled with him, wheeling past images of Edith’s face, and Chapel’s, and the antiquated facilities of twentieth-century hospitals. In his mind, he screamed, and only a few seconds later did he realize that he’d opened his mouth and actually cried out.

  With great force, his thighs slammed into a tree trunk, sending waves of intense pain down his legs. His upper body jackknifed past the tree and then jerked to a stop. With the tumult of his descent finished, an imperfect quiet gathered about him. The sounds of the wood—pops and cracks, the easy sough of leaves—enveloped him, while from a distance, he heard the steady resonance of the train’s wheels on its tracks.

  McCoy slowly lifted his head and looked back up the hill. At first, he saw only the dense verdure through which he’d plummeted, until he looked higher. Far away, barely visible through the trees and bushes, he saw color and movement. For a second, he thought that the two drifters had followed him from the boxcar and now gave chase, but then he made out the form of the train itself. As he watched, the red structure of the caboose passed. Then the sound of the train faded…and with it consciousness.

  Sixteen

  2268

  In the ship’s gymnasium, Jim Kirk worked the heavy bag. Hanging near a corner in one of the gym’s smaller satellite compartments, the fifty-kilo bag showed signs of wear in its durable royal blue casing, and Kirk wondered how many of the crew utilized it in their conditioning routines. Perhaps Lieutenant Leslie, who right now stood in the opposite corner, sending a rhythmic flurry of punches into the speed bag suspended there.

  Kirk normally employed pugilistic training only occasionally in his own workouts, though in recent days he’d made it a regular component of his physical regimen. Of late, life aboard the Enterprise had been relatively calm, but he still found himself uneasy. The last two assignments—first contact with the Melkotians and ferrying the Elasian Dohlman, Elaan, from her
home planet to Troyius—had proven far more arduous than he’d anticipated. While his resulting disquiet had diminished on its own over time, the change to his fitness program seemed to hasten the process.

  Bare chested and wearing lightweight training pants, Kirk had begun his exercises only a few minutes ago, but already perspiration coated his skin in a thin sheen. He stood with his shoulders square to the bag, his left side forward, and toiled through an outside drill. He circled in both directions, throwing frequent jabs, interspersing them with left-right combinations. For three minutes, he moved around the bag, focused on delivering well-timed and well-executed punches. Finally, he finished the set by stepping back, spinning, and delivering a roundhouse kick.

  Tired, he retreated to the nearby bulkhead to rest a moment before advancing to his next drill. As he retrieved his towel from the hook where he’d placed it, he saw Mr. Leslie exit, obviously having completed his own workout. Kirk patted down his torso and arms, lightly drying himself before continuing. He’d rehung the towel and started back toward the heavy bag when the door to the compartment slid open, and Spock and McCoy entered. Kirk lowered his cocked fist as the two officers approached.

  “Gentlemen?” he said.

  “Pardon the intrusion, Captain,” Spock said, “but we require a moment of your time.”

  “And this is something that can’t wait until I’m through here?” Kirk asked.

  “We don’t know, Jim,” Bones replied. “But we didn’t want to take any chances.”

  “All right,” Kirk said, immediately concerned. Though prone to emotionalism and occasional hyperbole, McCoy did not promote concerns without rational cause. And Spock, level headed and logical, always provided the voice of reason. “What is it?”

  “It’s Chekov,” McCoy said. “You ordered a full workup on him after our experience with the Melkotians.”

  “That’s right,” Kirk said, stepping back over to the bulkhead and again collecting his towel. He began wiping down his arms and chest, drying himself more thoroughly this time. “You reported him to be in perfect health and recommended his return to duty.”

  “And I stand by that,” McCoy said. “But I did find an anomalous reading when I examined him. It appears harmless, but it was unexpected. So I spent some time studying it before taking it to Spock.”

  “To Spock?” Kirk said, looking from the doctor to the first officer. “Not to me?” Kirk hung his towel back up and grabbed his workout tunic from the hook beside it.

  “Doctor McCoy believed it appropriate to speak with me first,” Spock explained, “because this issue involves you directly, Captain.”

  “Me?” Kirk asked. “In what way?”

  “You remember the algorithm Doctor M’Benga developed at Deneva?” McCoy said.

  “In order to determine whether or not a person was infected with one of the neural parasites,” Kirk said, recalling all too well the circumstances that had robbed him of his brother and sister-in-law. “You said my reading changed, but not enough to indicate the presence in my body of a parasite.”

  “That’s right,” McCoy confirmed. “But you were the only member of the crew who ever showed a change in that reading.”

  “Until now, I take it,” Kirk said.

  “That is correct,” Spock said. “Ensign Chekov now shows a similar increase, though not nearly as substantial as your own.”

  “I see,” Kirk said. He slipped his hands inside his tunic and pulled it on over his head. “But there’s no danger to Chekov,” he said, “or to the crew?”

  “We don’t think so,” McCoy said.

  “But you’re not sure,” Kirk surmised, “or you wouldn’t be here now.”

  “Our initial concern developed not because of the reading itself, which despite the change, appears harmless,” Spock said, “but because the medical staff has been unable to explain the cause of the change.”

  “And there’s more,” McCoy revealed. “After I spoke to Spock this morning, we decided that I should conduct an exam on him, just to be sure that some unidentified disease or condition wasn’t spreading throughout the crew.”

