But in nearly half a year, he’d met with no success. He’d worked with relative regularity during that time, thanks to Keeler, and he’d spent much of his compensation on posting newspaper notices. He had virtually no other expenses, save for one. Because he continued residing in the backroom at the mission and still took many meals there, he had convinced Keeler to allow him to contribute money to its cause; he donated two dollars per week.
For that reason and others—such as that he often helped out at the mission, that the police had found no indication that he’d committed any crime, and that he consistently demonstrated his trustworthiness—Keeler seemed to have grown comfortable in her interactions with him. Likewise, he found his relationship with her an easy one. He remained wary of getting too close to her, though, or to anybody. While he’d conceded his need to interact with people in this time, he did so as cautiously as possible. He supposed that he could make his way out of the city and into a wilderness somewhere, and live off the land in isolation. But such a course did not appeal to him, for more than the simple inconvenience of it: he had studied survivalist training at Starfleet, and even ignoring the fact that he’d barely made a passing grade, he doubted that he could live in such a manner for a prolonged period.
A door opened near the corner opposite McCoy, beside the request desk. The woman working here tonight emerged into the Periodicals Room, and he watched as she approached the reader nearest the counter. Her shoes beat conspicuously along the intricately designed wooden floor.
Closing time, McCoy thought, and a glance at the clock hanging beside the desk confirmed the hour. He quickly checked his copy of Corriere della Sera and saw that he only had a page and a half more of ads to inspect, a task he could complete in the twenty minutes before the library’s doors shut for the night. Turning his attention back to the newspaper, McCoy peered again at the concise Italian entries. He’d nearly reached the bottom of the page by the time the librarian drew near.
“Pardon me,” the woman said, and McCoy looked up at her. Older, perhaps in her sixties, she was short of stature, but possessed an aquiline nose that suggested a commanding presence. Her nametag, pinned to the white collar of her conservative, otherwise-blue dress, read Miss Zabrzeski. “I’m afraid you only have fifteen more minutes before you’ll have to leave,” she said.
“Quite all right, ma’am,” McCoy said. “I’ll be done by then.”
The librarian favored him with a smile and said, “I’m glad to hear that.”
McCoy finished with the paper, returned it and the two others he’d withdrawn, and bade Miss Zabrzeski good night. A few moments later, he exited the front of the grand beaux arts building through one of its bronze doors and continued through the central of three enormous arches composing the massive entry façade. Passing towering Corinthian columns, he descended the block-wide marble staircase to the street. He walked up Fifth Avenue to Forty-second Street, where he turned right, toward Grand Central Terminal. There, he would catch the IRT down to Twenty-third. From there, he would walk back to the mission—or maybe because he felt so tired tonight, he would hail a Checker cab.
You know this city too well, McCoy told himself, suddenly wistful for a life now six months removed. Certainly his familiarity with Manhattan provided ample evidence of the significant length of time he’d been marooned here. He’d seen a great deal of the city, particularly the areas in the neighborhood of the mission, but also many places beyond that. The subway system, with which he’d become well acquainted, afforded convenient, inexpensive transportation throughout New York City, and he used it often.
In the distance, McCoy spied the impressive sculpture that topped the main entrance to the neoclassical train station. Illuminated from below, three mythic figures crowned a large clock. The timepiece somehow underscored his melancholy, offering a reminder of his displacement in time, and of the days passing—and that had already passed—with him so far from his real life.
He thought of Jim and Spock, not with respect to his attempts to contact them across the hundreds of years that now separated them, but about how he missed their friendship. The faces of the other Enterprise doctors—M’Benga and Sanchez and Harrison—rose in his mind, along with those of Chapel and the rest of the medical staff. He thought briefly of Tonia, and then of Jocelyn, and finally, most painfully, of Joanna.
As McCoy crossed Forty-second Street, headed toward a corner entrance to Grand Central, he thought about the fact that he not only hadn’t seen his daughter in the months he’d been stranded in Earth’s past, but that he hadn’t seen her in more than two years, since before he’d been assigned to the Enterprise. McCoy’s service in Starfleet, combined with the volatile, at best strained relationship with his former wife, had over the years impacted his ability to spend time with Joanna.
Now, pensive and unsure of his fate, he wondered if he would ever see his only child ever again.
Eleven
2267
Barrows stood in her quarters and held the stuffed animal up before her face. She found the little white bear adorable, with its tiny black beads for eyes, and the delicate black thread sewn into its downy fabric to form a nose and mouth. Leonard had given the trinket to her—had effectively thought it into existence for her—back on a world in the Omicron Delta region that Mr. Spock had termed an “amusement park.” There, an advanced race had implemented a remarkable system designed to read visitors’ thoughts and in short order produce substantive recreations of those thoughts, for no other reason than the enjoyment of those who came calling. The Enterprise crew hadn’t known that, though, had actually believed the planet uninhabited. Scouting parties—which had included Barrows and Leonard—had transported down to evaluate the suitability of the place for shore leave. Unexpected events had begun happening almost at once, which the ship’s personnel at first had regarded as bizarre, and later as frightening.
