Crucible: McCoy

by David R. George III

  “Leonard,” she said, “what’s going on? Why don’t you want to be with me?”

  “I told you, Phil—” he said, but she interrupted him.

  “I know what you told me,” Lynn said. “But I want you to tell me the real reason.” She didn’t understand. She knew that Leonard loved her. Everybody in town knew it and knew that she loved him. How could it be otherwise, considering how much of their time they spent with each other? Some folks even believed that they’d already become a couple, she knew, even though they were too polite to say anything. But just last week, Daisy Palmer had asked her if Lynn thought that she and Leonard would ever get married.

  Lynn took Leonard’s hands in her own and gazed up at him, at his beautiful blue eyes. “Tell me,” she said.

  “It’s…” Leonard started, and for an instant, Lynn thought he would confess to whatever truly stopped him from taking her in his arms right now. But then he said, “It’s Phil.”

  Lynn stared at him for a few seconds, disappointed, unsure of how to react or of what she should do. She couldn’t force Leonard to reveal to her what he was hiding—and she was convinced that he was hiding something. Did he simply not care for her? Did he not love her as she loved him? But she knew that he did. She could see it, she could feel it.

  “All right,” she said at last, letting go of his hands. “All right.” She walked past Leonard and over to the chair where he had placed her coat. She picked it up and began putting it on.

  “What’re you doing?” Leonard asked.

  “I think I’m just gonna go home,” Lynn said.

  “But we were gonna have supper,” he said. “Your birthday…”

  “I know,” Lynn said. “I just don’t feel well right now.” She walked past him again, this time heading for the front door.

  “Lynn,” he called after her, and she turned back to face him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your birthday.”

  “You didn’t ruin it,” she said, forcing half a smile onto her face. “I just don’t feel well.”

  “What about your bracelet?” he asked, pointing to where it sat in its box atop the arm of the sofa.

  “You know, I don’t think I can accept that,” she said. “I appreciate it, it’s really lovely, but I just can’t accept it.” Leonard said nothing, and the silence between them began to feel awkward. Lynn looked away from him and over at the bracelet. Below it, she saw the card he’d given her. “I will take this, though,” she said, walking around the back of the sofa to get the card, then holding it up for him to see. “Thank you for this,” she said.

  When she returned to the front door, she didn’t stop, but opened it and walked out into the cool night. From behind her, she heard Leonard say, “Let me at least give you a ride home.”

  “I have my truck,” Lynn said over her shoulder. “I don’t need a ride.”

  She climbed into her Chevrolet pickup and started the engine. She didn’t want to, but she couldn’t stop from looking back toward Leonard’s house. He stood in the doorway, and when he saw her look in his direction, he said, “Happy Birthday,” though she could only read the words on his lips and not hear them through the closed driver’s-side window.

  As she pulled away and drove toward home, she couldn’t believe what had happened tonight. She had harbored feelings for Leonard for a long time, but she’d resisted doing anything about it because…well, partially because of Phil. But she’d also wanted to wait for just the right time. Tonight, when he’d given her the bracelet, the setting had seemed perfect.

  Obviously she’d been wrong.

  Rolling along on Church Street, Lynn realized that she didn’t know what would happen next. Right now, though, it appeared as though she and Leonard would never be more than friends, and she might never know why. That understanding saddened her, almost as though she’d suffered another loss of a loved one.

  At least he still wants to be friends, Lynn thought. That much seemed clear. And although she would rather have much more than that with Leonard, she knew that she would accept it. No matter what, she would take whatever small part of himself that Leonard was willing to give her.

  Forty-Seven

  2288/2289

  Mounted on three-meter towers and spaced evenly around the circle, the lighting panels illuminated the level but rocky patch of the barren world. A dual-field generator sat along the circumference of the area, ninety degrees removed from the laser cannon Mr. Scott had improvised. Between the two, an array of traditional and subspace sensors sat poised to record the coming experiment. An antigrav unit had been placed at the center of the lighted area.