  “As with Mister Chekov, I showed an increase in the energy output of my nervous system,” Spock said.

  “Is there any chance at all that this does indicate infection by the parasites?” Kirk asked. “Could some of them have remained dormant in your body, Mister Spock, or could some other members of the crew have become infected when they worked down on Deneva?”

  “We don’t think so, Jim,” McCoy said. “Chekov wasn’t among the crews that transported down to Deneva, but more than that, he shows absolutely no signs at all of the parasites. Neither does Spock.”

  “Then what is it?” Kirk asked. “A disease of some sort?”

  “We think it’s nothing,” McCoy said. “Either a flaw in M’Benga’s algorithm or in our interpretation of the results. Maybe the increase in the reading is simply the result of some normal bodily process. We just don’t know.”

  “In order to exercise prudence, though,” Spock said, “we believe that it would be wise to conduct medical examinations of the entire crew.”

  “Bones, didn’t you just complete the annual crew physicals a few months ago?” Kirk asked. He remembered that his own yearly exam had taken place shortly after the crew’s visit to Omega IV.

  “I did,” McCoy said. “I also went back over all the results before I consulted with Spock. I found no changes in the M’Benga numbers of any of the crew. Which is one of the reasons we want to conduct new exams now; we’ve got two rounds of readings for most of the crew, and for those more recently assigned to the Enterprise, we can use the latest results as their baseline.”

  Kirk considered the information and recommendation he’d been given, as well as the disruption another round of medical exams would cause the crew. He paced slowly past Spock and McCoy, weighing the alternatives and searching for any other possible courses of action. He’d almost reached the speed bag in the far corner when he turned back to his senior officers. “How long will it take to examine the entire crew?” he asked.

  “A week, maybe two,” McCoy replied. “We don’t want to perform complete physicals. We just want to take enough readings to be able to employ Doctor M’Benga’s algorithm and determine if there’s been any change in those values. Of course, that also depends on what sorts of incidents you get the Enterprise involved in.”

  Kirk appreciated the harmless gibe, taking it as indication that although Bones felt that this situation warranted immediate attention, the CMO did not think that the crew faced any real danger. “All right, Doctor,” Kirk said. “Conduct your exams.”

  “Yes, sir,” McCoy said.

  “Thank you, Captain,” Spock said.

  “Then if there’s nothing else…” Kirk waited for a response, and when the two officers remained silent, he said, “Dismissed.”

  After Spock and McCoy had left, Kirk walked back over to the heavy bag. He reached out and idly placed a hand on its sturdy blue surface as he went back over all that he’d just been told. Comfortable with the orders he’d given, and confident in the condition of the crew, he chose to resume his exercises. He quickly stripped off his tunic, set himself before the bag, and began the next set of his workout.

  McCoy speared the last cube on his plate, a dark green morsel, the color of which at least closely matched the broccoli it approximated. As he ate it, McCoy longed for some “real” food, but knew that the ship’s provisions had grown low during the past few months. The Enterprise hadn’t had its foodstuffs replenished in quite some time. Although the ship had visited a repair base not all that long ago, the station itself had at the time held only synthesized rations in its stores. “What I wouldn’t give for a warm slice of peach cobbler right now,” McCoy said, holding his empty fork up before him.

  “Peach cobbler?” Hadley said from across the table. “How about a cranachan?”

  “A what?” Dr. Sanchez asked from beside McCoy. The three men sat tog
ether in the crew mess, just finishing their dinners. “I’ve never heard of that.”

  “It’s probably a dish Scotty would know about if we asked him,” McCoy observed. Hadley, he knew, shared a Scottish heritage with the chief engineer. “Am I right, Bill?”

  Still in his command-division gold uniform after his shift—none of the three men had changed their clothes prior to their evening meal—the navigator drew himself up in his seat. Tall and thin, with a long neck, Hadley seemed to gain a couple of centimeters in the process. “Being a man of refined breeding and taste,” he said, clearly feigning annoyance at the question, “Mister Scott has sampled cranachan on many an occasion, I’m sure.” Somehow he kept a smile from his face.

  “I’m sure too,” McCoy agreed, amused.

  “What’s in it?” Sanchez asked.

  “It’s a mixture of toasted oats, raspberries, whipped cream, honey, and whiskey,” Hadley said, dropping his look of irritation. “It’s quite tasty.”

  “Whiskey?” Sanchez asked, sounding skeptical.

  “For flavor,” Hadley replied.

  “And to kill the pain,” McCoy quipped, and the men chuckled at the echo of the line they’d all heard Scotty utter on numerous occasions.

  As they bused their table, Sanchez and Hadley discussed what they wanted to do this evening, mentioning bowling and table tennis as possibilities, before settling on backgammon in a rec room. “Are you going to join us, Doc?” Hadley asked.

  “I’d like to,” McCoy said, “but I’ve got to finish the crew evaluations.” After discovering the increase in Ensign Chekov’s M’Benga numbers, McCoy and the medical staff had reexamined the ship’s entire complement. Their initial findings had proven startling: every single member of the crew had shown a similar rise in the energy output of their nervous system. All of the readings had been within the range Doctor M’Benga had defined as normal, and all but two had climbed a similar, negligible amount. Only Jim and Spock had shown larger increases—Jim by the far the largest—but even their measurements had remained within normal limits.