You’re just trying to avoid a problem you know is too difficult. You’re in your element when you’re doing these small, manageable tasks. It lets you feel accomplished. But if you take a look at the espers, you’ll never get anywhere, and you know it.
Damn it! He hated it when the voice was actually right. Chapel shook her head at his suggestion. “I can handle this.”
“Maybe. But you do need a break, Christine,” he said.
“Any thoughts on our coma patients?” Chapel asked. Like him, she was good at changing the subject when it became uncomfortable. “It could be weeks before we make it to a starbase.”
“No, not yet,” he said, pulling a face. “I’ll get back to it.”
He retreated to his office, nodding at Brent as the med tech passed him. The lieutenant looked a bit the worse for wear, but at least he was back on his feet again and able to do his job, which was the important thing right now.
Once he’d seated himself at his desk, McCoy quickly called up the medical records for all five espers: Bouchard, Petriello, Santos, Fraser, Salah.
Can you even do this? Do you have the expertise to save these people?
Of course he did. He’d seen and overcome stranger diseases and ailments. Hell, he was the man who’d cured the Gamma Hydran hyperaging syndrome!
That wasn’t science, that was a lucky break. If Chekov’s adrenaline rush hadn’t happened to protect him at the moment of infection, you wouldn’t have known a thing about what was going on. And you know even less about espers.
That was true, he realized with painful clarity.
You always like to call yourself “a good old-fashioned country doctor,” and that’s what you are. But that’s not what this situation needs. This situation needs someone who trained to go into space, not someone who did it because they were running away.
Well, that might have been true to begin with, but he’d risen above that, hadn’t he? He’d embraced all aspects of being a starship surgeon. There were few things he liked more than going to a new world and surveying a whole new biology, or spending time with physicians from a new civilization and learning their medical practices.
Well, sure, you like it. That doesn’t actually translate into being good at it.
That wasn’t even remotely true. Right? He pushed the thoughts aside by calling up a comparative analysis of all five espers’ brain patterns. The fact that they’d been affected in roughly the order of decreasing extrasensory ability pointed to a strong link between the unknown phenomenon and their powers. The more sensitive the mind, the harder it had been hit—but by what? What was out there doing this to the minds of these people? Was anything even out there at all?
The doctor located Spock’s reports from the Enterprise’s encounter with the negative energy field that had killed the nine espers at the beginning of the ship’s five-year mission. Sensors hadn’t been able to detect it, but Spock had noted a complete lack of energy, a presence of something that somehow gave off no readings at all. But here, there wasn’t even that. Just these… bumps in the fabric of space. Starfleet records were no help at all, he found. Plenty of spaceships had encountered patches of subspace rougher than this without there being any kind of psychic phenomena. However, those hadn’t led to other universes with totally different physical laws.
He wished he knew more about spatial distortions, or extrasensory perception. Despite his early-career success with partial grafts of neural tissue, he had a generalist’s knowledge of the human brain and its abilities, and a specialist’s was required here. He wished M’Benga wasn’t off with the landing party; he’d interned in a Vulcan ward, and knew about telepathy.
Hell, he wished Spock was here. Although… maybe he didn’t need him, just the medicines his people used. Vulcans had to have experience with disorders of the telepathic mind. It stood to reason that they knew how to treat them.
McCoy checked the medical database for information. Maybe there was something in the Vulcans’ arsenal that would let him suppress the espers’ abilities, allowing him to reduce the stress on their brains. He navigated through directories and subdirectories, occasionally reading an article only to find out that it wasn’t at all what he was looking for. But Vulcan telepaths had to have gone through similar ordeals; the doctor refused to believe they didn’t have anything that could help.
He’d keep searching for answers, even if that meant he wouldn’t get much sleep. His own needs were the least important right now.
Anything to save these patients.
