McCoy had gone to the captain as soon the pattern had become clear. The medical conclusion had seemed obvious: either all the crew suffered from some unidentified affliction; the readings did not correspond to any condition beyond the value they measured; or M’Benga’s algorithm suffered some sensitive dependence or fault not yet understood. McCoy had recommended that the crew undergo complete physicals. Jim had agreed, and McCoy and the rest of the medical staff had then spent several months conducting full exams of the entire crew. They’d now completed those exams, and once the results of the last few lab tests were completed this evening, McCoy needed to finish preparing his report for the captain.
As Sanchez and Hadley headed off to one of the ship’s recreation rooms, McCoy started back to his office. He waited for a moment at a turbolift before its doors slid open. Inside the car stood Dr. M’Benga.
“Jabilo, aren’t you on shift now?” McCoy asked as he entered the lift.
M’Benga looked up, his dark eyes widening for a second in apparent surprise. “Len,” he said as McCoy entered the car. “Yes, I am on shift.” He spoke as he always did, with a slightly formal, almost stilted, inflection. “I was actually just coming to see you.”
“Well, I’m heading back to sickbay myself, if that’s all right with you,” McCoy said. M’Benga nodded, and McCoy ordered the turbolift to their destination. The car began to descend, but then M’Benga took hold of its activation wand.
“Hold,” he said, and the lift slowed to a halt. “Len,” he said gravely, “I need to speak with you in private.”
“Of course,” McCoy said. “What is it?” He inferred at once that his colleague had detected a medical problem with one of the crew.
“I just got back the lab results from the final physicals I performed,” M’Benga said, essentially confirming McCoy’s suspicion. He hesitated and looked away, obviously disturbed by whatever the lab tests had revealed. McCoy couldn’t recall ever seeing his fellow physician so flustered.
“You found something in one of the crew,” McCoy prompted. M’Benga looked back over at him. “Yes. Xenopolycythemia,” he said. The word shocked McCoy. He knew little beyond the basics of the malady—that it was an acquired, extraterrestrial disorder of the bone marrow that caused erythroid and myeloid hyperplasia—but he did know that, unlike its Earthly counterpart, it was always fatal to humans. “Len,” M’Benga intoned, “you’ve got it.”
McCoy felt as though an electric charge passed through his body. The urge to deny the reality welled up within him, the words There must be a mistake flashing through his mind, but he knew that Dr. M’Benga wouldn’t have come to him without ensuring the validity of the lab results. Unaccountably, he thought of Jocelyn, even though he hadn’t seen her or spoken to her in quite some time, and despite that what little contact they had shared since the painful end of their marriage had been tense and uncomfortable.
Then he thought of Joanna, saw the image of her in his mind—her fair, delicate features beneath her long, fiery red hair—and he thought: I’m sorry.
McCoy’s knees suddenly went weak, and the possibility of his legs collapsing beneath him allowed him to disconnect, at least temporarily, from the anguish he felt for his daughter. He looked over at M’Benga and saw tears pooling in his eyes. “Len,” he said again, and moved forward to place a hand on McCoy’s shoulder.
“How long?” McCoy asked.
“Not more than a year,” M’Benga said with a tremor in his voice.
“It’s all right,” McCoy said, gratefully reassuming the mantle of his vocation and attempting to comfort his crewmate and friend. “Thank you for telling me yourself, Jabilo.”
M’Benga held McCoy’s gaze for a moment before nodding and dropping his hand back to his side. “If there’s anything I can do,” he said.
“Of course,” McCoy replied, and reached again for the activation wand. He restated their destination and restarted the lift. “I take it you haven’t informed the captain yet,” he said.
“No, I haven’t,” M’Benga said. “Only Nurse Chapel knows. She was in sickbay when I received the lab reports.”
“All right,” McCoy said. “I’d appreciate it if you kept this to yourself for now.” Though he’d had no time yet to think through the situation, it occurred to him that he might prefer people not to know about his condition.
“Len,” M’Benga said gently, “Captain Kirk has to be told.”
“I know, I know,” McCoy said. “I’d like to tell him myself though.” M’Benga did not respond immediately, perhaps wondering if McCoy really would inform the captain of his ailment. “Please,” McCoy added.
Once more, M’Benga nodded. “Certainly,” he said.
The turbolift carried them the rest of the way in silence. They walked together toward sickbay, where McCoy again thanked M’Benga. He then continued on to his office. When he entered, he saw Chapel seated at his desk, a data slate lying before her. She held a hand to her head, as though responding to a headache. She peered over as the door panel closed behind him.
“Doctor McCoy,” she said. “Did Doctor M’Benga—”
“Yes, he found me,” McCoy interrupted, recognizing that he did not wish to talk about his condition, much less his prognosis.
“I’m so sorry,” Chapel said, tension showing in her face. “I just can’t believe—”
“No, it’s all right,” McCoy said, cutting her off as he walked deeper into the room. When he stood on the opposite side of the desk from the nurse, he said, “Please. It’s just something I’ll have to live with—” He saw Chapel’s horrified expression before he even realized what he’d said. “You know what I mean,” he said, trying to wave the moment away.
