Constellations (46 page)

Almost.

 

“Commander, something's just appeared on our scanners,” said Shahar. “It's a Klingon D7.”

Miyazaki looked at the chronometer on the wall. “Right on schedule. Good for them.”

Spock closed his eyes for a moment. “Open hailing frequencies. Audio only.”

“Undoubtedly they will be under orders to maintain communications silence,” said Miyazaki.

“True, but we must be proactive if we are going to guarantee the illusion of reality.”

“Spoken like a true Vulcan.”

Shahar said, “Hailing frequencies open.”

Spock said, “Greetings, gentlebeings. Welcome to Sorel's Salvage. I am Sorel, proprietor of this establishment. I offer you the finest in reconditioned propulsion systems and surplus torpedoes. Or perhaps you're looking for something in a used ship. We have several in stock. Yours looks a bit rickety. Would you care to upgrade? Impress your superiors! I can offer you a generous trade-in credit.”

To Spock the Yard was an invaluable collection of alien devices: ancient artifacts and examples of the very latest technologies—some perhaps even from the future—from a hundred worlds. These were irreplaceable treasures that would provide years of research and could lead to discoveries that might benefit all of the beings who lived within the Federation.

But in his imagination, Spock could see the Yard as the Klingons saw it. Here was a wrecked spaceship, and there what looked like a very dirty comet. And all about them floated warped and twisted pieces of metal. If the Klingons' passive scans did detect anything unusual, they were sure to interpret it as just so much
veQ.
Garbage.

Over the comm came a brief grunt that was unmistakably a sign of offense from the Klingons. But still their ship continued on at its steady pace…and passed them.

“Hailing frequencies closed,” said Shahar.

Miyazaki, who had been holding his breath, exhaled deeply, then asked, “Mr. Spock, have you ever worked in commerce before?”

“Once, while undercover, I attempted to pass as a dealer in kevas and trillium.”

“And how did that go?”

“Poorly,” said Spock.

“Well, your technique must have improved.”

“How so? They did not stop to purchase anything.”

“No,” said Miyazaki, “but they bought the lie.”

 

“I've got Mr. Thyner helpin' me,”
said Scotty over Kirk's communicator,
“but the others are nearly hopeless. It's not their fault. They just aren't engineers. Most of them can't tell dilithium from duotronics.”
Scotty sighed.
“Frankly, Captain, I'm not sure this
can
be fixed.”

Kirk, Spock, and Bishop stood outside the Nasat's office.

“Recommendations, Mr. Scott.”

“It really
is
a well-designed system, Captain. The ideas behind it are perfectly sound. It's just the execution. I can think o' three or four engineers that ought to come down here from various parts o' Starfleet and have a look. Maybe they can offer a few pointers.”

“Acknowledged. Kirk out.” He flipped his communicator closed and turned to Bishop. “Time to crank up the cloaking device, Commodore?” he asked with a grin.

“No, Captain. Our liaison has offered us a different sort of protection. It's only temporary, but it will serve until we solve the problems. Or come up with something else.”

Spock said, “Naturally, you cannot tell us anything more.”

Bishop smiled. “
That's
Yard thinking. Are you sure you won't stay after all, Spock?”

“No.” Although Bishop seemed to have regained her perspective, Spock was not yet ready to exchange the stars for the Yard. There was still too much to discover. Perhaps he would revisit the question again in a few decades. “I will be returning with Captain Kirk.” He spread the fingers of his right hand. “Live long and prosper, B6 Blue of Nasat. Once again, you have shown me my true path.”

“And you have returned me to mine. Good-bye, Spock of Vulcan and of Starfleet. May our paths intersect again.” She turned and walked into her office.

“Well, Spock,” said Kirk, “I never doubted you'd stay with the
Enterprise.
”

“Really, Captain? Your prescience surprises me. There were times when I was unsure myself.”

Kirk grinned. “As much as I admire the…museumlike qualities of the Yard, it's really not the place for adventurers like you and me.”

