Crucible: McCoy
Page 1
A year, McCoy thought. How can I
possibly have been here for that long?
He couldn’t help recalling Edith Keeler’s words to him tonight: Perhaps your friends aren’t coming. To this point, although he had thought about it, he had been unable to truly countenance such a prospect. Now, he had no choice but to take into account that he had been trapped in the past for a whole year.
A year in my life, he thought, but not necessarily a year in Jim’s and Spock’s lives. Though it bedeviled him to contemplate the realities and possibilities of time travel, it seemed plausible that he could have one day journeyed from 2267 to 1930, and then one week later in 2267, Jim and Spock could arrive in 1931 to bring him back home. Yet, it also felt unlikely, more like rationalization than reasoning, like a lie he told himself to keep from going mad. For even as he waited to return home, even as he peppered newspapers around the globe with signposts pointing to his location in time and space, even as he held on tightly to his certainty of his eventual rescue, the notion of being trapped here for the rest of his days haunted him.
It took more than an hour for McCoy to fall asleep. When at last he did, he slept fitfully, beset by the same foggy, partially glimpsed images that so often had invaded his slumber ever since his arrival here. Tonight, other faces joined his nightmares, faces he had no trouble distinguishing. All of them belonged to his daughter: as a baby, as a girl, as a young woman.
In the morning, exhausted and on edge, McCoy began his second year living in Earth’s past.
Also by David R. George III
Novels
The 34th Rule (with Armin Shimerman)
Twilight (Mission: Gamma, Book One)
Serpents Among the Ruins (The Lost Era, 2311)
Olympus Descending ( in Worlds of Deep Space Nine,Volume III)
The Fire and the Rose (Crucible: Spock)
[Coming soon]
The Star to Every Wandering (Crucible: Kirk)
[Coming soon]
Novellas
Iron and Sacrifice ( in Tales from the Captain’s Table)
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To Anita Carr Smith,
a shining light in my life,
whose remarkable spirit
and boundless heart
always lift up those around her
Foreword
Provenance of Crucible
So while sitting in the lobby of a hotel in Hollywood, working with me on another of my manuscripts, my intrepid editor—the talented Marco Palmieri—says, “You should think about writing an Original Series book. Maybe a trilogy.” My outward reaction is low key, but I’m pleased that my writing has warranted his consideration for me to pen other novels. After our meeting, though, I don’t think much about it because I need to put the current manuscript to bed, and because my next two projects are already lined up.
But then at some point, Marco calls me and revisits the subject. Not only would this be a TOS book, and not only a trilogy, but it would be published to coincide with the fortieth anniversary of the show. Wow. Now this was something. With Star Trek in syndication for more than three decades, I’d grown up watching the episodes over and over again, and I’d seen all of the films as well—not to mention following The Next Generation, Deep Space Nine, Voyager, and Enterprise. I loved Star Trek’s heroes, its themes, and more than anything its messages of tolerance and inclusion. This would be great. I signed on to do it, then sat down at my desk with a yellow pad and my silver pen and—
Nothing.
I quickly realized my dilemma. What, I asked myself, had not already been said about these characters? In addition to two pilots, three seasons of episodes, an animated series, and seven films, hundreds of novels and short stories had also been published. Not only that, but some unfilmed, unpublished details—such as Dr. McCoy’s backstory of a daughter from a failed marriage—had been generally accepted in fan circles for years. How could I find a new story to tell, and how could I do so without gainsaying previously published work, which collectively is self-contradictory?
Marco and I discussed my concerns and agreed that the best strategy would be to write these tales based solely on the original television episodes and the subsequent films. In that way, I wouldn’t have to worry about conflicting aspects of the written fiction, nor would I have to read or reread all of that material. It would also provide a clean entry point for fans who hadn’t previously read Trek novels to hop on board.
So I once more sat down to figure out what to write. After some consideration, I chose to focus each of the three books on one of the main characters of Kirk, Spock, and McCoy. While I have great affection for the secondary characters of Scotty, Sulu, Uhura, and Chekov (and others such as Chapel, Rand, Kyle, Leslie, and M’Benga, to name a few), the series itself focused primarily on the “big three,” and so my approach seemed apt. I’d include all of the characters in each story, but essentially write a Kirk novel, a Spock novel, and a McCoy novel.
But the question still remained: What do we not know about these people? I watched every episode and every film again, and I came to notice a certain aspect of Leonard McCoy’s personal history. I didn’t think it had necessarily been an intention of the show’s and films’ writers, but a consequence of their combined work. And then I also discovered a part of McCoy’s life that, to my knowledge, had never been explored, and I saw a way to tie it together not only with my first observation, but also with what is widely regarded as one of, if not the, finest episodes of Star Trek in any of its incarnations. This would also allow me to deeply ground the trilogy in the Original Series itself, something I thought appropriate.