  While Mr. Scott and his engineering teams labored over the generator and the cannon, Spock stood at the edge of the circle, his back to the surrounding darkness as he completed execution of a level-one diagnostic on the sensor package. In particular, he worked to reconfirm the sensitivity of the instruments. Because of the precision required, the trial had already necessitated three days of painstaking setup—not to mention the months designing the test and constructing the equipment, or the years of periodic research that he and Dr. McCoy had conducted. But since the Enterprise had a scheduled rendezvous with the U.S.S. Alar for a time-sensitive transfer of medical supplies, they would get only a single opportunity here to effect their attempt to detect the temporal subatomic particle they had long theorized.

  As Spock finished verifying the configuration and acuity of the sensor matrix, the doctor approached him. “Well, Scotty’s just finished all of his checks,” he said.

  “As have I,” Spock said, turning from the apparatus to face the doctor.

  “I have to tell you,” McCoy said, “this is just about the craziest experiment I’ve ever seen.”

  “Although we have proceeded along a course of sound reasoning,” Spock said, “I must agree that the composition of our test is counterintuitive.” Over the past months—and after due consideration over years—Spock had worked out a quantum-physical basis for the fundamental time particle, a theoretical foundation that did not contradict the current version of the currently accepted standard model of the universe. This experiment sought to exploit the predicted behavior of the particle in its interactions with energy, space-time, and subspace.

  “Even if it works,” McCoy said, “nobody’s going to believe it.”

  Spock arched an eyebrow at the doctor’s characteristic overstatement. “We have derived a well-defined set of mathematical equations for the temporal particle and demonstrably observed the chronometric effects of that particle,” he said. “If we are successful here, then we will have recorded measurements and a repeatable process to prove our theory. Why would any scientist fail to believe it?”

  “Forget it, Spock,” McCoy said. “I was just pointing out the complexity and peculiar nature of what we’re doing.”

  “Doctor,” Spock said, “you have an unparalleled gift for hyperbole.”

  “And you have an unmatched ability to insult your colleagues,” McCoy said, with what Spock took to be feigned pique. “You pointy-eared, computerized—”

  “Pardon me, gentleman,” Mr. Scott said, walking over from where he’d been toiling over the field generator. “Everything has been checked and double-checked. All of the equipment is in alignment and prepared for use.”

  “Thank you, Mister Scott,” Spock said. “Have your team transport back to the ship.”

  “Aye, sir,” the engineer said. He headed back toward the laser cannon, where three technicians stood, and then over to the field generator, to a pair of engineers there.

  “We should prepare to depart as well,” Spock told the doctor, and the two of them moved to the transport point. After Scott and the engineering teams had beamed up, Spock and McCoy returned to the ship. Once aboard, they reported to the bridge, from where they would initiate the automated experiment.

  As Spock took his position at the sciences station, Dr. McCoy stepped down into the lower, inner section of the bridge, to where Captain Kirk sa
t in the command chair. “We’re prepared, Captain,” McCoy said.

  “Very well, Bones,” Kirk said. “Commander Uhura, patch us in to the sensor platform.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Uhura said. Spock looked over at the main viewscreen and saw the brown and gray image of the planet vanish, replaced by a wide-angle view of the testing area down on the surface. To the extreme left of the scene showed the laser cannon, and to the right, the field generator. Straight ahead rested the antigrav unit.

  “Kirk to transporter room,” the captain said.

  “Transporter room,” said a woman’s voice. “Cortez here, Captain.”

  “Lieutenant,” Kirk said, “are you all set down there?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the transporter chief. “The hull fragment is in position on the platform.” The metal piece to which Cortez referred, about fifteen centimeters square and two centimeters through, had been sliced from the section of the Klingon bird of prey’s hull that Dr. McCoy had in his foresight brought with him aboard the Enterprise when it had begun its current mission several years ago. Kirk and his senior staff had traveled back and then forward in time aboard that Klingon vessel in their efforts to bring a pair of humpback whales from Earth’s past into its present. Spock and Dr. McCoy had already measured the residual chronometric activity in the slab, and from there had made predictions for the results of this experiment.

