Cloak

by S. D. Perry

  “I’m sure it is,” he said, smirking, and came up with a couple of food cards before closing the drawer. “And since I don’t officially start work for another half hour, I think I’m going to celebrate with a nice, fat breakfast. Eggs, bacon, the works.”

  “If you can afford that, I guess I’m not the only one who’s lost a little weight,” she said jokingly.

  “I guess not.” Dr. McCoy’s smirk faded, and she realized that he just looked tired.

  Of course he’s tired, he’s not a morning person and he was probably half asleep when I came in . . .

  “I’ll be back in time for my shift,” he said. “Miss Eckert is first today, is that right?”

  Christine nodded. “Yes, Doctor.”

  “Fine. If she comes in early, just . . . just tell her to wait.”

  He turned and walked out of sickbay, not looking back. She stared after him for a few seconds and then shook her head, deciding that she was reading too much into his slightly odd behavior. Everyone had an off day, now and again; she really could be a goose sometimes . . .

  . . . but not a fat goose, she thought, smiling as she patted her skirt over her hips.

  Christine sat down in front of the computer and called up the day’s schedule, humming to herself as she started plugging in file disks and scanning results. She didn’t notice that Dr. McCoy’s file wasn’t in the stack, and by the time he returned from breakfast, he was his old self again.

  * * *

  Christine had caught him off guard, arriving only moments after he’d read the test results, but McCoy had done the best he could to cover. He didn’t have breakfast, aimlessly walking the corridors until it was time for him to go back, thinking of nothing at all. Shock, he supposed.

  The morning went by in a haze, though he put some effort into acting out business as usual—a few jokes told, a few stories passed on to the changing parade of faces. He thought he did very well, considering. He wasn’t sure what to think, what to do, but he’d seen the worry in his nurse’s face and knew absolutely that any more of it—from anyone—would be too painful to bear.

  McCoy forced himself to eat a few bites of tasteless chicken at lunch, not because he was hungry but because there was work to be done and he didn’t particularly want to collapse. He had weeks, maybe even months before the symptoms would begin to interfere with his work; he saw no point in announcing it to the world by passing out from malnutrition.

  The afternoon went well; he actually managed not to think about the diagnosis for a few hours, and even laughed out loud at one of M’Benga’s stories when the doctor arrived for the evening shift. The denial didn’t last, though; he could feel the truth bearing down on him, seeking acceptance. Not wanting to bother with dinner, McCoy grabbed a handful of meal supplements on his way out and went straight to his quarters.

  A few pills washed down with a glass of stale water, sitting on the edge of his bed. Dr. McCoy pulled off his boots and lay down, lacing his fingers over his chest and closing his eyes. Only then, safely alone and without responsibility, did he allow himself to think about the results from his physical.

  Xenopolycythemia. Terminal. Over the years he’d learned about hundreds upon hundreds of diseases, so many that often they blurred together, but the rare blood disorder was one of the clear ones. It was the name, xenopolycythemia. It rolled off the tongue, like the name of some exotic flower or faraway place.

  The disease process wasn’t nearly so enchanting, though just as memorable. The disorder caused an enlargement of the spleen, along with a serious overproduction of blood cells, red and white. Caught in its earliest stages—for him, about three months ago—the spleen could be removed, with a solid prognosis for full recovery. Once it insinuated itself into the lymphatic system, however, it would spread to the lymph nodes and other more vulnerable organs. And that was the beginning of the end.

  Already too late for me, he thought, wondering when the sadness would hit, the fear . . . he felt numb and tired. Maybe sorry the way one felt upon hearing about somebody else’s tragedy, what-a-shame, but nothing more. He didn’t know if that was good or not.

  The course of the disease was simple enough. Slowly, very slowly, the increased blood-cell count would take its toll. Pain in the extremities, weakness and fatigue as his heart worked to pump the increasingly viscous blood. In the last few months, he would be bedridden, his every exertion putting strain on the overworked muscle. By then, enlarged mediastinal lymph nodes would be putting serious extrinsic pressure on his heart, making it have to work even harder . . . until it simply gave out. He had a year at most.

