Vonda McIntyre - The Entropy Effect

“Oh.”

Spock addressed McCoy gravely. “Dr. McCoy, what we are attempting to do is not without its perils, and a rehabilitation colony is not the greatest of the possible dangers. I may fail. I could conceivably make things worse. Would you prefer that I proceed without your involvement?”

McCoy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “No, Mr. Spock, I can’t stand on the sidelines even if it means taking the chance of going down with you. I’ll help you as much as I can.”

“That is a mixed image at best, Dr. McCoy, but I appreciate your intent.”

Spock felt sleep creeping up over him, fogging his perceptions and distorting his vision. It was too early,

too early: he should have had at least until this evening before the need grew compelling. The past twenty-four hours had put him under so much stress that he had been forced to divert attention from controlling his sleep patterns to controlling emotions that under normal circumstances were so thoroughly repressed as to be essentially nonexistent.

He hurried toward his own quarters instead of Dr. Mordreaux’s, hoping he had not left making the changes until too late.

The warmth in his cabin, closer to Vulcan normal temperatures, surrounded him, and the whole texture of the light changed. He closed the door and stood for a moment, making the transition from the human world to his own.

But he had no more time to wait. He lay down on a long, polished slab of Vulcan granite, a meditation stone, one of the very few luxuries he permitted himself. He closed his eyes, and relaxed slowly. He could not relax as completely as he would have liked: if he did he would fall immediately asleep. Yet if he remained tense he would not be able to control his body enough to give himself the few more days, the few more hours, that he needed.

There was no help for it. He had to take the chance. The ironic thing was that the level of concentration he required was so deep that he could not pay attention to staying awake.

Gradually he grew aware of every bone, every organ, every muscle and sinew in his body. He breathed deeply, forcing cells to degrade the molecules that were the products of fatigue. He went deep into his own mind to restrain a biological response already compressed to the danger point. He had to struggle with himself; he required every bit of determination left in him. But when he progressed back through the layers of his mind, he was rewarded by renewed clarity of intellect.

For now, he had succeeded.

Dr. McCoy stepped off the turbo lift onto the bridge. He was about to toss a cheery greeting toward Uhura, but one glance at the strain and grief in her beautiful, elegant face, at her eyes red-rimmed from tears, reminded him that as far as everyone else was concerned, they had lost a respected officer or a friend. Already McCoy had begun to think of Jim as just gone away for a short vacation; McCoy’s own despair had vanished. But it was essential that he conceal his hope. Spock’s assessment was no doubt accurate: if they fell under suspicion they would be stopped.

Near Uhura, he paused. She took his outstretched hand, and he squeezed her fingers gently, comfortingly. He wanted to pull her to her feet and swing her around and hug her and tell her everything would be all right soon; he wanted to tell everyone on the bridge, on the ship, that it was all a mistake, all, practically, a joke.

“Dr. McCoy ...”

“Uhura...”

“Are you all right?”

“So far,” he said, feeling brutal, feeling dishonest. “And you?”

“So far.” She smiled, a little shakily.

McCoy started toward the lower level of the bridge.

“Dr. McCoy?”

“Yes?”

“Doctor, communications on the ship are... muddled. I don’t mean the machinery.” She gestured toward her station. “I mean people talking to each other. Rumors. Suspicions. I suppose Mr. Spock can’t tell us, if we all are under suspicion. But if we’re not, just a few words from him—”

“Suspicion! Uhura, what are you talking about?”

“I’ve gone through tough security interviews—you know my clearance level—but I’ve never been through an interrogation anything like the one this morning.”

McCoy frowned, very surprised. “I’d’ve thought Barry al Auriga would have more tact.” Mandala Flynn had gone through al Auriga’s files with McCoy and recommended him for promotion to her second in command soon after she came on board. One of the reasons she had chosen him over several other officers of comparable seniority was that his psychological profile, and his service record, indicated that he behaved gently and gracefully under pressure.

“I don’t mean Barry. He’s taken my statement, of course. It’s Ian Braithewaite. Dr. McCoy, the rumor is that the prisoner couldn’t have got out of his cell by himself so there must be a conspiracy. That’s what Mr. Braithewaite’s looking for, anyway. He as much as accused Mandala of being involved. I felt like scratching his eyes out when he said that.”

McCoy scowled. “I never heard such a load of tripe. Besides, Ian Braithewaite hasn’t got any jurisdiction on the Enterprise . Even if he did, it wouldn’t give him the right to browbeat you—or slander someone who can’t defend herself anymore.” Braithewaite was far from unique in believing that a stateless person was a security risk, almost by definition. McCoy sighed. “Uhura, page Mr Braithewaite, would you? Hunt him up and tell him to get to the bridge, on the double.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

He slid into Jim Kirk’s seat and spent the next few minutes gazing at the viewscreen, paying little attention to the spectacular starfield. He wondered what would happen when Spock carried out his plans. Would anyone have any memory of what had really occurred, or would the events simply vanish from their perception? If so, what did that do to the beings who were here, now?

Will we vanish, too? he wondered.

The more he thought about it, the more he became entrapped in the paradoxes and confused by them.

The lift doors swept open and Ian Braithewaite came onto the bridge, his manic energy confined by the belligerent hunch of his shoulders. He descended the steps in one stride and faced McCoy.

“I assume you’d like to talk to me,” McCoy said. “Since you’ve been so aggressive about talking to the rest of the crew.”

“I’d rather talk to the new captain, but he’s avoiding me.”

“Look here, son,” McCoy said, not feeling nearly as much the kindly old doctor as he made out, “you’re the one who vanished out of sick bay without my say-so. You’ve got a bad concussion—you ought to be in bed.”

“Don’t try to change the subject!”

“What exactly is the subject? From what I hear you’ve got some bees that need chasing’ out of your bonnet.”

Braithewaite’s expression was for all the world like Spock’s when he did not comprehend some colorful human metaphor.

“What’s a bee? For that matter, what’s a bonnet?”

“Oh, never mind. Deliver me from people who’ve never walked on the surface of a planet. Braithewaite, what the devil do you mean harassing the crew? We’ve all gone through a hell of a lot in the last day, thanks to you and your damned prisoner. We’ve lost someone we admired very much and I won’t have you putting anyone under any more strain.”

“I don’t see that you have anything to say about it. The crime occurred in my jurisdiction and I’m investigating it.”

“You don’t have any jurisdiction over a Starfleet vessel.”

“Oh, you’re an expert in system law as well as a doctor, are you? I’m impressed.”

“Mr. Braithewaite, what’s with you? Everyone saw your prisoner murder the captain, and unless you’ve let Mordreaux loose yourself he’s safely in custody.”