Crucible: McCoy

by David R. George III

  “Agreed,” Spock said. “But this evidence, though circumstantial, is compelling.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” McCoy said. “Now I just need to figure out why time travel would do this to somebody.”

  Spock handed the slate he held back over to McCoy. “I can think of no one better suited to the task.”

  Twenty-Three

  1932

  Gregg Anderson ran the broom over the plank floor, pushing the accumulated dirt toward the open front door. When he got there, he leaned out and peered both ways, making sure that nobody walked this way at the moment. Then he reached the broom back and brought it forward with long movements, sweeping the dust and debris out of the store. He followed it out, pushing it off the sidewalk and out into the street.

  Outside, the day had grown hot. An hour past noon, the air had become thick and sticky, headed for hotter temperatures still an hour or two from now. Anderson looked up at the bright sky, hoping to see clouds rolling in, but saw only high, wispy gray smudges that promised no rain whatsoever. It didn’t really matter, of course; as August marched toward September, the afternoon storms that often blew in and out so quickly did little to cool off the days.

  Standing at the edge of the sidewalk, Anderson looked out across the commons. The heavy air carried the stray scents of the colorful flowers scattered about the square. He saw Mrs. Hartwell sitting on a bench out toward the church, and he waved to her. He saw other folks out and about too: Sheriff Gladdy stood by the Brink’s truck parked in front of the bank; a couple of ladies—he couldn’t tell who with their backs to him—made their way into Mrs. Denton’s seamstress shop; old Doc Lyles shuffled up his walk from the street; and still others too. Among all of them, though, he didn’t see Billy Fuster. “Good for nothing,” he muttered, and not for the first time. He gazed down the street for a few minutes, out to where Mill Road disappeared from view past the town hall. He saw Phil Dickinson’s cousin Lenny walking up from there, but nobody else.

  Anderson turned back toward the store and regarded the stacks of feed piled high on either side of the door. He grumbled a curse under his breath. Billy should’ve been here an hour ago. He got off at the mill at half past eleven, and usually got here—when he got here—a few minutes later. This summer, though, Billy had been late a lot, and on three occasions, hadn’t shown up at all. Anderson had done everything he could think of to get the oldest Fuster boy to take his job at the Seed and Feed more seriously. He’d talked to Billy man to man, and when that hadn’t worked, Anderson had resorted to lecturing him man to boy. He’d asked him nicely, he’d pleaded with him, he’d threatened to fire him. Nothing had worked. Anderson had thought about talking to Billy’s father, but Jack Fuster had never impressed anybody as anything more than a loud drunkard, who’d had four children just so he’d have somebody he wouldn’t have to pay to work his farm and tend his still. Betsy had left him—and the town—long ago, the miracle being that she’d stayed with him long enough to give him those four kids. The townsfolk also agreed that Jack had been more than lucky that he hadn’t run his farm into the ground before Billy and his two brothers and one sister had gotten old enough to tend it.

  God watches over fools and children, Anderson thought, and he supposed that included children who grew up to be fools too. He ducked inside the door and leaned the broom against the wall, then bent to pick up the top bag of feed. He exhaled, then strained to hoist the hundred-pound sack onto his shoulder. Back in the day, Anderson could carry two at a time, one on each shoulder. Now though, pushing sixty, he struggled under the weight of just one sack.

  Inside the store, Anderson moved over to the left wall, to where a dozen or so boards still carried the dark shadow of the fire that had broken out inside a few years ago. He lowered the sack to the floor, then returned outside for the next one. On his fourth trip inside, he flipped the feed from his shoulder a little too casually; it canted to one side and missed landing on the other three sacks, instead crashing to the floor and splitting open. Mash and pellets spilled through the torn burlap.

  “Son of a mother,” Anderson griped. “I’m getting too old for this.”

  “I don’t know,” a voice said behind him. “I hope I’m in as good a shape as you when I’m your age.”

  Anderson turned to see Phil Dickinson’s cousin standing in the doorway. “Hey, Lenny,” he said. “How’re ya’ll?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Lenny said. “How ’bout you?”

  Anderson glanced down at the heap of grain now on the floor. “Oh, I’ve had better days,” he said.