“Adventurers, Captain?”

“To be the
first,
Spock. The first to see it, to touch it. Adventure.”

“I view my time aboard the
Enterprise
as an opportunity not for adventure, but for discovery.”

“Which is…?” prompted Kirk.

“Discovery is the combination of intellectual exercise and—”

“Random chance?”

“If you like,” said Spock.

“Right: adventure.” Kirk flipped open his communicator. “Kirk to
Enterprise,
two to beam up.”

Spock said nothing as he dissolved into swirls of luminous glitter, but his right eyebrow did arch just a bit. He hoped Kirk didn't notice.

Jeffrey Lang is the author of several
Star Trek
novels and short stories, including
Star Trek: The Next Generation: Immortal Coil
and, more recently, the first book in the
Star Trek: Voyager: String Theory
trilogy,
Cohesion.
He's very pleased about this opportunity to pen a tale about Dr. McCoy and Mr. Scott, as they are among his favorite characters in the
Trek
universe, and would like to raise a metaphorical glass to De-Forest Kelley and James Doohan, the two wonderful actors who portrayed them. Cheers, gents. Bravo.

Lang is currently at work on his next project, a graphic novel. He lives in Bala Cynwyd, Pennsylvania, with his partner, Helen, his son, Andrew, and two troublesome cats.

The realization slowly dawned on Leonard McCoy: he had been staring at the same sentence on his computer screen for…well, how long, exactly? With his feet propped up on his desk, a cup of cold coffee by his elbow, and a crick in his neck, McCoy felt his eyes and mind both snap back into focus. Toggling to the document's indexing tab, he saw he had been reading an article in the
Journal of Experimental Psychology
about how time travel could provoke psychotic breaks in individuals with repressed neurodevelopmental disorders.

Interesting topic,
McCoy admitted grudgingly, one he could imagine himself pursuing at another point in his career. The thought brought him up short and he grumbled aloud, “Why not now?”

Unfortunately, one of the answers was obvious: He didn't have time for such complex work. The day-to-day grind of managing sickbay, monitoring the crew, and especially working with the less-experienced medical staff was taking every moment and every erg of energy McCoy had to spare. Some Starfleet Medical functionary apparently had decided that every graduate-level med student, technician, and sawbones in the fleet had to spend a few weeks on board the only vessel to make it to the end of its five-year mission so they could watch the seasoned hands in action. Though he never would have admitted it, McCoy understood the reasons for the order. If he were the head of Medical, he might have done the same thing.

The other answer, the main answer—the important answer—simply was that he was tired. He felt
old.
Lifting his hand, he once again studied the tiny discolored patch on the back: his first liver spot. Modern medicine could do a lot to maintain vitality and check the ravages of time, but cellular apoptosis always won in the end.

Sadly, he wasn't the only one feeling the ravages of age. Only a week earlier, the doctor had spent a couple of fruitless hours trying to track down the source of a peculiar odor in what was supposed to be his more or less sterile treatment room. After running several scans, McCoy had called Jason Riviera, the head of environmental services, and asked him to check the ventilation systems. Riviera had come himself (perhaps suffering from the same want of fulfilling labor), checked over sickbay with a specialized tool, and, grinning slightly, delivered his verdict: “You've got B.O., Doc.”

The meaning of Riviera's comment did not immediately sink in, but when it did, McCoy took a self-conscious half-step back. “Pardon?”

“Sorry, Doc. That's our little joke. Not you. Sickbay. Nothing personal. We've seen this in a couple other areas of the ship. Most of the air filters and scrubbers have been replaced multiple times, but sooner or later inert organic matter begins to accrete. When you consider how many people have been through sickbay since the
Enterprise
was commissioned, it was bound to happen.”

“Is there anything we can do about it?”

Clearly, Riviera had heard this question one or two times too many. “Since we can't open a porthole, no. At least, not until we put in at a starbase.”