Anything except actually being the capable, experienced doctor they need. Ever since you joined Starfleet to avoid your problems, you’ve been moving. You stay somewhere too long, and you move again. You’ve served in so many different places, always just for a short time. And then you started to feel comfortable here. You liked Kirk, you liked Chapel, you liked Scotty, you even got invited to Spock’s wedding.
He tried to push the voice aside and focus on the data in front of him, but he couldn’t. The voice insisted. It kept on speaking. He knew it somehow; it was familiar.
You stayed here too long, and now it’s caught up to you. Your ignorance, your lack of training, everything. You’re a ship’s surgeon not because it’s the right thing to do, you’re a ship’s surgeon because it lets you ignore all your other problems. Until now, that is. Now you’ve hit a situation outside of your abilities—and five innocent people are going to die as a result.
I hope you feel good about this, at least.
McCoy suddenly recognized the voice.
It was his ex-wife’s.
SIX
Twenty-one Years Ago
Leonard McCoy sits in the back of Doctor Ducey’s philosophy class and complains a lot. He doesn’t think he’s complaining loudly—just loud enough for Kotchian next to him to laugh at every one of his jokes. However, four weeks into the class a girl three rows in front of him turns around and says, “What is your problem?” She is a bit shorter than Leonard, with shoulder-length brown hair and a round face. Pretty cute.
“My problem,” Leonard says, “is that I have to take Introduction to Extraterrestrial Philosophy. If I wanted to know what The First Song of S’task was, I’d buy the album.” Leonard hopes she’s not a philosophy major, because then she’s only going to become more annoyed with him.
“It’s not that kind of song!” she hisses back. “It’s a long-form philosophic poem that tells—”
“And if I’d wanted to know all that,” replies Leonard, “I’d be paying attention instead of complaining.”
Kotchian taps Leonard on the shoulder, nodding toward the front of the class, where Doctor Ducey is staring pointedly at him. He clams up for the rest of the class, but the next time it meets, he moves down a couple of rows, sitting right behind the girl.
“What are you doing?” she asks, turning around. She acts exasperated, but there is a twinkle in her eye.
“Since you seem so interested in extraterrestrial philosophy, I figured I’d see if some of that could rub off on me.” Leonard hopes he’s right about her. Meeting someone in class seems to be his best bet, given how little time he has for socializing these days. He hasn’t been on a date since his freshman year.
“Good luck with that,” she says. “It’s plain you’re not interested in hard work.”
“I work hard every night,” he replies. “On things that are actually important and interesting. It’s not my fault that zh’Mai and Shran of Andor are so blasted dull.”
“And what do you find interesting?” she asks. “Crabbing and Whining 101?”
“You, my dear,” he says with a wink.
She rolls her eyes and turns to face forward with a sigh, but Leonard continues to sit there every class. In two weeks, they’re “study buddies”—in another two, they’re dating.
Her name is Jocelyn Darnell.
Stardate 4757.7 (1604 hours)
Kirk watched the smooth walls of the elevator shaft move past them, slowly picking u
p speed as the open cage made its descent. “How long until we enter the cavern?” he asked Chekov.
The ensign was studiously peering at his tricorder. “Thirty seconds, sir.”
The captain nodded and checked the setting on his phaser. With the level of interference they were getting, there could be anything down there. He knew Giotto thought Yüksel was dead, but Kirk was not going to leave this planet until they found him. With the Enterprise delayed by unknown forces, they were on their own.
The mottled gray rock of the shaft edge suddenly vanished, and Kirk found himself looking into a vast cavern from above. Thanks to a soft blue glow that seemed to come from everywhere, he could see thousands—tens of thousands—of cylindrical objects, roughly three meters high and one meter wide. They dotted the floor in the same confusing spiral patterns as the city streets above. The platform continued its rapid descent, and the capsules had already grown bigger, enough that he could make out details.
Chekov’s tricorder was beeping busily. “They are all powered, sir,” he said, reading the scan results. “And I believe I am picking up… life signs.” He looked up, a smile forming. “Something is alive down here!”
Kirk nodded. “Careful, Mister Chekov.”