As I beat out the story for the McCoy novel, I noted how the events of that one great episode could have affected both Kirk and Spock as well. In fact, I could see how this one set of circumstances, which had tested each of them in different ways, could have had a significant impact on all of them. With the trilogy, I could chronicle how this single incident, this crucible, had informed the rest of their lives like no other.
And then, finally, with the approval of Marco and CBS Consumer Products’ Paula Block, I sat down to write.
Dark house, by which once more I stand
Here in the long unlovely street,
Doors, where my heart was used to beat
So quickly, waiting for a hand,
A hand that can be clasp’d no more—
Behold me, for I cannot sleep,
And like a guilty thing
I creep
At earliest morning to the door.
He is not here; but far away
The noise of life begins again,
And ghastly thro’ the drizzling rain
On the bald street breaks the blank day.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson,
In Memoriam A.H.H., VII
Natira: You have lived a lonely life?
McCoy: Yes. Very lonely.
—“For the World Is Hollow and
I Have Touched the Sky”
Overture
Crucible
In an instant, he saw how she would die.
As soon as Leonard McCoy pulled open one of the double doors at the front of the mission and stepped out into the cool, damp night, his gaze fell upon the figure of Edith Keeler approaching from across the street. A long dark cloak wrapped her slender frame, and a pale blue cloche crowned her short brunette locks. Street lamps painted the scene with a dim glow, their light reflected here and there in the puddles earlier left behind by an evening rain. McCoy smiled at Keeler, but although her gait carried her directly toward him, she seemed to take no notice of his presence. Her static features betrayed a person lost in her own thoughts.
Movement and a rumble off to the left caught McCoy’s attention. He saw a large, squarish ground vehicle barreling down the wet macadam. McCoy jerked his head back toward Keeler and spied the portrait of inner focus still drawn on her face. She clearly didn’t see the advancing vehicle, didn’t hear the throaty plaint of its engine. In just seconds, she would march into its path.
In that moment, a surge of adrenaline overcame McCoy’s grogginess, and his surroundings suddenly became real to him. What he had in his cordrazine-induced madness believed some sort of deception or illusion, what he had later attributed to dementia or hallucination brought on by his accidental overdose, he all at once understood to be none of those things. Somehow, as he watched Edith Keeler walking into jeopardy, all of the explanations and rationalizations for his unusual circumstances dissolved like dreams upon waking.
As McCoy started to move, he called to her—“Miss Keeler!”—but even that did not penetrate her concentration. He took one step, then another, but his reactions seemed sluggish, his torpor doubtless a result of the powerful chemical still not entirely purged from his body. Even as he jumped the curb and into the street, his legs felt as though they were pushing through molasses. He knew that he would not reach her in time.
And still he moved.
Three more running strides, and McCoy himself raced into harm’s way. He heard the vehicle as it bore down on him, the mechanical growl of its engine now thunderous in his ears. Just before he lunged forward, the sound of brakes keened through the metropolitan night, and he saw Keeler’s expression change, the woman at last startled out of her reverie.
McCoy left his feet, his arms outstretched, attempting to reach Keeler even as the vehicle skidded forward, its wheels scraping noisily along the rain-dampened pavement. He struck Keeler solidly at her waist. His momentum stopped her in mid-stride, and she tumbled backward, her arms flailing as she fell. A yelp emerged from her lips as she crashed down to the middle of the street.
Landing atop her legs, McCoy braced himself for the impact to come, unsure if he’d thrown Keeler and himself completely clear of danger. When after a moment nothing happened, he realized that he no longer heard brakes whining or locked wheels grating along the road surface. Instead, the patter of footfalls rose around him, and he risked a glance over his shoulder. The left front tire of the vehicle, McCoy saw, had come to a stop less than half a meter from his shins. He shuddered once, hard, a reaction driven by the stark reality of the peril he’d only just narrowly escaped.
Gathering himself, McCoy pushed away from Keeler and up onto his knees. He looked at her, and she regarded him in obvious shock, her eyes wide, her mouth agape. Though shaken, she appeared more or less unharmed. Around them, people scampered over from different directions. Several crouched down beside Keeler, while one man clad in a dark gray overcoat and a light brown fedora bent over McCoy.
“You okay, Mister?” the man asked, raising his voice to be heard over the snarl of the ground vehicle’s engine. His concern seemed genuine.
“Yeah,” McCoy managed to say between deep inhalations of breath. He adjusted the position of his body, moved his arms and legs, examined his hands, attempting to take stock of his physical condition. He felt pains in his knees and elbows, and a patchwork of bloody abrasions covered his palms, but he seemed otherwise uninjured. “A little banged up,” he admitted, “but I’m all right.”