Nodding, McCoy felt exhaustion settle down over his shoulders like a sprinkling of fine, gray dust. “So, then,” he concluded. “B.O.”

“Yep.”

“Nothing we can do about it?”

“Nothing preventive,” Riviera said. “But I hear scented candles work pretty well.”

 

McCoy looked up from his contemplation of his cold coffee when sickbay's main doors snapped open, and the doctor stared in glassy-eyed disbelief at that rarest of sights: his captain entering with not a sign of distress, physical, mental, or emotional. Jim Kirk eyed his chief medical officer cautiously as if he were waiting for some sort of outburst.

“What's wrong?” McCoy asked.

“That's what I was going to ask you,” Kirk said. “You look like you just had to put down your dog.”

“I do?” McCoy asked and tried to get a clear look at himself in the reflective surface of the computer monitor. “No, it's nothing. I was just thinking: Did I ever tell you that sickbay has…that it's ailing.”

“Sickbay is sick?” Kirk asked.

I wish I had thought of that,
McCoy thought.
Or, wait, maybe I don't.
“In so many words, yes. According to our chief environmental officer, too many people have come through those doors over the past several years and left bits of themselves behind.”

“Oh, right,” Kirk said. “I've received reports about other parts of the ship having the same problem. Apparently the bridge isn't completely well, either.”

“You'd think that with all the technology available to us, we'd have a way…”

“Be careful what you ask for, Bones,” Kirk said. “Spock says that they've almost finished engineering a form of bacteria that they'll release on board ships that will not only consume all the dead skin particles, hair, what have you, but they'll also release minute amounts of oxygen.”

McCoy didn't like the idea. “I can only imagine we'll be fighting them for control of the ship someday.”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

“What brought you down to see me? Headache? Woman problem? Need a fourth for whist?”

“Whist?” Kirk asked.

“A card game. My grandmother used to play it.”

“Oh,” Kirk replied, clearly not certain he wanted the conversation to continue in the current vein, but compelled by who-knew-what to continue. “What made you think of that?”

“I'm feeling old today.”

“Well, then I have just the thing for you: I need you to take a little trip.”

“A landing party?” Though he felt exhausted, the idea of getting off the ship was appealing.

“Not exactly—a biotechnology conference on Starbase Ten. We're on the slate to deliver a paper.”

“Biotechnology?” McCoy asked. “Not exactly my field, but I bet I have a couple things in my files that I could adapt. Now that I think about it,” he continued, a tiny iota of excitement creeping into his voice, “I had an idea for a project that might—”

“You won't need to write anything, Bones, but we need a presenter, someone with seniority,” Kirk said. “Air of authority, you know?”

“Oh,” McCoy said, feeling both deflated and complimented despite his certainty that Kirk was buttering him up. “Well, I guess that'll be all right.” Then another thought—an unpleasant thought—hit him. “It's not one of Spock's, is it?”

“The conference organizers seemed very excited about it,” Kirk said, obfuscating. “Some sort of breakthrough in man-machine interfaces, I think.”

McCoy groaned. “Am I even going to understand what I'm presenting?”

“Bones,” Kirk said cheerfully. “I'm surprised to hear you talk that way. When I asked who should go in his place, Spock said, ‘We are fortunate to have one of the finest scientific minds in the Federation aboard the ship.'”

“And you're sure Spock wasn't talking about Spock?” McCoy scowled. “And why can't he go himself?”

“The
Enterprise
has been asked to assist with a large-scale astrometrics experiment near the Anthraces cluster. We'll be rendezvousing with three other ships at the starbase, then proceeding from there. I'm sorry to say it, Bones, but it's the kind of mission where we'll need Spock more than we need another doctor on board.”

“There are quite a few of them around here these days, aren't there?” McCoy asked. “Almost makes a man feel not wanted.”

