“Hardly shows,” he said, rather pleased. “I’ll want to check it every day or so ... His voice trailed off as Spock raised his eyebrow again.
“Right,” McCoy said. “You won’t be here. I won’t be here. I hope.”
Spock rose. “I must find out about the warp engines—”
“You’re asleep, remember? Spock, this is an order. You lie down, right here, and stay here till I get back. I’ll find out about the warp drive and I’ll get you some clean clothes. Do me a favor and tell the computer to let me into your cabin so I don’t have to figure out the override procedure for the lock.”
“The computer does not lock my cabin, Dr. McCoy.”
“What?”
“My cabin is not locked. Vulcans do not use locks.”
“You’re not on Vulcan.”
“I am aware of that. But I see no reason to behave differently in the matter of locks, any more than I see any reason to change my behavior in other respects.”
McCoy looked at him incredulously. “Most everybody on the Enterprise is fairly honest, but it seems to me you’re pushing your luck.”
“Luck is not involved. I have observed that human beings behave as they are expected to.”
“Most of us, maybe, but—”
“Doctor, do we have time for a philosophical discussion?”
“No, probably not.” McCoy gave up the argument reluctantly, intending to begin it again at the first opportunity—then reminding himself that if all went well it never would have occurred to start with. “All right, never mind. You rest for a few minutes, hear? I’ll be right back.”
After McCoy left sick bay, Spock lay down on the bunk in the cubicle. He still had to be careful not to sleep, but he needed the physical rest desperately. He would not admit pain. But he could ignore it only so long; it was a physiological sign of danger.
As he rested his body and tried to keep his mind alert, he thought about coincidences, the coincidences that had begun to show their causes. The Enterprise had not been called to Aleph Prime at random; Dr. Mordreaux had devised a way to order it to the station. There was some strong significant relation between the professor’s work, and the entropy effect Spock had discovered as a by-product of his observations of the singularity.
A flash of insight took him, like an electric shock, and he saw how his new factor applied to Dr. Mordreaux’s work. It was a direct result of travel through the fourth dimension, not a by-product at all. The singularity that had been created was merely the spectacular physical manifestation of the one-way trip Dr. Mordreaux’s friends had taken through time. Spock could not see why he had not understood it before. Perhaps he had been too willing to accept the human view of coincidence; or perhaps the connection was too simple to be easy to see. The theoretical connection between naked singularities and the possibility of time-travel, and, conversely, time-travel and the creation of singularities, was centuries old. Discovery of that interrelation appeared to precede the discovery of the principles behind interstellar travel, in virtually all technological societies.
But the entropy effect was something new, and it was the far more disastrous consequence of temporal displacement.
Dr. Mordreaux’s friends must be returned to their own time, to repair the rip through the continuum that their journey had caused.
Spock had no way to estimate how Dr. Mordreaux would take this new information, or even whether he would believe it. He might refuse to accept it, and see it as nothing more than another attempt by Spock to try to make him betray his friends.
The Vulcan began to realize just how high were the stakes against which he had placed his honor.
McCoy stopped just inside the engine room. The air was full of the smell of ozone, singed insulation, and melted semiconductors. Scott sat in his office, bent over his computer console: if things were so bad he could not set to work fixing them immediately practically by instinct as far as McCoy had ever been able to see—then things were bad indeed.
“Hello, Scotty,” McCoy said. “What a—”
He cut off his flippant remark as Scott went rigid in his chair. McCoy knew the chief engineer was enraged even before he turned around, which he did, slowly, still seated in the swivel chair, pushing with his left hand, which was clamped so tight around the edge of the console that his whole forearm trembled.
“Scotty,” McCoy said gently, “what’s wrong?”
“Nae a thing.”
“Come on. Is it this blasted command business? I don’t want it—I’m sure Mr. Spock didn’t even think about how you’d feel, he just chose the arrangement he thought would be most efficient.”