Chapel paused, then turned to the monitor on the desk. She reached up and tapped the screen. “I’ve been searching through the medical database to find out what’s known about the disorder, to see what research is being done—”
For the third time, McCoy talked over her. “That’s all right. You don’t need to do that right now.”
“I just thought…” she began, but then didn’t finish.
“I know,” McCoy told her, although in truth, he hadn’t really considered her feelings at all. He hadn’t even had time to consider his own. “Actually, though, I think I’d like to be alone right now.”
Chapel appeared conflicted for a moment, as though deciding whether or not she should do as McCoy had asked. Finally, she said, “Of course.” She rose, moved out from behind the desk, and walked toward the door.
“Oh,” McCoy said just as the door opened, “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this to yourself for right now.”
Again, Chapel hesitated. “All right,” she said at last.
“Thank you,” McCoy said, and he started around his desk. Before he sat down, though, he looked over to see Chapel stopped in the doorway.
“You are going to tell the captain, aren’t you?” she asked.
“To be honest, I don’t know,” McCoy said. He sat down and then admitted, “I was thinking that I might not tell anybody else, that I might just try to live out the next year as best I can, as though this hadn’t even happened.”
“Doctor,” Chapel said, and she padded back into the office, the door once more enclosing them inside. “Leonard,” she continued, obviously attempting to reach him on a personal level, “you have to tell Captain Kirk. Not just because he’s your commanding officer, but because he’s your closest friend. You have to let him help you.”
McCoy gazed at Chapel, at the earnest concern she displayed, and then he looked away. On the desk, to his left, he saw a list on the monitor, and he quickly read the first few entries. Xenopolycythemia: Diagnosis and Pathology. An Excess of Blood in Humans, From Rigel First Contact Forward. Aspects of Hematological Adaptation and Mutation. Abstracts followed each title, which clearly composed a list of medical papers relating to McCoy’s disorder. He reached forward and pushed the toggle below the monitor, deactivating it. To Chapel, he said
, “I know what you’re saying, but I don’t know that I want any help right now.”
“I see,” Chapel said in a cool tone that McCoy could not read. As he watched, she moved farther into his office, to the rear bulkhead. Before he knew what she meant to do, she pressed the button beside the intercom on the table there. “Captain Kirk, please report to sickbay at once. We have an emergency that requires your attention.”
“Christine!” McCoy said, and he pushed himself up out of his chair.
“This is the captain,” came Jim’s response. “What is it?”
McCoy strode toward Chapel, though he had no notion of just how he would stop her. He couldn’t very well argue with her over an open channel.
“Captain, this is Nurse Chapel,” she said. “I’d rather speak with you in sickbay, if you don’t mind.”
McCoy reached Chapel. He considered closing the intercom channel, but thought that an unwise choice. He tried to formulate something he could say to Jim to defuse the situation, but then suddenly felt beset and found himself unable to frame an adequate response.
On the intercom, after a brief pause, Jim said, “I’ll be right there. Out.”
Chapel pushed the intercom button again, and the activation light winked off. “You had no right to do that,” McCoy told her, and he could hear the fatigue in his own voice. Or is that defeat? he asked himself.
“I not only have the right, I have the responsibility,” Chapel said. “You can’t expect to go through this alone.”
“That’s my choice to make,” he insisted, “not yours.” He walked away from her, back across the room, until he stood in front of his desk again.
“You have to let people help you,” Chapel implored him.
“You invaded my privacy,” McCoy said. He reached for the data slate on his desk. As he lifted it up, the stylus slid across the display, and he grabbed it before it fell.
“I only want to help you,” Chapel said. “Captain Kirk will want to help you.”
“But I don’t know if I want help right now,” he said, his voice rising in frustration. “I just found out about this. I don’t know what to think about it, or even how to think about it.”
Chapel didn’t respond right away, and when she did, her words carried a note of contrition. “I’m sorry,” she said.
McCoy peered at the slate screen and saw his name at the top left, in an entry marked Patient. He started to read through the medical information recorded there. He saw the details of his complete blood count and noted the elevated levels of his hematocrit, differential, and platelet count, as well as an increase in his blood volume. He also saw abnormal results for several other tests, including the lactate dehydrogenase test, the B-12 level, and the leukocyte alkaline phosphatase test.
“Leonard,” Chapel said, still reaching out to him.
“You’re dismissed, Nurse,” McCoy said without looking up. He continued reading through the results of his physical for a few moments, until he realized that Chapel hadn’t left. He looked toward the rear bulkhead, where she still stood beside the table there. “I said you can go.”
“I don’t think so, Doctor,” she said, and she turned away from him.
He understood that she only wanted to help him through this, but he felt right now as though his head might explode at any second. He marched back over to her. “Crewman, you’re dismissed,” he said, unable to prevent himself from raising his voice. “That’s a direct order from a superior officer.”
Chapel leaned forward and set her hands down firmly on the tabletop. “I am a nurse first, Doctor McCoy,” she said, her frustration showing, “and a member of the crew of the Enterprise second.”
“You’re excused,” McCoy said, his voice still loud. “You may return to your quarters.”