They had nearly reached the floor of the cavern, and Kirk could finally see the capsules up close. They were silver, a blue light emanating from their insides through transparent paneling all around their circumference.
Inside each one was a tall octopus-like creature, resembling something out of a particularly imaginative child’s nightmare. Each sleeping alien had a fat body with protrusions on top, limp tentacle-like appendages serving as legs, and possibly as arms, too. Difficult to say more, since they didn’t move, calmly standing in the blue light, immersed in a transparent liquid—maybe water.
With a loud clang the platform hit the ground of the cavern and stopped. “Are those things cryopods, Mister Chekov?”
“Yes, sir,” said the ensign. “The creatures’ life signs are slowed down. They are in suspended animation.”
Kirk put his hand on the gate of the cage. “We’re going out there,” he said. “Behind me, phaser and tricorder out. Send the elevator back up. I’m calling the rest of the landing party down here.”
The Hofstadter shook and rattled, the wind from above buffeting it time and again. Scotty sat in the navigator’s seat and sent course corrections to Spock as they attempted to continue their journey south, toward the hub of the reactor network. Scotty’s scans were frustrated by the ever-worsening interference.
“Commander,” Jaeger’s voice came from the back, “my projections show there’s a high danger of lightning up ahead.”
“Thank you, Mister Jaeger,” said Spock, not looking up from his controls. “Please feed the data to Mister Scott. Mister Scott, please locate a safe landing site.”
“Aye.” Scotty grimaced as the data came in. The storm kept on growing larger; it now covered half the southern continent. They had to go to ground now—the interference to the shields was increasing.
A shock of white light filled the cockpit of the Hofstadter. A second later, the entire shuttle jolted to starboard, nearly knocking Scotty out of his seat. “Mister Scott,” Spock said, unflappable as ever, “a safe location, if you please.”
“I’m working on it!” The Vulcan might be ineffably calm, but it was almost impossible for Scotty to concentrate. He hadn’t had to do his own navigation in conditions like this since he was a young lieutenant. Finally, he located a nearby metropolis with a number of low buildings that would shield them from the wind, worked out a course, and submitted it to Spock’s console.
Spock nodded in acknowledgment as the data flooded in. “Thank you—”
The world exploded then, and Scotty was flung forward. His eyes and ears were overwhelmed, leaving him in a light daze. It took him precious seconds to react; his hands flew out barely in time to stop his face from smashing into the console. The controls hurt his palms, even as his mind wondered why the inertial dampers weren’t working. He struggled to move back into his seat, but the shuttle was careening out of control in the wind and the rain. The g forces were pulling him down, whirling him out of his chair and onto the floor.
On all fours, he barely managed to turn his head to look for Spock. Like himself, the commander had been knocked to the floor of the shuttle, but he managed to pull himself up slightly against the overwhelming force. However, even with his Vulcan strength he was only able to peer at his readouts. “Lightning strike!” he shouted, barely loud enough to be heard over the roar of the storm and the straining of the engines. “Main controls have shorted out.”
Scotty reasoned fixing that problem was more important than reaching the navigation console, so he stopped trying to get to his feet, and instead began crawling aft. Most of the shuttle’s crew had also been knocked out of their seats, and as Scotty passed Lieutenant Kologwe, he tapped the security officer on the shoulder. “Take navigation!” he shouted above the din.
“I can’t get up there!”
“Do it! Spock needs your help!” Thankfully she was professional enough to shut up and go, inching forward by gripping the bases of the seats as she passed them. He did the same in the other direction.
M’Benga and Jaeger had been fortunate enough to remain in their seats, but they had a hard time holding on to them, looking as though they might get thrown off any moment. Onward—no time to gawp. The engineer was making progress, but he had to use up his last reserves of determination and strength. Eventually, he reached the aft wall of the compartment, where he’d be able to gain access to most of the shuttle’s controls. The access panel he wanted was near deck level, easy to reach from his position. It opened without a hitch, revealing a twisted mass of cables and circuits that let off a whiff of burnt connections.
