Vonda McIntyre - The Entropy Effect

Spock drew him gently but insistently away from Flynn.

“There is no need,” he said. “There is no reason. She is dead.”

“Mr. Spock—!”

“Look at her eyes,” Spock said.

The tech glanced down. It was al Auriga who gasped.

“That’s the way ...” The technician met Spock’s gaze. “That’s the way the captain’s eyes look. Dr. McCoy is operating on him now.”

Spock deliberately turned his back on the technician. He would not think of Jim Kirk’s being mutilated further in a useless attempt to save his life.

A thumping noise startled them all.

“Let me out, do you hear?” Dr. Mordreaux shouted, banging on the door again. “I didn’t do anything! What am I being accused of this time? I tell you I’ve been right here since you brought me onto this damned ship!” al Auriga turned slowly toward the closed door, his body tense with anger. Spock waited to see what the security officer would do; he waited to see if the scarlet-eyed man could control himself sufficiently to take Mandala Flynn’s place. al Auriga suddenly shuddered, his hands clenching into fists, and then gradually he relaxed. He turned to the med tech, who was still standing helplessly beside Flynn’s body.

“Do you have a sedative you can give him?”

“No!” Spock said sharply.

The two other men stared at him. Neon, ignoring them all, slid the stretcher from its compartment in the abandoned medical kit and began to unfold it.

“Mr. Spock,” al Auriga said, “I can’t question him when he’s hysterical.”

“Dr. Mordreaux has been under the influence of far too many drugs administered for far too little reason since before this trip began,” Spock said. “Unless he is permitted to recover from their actions we will never hear a coherent story from him. Commander Flynn ordered a search of the ship, did she not?”

“Yes,” al Auriga said.

“In that case perhaps you should proceed.”

“It’s begun,” the security officer said. Then he cursed very softly. “And we’ve got to find that damned gun.”

“You have, of course, searched Dr. Mordreaux?”

al Auriga froze. “Oh, my gods,” he said. “I don’t think anybody has. Neon—?”

“Prisoner, securities, separation,” Neon said. She smoothed the rippling stretcher into a flat silver sheet and pushed it down till it nearly touched the deck. “Corridor, cabin, separation.”

“None of us has been near him. Commander Flynn was going to search him, I think, but...”

“We had better do so now,” Spock said. “Unlock the door, and stand away from it.”

As al Auriga unlocked the door, Neon lifted Mandala Flynn onto the stretcher, then floated it, and its burden, to waist height. She moved it nearer the med tech, who took hold of the guiding end of the stretcher and stood looking blankly down at it.

“Take her to stasis until after the viewing of her will,” Spock said. “Neon: Neon, doorway, offset.”

The med tech got out of the way; Neon inclined her head in acquiescence and moved to one side of the door, ready to spring in and help if necessary.

“Dr. Mordreaux,” Spock said, loudly enough for the professor to hear, “please calm yourself. I am coming in to speak to you.”

The pounding subsided. “Mr. Spock? Is that you, Mr. Spock? Thank gods, a rational person instead of these military-bureaucratic idiots!”

Spock pushed the door open. He was prepared to move with every fiber of strength and speed he possessed to prevent another spiderweb bullet’s being fired. But Dr. Mordreaux stood stock-still in the center of his cabin, his arms spread stiffly. When he saw Spock his eyes widened, but he did not move. “Mr. Spock, what happened?”

Spock glanced down at his blood-stained shirt and hands, but did not answer. “I must search you, Dr. Mordreaux.”

“Go ahead,” Mordreaux said with resignation, and some appreciation of irony. “I’m getting quite good at following the protocol.”

Spock searched him swiftly. “He is unarmed.”

al Auriga scanned the cabin with his tricorder.

“Mr. Spock, what is it I’m supposed to have done?”

“Captain Kirk has just been shot, Dr. Mordreaux.”

“What? And you suspect me?”

“There were several witnesses.”

“They’re lying. They’re lying just like everyone else has lied about me. I haven’t hurt anyone, I haven’t done anything. All I ever did was help my friends fulfill their dreams.”

However damning the truth might be, if Spock withheld it now, the professor would never have reason to trust him again.

“Sir... I am one of the witnesses to the assault.” He held out his bloody hands.

Mordreaux stared at him, stunned. “You—! Mr. Spock, how can you believe this of me?”

“There’s no gun in here,” al Auriga said, shutting off his tricorder. “He must have ditched it. I’ve got to help search, Mr. Spock. I think you’d better come out of here till I can spare another guard.”

“You need not be concerned about my safety.”

“Mr. Spock—”

“If necessary I will make that an order, Mr. al Auriga.”

The security officer glared at him a moment, then, abruptly, shrugged. “Whatever you say.” He left Spock alone with Dr. Mordreaux.

“I do find it difficult to believe you murdered my captain,” Spock said. “However, I have the evidence of my own eyes.”

“It wasn’t me,” Dr. Mordreaux said. “It must have been—an impostor. Someone trying to frame me.”

“Dr. Mordreaux, what point would there be to anyone’s trying to contrive evidence against you? You are already sentenced to a rehabilitation colony. There is no more severe penalty.”

“Only death,” Mordreaux said, and began to giggle. “There’s nothing left but death, and that’s what they have planned for me.” From hysterical laughter he dissolved into tears, and collapsed crying on his bunk.

“Dr. Mordreaux!” Spock said. He grabbed Mordreaux’s shirt front and dragged him to his feet.

Spock’s other hand clenched into a fist.

Mordreaux sobbed into his hands. “I can’t help it, I’m sorry, I can’t help it.”

Spock unclenched his fingers, shocked by his own actions. He had come within a nerve-impulse of striking the professor.

“Dr. Mordreaux, I cannot stay here any longer right now. Please try to calm yourself.”

“It isn’t me,” Mordreaux said. through tears. “It isn’t me, it’s the drugs, please don’t drug me anymore.”

“No,” Spock said. “No more drugs.” He gazed down at the man he had respected for so long, now shuddering and sobbing and out of control. “I will come back when I can.”

He left Mordreaux behind in his cabin and relocked the door securely behind him. Neon reactivated the power shields.

Leonard McCoy, M.D.

The name plate on his desk had been knocked half around; Leonard McCoy stared at it as blindly as it stared back at him, mocking him with the very letters of his degree. The brass and plastic were worth as much as his competence. He poured whiskey into his emptied glass: good straight Kentucky bourbon, none of this bizarre alien stuff everyone else on the ship found god knows where and drank and compared hangover stories about. Amazing how many different supposedly intelligent species chose a downright poison, ethanol, as their recreational drug of choice; amazing how many different sorts of biological systems reacted in similar ways to it. He had even seen Spock drunk once, though the Vulcan refused to discuss the occasion. Never mind. Spock was no more fun drunk than sober.

His glass was empty again. He thought he had just filled it. No matter. He filled it again. The things people would drink, even that weird brandy that was Jim’s favorite—