Constellations (47 page)

McCoy felt himself breathe again. The assumption came so easily: that Jim and Spock had gotten into some damn-fool trouble without him to keep them in line.

“For how long?” Scott asked.

“Minimum of two weeks, sir.”
Jordan paused, then had the decency to say,
“Sorry.”

“You canna lend us a shuttle, Lieutenant? We could have it back to you in no time at all.”

“I checked that, sir, but the commodore says we may need them for emergency relief work. The transporters won't be reliable at the mining colony because of trace amounts of magnetic ore. I assume you've heard…”

“Aye, lad,” Scotty said impatiently. “We know about that.” He scowled. “No other options for getting us back home?”

Jordan hesitated.
“Well, yes, sir. There's one, but I wasn't sure you'd want to consider it.”

“Try us.”

“We could drop you off at the nearest planet and
Enterprise
could pick you up on their way back this way. They're scheduled to be in the area in about twenty-two hours.”

“Planet?” McCoy asked. “What planet is that?”

“It's a little off the beaten path,”
Jordan said.
“The locals call it Denebia.”

“Deneb V?”

“No. Denebia. You know, the place where the slime devils come from.”

 

Less than two hours later, McCoy and Scott, each carrying the small duffel he had brought along, were beamed down into a quiet cul-de-sac near the north edge of Meekrab, the planet's main interstellar port town. At first glance, Meekrab was much like many of the port towns the
Enterprise
crew had visited over the years: Most of the buildings appeared to be either structures for housing goods or people in transit—warehouses or hotels. The problem, McCoy decided after a few minutes' review, was that the proprietors of both forms of establishment did not seem to feel that cargo and guests should receive very different forms of treatment. If you happened to be cargo, then you were in good hands; if you were a guest, not quite so good.

After visiting three different hotels and reviewing the accommodations, Scott decided the only appropriate solution would be to find one of the other kinds of establishments that could always be found in port towns: a cheap bar.

“Are you sure that's a good idea, Scotty?” McCoy said. His feet hurt from walking and his shoulder ached from carrying the duffel. Worse, their circadian clocks were not in synch with local time and his body was beginning to send signals that it was time to sleep.

“I think it's the most bloody brilliant idea anyone has had all day. I can't help but hope these so-called hotels will look a little more appealing after we've rested and collected our wits.”

“I'm just surprised the
Lexington
dropped us on a world without Federation lodgings.”

“Not every planet wants the Federation around,” Scotty said, pitching his voice low. “Especially not a world so close to the edge of Klingon space.”

McCoy tugged up on the shoulder strap of his bag, taking some of the pressure off his sore neck. “I haven't noticed any hostile stares.”

“Me, either, but I suggest we both keep our jackets on while we're outside, just in case.” Denebians and Terrans were similar enough to look at if you didn't look too closely—bipedal, two eyes, two ears, one mouth and nose—but to McCoy's eye Denebians were generally smaller and had a strange tendency to slump forward at the waist and shoulders. Also, he noted that Denebians—or Meekrabians in any case—all wore drab, utilitarian clothing. After only a couple of hours, McCoy felt hungry for some colors other than olive drab and dun. Their standard-issue field jackets blended in well enough, but their uniform shirts would probably create a stir.

“If we don't want to be noticed,” McCoy argued, “all the more reason to stay out of public spaces. The sooner we get a room…”

“No one knows more about the best local accommodations than a bartender,” Scott retorted. “I'll have us the two best rooms in the city in less than an hour. Besides, it wouldn't hurt for us to just relax for a bit. We've got less than twenty hours until we're back on the
Enterprise.
”

Scotty must have spotted a likely location as they had been walking because not ten minutes later, the two Starfleet officers were seated on tall stools at a high, round table, their backs to the wall and two tall fizzy pink drinks before them. McCoy eyed his glass suspiciously. “No little umbrella?” he asked. “No crazy straw?”

“I asked for the local special,” Scott said. “Always a good idea to try the local special first.”

“But it's pink,” McCoy said. He sniffed carefully, then waited to see what might happen. The bubbles tickled the inside of his nose, but nothing worse happened. “You first,” he continued, but he should have saved his breath. Scott's glass was already half empty. McCoy stared at him blandly.

“It's a little tart,” Scott said, “but palatable.” He nodded toward McCoy's glass. “What are you waiting for?”

“To see if you go blind.”

Scott grinned but did not otherwise respond. Rather, he leaned his back against the wall and looked around the room. Content that his companion still possessed a modicum of motor control, McCoy sampled the pinkness. Scotty was correct: the drink was tart but not lacking a pleasing insouciance. “Reminds me of a cosmopolitan,” he noted.

“What's that?” Scotty asked.

“A cocktail my ex-wife used to imbibe.”

Scott held his glass halfway to his lips, eyes crinkled in consternation. “Wife?” he asked.

“Ex-wife.”

“I didn't know you were married.”

McCoy shrugged. “Ancient history.”

“I had no idea,” Scott confessed.

“Not something I talk about very often.”