Alone in her cabin, Barrows squeezed her eyes shut as the memories of those initial hours on the strange planet assaulted her. In the beginning, their experiences had seemed harmless—Leonard seeing apparent replicas of the white rabbit and golden-haired Alice from Lewis Carroll’s children’s stories, Sulu finding an antique firearm he’d long been seeking for his collection—but then the situation had turned decidedly more serious. Barrows had been accosted by a man in the guise of Don Juan, and then—
And then, she thought, not wanting to picture the armor-clad knight charging on horseback across the glade, thundering down upon them, until he drove his lance into Leonard’s chest. But the recollection came anyway, and even though the caretaker of that unique, wondrous world had seen to Leonard’s “repair”—a return to full health—that didn’t entirely alter the reality that she’d watched him die, a weapon run through his heart, his blood jetting from his torso in a horrible torrent of red. She remembered screaming, and running to his fallen form. She’d kneeled beside his body, along with Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock, and cried at the realization that Leonard had been killed. She’d grown almost hysterical, blaming herself for the turn of events, until the captain had sternly compelled her back into her role as a member of the crew, needed during the crisis in which they found themselves.
In the quiet of her cabin, Barrows opened her eyes, still holding the stuffed animal up before her. She tried to focus on the small bear, not much larger than her hand, as a touchstone for her experiences back on that incredible world. Certainly the circumstances had improved dramatically after the caretaker had appeared and explained what had been happening to the Enterprise crew, and after Leonard had shown up alive and well. The captain had subsequently authorized two full days of shore leave on the planet, and Barrows had spent all of those off-duty hours with Leonard, at the end of which he’d given her the stuffed bear.
With their leave nearly finished, the two of them had chosen to enjoy high tea in a reproduction of a place called The Gilded Rose. As a girl, Barrows had often visited the cozy establishment, where her mother would take her so
that they could spend time alone together, away from her father and brother and the everyday bustle of their home life. Out in the English countryside, the Victorian structure had boasted a warm, ornately decorated parlor where guests would be served, mostly at tables intended to accommodate only small numbers of people. Near the end of their shore leave, Barrows had described the tea house to Leonard, and not long afterward, they had stumbled upon it, nestled in a grove beside a narrow road that meandered through verdant, rolling hills. They’d spent the afternoon sipping an herbal blend of apricot and orange flavors, and snacking on scones, Devonshire cream, and fruit preserves.
Their time there had felt sweet and romantic, and it had ended with a stop in the small backroom gift shop. Leonard had taken the shopkeeper aside and described the present he sought, and moments later, it had appeared on a shelf, tucked into a collection of larger stuffed animals. Leonard had given her the little bear—which he had dubbed “Teabag”—as a token of his affection for her, and as a memento of their visit to the faux Gilded Rose.
Back then, the gift had delighted and touched Barrows, but as she looked at it now, it served only to wound her, a bittersweet reminder of what she had lost. Or maybe I never had it in the first place, she thought. Maybe her relationship with Leonard had never held the potential for more than merely a casual affair. In truth, she’d treated it that way for a long time, although she’d realized later that her feelings had actually reached far deeper. Had the intensity of those early experiences—watching Leonard die, and then seeing him alive once more—had those unusual experiences contributed to the seriousness of her emotions in a way that Leonard couldn’t possibly have shared?
Maybe, she thought, but Leonard had also demonstrated his love for her many times, in many ways. Only recently had he begun backing away from that, seeing her less and less frequently, for shorter periods, and in less romantic contexts. He’d hurt her, not only because he’d put distance between them, but because he’d done so without explanation.
Feeling her jaw set, Barrows tossed the bear underhanded onto the bed. It bounced to a stop next to a pillow. She looked at the stuffed animal lying on its side, as though wounded itself, and thought that, yes, she’d made the right decision. Of course, at this point, the time had passed for any misgivings she might have had about her transfer. Though she’d made her request to leave the ship only a few days ago, Captain Kirk had been gracious enough to approve it already. When she’d completed her application for transfer, she’d hoped that her honesty would sway the captain, and now she thought that it probably had. She’d written candidly about all of her reasons for seeking a different environment in which to work, including her own failings in choosing a suitable career path for herself. But she also hadn’t shied away from explaining the difficulties she’d been having because of her troubles in her relationship with Leonard, though she hadn’t referred to him directly. The captain and crew knew that they’d been seeing each other, of course—though she and Leonard had practiced discretion, they hadn’t hidden their romance—but she thought that such details didn’t belong in official records.
None of that mattered now. Whatever the length or depth of her relationship with Leonard, all of that had passed, and now she had to move on. With an effort of will, Barrows beat back the miasma of emotion surrounding her. As she pulled her gaze away from Teabag, turning from the bed and checking her dresser for any overlooked personal belongings, it occurred to her that she’d left a couple of items in Leonard’s quarters. She had no interest at all in addressing that, though; she’d rather just leave.
Barrows glanced around her cabin, at the walls, the desk, the shelves, all now empty. She’d packed up most of her possessions late last night, and just a few minutes ago, Crewman Bates had arrived with an antigrav cart to take her things to the transporter room. Now she had to go too.