  “Sorry to hear it,” Lenny said. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Still looking for a job, huh?” Anderson said. Lenny had been in town for a couple of months now, staying with Phil and Lynn. He’d come in pretty often to the Seed and Feed—and all over town, really—trying to find work. Anderson knew that a few folks had given him some odd jobs here and there, but last he knew, Lenny hadn’t found anything regular yet.

  “Well, yeah, I’m always looking,” Lenny said, “but I was just coming across the commons and saw you hauling these sacks.” He pointed over to the three bags stacked against the wall and the one that had come apart on the floor. “I just figured you could probably use a neighborly hand.”

  “What I could use,” Anderson said, “is a hand who comes in when he’s supposed to.” He gestured over at the broom leaning next to the doorway. “Get me that broom, would you, while I go find another bag.” Anderson walked deeper into the store, over to where he kept a pile of empty burlap sacks.

  “The Fuster boy not show up today?” Lenny asked.

  “Nope, and he’s starting to make a habit out of it,” Anderson said. He grabbed a sack and headed back toward the mess he’d made. “You seen him today?”

  “Yeah, this morning,” Lenny said, handing over the broom. “I was out to the mill first thing—”

  “Like you always do,” Anderson said as he spread the empty sack on the floor and began to sweep the spilled feed into it.

  “Yup,” Lenny said. “Like you said, I’m always looking for a job. Anyway, I saw Billy running in right at the morning whistle.”

  Anderson grunted derisively. “I’m amazed Macnair hasn’t fired him yet,” he said.

  “Probably just a matter of time,” Lenny said, and Anderson agreed with that. He finished sweeping up the loose feed, then dragged the half-filled new bag and the ripped, half-filled old bag up against the wall. He would finish loading the new sack after he got the others inside.

  Anderson walked back outside, where he reached for another of the feed sacks. “Let me give you a hand with those,” Lenny said, following him outside.

  “You sure you don’t mind?” Anderson asked, grateful for the offer.

  “Not at all,” Lenny said, and he moved to pick up one end of the top sack. Together, it took them less than twenty minutes to carry the seventeen remaining bags of feed into the store.

  “Thank you, Lenny,” Anderson said. “I appreciate it.”

  “Happy to do it,” Lenny said. Anderson offered him a glass of lemonade, and he accepted. They walked back to the counter at the rear of the store, and Anderson poured out two glasses.

  As they drank, Anderson said, “I wish I could get Billy to work like that, even once.”

  “You going to stick with him?” Lenny asked.

  “Naw,” Anderson said. “I’ve had enough. I believe in giving the kid a break, but I’ve given him too many already.”

  “You got somebody in mind to do the job for you?” Lenny asked.

  “Hadn’t really thought about it,” Anderson said. “If you were twenty years younger, Lenny, I’d hire you.”

  “You’re not gonna hire me because I’m too old?” Lenny said with a smile.

  “Not ’cause you’re too old like that,” Anderson said, “but this ain’t no job for a man: sweeping floors, hauling sacks, cleaning up. I only do it when Billy don’t show up and ’cause I own the place. Heck, I
’m only paying him five cents an hour, and he only works half days for me.”

  “Gregg,” Lenny said, setting his nearly empty glass down on the counter, “it’s honest work, and a man can’t ask for more than that. In a lot of places in this country right now, people are struggling to find any kinda job at all.”

  Anderson looked over his glass at Lenny. “You really want this?” he asked, considering it.

  “Well, I wouldn’t want you to get rid of Billy Fuster to hire me,” Lenny said, “but if you do let him go, I’m certainly available.”

  Anderson thought about it and decided that it would be nice for a change to have somebody working for him who actually showed up when he was supposed to, who did a good job, and who didn’t give him any lip. “All right,” he said. He put his glass of lemonade down, wiped his hand dry on his dungarees, and reached out across the counter. “You’re hired.”

  “Thank you, Gregg,” Lenny said.

  “As a good friend of mine used to say, ‘Ain’t nothing but a thing,’” Anderson said. Lenny grasped his hand with a firm, confident grip, and the two shook. Already, Anderson knew that he’d made the right choice.