Behind the man leaning over McCoy, the vehicle quieted, and its near door swung open. Hopping down onto the street, the driver appeared ashen, his wide eyes a mirror of Keeler’s own. “She walked right out in front of my truck,” he said in a rush. He addressed McCoy, but raised an arm and pointed to where Keeler still sat sprawled on the ground. “Soon as I saw her walkin’ across the street and saw she wasn’t gonna stop, I hit the brakes.” The driver looked to the man in the gray coat as though pleading for corroboration. “There wasn’t nothin’ else I could’ve done. I was just—”
“It’s all right,” McCoy said, his words coming more easily as he regained his breath. He pushed up from the street and rose, the man in the gray overcoat reaching a hand out to help. When McCoy had stood up fully, he fixed the driver of the truck with his gaze. “It wasn’t your fault,” he told him. “And anyway, we’re fine.” The driver stared back at McCoy, evidently trying to gauge the veracity of his statements. Finally, the driver exhaled loudly, and his body seemed to uncoil by degrees, like tension gradually being released from a spring.
McCoy turned toward Keeler just as she began climbing to her feet. A man to either side of her reached down and clasped one of her arms, steadying her as she clambered up from the street. All around, other bystanders pressed in, many chattering about what had just happened and offering their observations and concerns. Keeler still looked staggered, appearing unable to focus on anything. McCoy trod over to her. Her hat had fallen from her head, leaving her hair tousled, with several errant strands fluttering down across her forehead. Her high-collared, navy blue cloak had fallen askew, uncovering her right arm and revealing that the sleeve of her white blouse had been torn open in several places. Where her pale flesh showed through the tattered garment, McCoy saw numerous scrapes and lacerations.
“Are you all right, Miss Keeler?” he asked. She slowly raised her head to look up at him—he stood nearly a dozen centimeters taller than she did—but it took a few seconds before her eyes found his. When they did, she nodded slowly, but said nothing. Around them, the small crowd grew quiet, perhaps waiting for her to speak.
McCoy bent and retrieved Keeler’s hat before swinging himself around to her side, the two men who’d helped her stand stepping back. He reached up and straightened her cloak about her, then gingerly took hold of her elbow and hand. The gathering of onlookers and samaritans parted before them as McCoy headed Keeler toward the doorway through which he’d exited into the night only a few minutes ago. The memory of that, though fresh, paradoxically seemed to hark back to another lifetime.
“You sure she’s gonna be all right, Mister?” the driver asked as they passed him.
“She’ll be fine,” McCoy replied without interrupting his stride. “I’m a doctor. I’ll take care of her.”
McCoy walked with Keeler past the front of the truck, its gray metal grillwork like the long fangs of some fearsome beast, the pungent odor of burned rubber and heated oil its foul breath. As they reached the curb, he heard the people congregated behind them begin talking again, their voices agitated as they spoke of the terrible accident that had nearly just occurred. McCoy steered Keeler up onto the sidewalk and then over to the twin doors that led into the 21st Street Mission. He reached to push open one of the doors, but then Keeler turned abruptly toward him, pulling her arm from his grasp. She peered up at him, some low level of awareness seeming to
dawn on her face.
“How stupid,” she said, her English accent discernible even in just the two words. “I’ve been back and forth across this street a thousand times. I ought to have been killed.” She delivered her statements in a monotone, clearly not yet recovered from her trauma.
“But you weren’t killed,” McCoy told her, accompanying his words with what he hoped she would perceive as a reassuring smile. “Try not to think about it. It’s in the past.” He waved the back of his hand toward the street, the gesture intended to dismiss thoughts of how close they’d both just come to being seriously injured, or even to losing their lives. “It’s going to be all right,” he concluded.
Keeler glanced over at the truck for a second, and then back at McCoy. She offered a half-smile and nodded, as though endeavoring to convince herself of what he’d said.
“Really,” McCoy insisted, reaching again for the door. “Everything’s going to be all right.” But as he ushered Edith Keeler into the mission, he recognized that he stood in a city on Earth, three hundred years before he’d been born—three hundred years before he would be born. McCoy did not belong in this place or in this time. He had perhaps just saved a woman’s life, and had avoided being killed himself, but he realized now that, at least for him, there were no guarantees that anything would ever be all right again.
I
The Stars, Blindly Run
‘The stars,’ she whispers, ‘blindly run;
A web is wov’n across the sky;
From out waste places comes a cry,
And murmurs from the dying sun:
‘And all the phantom, Nature, stands—
With all the music in her tone,
A hollow echo of my own,—
A hollow form with empty hands.’
And shall I take a thing so blind,