Reaching down to where her duffel leaned against the bulkhead, Barrows cinched the drawstring tight. She threw her arm through its strap and hoisted it up onto her shoulder. At last ready to leave, she took one more look at the bed, at where Teabag lay beside one of the pillows. Indecision suddenly preyed on her mind, and it required almost a full minute for her to decided whether or not to leave Teabag behind, as she’d intended to do. Finally, she made a decision, then exited her quarters for the last time.
Barrows started for the transporter room, but would stop along the way at Leonard’s cabin, for what she wanted to be a brief farewell. She actually dreaded even the few moments it would take for her to tell Leonard of her transfer, but she could not leave without seeking some measure of closure, both for herself and for him. He might have neglected her recently, but she would not do the same to him.
Barrows moved quickly through the Enterprise, its silent, empty corridors seeming larger and brighter than usual. The ship had arrived at Starbase 10 a couple of hours ago, and much of the crew had already transported down to the planet for leave. A part of her hoped that Leonard had left the Enterprise as well, obviating the need for her to say good-bye in person. He didn’t respond to the door signal when she called at his cabin, and so she headed to sickbay. If she did not find him there, she decided, she would quickly record a message for him and then be on her way.
When Barrows entered Leonard’s office, though, she saw him immediately. He sat at his desk, his face bathed in the glow of the monitor there. Turned away from the text and pictures displayed on the screen, he hunched over a data slate beside it. As Barrows approached, he looked up from scribbling notes on the device.
“Tonia,” he said. The smile that lightened his weathered good looks appeared genuine, and tore at her heart.
“Hello, Leonard,” she said, pleased, at least, that she’d found him alone. She’d intended to speak flatly, conveying as little as possible other than through the meaning of her words, but she could hear the disappointment in her voice. Leonard must have recognized it as well, because even as his gaze moved to the duffel slung across her shoulder, he seemed to understand why she had come.
“Going on leave already?” he said, but his smile now looked forced, and his tone revealed the answer he expected from her.
“I’m leaving the ship,” she said. “For good.” She felt like setting her bag down on the deck, but didn’t want to signal even the possibility of this exchange lasting more than another few moments. Instead, she hiked the duffel back up, resettling its carry strap on her shoulder.
Leonard slowly and deliberately reached up to his desk and, beside the slate, set down the stylus he’d been using. When he peered back up at her, his smile had completely gone. “May I ask why?” he said. It didn’t sound to Barrows as though he really needed an explanation, and she didn’t offer him one.
“I think you know why,” she told him. “I just thought I should tell you in person that I was transferring off the Enterprise.”
“I see,” he said. He looked away, down into his lap, where he clasped his hands together. Then with what seemed like an effort, he peered up at her again. “Tonia,” he said, “I care about you—”
“You ‘care’ about me?” she snapped back at him before she could stop herself.
“Yes,” he said, improbably showing annoyance. “I do care about you.” Despite his protestation, his words could not have cut her any more deeply.
Not wanting this to end with any more bitterness than she already felt, Barrows tried to calm herself with a deep breath. “I believe that you do care about me, Leonard,” she said. “And I care about you. But somehow it’s not working out between us, and I think we both know that it’s not going to work out.” She could have laid the blame for this at his feet, but she elected not to do so. She really did believe that he cared for her, but she loved him, and that made all the difference. She couldn’t be angry at him for not feeling for her what she felt for him, only that he’d pretended to those feelings, and that rather than be honest with her, he’d ultimately begun to put distance between them.
Now, he slowly
rose from his chair. “I’m sorry, Tonia, I—” he started, but she interrupted him before he could continue.
“Don’t,” she said, raising her hand to him, palm out. “Please don’t.”
They stood like that for long seconds, neither of them moving or talking. She felt the tension between them, and worse, the emotional gulf that separated them. She dropped her hand, realizing that the time had come for her to go. But then Leonard spoke again, asking a question she hadn’t anticipated.
“Where are you transferring to?” he said.
Does it matter to you? Barrows thought. Would Leonard contact her aboard the ship to which she’d newly been assigned? Would he strive to maintain a friendship with her? Did she want that? Could she handle that? Her instincts told her not to answer his question, not to raise her own hopes that she might hear from him sometime, that the possibility might even exist of a reconciliation at some point in the future. But she told him anyway. “The Gödel.”
“That’s a science vessel,” Leonard said. “I’m familiar with it.” Barrows nodded, unable to say anything more until Leonard began to step out from behind his desk. She raised her hand again.
“No,” she said. “Good-bye, Leonard.” She moved quickly to the door, which glided open before her. She waited for him to call after her, to stop her from leaving, and she felt foolish and vulnerable for it.
Even as she strode down the corridor, headed for the transporter room, Barrows wondered if she would hear from Leonard. In the days that followed, first at Starbase 10 and then aboard her new posting, the same thought occurred to her again and again, despite her opposing desire to put this episode of her life behind her. Over time, her pain eased, and her months with Leonard faded into oft-forgotten memories. But she still occasionally thought of him, and sometimes when she found a message waiting for her in her cabin, she wondered if it might be from him.
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