Star Trek: The Original Series: Seasons of Light and Darkness Page 2

  McCoy grinned, but only for a moment. “Spock, you’ve lost none of your acumen.”

  Spock examined the bottle’s label. Once again, his right eyebrow vaulted skyward. The human predilection for the fermentation process made possible by the terrestrial yeast known as Saccharomyces cerevisiae was dubious enough. But ingesting the metabolic byproducts of Saccharomyces romii—the far hardier yeast-analog from Romulus whose voluminous alcohol output made Romulan ale more intoxicating than many distilled beverages—struck the Vulcan as the height of irresponsibility.

  “Doctor,” Spock said, “you must be aware that this substance is—”

  “—illegal, yeah, yeah,” McCoy interrupted. “Jim made the same observation.”

  “You visited the admiral in this condition?” Spock set the bottle down on a nearby windowsill, handling the glass vessel with all the delicacy one might accord a slumbering but venomous serpent.

  “No,” McCoy said. “My ‘condition’ came on a little later. I dropped by Jim’s apartment to pay my birthday respects.” The doctor nodded toward the bottle on the windowsill. “I brought the Romulan ale with me as a gift.”

  “Indeed. You appear to have imbibed a considerable portion of the admiral’s ‘gift’ yourself.”

  The doctor glowered. “Turned out he wasn’t in the mood for a celebration. I gotta tell you, Spock—I’m worried about him.”

  “Because he evidently lacks your penchant for self-destructive behavior?”

  McCoy’s graying eyebrows gathered into a jagged tangle. “He’s decided to self-destruct in slow motion. Even you must have noticed how . . . somber Jim’s been lately. His saying ‘galloping around the cosmos is a game for the young,’ and that sort of thing.”

  Spock had to concede that the doctor might have a point, his present neurochemical state notwithstanding. The admiral’s fatalistic melancholy couldn’t have been more apparent than it had been earlier in the day, during the immediate aftermath of Lieutenant Saavik’s Kobayashi Maru examination. But the matter hadn’t seemed especially noteworthy. The person in question, after all, was James Tiberius Kirk. This was a man who already had weathered many emotional storms, and yet had always emerged from even the most devastating tempests at least as strong as he’d been before.

  Or so it had always seemed.

  As he had done on several previous occasions, Spock wondered if the admiral’s seeming invulnerability was merely a carefully constructed façade. Despite the doctor’s compromised condition, his concerns couldn’t be dismissed out of hand. In fact, they raised a serious question: Were the admiral ever to find himself truly in need of emotional support, would he actually reach out to anyone to obtain the assistance he required?

  More specifically, would he ask even his closest and most valued friends for their help?

  Spock had to admit that he wasn’t altogether certain of the answer. Have I somehow badly overestimated Jim’s psychological resiliency?

  “Are you concerned that he might do himself harm?” Spock said.

  “As in deliberately? As in actual suicide?” McCoy shook his head. “If I believed that, I’d have him forcibly relieved of duty and placed under psychiatric observation faster than you could say ‘Kolineer.’ ”

  Ignoring the doctor’s grating mispronunciation, Spock said, “Then I fail to see—”

  McCoy interrupted again. “Spock, there are ways a man can kill himself without overdosing or turning a phaser on himself. Sometimes all he has to do is let himself get talked into leaving the bridge of his starship.”

  The Vulcan contemplated the doctor’s words. Though he had always harbored his own private reservations concerning James Kirk’s decision to accept promotion—and thereby to leave starship command behind—Spock had never shared those misgivings with the admiral. It was simply not his prerogative to question the judgment of the man to whose authority he’d deferred for so many years.

  Nor was it McCoy’s.

  “Perhaps you are in error, Doctor,” Spock said. “I find it curious that you’ve never before seen fit to bring this matter to my attention.”

  McCoy flung his hands out to his sides, his fingers splayed. “Before today it’d never seemed necessary. You remember all the ups and downs of Jim’s life just as well as I do. But tonight he was . . . different. Resigned. Fatalistic.”

