2273
Driven by magnetic levitation, the monorail glided smoothly along the elevated track, past the main campus of Earth’s Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Nogura peered through the window at the interconnecting set of ultramodern towers, illuminated in the night, and wondered if they would still be standing three days from now—or if anything at all would be left on Earth. The enormous destructive force headed for the planet had effortlessly fended off an attack by three Klingon K’t’inga-class warships, then had destroyed them with apparent ease. Attempts both to contact the object and to identify it had met with no success, and the speed with which it traveled and the course it took left only one Federation starship within interception range. Just completely redesigned and refitted, Enterprise would launch ahead of schedule, with no shakedown cruise, no adequate trials of its new warp drive, no opportunity for its crew to acclimatize to the ship in a deployed setting. All of which had led Nogura to agree to Admiral Kirk’s request—his demand, really—to assume command of his old vessel.
As the maglev passed a tract of woodland, barely visible in the scant light of the railway, Nogura turned in his seat and checked the map displayed on a screen in the bulkhead. He saw that the monorail had entered the grounds of Emory University and that his destination would be next. He’d come the width of the continent at Kirk’s request as well, transporting from Starfleet’s headquarters in San Francisco to its military operations facility in Atlanta. From there, he’d boarded the maglev and ridden it north to Druid Hills, where he would find the object of his pursuit.
Nogura cursed himself for his shortsightedness. Kirk, the gambling, swashbuckling starship commander, had demonstrated a great deal more prudence in his role as chief of Starfleet Operations than in his previous position. He still took risks, but only under circumstances far more advantageous than when he’d taken them during his time as Enterprise’s captain. Kirk had recommended against sending both Exeter and Potemkin to deal with the Albasynnia affair, thereby leaving this sector essentially unprotected, even if only for a short time. Nogura had overruled him. Considering the power now headed directly for Earth, though, Kirk had clearly been right.
Up ahead, Nogura saw the interior lights of a seven-story building. As the maglev neared, it suddenly darted off the main track and swung onto a station branch. The building loomed above, until the monorail slid beneath an overhang and skimmed to a stop. Past just two people waiting on the platform, signs indicated that Nogura had reached the Bruggeman-Johnson Medical Research Center. As soon as the maglev’s doors opened, he exited and crossed to the building’s entrance.
Inside, Nogura approached security and identified himself, verifying his claim with hand and retina scans. Though Starfleet did not control or even manage Emory University, he knew that Starfleet Medical often worked closely with its School of Medicine’s Research Division. The admiral’s rank and position therefore eliminated whatever bureaucratic hurdles might otherwise have slowed or even impeded his access to one of Emory’s researchers. After issuing him a visitor’s badge, a guard consulted a directory, then escorted him to a third-floor lab.
Nogura entered alone. Within, he found a large, low-ceilinged room, filled with an array of high-tech devices he did not recognize, and an assortment of low-tech equipment he did: test tubes, beakers, burners, and the like. On the far side of the room, a string of windows reached from wall to wall and looked out on the ECDC’s brightly lighted towers in the distance. To the left, a wide viewscreen dominated the wall and currently displayed a mix of alien characters and three-dimensional chemical diagrams, neither of which the admiral could read, though he thought he recognized the former. Standing before the screen, on the other side of a long counter from Nogura, stood two figures, one Andorian, one human. Both wore white smocks over their clothes, with what appeared to be identification badges pinned to their breast pockets. They looked in his direction.
“May we help you?” the Andorian asked, a breathy quality to his voice. Heavyset, he had pale blue skin and a bald pate. His white antennae moved in a way that Nogura could not interpret.
“I’m here to see Doctor McCoy,” the admiral said. Initially, Nogura had expected to visit the doctor in his home, but a check of his research schedule with an Emory official had shown him working in his lab late tonight. He couldn’t recall ever meeting McCoy, but he’d reviewed his personnel file after his conversation with Kirk. Nogura knew him on sight, despite the full beard and mustache he now wore.