“Must be the fuzzy pink drink.”

McCoy nodded absently, then replayed Scotty's last statement in his head. “Fuzzy?” he asked softly. Shaking his head, then taking a healthy sip of his drink, he asked, “How about you, Scotty? Any skeletons rattling around in the closet?”

“Marital bliss?” Scott asked. “Nay, nay. Someday maybe, but not yet. Do you recommend it?”

McCoy shrugged, then felt some memories and a grin overcome him. “Some days, sure. The early days, definitely. One or two other days here and there…”

Scott grinned in response. “Glad to hear it. Not all bad memories, then. Maybe the drink's doing its work.”

“Clearly.” Scott caught the bartender's eye, then twirled his finger over their nearly empty glasses, the universal sign for another round. “Maybe I should scan the drinks before we have much more,” McCoy said.

“And take all the mystery out of life?” Scott asked, then stood and shrugged off his jacket. “A wee bit warm in here, izunit?”

“Now that you mention it,” McCoy agreed and shed his own jacket, though he briefly wondered what had happened to Scott's concern about showing their uniforms. He noted that their movements had caught the attention of a pair of Denebians at the bar. Both men looked over their shoulders, appeared to glower briefly, then turned back to their drinks. A trio of men at a nearby table, all of whom wore the similar dirt-stained uniforms, glanced their way, but none seemed overly concerned. Only one man, a narrow-faced individual with a bristle-brush mustache seated alone in the corner, stared for more than a second. The Denebian probably would have stared longer if he hadn't noticed McCoy trying to make eye contact, but then the bartender arrived with their second round and interrupted his line of sight.

One healthy gulp of pink fizziness later and McCoy was no longer thinking about the suspicious-looking stranger or, for that matter, much else. A pleasant lethargy crept over him and the doctor found himself ruminating about the past several days from a less-hostile position. The horrible conference continued to irk him, but the pain had become less acute, more like a banged shin and less like an impacted wisdom tooth. The memory of his bout of cabin fever swam up out of the depths and McCoy found himself wondering if he was going to feel any different when they returned to the ship. The question came out of his mouth before he had a chance to complete the thought. “Scotty,” he said. “Do you ever think about what you're going to do after we finish this tour of duty?”

Scotty, who had been in the middle of a long pull, half-lowered his glass and stared into the middle distance. “Do?” he asked. “What do you mean? Like, take a vacation?”

“Well, sure, maybe,” McCoy replied, suddenly aware that he might be entering metaphorically murky waters. “But I was thinking more along the lines of after
that.
For example, would you consider a hitch at Starfleet Academy as a teacher? Maybe the shipyards on Mars? Or…?”

Scott set his drink down on the table and locked eyes with McCoy. “You're talking about
not
being on the
Enterprise
?” He said this in a tone that McCoy imagined he reserved for young engineers who confused the plus and minus poles on a chemical battery.

“It's an option,” McCoy said, struggling to sound casual.

“One you've been considering?”

“The thought has crossed my mind.”

Scott picked up his glass again and took a long pull. “Interesting,” he said. “Any idea what you might like to do?”

“Not exactly,” McCoy admitted. “Travel, maybe.”

“More than you've traveled in the past five years?”

“
Not
at warp speed. Maybe just on one planet for a while. You ever consider that, Scotty? The number of worlds we've visited where essentially we saw
one
room or, if we were lucky,
one
city. On the really good days, we got to see a cave or a rocky landscape. We got to see the forests but rarely the trees.”

Scott nodded, conceding the point, but then offered, “But we got to see the stars, Dr. McCoy. Some of them stars no human had ever seen before us.”

“And they were wonderful, Scotty, and I'll treasure the memories, but for all their fiery brilliance, the stars can seem very cold.”

Scott smiled appreciatively. “That's lovely, Doctor. Perhaps you should consider taking up poetry.”

“Perhaps I will.”

“Sounds like you've thought about this quite a bit already.”

“Some,” McCoy admitted. “It's been in the back of my mind for a while.”

“You don't think the captain would want you to stay on?”

“You're working on the assumption that Jim Kirk would still be captain of the
Enterprise.
”

The engineer guffawed. “Like they'd be able to drag him out of the center seat.”

McCoy shook his head. “Don't be naïve, Scotty. It's not entirely up to him, you know. If Starfleet wants to promote him, they'll promote him.”

“He'd turn it down,” Scott said flatly.

“Not if the powers that be convince him that leaving would be for the greater good. You know Jim's a sucker for that kind of thing.”

“What greater good?” Scott asked skeptically. “What could possibly be better for the galaxy than having James Kirk as captain of the
Enterprise
?”

“I'm inclined to agree with you, Mr. Scott, but there might be those who think he owes it to the next generation to teach them what he's learned.”

“An entire generation of Jim Kirks flitting around the galaxy?” Scotty scoffed. “Oh, I don't know if that's a very good idea. Consider how many broken hearts that might produce.”

“I don't think they would want Jim to teach
that
particular skill set.”