  What would he leave behind? A few friends, but no family. He hadn’t been serious with a woman since Nancy, and she was long gone; there’d be no one to remember him and weep for a lost love. A good service record, and perhaps a mention in some future medical text for this technique or that—another random old name glossed over by a bright-eyed young med student, who wouldn’t know or care that Leonard McCoy had been a man with a life, a man who had seen many things, who had been in love and been alone, who had died before his forty-second birthday from a terminal disease.

  There were no tears, but the ache of his poor heart followed him into sleep, sending him haunted dreams of every patient he’d ever lost, their drawn, mute faces and glassy eyes seeking him out as one of their own.

  Chapter Six

  Captain’s Log, Stardate 5465.4:

  We’ll be arriving at Station M-20 within the hour, where we are expected to turn over the U.S.S. Sphinx to a specially appointed task force—one which has presumably already begun their investigation into the alleged treason of Starfleet Captain Jack Casden. A small memorial service is also planned for the Sphinx’s lost crew.

  Because towing the Sphinx required that we travel at low warp speeds, we have already missed a full day of the Federation’s four-day science summit. Owing to security considerations, there will be no ship leave for R-and-R purposes; however, a number of crew members from the Enterprise ’s science and engineering divisions have requested special dispensation to attend some of the conference’s open debates, which I am more than willing to approve.

  * * *

  Spock was waiting in the transporter room when Kirk arrived, and Mr. Scott was at the controls. The summit’s panels had finished for the day, but a representative of the investigation team was supposed to be waiting to meet with them. Although he now understood the reason for Starfleet’s decision, Kirk wanted to be absolutely sure that he was releasing the Sphinx—and the information his crew had uncovered—into capable hands.

  Maybe then, I’ll actually be able to let it go. . . .

  He hadn’t been able to shake the uneasiness that Casden’s apparent breakdown had inspired; if anything, it was getting worse. How often had he seen good men, admirable men, tragically crushed beneath the weight of their responsibilities? What if—

  Stop it, he commanded himself—and as always, felt a faint glimmer of surprise when it actually worked.

  Kirk walked straight to the platform, Spock following.

  “The doctor won’t be joining us?” Spock asked.

  “No, he said he had too much work to catch up on,” Kirk said, turning his attention to the engineer. “Mr. Scott, I assume you’ll be attending tomorrow’s discussion on ways to artificially enhance dilithium?”

  “Aye, and looking forward to it, sir, me and the lads,” Scott answered, suddenly positively beaming. Kirk could actually see Scotty warming up to the topic and quickly headed him off, smiling inwardly at his engineer’s enthusiasm; he was pleased and proud that so many of his crew had asked to attend parts of the summit.

  “Energize,” Kirk said, straightening his shoulders.

  A sparkle of light later, he and Mr. Spock were standing on another platform in a much larger room, its decor entirely utilitarian. Kirk reflexively assessed the new environment, taking it in at a glance before focusing his attention on the man standing a few meters in front of them, comman
d yellow, gray hair, and a wide smile—

  “Captain James Tiberius Kirk,” he thundered, walking forward with his hand out.

  Kirk grinned, stepping down from the platform and extending his own. They shook firmly, Kirk making the introduction.

  “Mr. Spock, Captain Gage Darres, one of Starfleet’s finest. Captain, my first officer, Mr. Spock.”

  Spock bowed his head. “A pleasure, sir.”

  Darres’s eyes were sparkling. “I’ve heard good things about you, Mr. Spock—but I have to ask, what’s a logical fellow like yourself doing, hanging around a man like Kirk?”

  Knowing that Spock would probably try to answer, Kirk quickly interceded on his friend’s behalf. “Ignore him, Spock. The captain is getting on in years, he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

  Darres laughed. Spock wisely elected not to say anything.

  “Let me buy you two a drink,” Darres said, motioning toward the doors. “I’ve got a bottle of semidecent Saurian brandy in my quarters, we can talk there. It’ll be a lot quieter than any of the station’s bars, what with the summit and all . . . you wouldn’t believe how much some of those science people can put down—”

  “Actually, we have some business to attend to first,” Kirk started, but Darres interrupted him.

