He wished he could close her eyes. He knew he could not.
Sinking to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest, with his arms wrapped around them, Sulu hid his face.
A long time later, immersed in dreams and memories, he felt a touch on his shoulder. Startled, he looked up.
Barry al Auriga crouched down beside him, gazing at him in silence.
“I should have been there,” Sulu said. “On the bridge.”
“To die with her? She would not want that.”
“What do you know about it?” The vehemence of his reaction startled him, and he tried to turn away. Barry’s hand tightened on his shoulder.
“I grieve, too,” he said.
Sulu faced him again.
“It is not proper to fall in love with the commander of one’s section,” Barry said. “And I could see that you ... I could see she wanted you. I could say nothing. But I grieve with you.”
Sulu grasped Barry al Auriga’s forearm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know ...”
al Auriga shook his head. “Nor did she. It does not matter now.” He got to his feet, drawing Sulu up with him. “Come away. This is not the place to remember her.”
Sulu pushed the stasis unit back into place. It was the one last thing too much for him. He stood with his back to al Auriga, both hands pressed hard against the wall, trying to control his silent tears.
“Come away,” Barry said again. He put his arm around Sulu, like a brother: he was crying, too.
Hunter listened, her face a mask. McCoy could not tell what she thought or how much she believed of the tale he was telling her, she was so unresponsive. But he was all too aware of the frazzled edges of his story, the loose ends and dissembling. He finished, and took a long gulp of his drink.
Hunter toyed with her feather-tipped black braid.
“All right, Leonard,” she said. “Now, please, the truth.”
He blinked in surprise. He could not think what to say; her disbelief was too direct.
“You’re a very lousy liar.”
Still he could not reply.
Hunter leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and spoke with angry sincerity.
“I could pilot this ship through the holes in that story. Mysterious accomplices and a disappearing gun and a Changeling with food poisoning? Do you expect me to believe Mandala Flynn would have put up with a second in command who can’t find a single bit of useful information in twenty-four hours? She was far too ambitious to pick an incompetent second—that would make her look like a fool. I assume you’ve been giving al Auriga the same run- around you’ve given me. But there’s a difference, now: you may be his superior, but you aren’t mine. Where’s Mr. Spock? Where’s Ian Braithewaite, for that matter?”
“Well, until Spock gets some rest—”
“Don’t! Not again! His captain’s dead , the crime’s unsolved, he’s in command, and you want me to believe he went off to sleep for three days? Even if he did, there’s been a complete power failure, you’ve got computers crashing all around you—and you want me to believe a Vulcan science officer stayed asleep? Come on!”
“After so long—”
“Dr. McCoy,” she said, and her voice chilled him, “Dr. McCoy, there’s nothing mystical about catch-up sleep. I know the techniques. You could probably learn them yourself. Spock isn’t catatonic, he’s not in some kind of trance that would damage him to come out of. He can wake up—and he would wake up, given the circumstances you’ve described.”
McCoy’s hands felt cold, and a drop of sweat ran down his side. If he told her the truth ... She knew too much about the ship and the people on it to be fooled as long as Braithewaite had been, and he could not confine Hunter to quarters.
But he did not think she would believe him, and he could not take the chance of trying to convince her he was telling the truth. In desperation, he tried once more to mislead her. All he needed to do was give Spock more time. But what was the science officer doing ? With every second that passed, every random noise, McCoy expected the power to fail as Spock departed again. Why was he still on the ship?
“Hunter,” McCoy said gently, “none of us has been acting very rational since Jim died. I know how you feel, truly I do, but I think you’re getting a little bit overemotional—”
Hunter stood up.
McCoy kept on speaking, recklessly.
“I know how close you and Jim were. He told me... the last thing he ever said to me was about you.” Her expression did not change. She gazed at him directly.
“He knew he made a mistake, refusing your partnership’s invitation. He wanted to tell you himself, but when he got hurt, he knew he was dying. He knew he’d never see you again. He asked me—”
Shut up.
“He wanted you to know.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said, her tone completely flat.
“It’s true”
“You haven’t said a true word to me since I came on board,” Hunter said. “Jim trusted you—he trusted you more than he trusted anyone else, including me. But I swear I don’t know why.” She started out of the officers’ lounge.
McCoy jumped up and grabbed her arm. Startled, she spun away and into an attack position so quickly she nearly struck him, but she held back in time, lowered her hands, and turned away from him again.
“Where are you going?”
She did not answer, but McCoy followed. Soon he realized she intended to go to Mordreaux’s cabin.
“There’s no point in trying to talk to Mordreaux.” He spoke all in a rush; his voice sounded even less convincing than the ragged words themselves. “He’s completely incoherent. He’s—”
“Don’t lie to me anymore, Leonard,” Hunter said. “Either tell me the truth, or just be quiet.”
Ian Braithewaite tried again to force open the door of his cabin, and again he failed. The lock no longer responded to his voice. The blocked communications terminal kept him from talking to anyone; he could not contact Mr. Scott. In frustration and fury, he pounded on the door. He had already made himself hoarse by shouting every time he heard someone pass.
McCoy had really got to him, all right, with that sentimental tripe about carrying out his good friend’s last wishes. The man was a consummate actor. Ian supposed that was a talent most doctors cultivated anyway, and McCoy had used the ability magnificently. In a strange way, Ian could hardly help but admire him. He carried out his aims with a certain flair. The prosecutor realized now that McCoy could not be forgiven or excused any of his actions: however upset the doctor had been at the time of Kirk’s death, he had become well reconciled to it. No doubt the potential profits from the hijacking of the Enterprise and the use of the time-changer had soothed his grief and his conscience.
Ian felt completely helpless, as helpless as he had been in al Auriga’s grasp. The security officer had not hurt him, but Ian was at the mercy of McCoy and Spock and Mordreaux. The precariousness of his own position began to grow clear. Until now he had been too angry to worry very much about his own safety. This was the first time since coming on board the Enterprise that he had not had too many other things to think about.
He was not frightened. He considered his possible fate with a certain resignation, a fatalistic attitude. Perhaps they had beaten him. It certainly looked like it now. But if he got one more chance, just one stroke of luck, he would not be so fussy about absolute proof of their guilt.
As far as he was concerned, the only question left to be answered was whether they planned to use the ship and the time-changer for their own benefit, directly, or to take it and the Enterprise , the most advanced example of Federation technology in existence, and auction them off between the Federation’s enemies.
He flung himself down on his bunk and threw one arm across his eyes. His stomach churned; he felt nauseated by tension and anger. He lived his life on the verge of ulcers, a fact he denied. He was convinced that if he could just sort out the events of the last day properly and deduce what would happen next, then he could somehow stop the progression of disaster. But all he could do was think, over and over again, I shouldn’t have