“Admiral Nogura,” McCoy said, obviously recognizing him as well. The doctor paused, clearly unsure why Nogura had come to see him, and perhaps not wanting to know. “May I introduce my colleague, Chirurgeon Shivol.”
Nogura nodded in the Andorian’s direction, then peered back at McCoy. “I require a word with you, Doctor,” he said, stepping deeper into the lab.
McCoy hesitated, and the chirurgeon looked at him, no doubt sensing the doctor’s manifest uneasiness. “Leonard?” he said.
“It’s all right, Shiv,” McCoy said. “If you wouldn’t mind giving us a few minutes…”
“Of course,” Shivol said. “I’ll be in the lounge if you need anything.” He set down a small device he’d been holding, then paced past Nogura and out of the room.
Once the admiral had heard the door close behind Shivol, he said, “Doctor McCoy—”
“Admiral,” McCoy interrupted, “may I get you something to drink, some tea or coffee perhaps?”
“I have no time for politeness, Doctor,” Nogura said, seeking to move past McCoy’s obvious reluctance to speak with him. “I’ve come to see you regarding an urgent matter.”
“Right,” McCoy said. “How’d I know I wasn’t going to like this?” He circled around the counter, but then walked by Nogura and toward the inner corner of the lab. “Excuse me if I make myself some tea.”
Nogura followed him over to a small area separated from the main lab and clearly used to store and heat refreshments. “Doctor, what I’m about to tell you is classified, though it won’t be for much longer. There’s an—”
“Don’t tell me anything classified,” McCoy said, whirling to face Nogura, an empty black mug in his hand. “I’m no longer in Starfleet.”
“I see,” Nogura said. He didn’t understand what appeared to be McCoy’s antipathy toward Starfleet. Certainly nothing in his service record suggested the existence of such feelings. Perhaps it signaled the doctor’s realization that if the commanding admiral showed up to speak with him, it likely meant a request for his assistance. “Doctor,” Nogura said, “are you familiar with Starfleet’s terms of service?”
“What?” McCoy asked, turning away again. “I don’t know. What I do know is that I’ve done my service, and right now I’m in the middle of several projects, including some very promising research on a cross-species cure for Vegan choriomeningitis.” Nogura saw McCoy reach for a carafe of what appeared to be hot water.
“Doctor, in the enlistment agreement that all Starfleet officers sign, including you, there’s a clause that most people don’t pay much attention to, and that we certainly don’t invoke very often,” Nogura said. “But during a crisis, Starfleet would be within its rights to recall you to active service.”
“What!” McCoy said. He shoved the carafe back onto its heating element—water splashed from the top and sizzled where it landed on the element—and spun around again to face Nogura. “You’re threatening to force me back into Starfleet? That doesn’t sound legal, and it sure doesn’t sound ethical.”
“Doctor,” Nogura said, raising his hands in a placatory motion. He couldn’t believe that the conversation had become so rancorous, so quickly. He’d come here to meet with McCoy in person specifically to convey just why Starfleet needed his assistance. Nogura had thought that appealing to McCoy directly would provide the best chance of procuring his help, but he hadn’t even gotten that far yet. “Doctor,” he said again, “I have no wish to reactivate you against your will.” Something occurred to Nogura, and he gazed back across the lab at the viewscreen. “What language is that?” he asked, pointing.
“You mean the symbols on the display?” McCoy asked, and Nogura nodded. “That’s Fabrini. That’s one of the projects I’m involved in, trying to apply the vast amount of ancient medical knowledge found on Yonada.”
“Interesting,” Nogura said, and he allowed the word to linger for a moment. He didn’t think he needed to explicitly make the case to McCoy that this work of his had been made possible by Starfleet granting Emory University access to the Fabrini medical database. Looking back at the doctor, Nogura told him, “As I said, I don’t want to activate you against your wishes, but because the situation is so dire, I will if I have to. But I ask that you hear me out before we do battle over this.”