  “I know,” he said, his smile dropping away. “I was tapped yesterday to lead the investigation. Come on, I’m not far from here.”

  So much for worrying about the investigation. Casden’s actions had been weighing heavily on his mind, reminding him of past events he wanted to stay in the past . . . but he’d also been concerned about bowing out of the situation, leaving it to somebody else. Gage Darres, though—he couldn’t think of anyone more qualified to handle it.

  They left the transporter room, Darres leading the way. It was good to see him again; it had been years since their last meeting. They’d served together on the U.S.S. Farragut, when Kirk was still a lieutenant and Darres had just made commander. Darres had been assigned to the ship from Starfleet Intelligence after the incident on Tycho IV, and had seen Kirk through a fairly dark period of his life, even talking him out of resigning at one point. Although they’d only worked together for about six months, Kirk had looked up to him—and in fact still felt a measure of pride when he thought about it, that Darres had singled him out as someone to encourage.

  M-20 was a huge station, the standard DS design of multiple modules connected by rays, but much larger than most. It was capable of holding fifty-five hundred people, in fact, but he wouldn’t have known it from how crowded the corridors were; dozens of people pushed past each other, congregations forming and unforming, blocking foot traffic at every turn. They passed mostly humans, Starfleet and civilian wearing coded identity badges showing them to be guests of the conference . . . but Kirk saw more than a few representatives from other Federation and Federation-friendly planets. There were a number of Vulcans, most of whom took note of Spock, nodding politely in his direction. Kirk also saw a trio of fully suited Regulans, a Halkan, a handful of Tellarites, even a few beings he didn’t immediately recognize . . . it was a diverse group, to say the least.

  And loud.

  “I thought there were only supposed to be about seven or eight hundred people attending,” Kirk said, raising his voice slightly to be heard over a number of conversations.

  “There are,” Darres answered. “But they’re all bunking in this area. Two days ago, Mr. Miatsu— he’s the station manager—had the bright idea to put a few of the more renowned Federation docs up in officers’ quarters, on the other side of the station. We were asked to volunteer as gentlemen, you know the drill. Anyway, I’m here for the duration of the summit.”

  A bit farther down the corridor, Darres stopped in front of a door, tapping his identification number into a lock panel. The three of them entered, the din from the hall cut to a low murmur as the door shut behind them.

  The guest rooms were generic and unadorned, but nice. Darres motioned them toward a plush sitting area, scooping up two glasses and the distinctive brandy bottle from a counter after Spock declined his repeated drink offer. The three men sat, Darres pouring for himself and Kirk.

  Darres held up his glass, unsmiling. “To the crew of the Sphinx,” he said solemnly, and drank. Kirk nodded his agreement and followed suit, the brandy warm and smooth going down.

  There was a brief silence, Kirk studying Darres’s face as the captain poured himself another. A few more lines, his hair completely gray now, but he still carried himself with the kind of strength and vitality that Kirk had always admired, had worked hard to project in his own command. Darres motioned to Kirk’s glass, but Kirk shook his head.

  “It’s good to see you again, Captain,” Kirk said, smiling. “And I have to say, I’m glad that you’ll be the one handling the investigation. Mr. Spock has compiled a complete index of everything we found for your team, all the medical reports, inspection files, you name it. Has Starfleet already sent you the doctored logs?”

  Darres nodded slowly, sitting back in his chair with his untouched second drink. “They have.”

  When he didn’t expand on the topic, Kirk didn’t press any further, understanding that Darres might have been instructed not to discuss the investigation . . . but just as he was about to change the subject to something a little more insubstantial, Darres abruptly volunteered his thoughts in no uncertain terms, changing everything.

  “I knew Jack, and he was as loyal to the Federation as the day is long,” Darres said. “It’s a setup, Jim, the whole thing, but I’ll be damned if I know why.”