  “I have no doubt that you perceived those emotions,” Spock said. “But that might be explained by the pernicious effects of your excessive alcohol consumption.”

  McCoy rose unsteadily to his feet. “You know what’s really pernicious? A man’s shortsighted view of his own duties and obligations, that’s what.”

  “Doctor, do you really believe you understand how the admiral perceives his own sense of duty?”

  “I do,” McCoy said. He slowly moved toward the front windows and gazed out at the fog-swaddled Starfleet Headquarters complex. He picked up the bottle of Romulan ale that Spock had placed on the sill. “Because I’ve already been where Jim is right now. I’ve stared right into the very same abyss.”

  After reclaiming his earlier position on the couch, McCoy paused just long enough to take another swig from the bottle. “And you know what, Spock? That experience damned near destroyed me. . . .”

  One

  STARFLEET MEDICAL

  Stardate 605.2 (April 20, 2254)

  Ignoring the gulls that wheeled across the office’s panoramic view of the San Francisco Bay, Leonard McCoy sat spellbound by the image the desktop viewer displayed. Presenting itself as a narrow, sun-dappled crescent, the blue planet rotated serenely before him, silently beckoning.

  McCoy tried to put the planet’s tranquil beauty out of his mind, at least for the moment, forcing himself to concentrate on the immediate business at hand. Shifting in his seat, he focused on the silver-haired, blue-uniformed officer who faced him from behind the black oblong desk that dominated the small but tidy office. McCoy had long admired Doctor Rigby Wieland, whose groundbreaking research in the field of xenoimmunology had been required reading during his med-school years. Though his student days were now more than five years in the past, McCoy could scarcely believe that the Great Man was actually considering him for a slot as one of the physicians on his Alpha Aurigae field medical team.

  Squinting at the data flimsy he was studying, Wieland leaned forward across the desktop and met McCoy’s gaze squarely. “May I be candid with you, Doctor?” he said.

  “Of course, sir,” McCoy said, suppressing an urge to tug at his uniform’s black collar. This assignment was far too important to allow his own nervousness to trip him up.

  Wieland studied the younger man. “For starters, your Starfleet service record is a pretty quick read.”

  While considering his response, McCoy resumed staring at the planet on the screen. Most of the alien world’s dayside was turned away, toward the two giant yellow stars it circled. The stygian darkness of the planet’s nightward limb emphasized two distant, ruddy pinpoints—according to the text call-outs on the screen, they constituted Alpha Aurigae’s secondary binary pair, twin red dwarf stars that circled the system’s two far more luminous primaries at a distance of about six light-weeks.

  But it was the azure planet in the screen’s center that held McCoy transfixed.

  “Permission to speak freely, sir?” McCoy said.

  “Granted.”

  “I’ve been in Starfleet a little over a year, sir,” McCoy said, gambling on Wieland’s reputation for good-natured quarrels. “I’ll bet your record didn’t look very different from mine when you were still a junior-grade lieutenant.”

  Wieland chuckled gently as he continued to examine the flimsy. “Truth is, Doctor, your record beats mine. I didn’t earn my first Gold Caduceus until I was nearly three years older than you are now. Well done.”

  “Thank you, sir.” McCoy experienced an almost palpable sense of relief. He felt a broad smile spread across his face, defeating his best efforts to maintain a neutral demeanor.

&nb
sp; “Don’t pop any champagne corks just yet. I still have a few questions for you,” Wieland said.

  His smile abruptly collapsing, McCoy nodded. “Of course.”

  “You’ve been a practicing physician for five years longer than you’ve been in Starfleet,” Wieland said. “I joined the service right out of med school. Why the wait?”

  Though he’d hoped the question wouldn’t come up, McCoy had an answer prepared. “Until about a year ago, I was preoccupied with my family situation.”

  Wieland looked down at McCoy’s hands, and the younger man suddenly realized he’d been fidgeting with his wedding ring unconsciously. A veteran poker player would call it a “tell.” He wondered how long he’d been doing it.

  “Seems to me you’re still preoccupied,” Wieland said, nodding at McCoy’s left hand before turning his attention back to the flimsy. “What’s her name?”

