“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.
Where Everybody
Knows Your Name
Jeffrey Lang
Jeffrey Lang
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. ”
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.
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