McCoy peered at him for a few seconds, perhaps trying to gauge his intentions. Finally, he set down his mug and walked away, back toward the viewscreen. “My work is important to me,” he said when he got to the counter and looked up at the display. He turned back to face Nogura across the room. “And it’s important work, not just to me, but to people all over the Federation.” For a moment, Nogura thought he would have to make good on his threat to draft McCoy back into Starfleet, though he also realized that doing so would likely defeat the purpose of returning him to Enterprise. But then McCoy said, “But I’ll listen to you.”
Nogura offered his description of the situation at once. “A huge, powerful object is currently heading through our galaxy at great speed,” he said.
“An object,” McCoy said dismissively.
“We don’t know if it’s a ship or a creature or something else entirely,” Nogura said. “But it defeated a trio of Klingon warships in just minutes, sustaining no discernible damage itself, and obliterating each ship with just a single shot.”
“All right,” McCoy acknowledged, and Nogura thought that he might finally have the doctor’s attention.
“The object is on a direct heading for Earth,” the admiral said. “It will arrive here in less than three days, and there’s only one starship within range to intercept it: Enterprise.”
“The Enterprise,” McCoy echoed. “She’s a good ship. I’m sure she’ll do the job you need her to. But surely there are enough doctors in Starfleet that you don’t need me.” He seemed to think for a second, and then he added, “As I understand it, the ship’s been completely redesigned, so my familiarity with it wouldn’t even be a plus.”
“Although your record as Enterprise’s chief medical officer was exemplary,” Nogura said, “you’re right: there are numerous other doctors in Starfleet up to the task.” He paused, wanting to express the fundamental reason for his request with a sensitivity and a subtlety he did not normally employ. “I’m sending Admiral Kirk out with Enterprise, as its captain.”
“He’s a fine captain,” McCoy said. “A fine man.”
Nogura knew that, of course, but what he didn’t know, what he couldn’t be sure of, was Kirk’s motivation. He didn’t know if Kirk himself could be sure right now. Nogura had listened to his argument that his experience in commanding a starship and in dealing with unknowns trumped Captain Decker’s intimate familiarity with Enterprise’s redesign. In the end, Nogura had agreed to return Kirk to the command chair—provided that Kirk truly believed himself the best man for this particular situation, and that he wasn’t merely using the circumstances to try to maneuver his way back onto the bridge of a starship. As good a job as Kirk had done in the last two and a half years as chief of Starfleet Operations, it had become clear—to Nogura and doubtless to Kirk—that he missed his life in space, and Nogura realized now that it had been a mistake to remove him from starship command.
“Jim Kirk is a fine man,” he said, agreeing with McCoy. “But he hasn’t captained a starship in a long time.” He wanted to tell McCoy that Kirk had explicitly asked for the doctor’s presence on the mission, but decided that it might be better to keep all of the blame for this on himself. “I have confidence in Admiral Kirk, but I think it would help him for you to be onboard.”
“I…think I understand,” McCoy said. He walked back over to Nogura. “Are you talking about this mission?” the doctor asked. “This mission only?”
“That is all that I’m asking,” Nogura said, hopeful.
“And how soon is the ship leaving?” McCoy asked.
“In eleven hours,” Nogura said. “Enterprise’s launch is scheduled for oh-five-hundred, Pacific time.”
McCoy seemed to consider this. “All right,” he said. “I’ll have to take care of some things here at the lab and at home. But I’ll be there.”
Nogura forced himself not to sigh in relief. “Of course. Thank you, Doctor,” he said. “Transport out to Starfleet Headquarters prior to boarding Enterprise and report to Admiral Phanomyong. She’ll brief you on the information we have about the object, and she’ll have somebody there to offer a quick primer on Enterprise’s redesigned medical facilities.”