  “Very good,” Kirk said. “Transfer transporter control to the bridge sciences station.”

  “Complying,” Cortez said. Spock watched his panel as the floating display blanked for a moment, then redrew itself with a new interface configuration. “Transporter control transferred as requested, Captain.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Kirk said. “Mister Spock, whenever you’re ready.”

  “Acknowledged,” Spock said. He worked his station, commencing the sequence of actions they’d carefully planned out. “Tying the transporter into the experiment’s automated program.” He verified the connection, then did a final check on all apparatus. “Starting execution in three…two…one.” He touched a control, then watched as the field generator began operating. “The antigrav has energized. Magnetic containment field has formed and is climbing toward maximum strength,” he said, reading his displays. He glanced at the main viewer again and saw a slight shimmering effect in the shape of a sphere, directly in the center of the illuminated area on the planet.

  “All channels are clear,” Uhura said. “We are receiving telemetry from the planetside sensors.”

  “Acknowledged,” Spock said. “Readings indicate no temporal activity within the containment field. Warp bubble now forming within it.” He watched his display until the warp sphere had stabilized, then announced the fact. He then waited for the transporter cycle to begin. “Making the exchange,” he said as the atmosphere within the dual field was beamed out and the section of the bird of prey’s hull beamed in. Again, he peered over at the viewer, this time to see the square slab held aloft at the center of the two fields by the antigrav below it.

  “Still receiving telemetry,” Uhura said.

  “The laser cannon is energizing,” Spock said, looking back at his console. “Eighty percent…ninety…ninety-five…full power.” On the viewscreen, a narrow beam of intense red light sliced across the scene from the left, striking directly at the center of the Klingon hull fragment.

  They had designed the experiment so that the energy of the laser would, according to the probability wave function Spock had calculated for the fundamental time particle, allow a quantity of those particles to absorb that energy. Based on the three flavors of the particle that they had theorized, they had determined an expected value of how many of each type would travel forward in time, and how may backward in time. The relationship between time and subspace would then allow the specially designed sensors to track the results, both from after and before the experiment.

  Five seconds passed, and then the cannon shut down, the beam disappearing.

  “Sensors still operational,” Uhura said.

  “The laser burst has completed, energy levels…” Spock checked his readouts. “…precisely as programmed.”

  “Sensors have automatically shut down, Mister Spock,” Uhura said.

  “Is that normal?” the captain asked.

  “We programmed it that way,” McCoy responded. “It limits the amount of noise in the output.”

  “The hull fragment has been transported back aboard,” Spock said. “Warp field has shut down…the containment field…and the antigrav.” He turned in his chair to face the captain and Dr. McCoy. “The experiment has concluded.”

  “What do your readings show?” Kirk asked. “Was it a success?”

  As he mounted the steps to the upper, outer ring of the bridge, McCoy said, “It’ll take some time to analyze.” He walked over to the sciences station and peered in past Spock at the various displays. “Do we have any preliminary results?”

  “Commander Uhura, would you transfer the subspace sensor scans to my station?” Spock asked.

  “Aye, sir,” Uhura said, and she expertly worked her controls. After a moment, she said, “I’ve put them on channel B-forty-seven, Mister Spock. They should be available to you now.”

  Spock accessed the channel identified. “I have them,” he said.

  Leaning in over his shoulder, Dr. McCoy suddenly pointed. “There,” he said. “And there. That’s it.” Spock saw the reading as well and deemed it a most satisfying outcome.

  Captain Kirk joined them at the sciences console. “That’s what?”

  Spock peered up at the captain. “We appear to have positively identified the fundamental particle of time.”

  “The chroniton,” McCoy said.

  “Because the fundamental particle is the physical manifestation of the theoretical minimum limit of a quanta of time,” Spock explained, “Doctor McCoy and I have been calling it by that name. This also distinguishes it from the force particle of time we previously identified, which we call the chronometric particle.”