  McCoy slipped the three stuffed pillowcases off his shoulder and swung them down onto the bed. He’d had so few clothes left after he’d tumbled from the train back in June that it came as a surprise that he had as many as he did now, just two months later. Lynn and Phil had been very generous, to be sure. Phil had parted with so many of his supposedly old clothes, giving numerous items to McCoy even though they still had plenty of wear in them. And Lynn, despite the long days she put in on the farm, had somehow found the time to make two new shirts for him.

  Turning and sitting down on the bed, which creaked beneath him, McCoy suddenly thought about his Starfleet uniform. Back in New York, once Edith had provided him clothing to wear, he’d held on for a while to his old service attire, keeping it stuffed under the cot in the back room of the mission. Eventually, he’d realized the foolishness of hanging on to it—he would never wear it in this time period, and having it in his possession only threatened to bring attention to himself. When cleaning the basement of the mission one day, he’d brought the uniform with him and had burned it in the furnace.

  Lately, McCoy hadn’t thought much about what he now referred to in his head as his “old life.” At this point, two and a half years after he’d arrived in Earth’s past, he’d just about given up any hope of returning to the twenty-third century. The time he’d spent in Hayden had seemed strangely comfortable—so much so that his southern accent had thickened considerably. Though a number of townspeople still regarded him with obvious suspicion, most had more or less accepted him. That, he knew, had happened primarily as a result of the Dickinsons’ claim that he was Phil’s second cousin. Though McCoy had done all he could to help them on their farm, and though his hours at the Seed and Feed and at the other odd jobs he’d worked had allowed him to reimburse Lynn and Phil the two dollars they’d given him for the doctor, he would never be able to adequately repay their kindness and generosity.

  Leaning back on the thin, quilt-covered mattress, McCoy looked about the room. Smaller than the room he’d been staying in at Lynn and Phil’s, it held almost nothing in the way of amenities. A narrow, three-drawer dresser stood against the wall beside the door, and a wooden chair had been placed beside the head of the bed. An oval blue-and-red scatter rug lay in the middle of the wood floor and clashed dramatically with the yellow wallpaper sporting bright green flowers. Plain brown curtains framed the one window. The room did not even have a closet.

  McCoy stood up and dumped out the three pillowcases filled with his clothes. One by one, he folded his shirts and pants, his underwear and socks, and loaded them into the dresser drawers. As he folded one of his last few shirts, he heard a light knock at the door, and he looked over to see Mrs. Hartwell peeking her head inside.

  “Mister McCoy,” the old woman said in her high voice. Overweight and slow on her feet, she had a mass of white curls on her head.

  “Yes, Missus Hartwell, come in,” McCoy said. “I’m just unpacking my things and putting them away.”

  “Well, I hate to disturb you,” she said, “but you have a visitor.”

  “A visitor?” McCoy said, surprised. He’d only just moved into Mrs. Hartwell’s boarding house a few minutes ago. How could anybody possibly be coming to see him right now?

  Mrs. Hartwell’s head disappeared, and then the door opened the rest of the way. Lynn Dickinson stepped partway into the doorway. “Welcome home,” she said.

  “Lynn,” McCoy said. “What’re you doing here?” McCoy had come to Mrs. Hartwell’s directly from the Dickinsons’. He’d said good-bye to Lynn less than half an hour ago.

  “I needed some things in town,” she said. “I had to go to Robinson’s and the bank, and Phil and I decided that I should stop in.”

  “After I just saw you a few minutes ago?” McCoy said, confused.

  “We actually decided that yesterday,” she said, and then she stepped the rest of the way into the room. In her right hand, which she’d left hidden behind the jamb, she held a potted plant. Several thin stems rose up to support a half dozen golden orange sword-shaped petals, maybe five centimeters long, with bright red speckles on them. “We wanted to give you a housewarming gift.”

  “Thank you,” McCoy said, warmed by the gesture. He took the pot from Lynn and looked around the room for a place to put it. With few options, he reached over and set it down atop the dresser. “And thank Phil for me. That’s very sweet.”