“There’s nae a thing wrong,” Scott said again. “Nae a thing at all. What do ye want? I canna take time to chat.”
All right, you stubborn Scot, McCoy thought, if you want to play at being official, I’ve got years more experience at this game than you do.
“I can see that, Mr. Scott,” McCoy said. “I certainly don’t want to waste your valuable time. Just give me an update on the engines, impulse and warp.”
Scott looked taken aback by McCoy’s response, as if he had been bluffing somehow, and never expected McCoy either to call him on it or take the offensive. McCoy had the feeling, as well, that even so he had not acted as Scott hoped he would, but he was at a complete loss about what Scott did want just now, and as Scott could not take the time to chat, McCoy could not take the time to play armchair psychiatrist, or even have another try at patching up the engineer’s ego.
“The impulse engines are just barely functioning,” Scott said. “If my people work round the clock we’ll be able to decelerate by the time we reach turn-around for Rehab Seven. But the engine room crew ha’ already been working round the clock for days, and they’re exhausted.”
“Do you know what caused the blackout?” McCoy asked, because he thought that was the question he would be expected to ask.
“A power drain. ’Tis as if someone fed the current into the transporter and beamed tremendous amounts of electrical energy out into space.”
“Well, it couldn’t be that,” McCoy said quickly, hoping to divert Scott from information the engineer would be better off not knowing. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Nae, it dinna make sense.”
“What about the warp engines?” McCoy asked quickly, before the other subject could go any farther.
“Canna decelerate in normal space with the warp engines.”
“That isn’t what I asked. If I go up to the bridge and ask for warp factor four toward—toward Arcturus, would I get it?”
Scott opened his mouth, but no words came. Finally he managed a halfhearted murmur. “Aye,” he said. “Aye, ye would.”
“Thank you, Mr. Scott. That’s all I need to know.”
McCoy realized that Spock would be more than a little conspicuous on Aleph Prime in a Starfleet uniform with Enterprise insignia: he would arrive at the station before the ship was even ordered there. It would be inconvenient at best if Spock were taken into custody and charged with being absent without official leave.
McCoy felt uncomfortable, rooting around in Spock’s wardrobe, and the high temperature in Spock’s cabin made him perspire. But he took a moment to look for a garment of less military cut. Behind the uniform shirts, and the formal jacket, he found several tunics of a more casual style.
He returned to sick bay carrying the fresh shirt bundled up under one arm, hoping no one would ask him about it.
“Spock?”
Spock sat up smoothly in the dimness of the cubicle, wide awake and alert, looking not quite so haggard as when McCoy kept him from falling off the transporter platform. McCoy glanced at Spock’s temple: the skin synthetic was holding well.
“Here’s a fetching outfit for you,” McCoy said, handing him the dark brown tunic. “Less noticeable than starship-officer blue.”
Spock took the shirt, with a quizzical expression, but he did not object to McCoy’s choice.
“
Are the warp engines in operating condition?”
“Mr. Scott says they are.”
The clean shirt was made of some silken material, gathered at the cuffs, with a restrained design of gold at wrists and collar. Spock put it on.
“Haven’t seen you wear that before,” McCoy said.
“Wearing it on the Enterprise would not be appropriate.”
“Very becoming. Matches your eyes.”
Spock picked up the time-changer and got to his feet.
“I would not want to frustrate your curiosity, Doctor. My mother gave me the tunic.” He walked past McCoy out of sick bay.
After a moment McCoy followed.
“It is not necessary for you to accompany me, Dr. McCoy,” Spock said when the doctor caught up to him. The science officer began setting the changer’s controls without checking his stride.
“How long will you be gone this time?”
Spock stopped. “I cannot say,” he said slowly. “I had not—It is impossible to estimate.”
“Paging Dr. McCoy,” the ship’s computer said. “Vessel approaching. Dr. McCoy to the bridge, please.”
“Oh, not now,” McCoy said.