  “I’ll pretend I understand what all of that means,” the captain said.

  “It took me a while too,” McCoy said. “But basically we’ve verified the existence of another building block of the universe, this one temporal in nature.”

  “Congratulations, gentleman,” Kirk said.

  “Thank you, Jim,” McCoy said.

  Spock bowed his head in acknowledgment of the captain’s good wishes. “With your permission, sir, I’ll oversee the return of our equipment to the ship, and then I would like to go with Doctor McCoy to the quantum-physics lab so that we can thoroughly analyze our readings.”

  “Of course,” Kirk said.

  Spock stood, and he and the doctor trod across the bridge and into the turbolift. “Transporter room,” Spock ordered. At once, the car began to descend.

  The small, green vial of pills sat on the edge of the basin. McCoy looked at it and engaged in what seemed like his nightly debate. In general, he practiced caution when prescribing medication for his patients, and he did the same when it came to taking any drugs himself. Given that and his frequent inability to sleep undisturbed through the night, he’d considered asking Spock to tutor him in Vulcan meditation techniques. After researching them himself, though, he’d learned of the intimacy required between teacher and student, and he’d decided that he’d rather not impose so on his friend.

  Ultimately, McCoy had spoken about his nightmares with Dr. Smitonick, the ship’s psychiatrist, mentioning his reluctance to seek a chemical remedy unless absolutely necessary. Michal agreed and had instead recommended counseling. McCoy had attended only three sessions—two, really, since he’d walked out of the third—before deciding that he did not want to continue with therapy. Unable to persuade him otherwise, Michal had recommended these pills, which suppressed the storage of dreams in long-term memory. McCoy had used them from time to time, with some positive results, but he still resisted taking them regularly.


  Still, his nights had become particularly unsettled of late. They’d calmed for a time a few years ago, after his encounter with Sybok, but the respite had been short-lived. Now, he’d begun dreaming again of his own death. Although over the years he’d experienced while he slept visions of a violent demise, he’d recently imagined foggy, uneasy scenes of his own memorial service. They’d been unclear, like memories of a thought, or thoughts of memories, but they’d delivered to him a very real fear of dying prematurely. Several times in the past week, he’d awoken clutching the bedclothes, breathing heavily, his heart pounding in his chest, a scream perched on the edge of his lips. He didn’t know if he could face that again tonight.

  McCoy reached forward and picked up the vial from the lip of the basin. He opened it, then spilled out one of the tiny white capsules into his cupped palm. He would take it tonight and then try tomorrow—

  A series of tones rang out behind him, from the main body of his cabin, signaling an incoming communication. He peered down at the pill for a moment, then set it down on the basin and left the refresher. He crossed to his work area and checked the readout on his desk, to the identity information routed down here by whichever communications officer currently worked gamma shift. He smiled when he saw the point of origin: Ravent, Mantilles. Beside the city and planet names, he read that of the sender: McCoy, Joanna.

  He touched a control as he sat down at his desk. On the display mounted in the bulkhead in front of him appeared the logo of the United Federation of Planets—a pair of curved wheat stalks on either side of a circular field of stars. After just a second, that disappeared, replaced by the smiling face of McCoy’s daughter.

  “Hi, Dad,” she said. “I was hoping I’d find you in.”

  “Hi, honey,” McCoy said. Joanna looked good, he thought. She’d cut her hair short, but even at forty, it remained a natural, vibrant red. Her face had also filled out a bit, taking away the slight boniness he’d sometimes perceived in her features. “I actually just got in, and was about to get ready for bed,” he said, “but it’s always great to hear from you.” The Enterprise’s current course had brought it to the far reaches of Federation space and beyond, but relatively close to Mantilles’s star system, Pallas 14—at least within live communications range via subspace relays. In the past few weeks, McCoy had spoken to Joanna three times, once for a couple hours, and so it surprised him to be hearing from her again so soon.