“Fine,” McCoy said, “but I’ll be taking the tube out to San Francisco.”
“Why would you do that, Doctor?” Nogura asked, but then remembered seeing a note in McCoy’s records about him being uncomfortable with travel by transporter.
“I haven’t beamed anywhere in more than two years,” McCoy said, confirming his anxiety. “There’s no need to start up again now.”
“Very well,” Nogura said, unwilling to threaten McCoy’s agreement by arguing the point. Though not as fast as the nearly instantaneous travel of a transporter, the tube would still get McCoy to San Francisco quickly enough. And depending when he arrived and how long his briefing took, there might still be time for him to take a shuttle up to Enterprise. “Again, thank you, Doctor,” Nogura said, and he extended his hand, a gesture he rarely made. McCoy took it.
“You’re welcome,” the doctor said.
A few minutes later, Nogura made his way out of the research center and back to the maglev platform. As he waited for the monorail that would take him back to Starfleet Military Operations, he hoped that he had just secured the support Admiral Kirk would need to get through the next couple of days. The fate not only of Enterprise, but of Earth itself, and possibly even of the Federation, might well hang in the balance.
McCoy looked about his cabin, checking for anything he might have left behind. He actually hadn’t brought much with him; after Nogura had convinced him to join Jim aboard the Enterprise, McCoy had packed only a few changes of clothing, some toiletries, some handwritten notebooks, and a stack of data cards. But his cabin on this redesigned, refitted the Enterprise dwarfed those on the old configuration of the ship and gave him a lot of places to check.
As he peered around the cabin, the events of a month ago—ostensibly the situation for which he’d returned to Starfleet—recurred to him, as did the implications of what had happened. It all had occupied McCoy’s mind in the intervening weeks, the issues occurring to him again and again in different forms. In his thoughts, he reshaped the problems in various ways, but always they distilled down to a matter of mechanism: how had V’Ger achieved consciousness? Of course, that formulation carried with it the presupposition that V’Ger had achieved consciousness—something that, while not scientifically and rigorously proven, McCoy felt confident in asserting. But that notion begged other questions. Could a machine, something clearly not alive, become a living thing? And if not, then could something not alive still become conscious?
McCoy had faced such matters before. There had been the androids that Jim and Christine Chapel—now Dr. Chapel—had encountered on Exo III, and those discovered by Harry Mudd. There had been computers that had demonstrated lifelike behavior: Landru on Beta III, Dr. Daystrom’s M-5, the Oracle on Yonada, and the one producing the Losira replicas on the Kalandan outpost. There had been the Nomad-Tan Ru hybrid probe, and perhaps most compelling of all, the Guardian of Forever. But whether or not the Guardian had been a machine or a living being remained an open question; according to Spock’s report, it had claimed to be both and neither. With V’Ger, there had been no doubt: it had begun its existence as a machine, as the space probe Voyager 6, created on Earth by humans more than three centuries earlier, and a month ago, it had returned as something much more than that.
Satisfied that he had packed all of his few belongings, McCoy returned to the front section of his quarters and cinched up his duffel. Still, he could not shake his thoughts free of V’Ger and its remarkable story. As best they could tell, the inanimate Voyager 6 had fallen through a wandering black hole, only to emerge at the far side of the galaxy. There, the probe had been found by a population of machines—” living machines,” Spock had called them, but McCoy would need more information before he could agree to that determination. Regardless, the machines had interpreted Voyager’s programming—collect all data possible and transmit it back to Earth—literally, and they had modified the probe in a dramatic way, allowing it to deconstruct and store everything it encountered. Once it had learned everything it possibly could, it had returned to Earth.
