he could not blame them. His face reddening, he settled back in the command seat, not quite pretending he had not fallen asleep but not inviting anyone to comment on the subject, either.
It was Chekov who had spoken to him, to bring his attention to the fact that Mr. Scott was calling the bridge.
“Yes, Scotty?” McCoy said. “Is everything all right?”
There was a short pause. “Dr. McCoy ... is that you?”
“None other.”
“I need to report to Mr. Spock on the state o’ the warp drive. Can ye tell me where he is?”
“He’s probably sound asleep by now,” McCoy said, regretting the untruth that came more easily the second time he spoke it. “I guess you’d better report to me, for the time being.”
Another pause. McCoy began to wonder if the intercom were on the fritz, too, like the engines and half the other equipment seemed to be these days.
“T’ye, Dr. McCoy?” Scott said.
“Well, yes, I’m more or less in charge till Spock comes back on duty.”
“He ha’ made ye his second in command, then.” The hurt in Scott’s voice came through very clearly. His feelings were injured: he had been bypassed, no way around that. The chief engineer had no way of knowing it was for his own protection, and McCoy could not tell him.
“Not exactly, Scotty,” McCoy said lamely, hoping to salve the bruised ego. “It’s just till everything gets sorted out. I suppose he feels you’re essential where you are.”
“Aye,” Scott said, then, coldly, “ ‘sir.’ I dinna doubt he knows what he’s doing.”
The intercom clicked off. McCoy sighed. He had managed Scott no better than he had managed Braithewaite earlier.
As Montgomery Scott turned off the intercom in his office, he slowly met Ian Braithewaite’s gaze. Scott felt stunned and betrayed.
“I’m very sorry,” Braithewaite said, quite sincerely.
“Dr. McCoy is right,” Scotty said. “I dinna have time for administration. The work’s only half done on the engines—”
“Dammit, man!” Braithewaite cried, leaping to his feet. “Either McCoy is working under duress, or he and Spock together have betrayed you and everyone else on this ship! How can you keep making excuses for them?”
“I’ve known them both for a verra long time and I’ve never had reason to distrust either of them,” Scott said. His feeling of betrayal was mixed with anger; he was not sure if the anger was directed at McCoy and Spock or at Braithewaite. Perhaps it was at all of them; perhaps it did not matter.
“It’s hard,” Braithewaite agreed, recalling one time, in particular, when he had offered his trust and found it used against him. “But Spock, at least, has exhausted his opportunities for being given the benefit of the doubt. It’s of no practical interest anymore whether Mandala Flynn was an instigator or merely a follower. McCoy may be less guilty—but there’s no way to make either of them out to be completely innocent.”
Scott said nothing; he stared at a schematic design pinned to his bulletin board.
“Is there, Mr. Scott?” Ian asked gently. “If you can tell me any other possible explanation for what’s been going on here, I’d be very grateful to hear it. I don’t like the idea that three Starfleet officers have conspired to take over a ship, to free a dangerous criminal, and to murder their captain—”
“Stop!” Scott said. “Please... dinna recite the litany again.” He paused to collect himself. “Everything ye say is true, aye . . . But I canna see the why of it. Maybe Starfleet will give Mr. Spock the Enterprise and maybe they won’t. It’s a terrible chance to take. He would ha’ got a command of his own had he wished, eventually. And why should Dr. McCoy agree to such a scheme? He canna gae any higher and still practice medicine, and he’s said any number of times he dinna want to give that up.”
Ian sighed. He did not want to let Scott in on all his suspicions, not so much because he would find them impossible to believe, or even because revealing the knowledge would put Ian in breach of his own orders, as because the information itself would endanger the engineer.
“I haven’t got absolute proof that Dr. McCoy is a willing member of the plan. I hope he isn’t—if he isn’t we still have the chance of bringing him back over to our side. I can make some assumptions, but you won’t like them any more than my suspicions. I hope what happened was that a plan to free Dr. Mordreaux got so far out of hand that nobody had any choice what to do anymore. The worst it could be... well, Mr. Spock has control of the ship right now, he has no need to wait for Starfleet to turn command over to him.”
“That’s crazy!” Scott said. “And forby, the crew wouldna stand for it!”
“That’s what I’m counting on, Mr. Scott. That’s why I confided in you in the first place.”
“Oh,” Scott said.
“I can count on you to help me?”
“Ye can count on me to try to help to find the truth,” Scott said, and that was all he would promise.
6
That evening, ship’s time, Dr. McCoy walked nervously toward the transporter room, where Spock had said to meet him.
The whole day had been dreadful. Spock had been squirrelled away working on the time changer.
Scott’s bruised ego had put him into an unholy snit; he replied to nothing but the most direct questions and then only in monosyllables. Ian Braithewaite was skulking around giving the third degree to everyone he came in contact with and inventing heaven alone only knew what sorts of fantastical conspiracies. McCoy chuckled to think what the young prosecutor would do if he managed to stumble onto the truth, but his chuckle carried a certain rueful air. Barry al Auriga was infuriated because in trying to debrief the witnesses to Jim’s murder he kept running into people who had already had their observations overlaid by Ian Braithewaite’s preconceptions. And one of the preconceptions was that Commander Flynn, despite having died trying to protect Jim Kirk, had somehow planned his assassination.
McCoy had a suspicion that al Auriga had had more than a subordinate’s respect for his commander: that he had some feelings he had managed to keep well-concealed till now. But Barry’s nerves were clearly stretched almost to the breaking point. He was trying to stay in control of himself; so far he had succeeded, but McCoy had a feeling the lieutenant was not too far from flinging caution and his temper to the wind, if Braithewaite got in his way one more time.
Apparently McCoy’s warning to the prosecutor had had very little if any effect. McCoy did not want to carry out his threat to confine Ian to quarters, but he was going to have to do it. Morale on the Enterprise was so low it probably could not even be measured; McCoy could not let matters go on unchanged, with rumors and suspicions flying, for much longer.
But Spock had finished the time-changer, so perhaps all McCoy’s worries were for nothing. The doctor stopped in the doorway to the transporter room and there the science officer was, altering a module from the transporter’s innards.
If what he planned succeeded, McCoy would not have to do anything at all. If Spock succeeded, none of this ever would have happened in the first place.
Spock acknowledged his presence. “Dr. McCoy.” He picked up the smaller of two peculiarly organic-looking devices and attached it to the module of the transporter.
“Spock,” McCoy said, “Spock .. . what happens to us ?”
“I do not understand what you mean.”
“If you go back in time and change things around, we won’t exist anymore.”
“Of course we will, Dr. McCoy.”
“Not here, not now—not doing what we’re doing. What happens to... to this probability-version of all of us? Do we just fade out of existence?”
“No, Dr. McCoy, I do not believe that is what will occur.”