“Best that you reply, Doctor. There will be another blackout of the ship’s power, more serious than the last, and your presence will be required elsewhere. I do not need ... a going-away party.”
“All right,” McCoy said, realizing that his wish to accompany Spock to the transporter had no real logical reason. “But if I have to bring you back, how long should I wait this time?”
“At least twelve hours. But no longer than fourteen, or the time-changer will not provide enough power to return me through the distance the ship will have traveled.”
“Good lord—you mean you’ll materialize somewhere out in deep space?”
“Possibly. It is more likely, however, that the return beam would be spread out over a considerable volume of intervening space and time—”
“Never mind,” McCoy said quickly. “No longer than fourteen hours.”
“Dr. McCoy to the bridge,” the computer said again. “Dr. McCoy, please reply.”
“Is it my imagination, or do I detect a certain hysterical tone?”
“The integrity of the computer’s data-base has been severely compromised,” Spock said. “And unfortunately I have had no opportunity to repair the damage done by the sudden power failure.”
“Sluffing off on your duties, eh?” McCoy said, and then, before Spock could reply to him seriously, “I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry, I think I’m getting a little hysterical myself.”
“Report to the bridge, Doctor.” The Vulcan turned on his heel and walked away.
“Unidentified vessel approaching,” the computer said. “Phasers on ready.”
“Oh, good grief,” McCoy said, and hurried toward the lift.
Before he reached the transporter, Spock paused to think for a moment. He could go back to Aleph Prime and prevent the Enterprise’s being diverted; or he could speak to Dr. Mordreaux once more and show him the proof that might persuade him to release Spock from his promise. That was without doubt the most logical action.
By the time Dr. McCoy cancelled the automatic aiming of the phasers, the unknown craft that had alerted the sensors had approached close enough to be seen on the viewscreen unmagnified. It was small and fast, a moving silver speck against the starfield.
“Who is it? Where is it from?” McCoy wondered if Braithewaite had managed to send a message to Aleph Prime to call in reinforcements for his troublemaking.
Both Chekov and Uhura were off duty and McCoy could not remember the names of the younger ensigns who sat in their places.
“We’re receiving a transmission, Dr. McCoy,” the second shift communications officer said.
“Put it on the screen.”
Hunter flickered into being before him. At the edge of the image, McCoy could see Mr. Sulu, silent and grim, a glazed expression of grief in his eyes. Hunter did not look much better. McCoy knew exactly how she and Sulu must feel: the way he had felt the night Jim died. He had a sudden impulse to say to them, to everyone, It’s going to be all right, we’re going to make it all right again. Somehow.
But nothing had happened, nothing had changed. The power had not even gone out again. Where was Spock?
Perhaps nothing ever would change. Perhaps this time track would continue unaltered, with Jim Kirk and Mandala Flynn dead, and if Spock succeeded in doing anything it would be no more than beginning some alternate version of reality. McCoy’s eyes stung with sudden tears, with a suspicion of hopelessness brought on by uncertainty.
“Captain Hunter,” he said sadly. “Hello, Mr. Sulu.”
“Hello, Dr. McCoy,” Hunter said. Mr. Sulu nodded, as if he could not trust himself to speak.
“I’m sorry to have to see you again under such circumstances.”
“It isn’t what I’d hoped for. Permission to beam aboard?”
“Of course,” McCoy said—then realized his mistake. Aside from Spock’s not having left yet, McCoy had no idea whether the transporter was still suited for normal use.
“Captain,” he said quickly, “on second thought you’d better dock with the Enterprise. We just had a massive power failure, and I’d rather not use the transporter till we get things sorted out.”
“As you prefer,” Hunter said.
Hunter rotated her stocky little courier, bringing it in back-to-back with the Enterprise, to join the docking ports smoothly. McCoy was waiting for her when she climbed from her ship into the larger craft’s gravity field. She jumped to the deck.
Sulu followed, more slowly.