Jim had postulated that Voyager—calling itself “V’Ger” after three of the letters on its nameplate had been obscured—had amassed so much knowledge that it had become conscious. McCoy found it difficult to credit the idea that there existed some critical mass of information above which the repository of that information achieved consciousness. Still, he could not argue that V’Ger had not come back a living entity; clearly it had, evidenced among other things by the questions it had been asking: Is this all that I am? Is there nothing more? It had taken V’Ger’s somehow joining with a human being to give it a greater sense of purpose than mere data collection, and to send it…where? They didn’t know, but once Will Decker had merged with V’Ger, it had appeared to undergo some sort of massive transformation, and then it had simply vanished.
In the days since then, McCoy had thought about all that had happened. He’d even briefly considered initiating a line of research in which he would investigate the nature of machines and life, knowledge and consciousness. He’d quickly rejected the idea, though, since he’d already done a great deal of work on a number of projects that he hadn’t yet completed.
McCoy bent to pick up his duffel, prepared to depart the ship, but then the door signal chimed. “Almost made a clean getaway,” he joked to himself. He straightened and called for the visitor to come in. The doors opened and Jim entered.
“Why, Bones, leaving so soon?” he said with a grin, eying the duffel. “We’ve only been back in Earth orbit for thirty minutes.”
“Yeah,” McCoy said, “but it took us thirty days to get here.” After the incident with V’Ger, Jim and Starfleet had wanted to conduct a proper shakedown cruise of the Enterprise, and McCoy had agreed to stay aboard for the month set aside for that. With Captain Decker gone, Jim had remained in command while Starfleet had sought a replacement. During that time, the ship had been put through its paces, and the crew had even conducted a couple of missions. It had been wonderful to spend time with Jim and Spock, Scotty and Christine, Hikaru and Uhura and others. Now, though, the Enterprise had traveled back to Earth, presumably in preparation for its next assignment, and McCoy would disembark and return to his research in Georgia. “Anyway, I’m about to catch a shuttle down to Starfleet, and then a tube back to Atlanta.”
“A shuttle?” Jim said. “Bones, you’re practically a Luddite.”
“Oh, no,” McCoy protested, rising to his friend’s bait. “I don’t have a problem with all technology. I happily use it all the time. It’s just that ridiculous transporter.”
“So you say,” Jim observed.
“Hey, remember that blasted machine once split you in two,” McCoy reminded him, referring to the incident six or seven years ago at Alfa 177, when a flukish combination of circumstances had caused the transporter to create two versions of Jim, one tender and docile, the other aggressive and violent.
“Oh, believe me, I remember,” Jim said. “Listen, Bones, I know you’re anxious to get home, but do you have a few minutes before you go?”
“Sure, Jim,” he said. “Let’s go in here.” He motioned toward the sitting area of the cabin. Jim took a seat in the corner, and McCoy sat down on the small sofa across from him. “What is it you wanted to talk about?”
“First of all, I wanted to thank you again for coming with us—for coming with me—when we went out to intercept V’Ger,” Jim said. “We wouldn’t have succeeded without you.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” McCoy said. “You had a good ship and a good crew, not to mention your own good sense and experience. You didn’t need me.”
“I really did,” Jim said, leaning forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees.. “I hadn’t commanded a starship in two and a half years; I was lost. You…grounded me. You helped me find my strength.”
“Well, you’re welcome,” McCoy said, very pleased that he’d been able to help his old friend and touched by the sincerity of Jim’s words. “For whatever it’s worth, I really think you belong on the bridge of a starship…especially one named Enterprise.”
Jim sat back in his chair. “Funny you should mention that,” he said. “That’s the other thing I wanted to talk with you about.”
“What’s that?” McCoy asked.
Jim stood up. “I’ve officially resigned as chief of Starfleet Operations.”
McCoy blinked in surprise, not because Jim had given up his position, but that a certain admiral had not prevented him from doing so. “Nogura’s allowing that?” he asked.
“He doesn’t have much choice,” Jim said as he began pacing across the sitting area. “Besides, I think he realizes that, like you said, my place really is in command of a starship. I know I realize it. Not that I didn’t enjoy my time as Operations chief, but this is where I need to be, at least for right now.”