Behind him, Scotty was aware of more shouting from Kologwe as she and Spock attempted to get the shuttle under control. Saloniemi yelled something indiscernible.
The transtators beneath the access plate were burnt out, leaving Scotty no choice but to yank them all out as fast as he could. They went flying over his shoulder, now useless. There was no time to replace them all; he needed to bypass them in order to get the signals to the correct junction.
Where could he get a spare transtator now? Yes! Grinning, he yanked his communicator from his belt and pushed the release that opened the back of the device. Its innards were arranged around a transtator. Carefully, he unhooked it and slotted it into one of the empty spots.
“You should have engine control now!” he yelled. Well, some control, anyway. Enough for the moment. Scott briefly wondered if the others could even hear him, but then he felt his chest lighten, the painful forces no longer threatening to squash him. The shuttle had stabilized.
Losing no time, he pulled himself to his feet. Forward, Spock was once again seated at the pilot’s controls as if nothing had happened, with Kologwe next to him. The noise of the straining engines had eased off, leaving only the storm to shout over.
“Excellent, Mister Scott,” said Spock, loud enough to be heard clearly. “Can you restore full engine control?”
“Aye. I’ll have to bypass the mains six ways from Sunday.”
“I would prefer that you did not wait until Sunday, Mister Scott. Speed is of the essence, given that shields now seem to be completely inoperative.”
Scotty wanted to know how the interference could have grown so much worse so quickly, but he needed to focus on the matter at hand. He ran some quick mental calculations. Even leaving some leeway for unexpected difficulties, it would take him about ten minutes to finish the job.
“Half an hour, Mister Spock.”
“Hold her steady, Lieutenant.”
Hikaru Sulu winced. Had he really just said that aloud? There was no order a helm officer hated more. It wasn’t as if Lieutenant Rahda needed a reminder to do her job.
“Aye, sir.”
This was his first time in command during a c
risis since the Klingon war, and that had been over a year ago. When Captain Kirk and Mister Spock were off ship, Scotty was usually in command. Sulu wanted to show that he was up to the challenge. He wanted a command of his own.
Flying the ship was what he did best. But he knew better than to try to fly the ship and command.
Lieutenant Rahda was doing an excellent job. The Enterprise was moving forward at maximum impulse, and hadn’t encountered a single problem. Without the warp drive active, the ship was in normal space.
Smooth sailing.
Yeoman Lawton crossed from her console to hand him a data slate—fuel consumption reports, damage requisitions. Even in the middle of a crisis, there was still paperwork to be pushed. He skimmed the reports, his eyes drawn to that line at the bottom. “COMMANDING OFFICER, U.S.S. ENTERPRISE.” Someday, that would really be—
A quiet beeping from the front of the bridge drew his attention. The red warning light between the helm and navigation consoles was blinking insistently. “Report,” he said.
Farrell at navigation pressed some buttons and inspected the spatial plot. “I’m not sure, sir.”
Sulu turned his chair to face the science panel. “Rodriguez?”
The science officer looked at the display on his console. “Distortion ahead, sir.” Rodriguez gulped noticeably as he studied the readout. “Real-space distortion ahead, sir.”
“Full stop!” Sulu called out the command before Rodriguez had even finished his sentence, but it was too late.
The deck dipped forward, knocking him into the chair’s armrest. Holding on to it, he could only watch as Rodriguez tumbled and fell.
A moment later, the science console fizzled, gentle sparks flying out in every direction. All its screens went dark. The briefest of moments later, it exploded, fragments of metal and plastic pelting Rodriguez, who was lying on the deck, moaning.
Sulu swiveled forward to discover with horror that both Rahda and Farrell had been thrown face-first into their consoles by the phenomenon’s force. Farrell was slumping backward in his chair, apparently unconscious. Rahda’s face was resting on her controls, a bright stream of blood trickling down them.
Star Trek®: A Choice of Catastrophes Page 11