  “It’s a blackberry lily,” Lynn said. Peering around the room, she asked, “So how’s your new home?”

  “New,” McCoy said.

  Lynn leaned in and, sotto voce, said, “It’s pretty small.”

  McCoy smiled. “That’s okay,” he said. “I don’t take up a whole lot of room.”

  “Are you really sure this is what you want to do?” she asked, repeating a refrain he’d heard several times this week. When he’d announced to Lynn and Phil that he’d spoken with Mrs. Hartwell about taking a room in her boarding house, they’d both invited him to stay longer with them. But as friendly as they’d been to him during his time with them, he could see that he’d impacted their lives, in particular robbing them of their privacy. Even if that hadn’t been the case, though, McCoy felt that he’d imposed upon them long enough.

  “Lynn, we’ve talked about this,” McCoy said. “I really liked staying with you and Phil, but I’ve been intruding on your lives.”

  “You really haven’t been,” Lynn maintained.

  “I appreciate your saying that,” McCoy told her, “but look, you’re going to need that room for a baby one of these days.”

  Lynn smiled. “From your mouth to God’s ear,” she said, peering briefly upward.

  “Soon, I’m sure,” McCoy said. “Anyway, I’m going to be seeing you two as much as ever, if not more, with picking season coming up.” In September and October, Lynn and Phil would need to harvest the cotton they’d planted, a task for which they usually hired a few locals and migrant workers, depending on who in town needed the work and how many itinerants passed through town. Though he needed to work his half-days at the Seed and Feed, he’d accepted their offer to work for them during the rest of the time.

  “You may not want to see us after picking starts,” Lynn said.

  The work would be backbreaking, McCoy knew. He remembered very well the two summers he’d been forced to pick cotton out in his Uncle George’s fields. Despite the availability of modern harvesting equipment, McCoy’s father had wanted to teach his son the values of hard labor and self-reliance. The first year, when he’d been fourteen, had been difficult enough—the long hours in the unforgiving sun, stooped over to get at the bolls, the hard, sharp husks cutting into his hands, the elongated sack slung over his shoulder growing heavier and heavier as he dragged it down each row—but the next year had been even worse, knowing the tedium, strain, and pain
his mind and body would face. Although he didn’t look forward now to returning to the cotton fields, he did want to help his friends.

  “We’ll get through it,” McCoy told Lynn.

  “’Course we will,” Lynn said.

  “And when we’re done,” McCoy said, “you can make me some of that peach cobbler you promised.”

  “Spoken like a true Georgia boy,” Lynn said.

  “That’s me,” McCoy said. “Anyway, I’ve got to get going. I’m due over to the Seed and Feed.”

  “I’ve got Belle Reve with me,” Lynn said, referring to her horse. “If you wanna hop on, I can take you into town.”

  “No, thanks,” McCoy said. “It’s not that far, and I really enjoy walking.” Mrs. Hartwell’s boarding house—not much more than a house really, except that it had five bedrooms and Mrs. Hartwell lived alone—was located on Main Street, about a kilometer and a quarter past Mill Road.

  Lynn shrugged, then leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “See y’all later then,” she said.

  “Oh, hey, why don’t you take your pillowcases,” McCoy said. He quickly collected them from the bed, folded them up, and handed them to her. “Thanks for these,” he said, “and thanks again for the plant. Thank Phil for me too.”

  “I will,” Lynn told him, and she left. McCoy watched her go, then went back to the bed and finished putting away the last of his clothes. Once he had, he made his way out to Main Street, where he headed for his job at the Seed and Feed.

  Twenty-Four

  2270

  The incessant call to battle stations blared through the Enterprise bridge as the ship approached the planet. Between the helm and navigation consoles, the proximity alert light steadily beat out its warning in red, an automated understatement. Peering into his hooded sensor monitor, Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu saw too much movement about the orbiting Federation research station, Einstein: three Klingon D7-class heavies moving in formation, in pursuit of a Paladin-class destroyer that Starfleet records identified as the U.S.S. Clemson. The remains of two other ships floated nearby, too mangled for helm scans to distinguish anything beyond their origins: one Klingon Imperial Fleet, one Starfleet.