“I think that’s wonderful news, Jim,” McCoy said. “You’re staying aboard the Enterprise then?”
“I am,” Jim said. “And so is Spock and most of the senior officers.”
“I’m glad to hear Spock is staying,” McCoy said, watching Jim move back and forth across the compartment. “As much as he spouts logic and maintains his Vulcan poise, I think it would’ve been wrong for him to purge himself of all emotion.”
“I agree,” Jim said.
“So do you know what the Enterprise’s assignment will be?” McCoy asked.
“I do,” Jim said with a smile. “Starfleet’s detected an unusual arrangement of astronomical objects, with something at their center that nobody’s been able to identify. They’re calling it the Aquarius Formation. The scientists think it’s worthy of investigation.”
“Sounds interesting,” McCoy said. “Where is this?”
“A good distance from the Federation,” Jim said. “We’ll take an elliptical course to it, so that we pass through uncharted space on the way there and on the way back. We’ll traverse about a thousand light-years, and explore throughout the entire journey.”
“A thousand light-years?” McCoy asked, stunned. “How long do you expect this mission to last?”
“That depends on what we find along the way, but we estimate between five and eight years.” Jim stopped pacing and faced McCoy. “Bones, I want you to go with us.”
“Me?” McCoy said. “Jim, I appreciate that you want me to go along, but I’ve got research I’m conducting.”
“You told me what you’re working on,” Jim said. “The Fabrini medical database, Vegan choriomeningitis, comparative alien physiology, the discrepancies in M’Benga numbers. They’re all things you can continue to do on the Enterprise.”
“I suppose that’s true, but…” McCoy started. But what? he asked himself. He’d enjoyed the time he’d spent as the Enterprise’s chief medical officer, and he could still carry on his research onboard. The ship did have state-of-the-art medical labs. Would a shipboard schedule allow him the freedom, though? “I don’t know that I’d have the time I needed to continue doing what I’m doing,” he said at last.
“I understand,” Jim said. “But Chapel’s still signed on as the ship’s CMO. If she’s willing, maybe the two of you could share the position. That might give you the time you want for your research. Plus—” Jim placed his hand flat on his chest. “—you’ve got a carrier of Vegan choriomeningitis right here, as well as the single largest discrepancy in M’Benga numbers ever recorded.”
“Well, that’s true,” McCoy said. One of the reasons he’d gravitated to finding a possible cure for infection by the arenavirus had been the fact that Jim carried it, and his research into M’Benga numbers had been a direct result of the readings he’d taken of Jim and the rest of the crew. But McCoy had also settled into a life in Atlanta and at the university. Did he really want to go back into space, especially for such a prolonged voyage? “Jim, I don’t know,” he said. “This isn’t something I expected or planned on.”
Jim nodded. “I know,” he said. “A month ago, it wasn’t something I’d expected either. But the opportunity’s arisen, and I thought you might want…I hoped you might want to be a part of it.”
“I might,” McCoy said. “I don’t know. I need time to think about it.”
“You can have two weeks,” Jim said. “It’ll take that long to provision the ship and finalize crew assignments.”
“All right,” McCoy said, rising up from the sofa.
“Good,” Jim said, and he walked over to him. “Whatever you decide, Bones, thank you for what you did.” They shook hands, a warm and meaningful gesture between old friends. McCoy nodded, but didn’t feel the need to say anything more. Jim let go of his hand, then turned and left.
McCoy watched him go, not moving until the doors had closed behind the captain. Admiral, he reminded himself. Except that while Jim might be a Starfleet admiral, he’d also once more regained the position that fit him so well: starship captain.
McCoy crossed back into the sleeping section of his quarters, picked up his duffel, and pulled the carry strap over his shoulder. He would go back to Atlanta and do what he’d told Jim he would: think about this opportunity to rejoin the Enterprise. Right now, he had no idea what he would decide.