“No, I’m sorry, Doctor,” she said, pushing up off the table and turning to face him. “I have called the captain, and I’ll wait until he comes.”
McCoy thought that he should simply leave his office himself, but then the door squeaked open. Both he and Chapel glanced over to see the captain enter. Jim stopped just inside the doorway and asked, “What’s the emergency?”
Chapel looked at the captain, and for an uncomfortable instant, McCoy thought that she would tell him about the situation. “I said you were excused, Nurse,” McCoy said, trying to preempt her revelation to the captain. She turned away, and though McCoy could see that his harsh words had hurt her, he also saw that, more than anything else affecting her, she remained concerned about him. “Please, Christine,” he said, lowering his voice almost to a whisper. “I promise you I’ll give the captain a full report.” At this point, he had no other choice, and he’d quickly lost the stomach for argument, particularly with somebody who only wanted to help him. He tapped his thumb anxiously against the slate, hoping that Chapel would go.
Finally, she did.
Once the door had closed after Chapel, Jim approached McCoy. “That was quite a scene,” he said.
McCoy spun around to face the captain. “I’ve just completed the standard physical examinations for the entire crew,” he said.
“Excellent,” Jim replied. “What’s the emergency?”
“The crew is fit,” McCoy reported. “I found nothing unusual—with one exception.”
“Serious?” Jim asked.
“Terminal.”
McCoy saw Jim’s entire body tense. “What is it?” he asked.
“Xenopolycythemia,” McCoy said. “It has no cure.”
“Who?” Jim wanted to know.
“He has one year to live, at the most,” McCoy said, not wanting to tell Jim the truth, though he knew that he would—that he must, for so many reasons.
“Who is it?” the captain asked again.
“The ship’s chief medical officer,” McCoy said, unable to simply say me.
“You,” Jim said, the word not much more than a breath. McCoy did not think he could bear the pain he saw in the captain’s—in his friend’s—eyes.
“I’ll be most effective on the job in the time left,” McCoy claimed, “if you’ll keep this to yourself.”
“Bones,” Jim said, visibly upset by the news, “is there any chance there’s been a false reading, a mistake?”
McCoy glanced down at the slate he still held in his hands. He read again one of the details he’d noticed when he’d first looked at the report, namely that M’Benga had ordered the lab tests performed a second time, on a different set of samples taken from McCoy during his physical. “No, Jim,” he said. “There’s no mistake. Doctor M’Benga ran the tests twice.”
Jim turned and paced away, as though driven by an uncontrollable impulse. At the far end of the office, he looked back toward McCoy. “And there’s no hope for a cure? Maybe in the next year?”
“I know there’s a lot of research out there,” McCoy said, “but I haven’t read anything at all in the medical literature that suggests there’s been any significant movement toward any kind of treatment, much less toward a cure.”
Jim raised his hands and then dropped them, appearing to search for what next to say. After a few seconds, he asked, “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” McCoy said. He peered again at the slate, then set it down on the table along the rear bulkhead. “I just found out a short time ago, so I haven’t really had time to make any plans, but I think I’d like to stay aboard, at least for a while.” He thought about the prospect of continuing to live his life as he had, with no disruptions to it beyond his knowledge of the short time left to him. “I wouldn’t want the crew to know,” he said. “You’ll want to train a new CMO, though. If you can get an immediate replacement for me, they can serve aboard ship as a member of the medical staff while I train them.” McCoy considered his current staff.
“All right,” Jim said.
“When you talk to Starfleet Command about a replacement for me,” McCoy went on, “you can tell them that I think Doctor M’Benga would make an excellent choice.” He judged
neither Sanchez nor Harrison experienced enough for the job, but he thought Jabilo could settle into the position effectively.
Jim nodded, then walked slowly back across the office, until he stood directly before McCoy. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked.
“No,” McCoy said. “Thank you, but I don’t think there is.”
The two men stood there silently for a moment, and then the three tones of the intercom whistle sounded. “Bridge to Captain Kirk,” came Spock’s voice.
Jim hesitated, then went to the table and pressed the intercom button there. “Kirk here,” he said.
“Spock here, Captain,” the first officer said. “We are approaching solar system K-517. Estimated time of arrival at the termination shock: thirty minutes. Survey teams are completing preparations.”
“I’m on my way,” Jim said, “but…I’ll be stopping by my quarters first.”
“Acknowledged,” Spock said.
“Kirk out.” Jim deactivated the intercom with a touch.
“Another new solar system to explore?” McCoy asked. “Just don’t get us killed, all right?”
Jim raised his eyebrows, evidently uncomfortable by McCoy’s attempt at humor. “Bones,” he said.
“Go,” McCoy said. “I’ll talk with you later.”
Jim started to go, then stopped and said, “I’ll need your medical records for my report to Starfleet Command.”
“I’ll send them to your data bank right now,” McCoy said.
After Jim left, McCoy picked up the data slate again and took it back over to his desk. There, he downloaded the results of his physical to the ship’s medical database, encoding it for availability to the captain’s secure library-computer access. When he’d completed that task, he set about finalizing the crew’s health evaluations.
Crucible: McCoy Page 21