  “Jocelyn.”

  “The two of you married six years ago.”

  “Yes, sir. We separated last year, right before I joined Starfleet,” McCoy said. “Our daughter, Joanna, just turned five.”

  She’s with her mother. Light-years away. The thought was tinged with ache and longing.

  Though his relationship with Nancy Bierce, an attractive young med-tech, had started after his separation from Jocelyn, the burgeoning romance still felt like a betrayal on his part. McCoy knew he had to cut his ties with Nancy soon, while he still had the strength to do it.

  Leaving Earth behind entirely seemed like the best way to make a clean break.

  “So you haven’t entirely given up hope for a reconciliation?” Wieland said, gesturing at McCoy’s ring-hand.

  “Yes, sir,” McCoy said. “After Jocelyn’s done taking the time she needs to work a few things out. But in the meantime . . .” He trailed off and nodded toward the planet on the screen.

  “My Alpha Aurigae team isn’t the French Foreign Legion, Doctor,” Wieland remarked.

  McCoy blinked in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not taking on anybody whose main reason for going is to forget.”

  McCoy allowed Doctor Wieland’s implication to sink in. The older man’s words ignited an anger deep within him.

  “Doctor Wieland,” he replied, pointing at the planet on the screen. “Most people in the Federation live in a kind of paradise, medically speaking. Now you’ve shown me people who’ve never had access to modern medicine. My only reason for going is to help them. Because that’s what doctors do.”

  “And your family situation has nothing to do with it? Not even a little bit?”

  McCoy mulled the question over. He couldn’t deny that his regular Starfleet duties were rapidly becoming devoid of meaning. He couldn’t deny that his separation from his family had helped motivate him to seek a position on Doctor Wieland’s team. He couldn’t deny that he was in pain.

  “The last thing I want to do is forget about Joanna or Jocelyn,” McCoy said at last. “I can’t do anything about their absence. But I can do what I was trained to do, wherever my skills are needed the most.”

  “Fine. The conditions there will be primitive,” Wieland said. He set aside the flimsy as he got to his feet. “And we could be there for quite a while. Starfleet is stretched pretty thin out where we’re headed. There’s no guarantee that the Yegorov won’t be called away to deal with some emergency or other.”

  “That doesn’t bother me,” McCoy said, rising from his chair.

  Wieland extended his right hand; however, his tone remained tentative. “You realize our crew rotations could be several months apart.”

  McCoy grasped the older man’s hand tightly. “So when do we leave?”

  “Day after tomorrow,” Wieland said with a broad smile. “We beam up to the Yegorov at oh-six-hundred. Welcome to the team, Doctor.”

  “Thank you,” McCoy said, hoping he didn’t look as relieved as he felt. He honestly wasn’t sure what he would have done had Wieland rejected him.

  Because, he thought, I’ve got no place else to go right now.

  Two

  ALPHA AURIGAE IV

  (CAPELLA IV)

  Stardate 683.5 (July 11, 2254)

  McCoy stood uneasily on the Yegorov’s transporter stage, listening to the whine it made as the technician behind the console powered it up. The rising din, which reminded the young doctor of a pipe organ playing a duet with a phalanx of wind chimes, reached its unnerving crescendo, permeating his bones right down to the marrow even as it faded away. The transporter’s accompanying sparkle-laden tingle vanished an instant later, drowned out by the low moan of a gentle but very noticeable wind. McCoy realized that the pad beneath his boots had dissolved into crunching gravel, the transporter room’s walls and ceiling having given way to the sides of a narrow, rough-hewn canyon. A pair of yellow suns now stared down from almost directly overhead.

  McCoy doubted he’d ever get used to making such abrupt transitions.

  He watched in silence as the other members of the landing party—Doctor Wieland, Science Officer Plait, Girard from the Yegorov’s geology department, and Aylesworth and Shellenbarger from security—checked their equipment. Silently, McCoy noted that Girard seemed to be the only other person present who might have been visibly rattled by the beam-down. Since McCoy was already reasonably certain that his body had emerged intact from the transport process, he made sure the same was true of his equipment: a pair of fully loaded standard-issue medikits, one on each hip; the medical tricorder strapped across his shoulder; the communicator mounted on his belt; and the inconspicuous, palm-sized laser weapon right beside it.

