Open Writing

*

USS Challenger, en route to earth.

Leonard H. McCoy stood at the viewport and watched the stars slip by as the Federation Starship Challenger streaked through space under conventional warp drive on a heading for earth. His thoughts, as they had been for most of the past few weeks, were mostly still back on the distant alien planet on the far side of the galaxy, and the friends he had left there. He supposed he had been lucky; God knows, enough people had told him so, and he had to admit they were probably right. He had expected to have to spend many years in hypersleep before he finally got home, if he ever got home at all. However, less than three months out from the planet, a Federation ship equipped with Trans-warp drive had intercepted his shuttle.

The signals Uhura had sent had been received and acted upon; Jim Kirk still had a lot of friends in high places, and they did not take kindly to the idea that the most decorated starship captain in Star Fleet history had been set up, like some kind of sacrificial goat to appease the Klingons.

After less than three months at Trans-warp, most of that time spent in cryosleep, McCoy had been delivered to the nearest Star Base, where he had been able to fully recuperate from the wounds he had received. Meanwhile, a full-scale investigation had been launched into the plot hatched by the rogue Federation and Klingon council members. A court of inquiry had found Richard Snell and his co-conspirators guilty on all counts of treason, and they would not be tasting freedom for a long time to come. The Klingon high council, wishing to repair its already fragile relations with the Federation, had come to the same conclusion at their end. However, they did not show quite the same quality of mercy as did the Federation. Their trials had been swift, and the executions even swifter.

McCoy sighed, and looked at the stars. Just that morning, ship’s time, he had received word that a full-blown memorial service for Kirk and the rest of his crew was to be held when McCoy arrived back on earth. He groaned inwardly at the prospect; he had already said his private good-byes to his friends. Now, it looked as though he was going to have to do it all over again. Worst of all, he was going to have to do it publicly, something he loathed the very thought of.
McCoy looked at the stars and took another sip of the warm toddy; the ship’s sick bay had produced, under the famous McCoy glare, a bottle of Tennessee bourbon, for “medicinal purposes”, and McCoy had uncharacteristically pulled rank to appropriate half of it. Well, what the hell, he thought. Goddam stars have got to be worth something.

All of the crew was in awe of McCoy, and he attracted unwelcome stares everywhere he went on the ship. Word traveled fast, it seemed, and already the last mission of the USS Enterprise was taking on legendary proportions, and adopting the status of an odyssey. The crew was under strict orders not to bother him, and McCoy was getting tired of people tiptoeing around him, pretending that he wasn’t there.

McCoy had been taken directly to Star Base Epsilon, where they had excellent medical facilities, and had remained there for almost two weeks, driving the staff crazy and generally being a massive pain in the neck. Well, what do they expect, he thought. Doctors always make the worst patients.

After he had recuperated sufficiently, McCoy had told the visiting Star Fleet “consultants” (read “interrogators”) everything that had happened from the moment they had arrived in the alien system, and had surprised himself by even including his own field promotion that he had received from Jim at Scotty’s and Uhura’s wedding. At first, they had been skeptical, and McCoy had not reiterated the claim, telling them that if they chose not to believe him, they could all go to hell. He hadn’t wanted the damned rank anyway.

But after they had reported back to earth, McCoy heard, the Star Fleet brass had decided that it would make a good PR exercise – heroic survivor and all that – and they decided that, as soon as the doctor arrived at Star Fleet HQ, they would have a formal investiture, and confirm his elevation to the rarified rank of Captain. He shuddered at the thought of the media circus that would be waiting for him when he arrived home, and for a moment tried to think of a way out. After a short time, however, he realized he had to accept the situation philosophically.

Oh well, he thought as he sipped his toddy, maybe I’ll be able to use the rank to get a few things done in the medical corps, now that re-enlistment looks like a serious option. He grimaced inwardly at the thought although, if truth were told, he really did not have much choice in the matter. The alternative, as he had told Jim (Peach Grove, little old ladies), was an even more horrific concept.

Leonard McCoy looked at the stars and thought again of his friends. The pain was still there after more than six weeks objective time, fresh and acute, and he knew it would be a long time before it went away, if indeed it ever did. But now, at least, he could stand the thoughts, with no fear that they would unman him in public. Well, almost none. God, I miss those people, he thought. He watched the stars, and the faces of his friends danced across his vision, faces burnt so indelibly into his memory that he knew he would never forget them, no matter how long he lived.

McCoy brushed at his eyes with the back of his hand and cursed himself for a sentimental fool. You asshole, he thought. What would Jim say if he could see you now? Probably deliver a swift kick in the butt and say, ‘Snap out of it, Bones, and pull yourself together’. He took a deep breath and drank more of his toddy, savoring the taste on his tongue and knowing that whenever he did, no matter where he was or how long he lived, he would remember Jim and Spock and the others. And a stew-pot full of bourbon and beans, under a starry Yosemite sky.

The doctor looked at the stars and, under his breath, began to hum a little tune, smiling sadly at the memory it recalled.

Row, row, row your boat
Gently down the stream
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily
Life is but a dream.

***