“If it makes a difference, I'll be sending Scotty along with you. He contributed to the paper, but, you know, he's not much of one for delivery…”

McCoy nodded, cringing as he recalled a disastrous conference at Starfleet Command a couple years earlier. While Scotty could usually keep his brogue under control enough to be understood by non-Terrans, he had a tendency to digress from the main topic that resulted in long, spiraling discursions into esoteric engineering theory. Still, knowing that Scotty would be along made the idea of an excursion much more palatable. The engineer could always be counted on to find fun wherever fun was to be found if he could be coaxed to temporarily drop his obsessions with the
Enterprise
's plumbing. “Okay, Jim. You got yourself a presenter.”

“Excellent,” the captain said as he turned to leave. “The text should be in your personal database by now.” Pausing in the doorway, Kirk looked back over his shoulder and said, “One other thing: The
Lexington
is expected to arrive at Starbase Ten after we depart. I've asked Commodore Wesley to give you and Scotty a ride when the conference is over and meet us closer to the cluster. No problem with that?”

McCoy's compliance was built into the question. Kirk didn't even stop to hear the response. “Of course not, Jim,” McCoy said to the closing door. “Whatever you say. You're the captain.”

 

His head pressed deeply into his bunk's thin pillow, Scotty said, “Well, that had to be one of the most depressing experiences of my life.” Oddly, the engineer sounded more bemused than depressed, but McCoy had to admit he was in a poor position to judge the difference. Somewhere roughly in the middle of the second day of lectures, meetings, and endless technical debates, he had lost all will to live.

“I'd be thrilled if my only problem was depression,” McCoy said from his bunk. “But I think I'm also suffering from a bout of murderous rage mitigated by nervous exhaustion and, oh, my back hurts. I think I've mentioned my mattress?”

“Aye, Doctor,” Scotty said. “Once or twice.”

“I'm going to kill Jim. And Spock. Spock
first.
They must have known how bad that was going to be and couldn't face it.” McCoy tried to sit up, but the stabbing pain in his lower back flared and he surrendered to gravity. “And bad enough that the beds on the starbase were so bad, now we have to stay in the
Lexington
's bowels.” McCoy knew that he was griping, that this was one of the things he was supposed to endure gracefully, but he didn't feel like being gracious. “Are there rooms this small on the
Enterprise
?”

“Yes,” Scotty muttered. “But I had them all converted into equipment lockers.”

Listening to the usually good-natured engineer complain made McCoy feel better. “At least we'll be able to eat again. What was that stuff they were trying to serve us for breakfast every morning? Some kind of oatmeal?”

“Nay,” Scotty said. “I thought it was grits.”

“Grits?”
McCoy said, forgetting about the pain in his back and sitting up. “That, sir, is an insult to my sainted grandmother, Mamay, God rest her soul.”

Scotty grinned. “Well, don't be saying such things about oatmeal then, or my Aunt Amelia will descend from on high and smite you with her wooden spoon. Oatmeal, indeed.” Then, he kicked his duffel off the end of the cot to make room for his feet, but didn't seem to be able to get comfortable. “Food would be a fine idea, Doctor. What do you say we go see if we can find the mess hall?”

The sour sensation at the pit of McCoy's gut flip-flopped and he decided he was hungry. His mood lightened again: Food would be just the thing. Then maybe they could find a recreation hall and see what fun there might be to have. Worse came to worst, he could always drop by sickbay and see what the CMO was working on. The
Lexington
was still actively engaged in frontier work; who knew what medical conundrums they might be facing?

As they rose to their feet (being careful to duck low so they did not hit their heads), the intercom whistled for attention. Scotty pressed the switch and said, “Scott here.”

“Commander Scott, this is Lieutenant Jordan, the second officer. Commodore's compliments, sir, but we have a little bad news for you.”

Scott glanced at McCoy, then returned his full attention to the intercom. “Go ahead, Lieutenant. Dr. McCoy is here with me.”

“I regret to report that the
Lexington
has been diverted to handle an emergency situation at Mining Colony 47 in Sector 262. It means delaying the rendezvous with the
Enterprise. ”