  “The Yegorov just signaled its departure from orbit,” Lieutenant Aaron Shellenbarger said as he clicked his communicator’s antenna grid closed. “It’s official, folks: We’re on our own for now.”

  Now and for the next four months, McCoy thought with no small amount of apprehension. He silently wished the medical vessel could have remained in orbit at least until the landing party had made contact with the Capellan natives, but the Andronesian encephalitis outbreak at the New France colony couldn’t wait. The Yegorov was the only vessel capable of dealing with the disease in time.

  McCoy looked toward Doctor Wieland, who approached the higher-ranking of the two security officers. “Which way to the supply caches, Garrett?”

  After glancing down at his tricorder, Lieutenant Commander Aylesworth pointed in the sunward direction, deeper into the canyon’s gradually lengthening shadows. “I’m picking up the beacon, about one and a half klicks to the northwest. I made sure the matériel we beamed down ahead of us was off the beaten path, away from the main hunting trails.”

  Wieland nodded. “Good. We don’t want the locals stumbling across our supplies.”

  McCoy hadn’t been in Starfleet for as long as anyone else in the landing party, but he understood how valuable a secure storage cache was to any long-duration field assignment. The prefabricated shelters would be essential, at least at first. And until the planet’s biome was better understood, it was only prudent to rely on the food from the storage cache in preference to the native fare.

  The group fell in behind Aylesworth, who had taken point on the long hike toward the supply cache.

  McCoy moved to Wieland’s side. “Once we’re finished checking out the shelters and rations, are we going to stay put overnight?” he asked. “Or do we keep going until we reach that nomad encampment we spotted from orbit?”

  “Depends on how quickly we move,” Wieland said. He gestured toward the twin suns, which looked increasingly bloated and orange as they continued their slow horizonward drift. “The camp is about another four kilometers from the supply cache, so making contact might have to wait until morning. Encountering these people in the dark is not a good idea.”

  “Too bad we couldn’t have just beamed down closer to the camp,” said Lieutenant Mohammed Girard. He wiped his forehead with a sleeve, evidently feeling the intensity of the twin suns. “The sooner we make nice
with the locals, the sooner we can see about gaining access to this planet’s topaline.”

  Topaline was indispensable to the operation of the artificial life-support systems used on colony worlds all across the Federation. The urgent need for the mineral no doubt accounted for Starfleet’s rather loose application of the Prime Directive vis-à-vis this planet’s prewarp civilization.

  “I still don’t understand why we need a treaty to get our hands on the topaline,” Aylesworth said as the team continued advancing through the canyon.

  “Are you suggesting we take it by force?” Girard said.

  “Not at all. I’m no mineralogy expert, but it seems to me a mining crew should be able to identify a vein of topaline from orbit and then quietly use a transporter beam to whisk away as much of the stuff as they like.”

  Girard chuckled. “There’s more than mineralogy at play here, Garrett.” Turning toward the science officer, he said, “Want to bring him up to speed, Phil?”

  “Happy to.” Lieutenant Plait used one hand to shade his bald head as he gestured toward the twin suns with the other. “One of those stars has a pretty fierce X-ray output. If it weren’t for the intensity of this planet’s magnetic field, this entire local biosphere would have to go subterranean, or maybe even retreat to the ocean floor, or adapt to living inside a geothermal vent.”

  Aylesworth blinked. “So?”

  “So it’s the interactions between those X-rays and the planetary magnetic field that keep us from making reliable subsurface mineral maps from orbit.”

  McCoy also knew that the Federation didn’t warp in and snatch whatever it wanted, but he kept it to himself.

  Wieland made noises of agreement. “According to the first survey teams, those incoming X-rays can create some pretty spectacular auroras, even during the daylight hours—”

  Aylesworth stopped abruptly. The rest of the landing party followed suit.

  “What’s wrong?” Wieland asked.