“Captain,” McCoy said. “Mr. Sulu.”
“Oh, gods, Doctor,” Hunter said, “I can’t stand that military crap right now. Can we be a little more informal? Hunter. Do people call you Leonard?”
“Sometimes. That’s fine.”
“Thank you. What happened?”
McCoy sighed. “That will take some explaining, Hunter. Let’s go in and sit down to talk.”
“All right.”
Neither noticed when Sulu left them, long before they reached the officers’ lounge.
Sulu did not think he could stand to listen to explanations. All he knew, all he needed to know, was that Mandala was dead. He stopped at the door of the stasis room, gathering up enough nerve to go inside.
Finally he stepped close enough for the door to sense him, and it opened.
Inside, two of the stasis units glowed softly, their energy fields stabilizing the bodies within them. They were marked, coldly, officially, KIRK, JAMES T., CAPTAIN, and FLYNN, MANDALA, LIEUTENANT COMMANDER. Sulu paid his respects to his former captain silently, brushing his fingertips across the name. Finally, with great reluctance, he opened the unit where Mandala’s body lay.
A shroud of blue light glowed around her.
Spiderweb gave no easy death, and no easy memories to the people left behind. Sulu could see the struggle she had gone through, even in her blank-eyed face. She had fought: to the end of her life she had never given up.
Her hair had come down; it curled in a tangled mass around her face and shoulders.
Sulu pushed his hand through the protective energy field to touch her cheek, to brush back a lock of her hair. Her ruby ring, on his finger, glowed black through the blue light, and its gold highlights flashed.
He wished he could close her eyes. He knew he could not.
Sinking to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest, with his arms wrapped around them, Sulu hid his face.
A long time later, immersed in dreams and memories, he felt a touch on his shoulder. Startled, he looked up.
Barry al Auriga crouched down beside him, gazing at him in silence.
“I should have been there,” Sulu said. “On the bridge.”
“To die with her? She would not want that.”
“What do you know about it?” The vehemence of his reaction startled him, and he tried to turn away.
Barry’s hand tightened on his shoulder.
“I grieve, too,” he said.
Sulu faced him again.
“It is not proper to fall in love with the commander of one’s section,” Barry said. “And I could see that you ... I could see she wanted you. I could say nothing. But I grieve with you.”
Sulu grasped Barry al Auriga’s forearm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know ...”
al Auriga shook his head. “Nor did she. It does not matter now.” He got to his feet, drawing Sulu up with him. “Come away. This is not the place to remember her.”
Sulu pushed the stasis unit back into place. It was the one last thing too much for him. He stood with his back to al Auriga, both hands pressed hard against the wall, trying to control his silent tears.
“Come away,” Barry said again. He put his arm around Sulu, like a brother: he was crying, too.
Chapter 7
Hunter listened, her face a mask. McCoy could not tell what she thought or how much she believed of the tale he was telling her, she was so unresponsive. But he was all too aware of the frazzled edges of his story, the loose ends and dissembling. He finished, and took a long gulp of his drink.
Hunter toyed with her feather-tipped black braid.
“All right, Leonard,” she said. “Now, please, the truth.”
He blinked in surprise. He could not think what to say; her disbelief was too direct.
“You’re a very lousy liar.”
Still he could not reply.
Hunter leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and spoke with angry sincerity.
“I could pilot this ship through the holes in that story. Mysterious accomplices and a disappearing gun and a Changeling with food poisoning? Do you expect me to believe Mandala Flynn would have put up with a second in command who can’t find a single bit of useful information in twenty-four hours? She was far too ambitious to pick an incompetent second—that would make her look like a fool. I assume you’ve been giving al Auriga the same run-around you’ve given me. But there’s a difference, now: you may be his superior, but you aren’t mine. Where’s Mr. Spock? Where’s Ian Braithewaite, for that matter?”
STAR TREK: TOS #2 - The Entropy Effect Page 19