  * * *

  After his decidedly singular statement, Darres swallowed the contents of his glass and stared down into the empty container, expressionless. Spock was intrigued by his supposition. When the captain didn’t immediately respond, only watching Darres with a look of surprise, Spock took it upon himself to ask a question of his own.

  “May I ask upon what grounds you make this claim, sir?”

  Darres smiled faintly, without humor. “Background, his and mine. Jack Casden and I both worked for Starfleet Intelligence HQ around the same time, about thirteen years ago. I was shuffling papers for admin, he was looking at a field command, but we were in the same building for about two years. We got to be pretty good friends.”

  Captain Kirk’s response was gentle. “A lot can happen in thirteen years. People change.”

  Darres leaned forward, looking intently at the captain. “I agree. But about five years ago, we both ended up docked at the same station, pure coincidence. We had dinner, a few drinks . . . and fundamentally, he hadn’t changed at all.

  “It’s been a few years since you and I last met up, but we used to know each other fairly well,” Darres continued. “What if someone told you that I now believe Klingons are good guys? That we should go ahead and hand over one of our starships for them to study, so that they could see we had honorable intentions . . . would you believe it?”

  “That’s not the same thing, Gage—”

  Darres was insistent. “Humor me.”

  The captain hesitated, then shook his head. “No. No, I wouldn’t,” he said softly.

  “I knew him, Jim,” Darres said, most vehemently.

  “Sure, he wanted peace with our enemies, but he wasn’t stupid, he knew that trust takes time, he never would have supported a full Starfleet disarmament . . . and there’s no way in hell he would have contacted the Romulans on his own. I’m telling you, Jack Casden would have laid his life down to protect the Federation’s interests.”

  Spock could see that Darres had made his point with the captain, but he hadn’t yet touched on the primary base of his essentially emotional argument. The captain had apparently deduced the same.

  “If you’re right about this, who would want to frame him?” he asked. “And why?”

  “There’s also the question of how,” Spock added.

  “Your belief in his innocence requires a conspiracy—the fabrication of a shi
p’s records, the creation of or the explanation for the graviton field . . . and if he was not in the Lantaru sector by his own volition, who ordered him there, and where is the record of it?”

  Darres shook his head, his intensity changing direction. “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out. Believe me, whoever did this is going to be very sorry that I was picked to lead the investigation.”

  The captain was watching him closely. “And if you uncover evidence that Casden was involved?”

  “I’m after the truth, Jim,” Darres said. “If I’m wrong about him, I’m wrong.”

  The captain seemed satisfied with his answer. “All right. The Sphinx is still in our tractor—I assume you’ve got someone standing by for the transfer?”

  At Darres’s nod, the captain continued, rising to his feet. Spock did the same. “Tell them to talk to my chief engineer, Mr. Scott . . . Mr. Spock, the files?”

  Spock handed the data chip he’d been holding to Captain Darres, who also stood.

  “I want to get my team started on this tonight, but maybe we can meet for lunch tomorrow, or dinner?” Darres asked. “I’d like to have a chance to talk, catch up a little.”

  Darres nodded at Spock. “You should come, too. I’ll fill you in on a few of his old skeletons, and you can fill me in on the new ones.”

  Discussing the captain’s flaws in front of him did not sound even slightly appealing, and Spock expected to be attending panels all day. Not wanting to be impolite, he inclined his head, a noncommittal acknowledgment of the offer.

  The three of them moved toward the door, the captain and Darres walking in front of him.

  “Can you keep me apprised of any new developments?” the captain asked.

  Darres nodded. “Technically, I was ordered not to talk to anyone on the station,” he said. “But if you’re on your ship . . .”

  The captain smiled. “Good.”

  Spock was somewhat surprised that both men would decide to interpret the order literally, but if it was as Darres said, it was not improper—and with his own curiosity raised, Spock was not sure he would have commented on it either way. One of the many things that serving under Captain Kirk had taught him was that finding one’s way around a directive sometimes created the most expeditious path to one’s objective. Or, as the captain himself had once clearly stated, there was nothing wrong with bending the rules every now and then to get where you needed to go.